OR: Porrim Maryam’s Field Guide to Dealing with the Blood-sucking Parasites in Your Life
I’m experimenting with just posting this in tiny unedited chunks as I go along, so.
Rule No+. 2: Wear appro+priate clo+thes and co+lo+rs
It takes some time to pry the wiggler’s round, sucking mouth loose from your ankle and you absolutely do not dwell on how disturbing the experience is or the need to get it off off off ICK AGH it is sucking your blood RIGHT NOW. After all, it would take hours and hours before you weakened so much from blood loss that you could no longer remove it.
Fortunately, the grub’s teeth seem to be rather short and blunt. In the short time it’s been on you (trying to eat you aaaaah), it has hardly done more than raise a ring of jade green bruises, small droplets of blood beading on your skin where the fangs worked their way deepest. You suppose it would have gnawed its way through to a cartilaginous blood tube eventually. This wiggler seems determined to make up for what it lacks in teeth with sheer bloody-minded tenacity.
Also, it squeaks every time you touch it and that’s really quite disconcerting.
You peel another two tarsal claws free from the strap of your sandal. They immediately become entangled in your skirt. A red carapaced abdomen, still sleek and flat, curves around the back of your calf, bracing against your efforts as you tug on two more claws. The wiggler squeaks like an angry tin whistle. It clings to your ankle and every graspable item in the vicinity with all six legs, unwilling to be separated from its potential host and blood supply.
“I am not your lusus,” you tell the wiggler. “Find a blood meal somewhere else.”
bright eyes look up at you, the protective lenses flicking briefly across that
expanse of red. Its attention turns back
to your ankle. The moons aren’t out
tonight and in the darkness you are bioluminescing to quite a brilliant white.
and wonder again why you put yourself in these situations. You also wonder why you are taking all this
trouble over a mutant wiggler shortly destined for the culling fork.
grimace, you return to carefully trying to pick its claws free from your hem.
Oh well. It’s only a little more effort. And you’d hate to get blood on your skirt.
bites you again.
really swear to anything that happens in the ensuing few moments, but it is
possible you shriek, and possible you fall over flailing, and possible you
briefly indulge in a fit of mad flapping and atavistic aversion reactions. There is a wiggler on your leg and
it won’t come off.
have satisfied your baser instincts and you are sufficiently calm to
re-approach the problem with your full thinkpan engaged. You believe it is time to stop working at
cross-purposes with the wiggler’s natural instincts to grasp and cling. Methodically, you begin transferring the
grub’s entanglement to your skirt, a limb at a time. When you finish, you still have a
blood-sucking parasite slash larval person hugging doggedly to your leg, but it
is now on the outside of the fabric. You will take what compromises you can get.
a stare down with the small creature hanging from your leg. “You do realize I
have other things to do with my night?”
“skreeee,” the wiggler says, pricking its
anchoring claws through your skirt.
again and look around for your carry packs, which you may have dropped back in the brush when the wiggler bit you. You appear to have lost them.
starts a determined climb up your person, claw over claw.