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    I asked a good friend of mine to write something to share. He writes for Vice magazine, LA Weekly, and Buzz Feed among others.
    So without further ado… a little tidbit from Peter Holslin:
    I grabbed a bagel and a loaf of wheat bread and began my pilgrimage to the golden statue of Zeus. After walking many miles and then hitching a ride on the back of a broken-down space truck, I finally made it to the great Mt. Olympus, where I gazed up and looked in wonder at the great edifice, father of gods and men peering down upon the world and wielding one of his mighty lightning bolt.
    The bagel was stale by now because it had already been a week’s worth of travel, and in my excitement I’d forgotten to eat it. I shoved my hand into the bag of wheat bread and pulled out a chunk, gaining nourishment as I steeled myself for the long climb up the mountain. Thankfully I’d brought my good Italian hiking boots, but in any case I walked and walked and eventually the air grew thin so I took a rest once I reached a cliff high in the clouds. I set a fire and ate more bread, and then just before slipping off to sleep, I noticed a sound… critty-crawling… I moved my hand and immediately it got stuck in some kind of strange web. I moved my other hand and that was stuck too. I opened my eyes and I saw blackened things moving quickly down the hill. Oh, dear god.Spiders.

    I screamed and screamed, and for a while I could hear my voice echoing down the mountain. But as the web grew thicker I found it harder beg for mercy. My voice was muffled, my arms and legs pinned to my sides. I was fully ensconced in the white cocoon of death and I knew what would happen next, but I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to admit that this would be it. It was my childhood fear realized.
    OW! I felt a little bite on my left pinky toe. Then another one on my right index finger. NO, NO PLEASE. There was a huge chunk lifted out of my right forearm, and I tried to scream in agony but it was all in vain. Piece by piece I was taken apart by the spider mob. It was like a music festival or a day at the bazaar for them. Whole families had come down from the mountain. Little spider babies eager to get their own piece of the action. Elderly eight-legged freaks gazing in wonderment and delight, remembering all the good times in those bygone years when the mountain played host to dozens of foolhardy travelers each weekend.
    You have to wonder how long it had been since they’d gotten a proper feast. Because certainly I’d been the only one to pass through for many months. I didn’t realize it then as I was being eaten alive, as the tiny spider teeth ripped into my flesh, by now petrified and perhaps flavorless from the sight of so many beady eyes. No. I didn’t realize it then, because when I set out on this journey my eyes had been trained to the sky. I kept looking up at that golden statue of Zeus, so powerful. I wanted to badly to reach the peak, to share my achievement with all the world, that I failed to notice the sign posted up on the road at the base of the mountain. Dented, pock-marked with stray bullet holes, but its ominous message still clear enough to ward off anyone who knows better: