I could have laid my head against real silk, and not known the difference; her dark chocolate hair splashed over my pillows, over my mattress, and through its thickness crawled another bloated centipede. Though I hoped it to be an errant, confused individual broken by chance from its mother swarm, I knew the wrongness of that hope as well as I knew the intentions of the nine inch demon skittering past her ear. Dozens of spindly appendages pushed and pulled in unison to move it; fatty prosperity weighed down by an outer carapace made his advance painfully slow. “Not again,” I thought.