[Rob Stuart]

‘Hey, bud,’ a voice whispered from above me. I looked up to see this arachnid broad hanging from the rafters by a thread.
‘Hey yourself,’ I said. This little lady was hot stuff all right; legs up to her abdomen. Eight of ’em. Yeah, I counted.
‘The Zuckermans mean to rub you out, huh? That’s too bad.’
I shrugged. ‘I guess.’
‘Ain’t you scared of being turned into bacon, mister pig?’
‘Me, scared? I ain’t scared of nothing, sister.’
‘Name’s Charlotte.’
I nodded. ‘Wilbur.’
‘So you don’t want rescuing any, Wilbur?’
I snorted. ‘What are you planning on doing, honey? Spinning me a rope so I can crush out of this can through the goddamn window?’
She gestured over at a web with one of her perfectly formed pins. ‘Get a slant on that, wiseguy.’
‘SOME PIG,’ I read. ‘Now where did you pick up a trick like that?’