The tarantula stretched lustrous hairy legs and made its way down the boulder. It was that time of day.

Meantime, in his favorite customized automobile, the man from the hill was ripping across his land.

He purchased this terrain a score of years ago yet still the townsfolk murmured. He knew they asked after him, behind his back.

He didn’t care. He loved this land. A gorge where the desert breaks apart, bursting with forested canyons and splashing rivers.

The tarantula was off the boulder and proceeding across the path. It tentatively waved a sentinel digit, reading the tremors, and deemed it safe.

It was rare for the man to drive recklessly, but he was late for a meeting. He had to, besides, it was fun.

The tarantula sensed the horror before he saw it, felt the rumbling in the ground, and in no time he was caught in the middle of the path with this looming terror closing in.

When he saw the tarantula he was horrified.

He loved tarantulas. He loved all living creatures. But he’s a dude so for entertainment he also loves his guns and explosives.

When he noticed the black ball of fuzz he sliced the wheel, carving his way out of killing the arachnid who thought for sure he was one dead bug.

Except the machine ran out the way and up the boulder, tipped over, wheels rolling. And on he scurried with his routine.

Meanwhile the man shrugged out a window. After some exertion he straightened his truck. A matter of leverage. He’d been through this before and it was always exhilarating.

He made it to the meeting. The day was stuffed and he forgot about the incident. Until midnight, with all his chores done. The reminder made him laugh when he inspected his auto. Minimal damage.

He selected a favorite sledgehammer and set to righting the crushed bumper, under the daylight splash of a full moon.

Somewhere the tarantula slept, to live another day.