Arthur and the Eight-Legged Terror

Arthur, a man whose constitution was more suited to abstract thought than actual physical contact, was enjoying a quiet afternoon with a particularly dense tome on ancient Mesopotamian plumbing. Suddenly, a small, completely harmless house spider, no bigger than a raisin, decided Arthur's forearm looked like prime real estate.

Now, most people might flick it off. A few might yelp. Arthur, however, operated on a different emotional spectrum. A high-pitched, almost operatic shriek tore through the otherwise peaceful living room. He didn't just flail; he *cycloned*. Arms windmill-whirled with the intensity of a hurricane trying to swat a mosquito. His chair, a sturdy antique, became an unwitting casualty, toppling backward with a groan of splintering wood. Arthur then ricocheted off the bookshelf, scattering first editions like confetti, before performing an impromptu, involuntary interpretive dance that involved leaping over the coffee table (knocking over a vase in the process) and finally collapsing onto the rug, gasping for air, eyes wide with the trauma of a thousand battlefield horrors.

The spider, meanwhile, having been gently dislodged somewhere during the initial 'cyclone' phase, had calmly scuttled off to find a quieter patch of wall, utterly bewildered by the human's dramatic display.

Arthur's wife, Eleanor, emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She surveyed the scene: broken chair, scattered books, waterlogged rug, and her husband prone on the floor, twitching. 'Did you… did you finally finish the plumbing book, dear?' she asked, a brow arching.

Arthur, still hyperventilating, croaked, 'Spider! A… a *beast*! The size of a small car! It attacked!'

Eleanor sighed, picked up a volume of Homer, and casually brushed a truly minuscule speck of dust from its cover. 'Oh, Arthur,' she murmured, 'it's not even a particularly *good* jump scare.'