Losing Ground

    Spidey tought dat di bat would lose intewest qwuickly. Apter all, it was a small house, a bunch ob mispits, and not anudder bat nor castle nor cabe. 

    “I thought it vould look better from the rafters.” A voice echoed from above.

    Dat bat. Can’t appweciate a good cobweb. He was looking more awake and he would get this funny look in his eye when he got hungry.

    “You know… a few careful torches could really vamp up the place. I was known for my style back in zee Western Wood.” He paused as if for questions. When none came, he continued anyways. “It was quite a majestic place. Uncle Boromir used to be quite fond of telling us stories, so much so that we began to call him Uncle Bor. He never quite figured out vhy. So one day, when he was putting us to sleep with his tales of the crypt (he used to put himself to sleep all the time, let me tell you), we snuck out inbetween bouts of consciousness, and we flew into the Cerbal bats as they were on their way out of town to take vacation when one of them challenged me. He said, ‘Vlad, you old good for nothing! I bet you’d never have the guts to leave the country and explore more of the world.’ Vell, It didn’t occur to me that he was merely trying to get me away from his cousin Trina until I was on a boat with a bunch of cars and video machines and leaving harbor with my coffin and trunk.”

    There was a flapping of wings and suddenly Vlad was by the window, peering out down upon the backyard. He rarely stood still, shifting his weight and dancing around until something caught his eye. They were sharp eyes, and he peered imperiously at the yard and the woods beyond.

    Spidey turned to his webbing, absently spinning a thread while he waited for the next shoe to fall. He was werking on his greatest creation yet: a cobweb of the little homeless girl named Mona from the alley down the street who suffered from a most tasty looking collection of fleas. He had decided to call his work the Mona Fleasa. He was already lining up a dealer in his imagination. 

    “I don’t suppose it has a basement?” The bat was craning his head around the window sill.

    “Of course there’s a basement, the family that lived here put all their extra stuff in it before leaving Spidey di place. It gets nice and moist because the water table isn’t far below the bedrock… hey, wait a minute… don’t you hab some sort ob cabe to fly back to?!?!”

    It was too late. He had already flown out the window, on his way to measure the basement for a coffin.