Spee-ider Women Eat Spee-ider Men—A Romantic Dinner Date (For One)
- Rick
- Feb 21
- 1 min read
Updated: Mar 6
Love is a battlefield, and ponchos cost extra.
The Tikatikatikas don’t do romance. They do performances—brief, dazzling, and nutritionally necessary. Every night, beneath the silk-draped skyline of Spee-ider Grove, their suitors step into the web, puffed up with delusion and pheromones, spinning empty promises into something that, if you squint, almost looks like hope. The dance is always beautiful. The ending is always the same. One misstep, one quiver of doubt, and she strikes—legs like lightning, fangs like knives, suitor like a snack that should’ve known better. The crowd erupts. The web trembles. The leftovers sway in the humid air, a grisly testament to overconfidence. Betting on survival is a fool’s game, but that doesn’t stop travelers from placing Wishbones on their favorite dead man walking. Some cover their eyes. Most don’t. There’s something mesmerizing about a ritual this old, this inevitable—a tradition written into instinct, played out on silk, and leaving nothing behind but scraps.
The Friendly Robot Travel Agency recommends front-row seating for those with a strong stomach and a weaker sense of self-preservation. Ponchos available upon request—but they won’t help.
Wishbone Cost:
Rick’s Review:
"Watched one strut in like he had a plan. He did not have a plan. I’m still picking webbing out of my shoes."