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Description
The Fly and the Spider

                             Some say they fear him.
                                Others admire him.
                            -Tom Waits, Black Wings

It had been a slow day, with very little business.  Damn, he thought, as he put up the little sign saying WORRY, WE’RE CLOSED.   He smiled slightly at the spelling error, and wondered idly, not for the first time, how many other signs shared the same imperfection.  He picked up his briefcase, and loaded the little white bags into it.
There had been a time when no matter how much heroin he stocked, it was never enough.  But then some mob boss or other had disappeared, but they couldn’t prove he was dead, because they still hadn’t found the body.  It was probably in the river somewhere, but nobody wanted to drag the river, because it would hurt some endangered species of turtle.  Regardless, the police managed to really crack down on crime.  Before then, back in what he jokingly called his “Golden Age” (possibly because he, like most people, idealized the past no matter what the past was like), he could have bribed off any cop who tried to bust him with just one or two ounces of his worst stuff.  Now, those same cops, who he had gotten rid of with a song (and a small plastic bag), had nearly closed down his business.
That hadn’t stopped him, of course, but it had hurt his sales, not to mention his feelings.  He felt betrayed.  Could you trust no one?

Mildly depressed, he walked out into the alley behind his shop, and sat down on a garbage can, looking up at the full moon.  It was then that he heard the bell on the door of his shop.  A customer! He hurried back into the shop, and turned around the WORRY sign.  It now read, correctly, as COME IN, WE’RE OPEN.  He unlocked the door, and the man came in.
“You looking for anything in particular?” he asked the stranger as he unloaded his briefcase again, putting everything back on display.
“You could say that, yes,” the other man replied, removing his top hat.
Now that he got a better look at him, the dealer saw that his customer was very tall, and muscular.  Not muscular like a bodybuilder, but like an orangutan.  This man wouldn’t pin you to the floor and count to three.  He’d tear your arm out and strangle you with what had up to now been your own fingers.  It was not the refined physical superiority of one who worked out and watched their diet, but rather, the less deliberate muscle of one who had simply accumulated sinews that only happened to be made out of steel, possibly without his knowledge.
He was wearing a black greatcoat, and shaded pince-nez.  You saw a lot of punks dressed like this, the dealer thought to himself.
But you never saw anyone with hair like that.  It was very long, and in dreadlocks, even though he was easily the least Jamaican-looking person the dealer had ever seen.  It was pure white.  The dealer hadn’t seen hair that white on grannies.  But the strangest thing about his hair was the little black...for want of a better word, spots.  His hair really had spots.  He looked like a Rastafarian snowy owl, or a group of ermines clinging together for mutual warmth.  The only explanation that the dealer could think of was that his customer was some kind of pimp, of the more bizarre sort.
“And what sort of substances do you carry?” asked his customer.
“Mostly heroin.  Some coke.  Could get you acid, but it would take a few days.”
“No marijuana?”
“Nah.  I don’t sell cheap shit like that.  That stuff’s for kids,” he replied.
“I’m surprised.  Cheap shit seems to suit you.”
“Fuck you.  If you don’t like what I’ve got, you’re free to go.  I don’t need your business.”
“I’m afraid you do.  I can tell.  But I was merely asking out of curiosity.  Now tell me, when you’re selling your... merchandise, do you ever think about the fact that you’re ruining someone’s life?”
“What?” He had never met a preacher as bold as this.  Sure, people stopped him on the street and told him to stop, because he was destroying innocent lives, but they never actually came into his store.  He had his shotgun for that.  The mere sight of it hung on the wall usually got rid of them.  Which was good, because he couldn’t stand the sight of a damn missionary, and didn’t entirely trust himself with the damn thing.
“You heard me.”  The man’s tone implied that he was quickly losing patience.
“No.  Never.  What the hell kind of state would I be in if I did that?”
“Conceivably, you might have a real job.  How much money do you make a year?”
“None of your business.”  The dealer was annoyed.  He had never met anyone anywhere near so inquisitive.  Most of them just made their choice, paid, and left.  But this man seemed determined to make conversation.  And he still hadn’t made up his damn mind.
“So, er, what kind of stuff did you have in mind?” asked the dealer, who felt that the conversation should be steered in a way that could get this man out of his store.
“I haven’t chosen yet.”

The dealer absentmindedly lit a cigarette.  The moment the flame was exposed, the man seemed to flinch reflexively.  He glared, annoyed by the cigarette, and then went back to browsing.
“Which would you say is worse?” asked the customer, idly.  “A fly, or a spider?”
“What?  I don’t.  A spider,” he said, confused.  What was this guy trying to do?
“Really?” the customer said, with genuine interest.  “How fascinating.”  He smiled to himself vaguely, as if he could have predicted as much.
“What the hell are you talking about?  Who are you?” demanded the dealer.
“Well, let us assume for now that I am talking about nothing more than the comparative morality of arthropods.  And as far as you need know, I am simply your customer.”
Oh, thought the dealer, who had met many anonymous customers before, and knew the drill.  He’s on the run.  Right.  With such an obnoxious personality, it was little wonder.
“Another question: have you ever noticed that the sign in your window is misspelled?”
“Yep.”
“But you don’t care?”
“Not really.  It’s just a sign.”
“I thought not.  Now, this is the last question I have for you: have you ever thought about giving up dealing drugs and getting a regular job, that didn’t involve destroying people? Have you thought about the fact that your life is about as meaningless as the typo on your sign?”
“Listen, what the hell are you trying to do?”  The dealer had had enough of this shit.  “I didn’t ask you to judge me.  I’m a heroin dealer, not a saint!  And don’t try any of that high-and-mighty shit with me, either.  You’re buying this stuff.  Now make your choice and get the hell out of my store!”
“I’ve always preferred the spider, myself,” said the customer absentmindedly.
“What?!”
“You see, the fly spreads filth around the world.  It poisons; it sickens; it infects.  It has no interest in anything aside from itself, and has no intention to change its ways.    It is not surprising, therefore, that you would prefer the fly to the spider.  And when told to stop, it... flies in your face.”
“Shut the hell up!”  The dealer had been pushed too far.  He grabbed the shotgun off the wall, and pointed it at his customer.  He couldn’t stand preachers.  “Get the fuck out of my store, you son of a bitch!”
“Whereas the spider,” the customer continued, as if nothing had just happened, “while also essentially self-interested, and having a far worse reputation, keeps the fly population in check, because, while it can completely consume the fly, the fly can’t do anything to it.”
The dealer squeezed the trigger of the shotgun, emptying both of his barrels into the customer.  He had seen people blown away at this close range with shotguns before, and the results weren’t pretty.  He realized, almost as soon as he pulled the trigger, that he’d have to spend a very long time cleaning this up.
“While by no stretch of the imagination entirely an altruist, the spider serves the purpose of preventing the fly from becoming too common.  So nobody misses the fly when the spider removes it from existence.  The fly doesn’t even know until it’s too late,” the customer continued, still lost in his own little world, fully alive, and not even bleeding.  Not even his clothes were damaged.  Behind him, a shelf collapsed, spilling bags across the floor.
“Wh-what the hell are you?” gasped the dealer.
“A few moments ago, you called me a son of a bitch,” answered the stranger, looking out the window at the full moon.  “I realize that you meant it as an insult, and under normal circumstances, it would be.  However, these aren’t normal circumstances, and as such, you have no idea how right you nearly were.
“Don’t think of it as murder.  Think of it as... the food chain.”

The following morning, the dealer’s shop was surrounded by police line.  The department had received an anonymous call, something about broken windows.  When they arrived there, it was much worse.  The floor was covered in blood.  There had plainly been a murder.  But the strange thing wasn’t just the absence of the body.  That happened all the time.
They could already tell it would be some time before the press arrived.  It was one of those weekends when the world seems to be sleeping peacefully, and, to be perfectly honest, this murder had spoiled their whole weekend.  All of them would have rather been at home, with their families.  Preferably still asleep, or very inactive at the least.
The forensics team were halfheartedly examining where the blood seemed to be focused.  It was plainly here that the dealer had fallen.  This was the strangest thing about the murder: they could find no sign that the body had been moved.  It had just lain here.  And disappeared.
There were signs of a fight: the shotgun had been taken off the wall, both barrels were one cartridge away from full, and one of the shelves had been completely pulverized.  It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened.  They hadn’t gotten around to checking the gun for finger prints, but from where it had been fired, it couldn’t possibly have been what had killed the dealer.  They had no murder weapon; they didn’t even know for sure whether there was one.
The forensics team had made plans to check the room for fingerprints, but mostly just for procedure’s sake.  There would be fingerprints everywhere.  Footprints, too.

The lieutenant was half-heartedly inspecting the bloody outline of the corpse, as the sergeant lazily approached.
“You always get the weird ones on the full moon, eh?” asked the sergeant.
“Mm. I really give up,” the lieutenant said, absently.  “I can tell already that we’re not going to solve this one, and frankly, I don’t care that much.  He was a heroin dealer.  Nobody will miss him.”

As they left, the lieutenant turned around the small sign on the door.  It now read: SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED.

Description
The Fly and the Spider

                             Some say they fear him.
                                Others admire him.
                            -Tom Waits, Black Wings

It had been a slow day, with very little business.  Damn, he thought, as he put up the little sign saying WORRY, WE’RE CLOSED.   He smiled slightly at the spelling error, and wondered idly, not for the first time, how many other signs shared the same imperfection.  He picked up his briefcase, and loaded the little white bags into it.
There had been a time when no matter how much heroin he stocked, it was never enough.  But then some mob boss or other had disappeared, but they couldn’t prove he was dead, because they still hadn’t found the body.  It was probably in the river somewhere, but nobody wanted to drag the river, because it would hurt some endangered species of turtle.  Regardless, the police managed to really crack down on crime.  Before then, back in what he jokingly called his “Golden Age” (possibly because he, like most people, idealized the past no matter what the past was like), he could have bribed off any cop who tried to bust him with just one or two ounces of his worst stuff.  Now, those same cops, who he had gotten rid of with a song (and a small plastic bag), had nearly closed down his business.
That hadn’t stopped him, of course, but it had hurt his sales, not to mention his feelings.  He felt betrayed.  Could you trust no one?

Mildly depressed, he walked out into the alley behind his shop, and sat down on a garbage can, looking up at the full moon.  It was then that he heard the bell on the door of his shop.  A customer! He hurried back into the shop, and turned around the WORRY sign.  It now read, correctly, as COME IN, WE’RE OPEN.  He unlocked the door, and the man came in.
“You looking for anything in particular?” he asked the stranger as he unloaded his briefcase again, putting everything back on display.
“You could say that, yes,” the other man replied, removing his top hat.
Now that he got a better look at him, the dealer saw that his customer was very tall, and muscular.  Not muscular like a bodybuilder, but like an orangutan.  This man wouldn’t pin you to the floor and count to three.  He’d tear your arm out and strangle you with what had up to now been your own fingers.  It was not the refined physical superiority of one who worked out and watched their diet, but rather, the less deliberate muscle of one who had simply accumulated sinews that only happened to be made out of steel, possibly without his knowledge.
He was wearing a black greatcoat, and shaded pince-nez.  You saw a lot of punks dressed like this, the dealer thought to himself.
But you never saw anyone with hair like that.  It was very long, and in dreadlocks, even though he was easily the least Jamaican-looking person the dealer had ever seen.  It was pure white.  The dealer hadn’t seen hair that white on grannies.  But the strangest thing about his hair was the little black...for want of a better word, spots.  His hair really had spots.  He looked like a Rastafarian snowy owl, or a group of ermines clinging together for mutual warmth.  The only explanation that the dealer could think of was that his customer was some kind of pimp, of the more bizarre sort.
“And what sort of substances do you carry?” asked his customer.
“Mostly heroin.  Some coke.  Could get you acid, but it would take a few days.”
“No marijuana?”
“Nah.  I don’t sell cheap shit like that.  That stuff’s for kids,” he replied.
“I’m surprised.  Cheap shit seems to suit you.”
“Fuck you.  If you don’t like what I’ve got, you’re free to go.  I don’t need your business.”
“I’m afraid you do.  I can tell.  But I was merely asking out of curiosity.  Now tell me, when you’re selling your... merchandise, do you ever think about the fact that you’re ruining someone’s life?”
“What?” He had never met a preacher as bold as this.  Sure, people stopped him on the street and told him to stop, because he was destroying innocent lives, but they never actually came into his store.  He had his shotgun for that.  The mere sight of it hung on the wall usually got rid of them.  Which was good, because he couldn’t stand the sight of a damn missionary, and didn’t entirely trust himself with the damn thing.
“You heard me.”  The man’s tone implied that he was quickly losing patience.
“No.  Never.  What the hell kind of state would I be in if I did that?”
“Conceivably, you might have a real job.  How much money do you make a year?”
“None of your business.”  The dealer was annoyed.  He had never met anyone anywhere near so inquisitive.  Most of them just made their choice, paid, and left.  But this man seemed determined to make conversation.  And he still hadn’t made up his damn mind.
“So, er, what kind of stuff did you have in mind?” asked the dealer, who felt that the conversation should be steered in a way that could get this man out of his store.
“I haven’t chosen yet.”

The dealer absentmindedly lit a cigarette.  The moment the flame was exposed, the man seemed to flinch reflexively.  He glared, annoyed by the cigarette, and then went back to browsing.
“Which would you say is worse?” asked the customer, idly.  “A fly, or a spider?”
“What?  I don’t.  A spider,” he said, confused.  What was this guy trying to do?
“Really?” the customer said, with genuine interest.  “How fascinating.”  He smiled to himself vaguely, as if he could have predicted as much.
“What the hell are you talking about?  Who are you?” demanded the dealer.
“Well, let us assume for now that I am talking about nothing more than the comparative morality of arthropods.  And as far as you need know, I am simply your customer.”
Oh, thought the dealer, who had met many anonymous customers before, and knew the drill.  He’s on the run.  Right.  With such an obnoxious personality, it was little wonder.
“Another question: have you ever noticed that the sign in your window is misspelled?”
“Yep.”
“But you don’t care?”
“Not really.  It’s just a sign.”
“I thought not.  Now, this is the last question I have for you: have you ever thought about giving up dealing drugs and getting a regular job, that didn’t involve destroying people? Have you thought about the fact that your life is about as meaningless as the typo on your sign?”
“Listen, what the hell are you trying to do?”  The dealer had had enough of this shit.  “I didn’t ask you to judge me.  I’m a heroin dealer, not a saint!  And don’t try any of that high-and-mighty shit with me, either.  You’re buying this stuff.  Now make your choice and get the hell out of my store!”
“I’ve always preferred the spider, myself,” said the customer absentmindedly.
“What?!”
“You see, the fly spreads filth around the world.  It poisons; it sickens; it infects.  It has no interest in anything aside from itself, and has no intention to change its ways.    It is not surprising, therefore, that you would prefer the fly to the spider.  And when told to stop, it... flies in your face.”
“Shut the hell up!”  The dealer had been pushed too far.  He grabbed the shotgun off the wall, and pointed it at his customer.  He couldn’t stand preachers.  “Get the fuck out of my store, you son of a bitch!”
“Whereas the spider,” the customer continued, as if nothing had just happened, “while also essentially self-interested, and having a far worse reputation, keeps the fly population in check, because, while it can completely consume the fly, the fly can’t do anything to it.”
The dealer squeezed the trigger of the shotgun, emptying both of his barrels into the customer.  He had seen people blown away at this close range with shotguns before, and the results weren’t pretty.  He realized, almost as soon as he pulled the trigger, that he’d have to spend a very long time cleaning this up.
“While by no stretch of the imagination entirely an altruist, the spider serves the purpose of preventing the fly from becoming too common.  So nobody misses the fly when the spider removes it from existence.  The fly doesn’t even know until it’s too late,” the customer continued, still lost in his own little world, fully alive, and not even bleeding.  Not even his clothes were damaged.  Behind him, a shelf collapsed, spilling bags across the floor.
“Wh-what the hell are you?” gasped the dealer.
“A few moments ago, you called me a son of a bitch,” answered the stranger, looking out the window at the full moon.  “I realize that you meant it as an insult, and under normal circumstances, it would be.  However, these aren’t normal circumstances, and as such, you have no idea how right you nearly were.
“Don’t think of it as murder.  Think of it as... the food chain.”

The following morning, the dealer’s shop was surrounded by police line.  The department had received an anonymous call, something about broken windows.  When they arrived there, it was much worse.  The floor was covered in blood.  There had plainly been a murder.  But the strange thing wasn’t just the absence of the body.  That happened all the time.
They could already tell it would be some time before the press arrived.  It was one of those weekends when the world seems to be sleeping peacefully, and, to be perfectly honest, this murder had spoiled their whole weekend.  All of them would have rather been at home, with their families.  Preferably still asleep, or very inactive at the least.
The forensics team were halfheartedly examining where the blood seemed to be focused.  It was plainly here that the dealer had fallen.  This was the strangest thing about the murder: they could find no sign that the body had been moved.  It had just lain here.  And disappeared.
There were signs of a fight: the shotgun had been taken off the wall, both barrels were one cartridge away from full, and one of the shelves had been completely pulverized.  It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened.  They hadn’t gotten around to checking the gun for finger prints, but from where it had been fired, it couldn’t possibly have been what had killed the dealer.  They had no murder weapon; they didn’t even know for sure whether there was one.
The forensics team had made plans to check the room for fingerprints, but mostly just for procedure’s sake.  There would be fingerprints everywhere.  Footprints, too.

The lieutenant was half-heartedly inspecting the bloody outline of the corpse, as the sergeant lazily approached.
“You always get the weird ones on the full moon, eh?” asked the sergeant.
“Mm. I really give up,” the lieutenant said, absently.  “I can tell already that we’re not going to solve this one, and frankly, I don’t care that much.  He was a heroin dealer.  Nobody will miss him.”

As they left, the lieutenant turned around the small sign on the door.  It now read: SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED.