After my neighbor kindly demolished an old rotting wooden playhouse in my back yard, I set to disassembling it in order to pile the pieces on the curb for the town's annual clean-up day. Only about a week had passed after my neighbor tore the structure down before I set to pulling it apart to neatly stack on the curb. My only tools were a claw hammer, a screwdriver, a pair of pliers and a utility knife. So it took quite a while.
Spiders thrive in woody damp dark areas such as under and among the rubble of the playhouse. It only took a week for spiders to take up full occupency. The wood was crawling with them. Every broken section I lifted produced at least one long-legged crawly spider. As a person who doesn't fear spiders and even allows them to live peacefully undisturbed in certain corners of my house, I didn't really pay any attention at first. As I was diligently prying slats from framing and pulling out long rusty nails, I felt a sharp pinch on my Deet drenched arm and looked to find one of my spider friends cruising along my bicep. It bit me!
Reflexively, I flicked it off my arm and where it landed, I don't know, so I lifted my hammer and killed the next one I saw. I sought vengeance for the unjust behavior of a spider by killing one of his likeness no matter how innocent. Finding that I can make a comparison between any life event and either Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights or The Walking Dead, I thought of Heathcliff forcing young innocent Cathy to marry his sickly son Linton in order to gain ownership of Thrushcross Grange because he hated her father Edgar for marrying his true love and soul mate and treating him like a lowly servant.
Thankfully, the spider bite was nothing but a little pinch that didn't cause any skin reaction or illness on my part, so I was able to finish the job only slightly delayed by more spiders harmlessly crawling down my shirt and up my pants.