He looked about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of

Host:
The rain came down like bad news, steady, sharp, and uninterested in mercy. The neon sign across the street blinked a tired apology, its red glow slashing through the fog that curled over the city like cigarette smoke. It was the kind of night when even the moon wouldn’t walk alone.

Inside The Blue Canary, the air was thick with jazz and suspicion — a saxophone crying in the corner, a bartender polishing glasses that didn’t need it, and men in suits who never smiled unless they were lying. The smell of cheap bourbon and expensive perfume hung in the air like unfinished business.

Jack sat in the farthest booth, coat collar up, hat tilted low, the picture of deliberate anonymity. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her drink slowly, eyes sharp enough to cut glass. Her hair gleamed under the dim light, every strand a secret waiting to be sold.

Between them lay an unspoken tension, the kind that builds between two people who trust each other just enough to get hurt.

Jeeny: [leaning in, her voice low and amused] “Raymond Chandler once wrote — ‘He looked about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of angel food.’”
Jack: [cracking a wry grin] “That’s Chandler for you — poetry with a punchline.”
Jeeny: [smirking] “It’s perfect. You can see it, smell it, feel it. A man pretending to blend in, standing out like sin in Sunday school.”
Jack: [sipping his bourbon] “Yeah. I’ve met plenty like that. Loud men in quiet suits. They walk into a room trying to disappear and end up announcing themselves like a brass band.”
Jeeny: [softly] “You mean like you?”
Jack: [without missing a beat] “Touché.”

Host:
The saxophone slid into a lonely note, and the rain outside picked up, rattling against the glass like impatient fingers. A neon reflection danced across Jack’s drink, blood-red and trembling.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about that line? It’s not just about appearance. It’s about presence. Chandler didn’t just see people — he heard them.”
Jack: “Yeah. Every metaphor was a fingerprint. You read his sentences, you can smell the cigarette smoke on the paper.”
Jeeny: [smiling] “And the whiskey on the typewriter.”
Jack: [nodding] “He understood that cities — and people — are built on contradictions. Angel food and tarantulas. Soft dreams crawling with dark truths.”
Jeeny: “That’s why noir works. It tells the truth in shadows. Light’s too polite for honesty.”
Jack: [grinning] “And shadows don’t judge.”

Host:
The bartender killed the lights at the far end of the room, leaving only a halo of amber glow above their table. The music softened, and the club shrank into something intimate — a small island floating in a sea of darkness.

Jack: “You know, that line — it’s not really about the tarantula. It’s about irony. How the dangerous thing never really hides well among the pure.”
Jeeny: “Because it doesn’t belong there.”
Jack: “Exactly. Chandler didn’t write about villains. He wrote about misfits — people too human for heaven and too honest for hell.”
Jeeny: [smiling faintly] “That’s why his detectives were always lonely.”
Jack: “And always looking for redemption they didn’t believe in.”
Jeeny: “You think he believed in redemption?”
Jack: [after a pause] “I think he believed in style.”

Host:
A couple laughed loudly across the room, breaking the spell. The sound echoed off the walls, sharp and uninvited. Jeeny watched them for a moment, then turned back, her voice softer now, almost wistful.

Jeeny: “You know, Chandler made ugliness look elegant. He could dress up decay and make it wear a fedora.”
Jack: [grinning] “Yeah. He turned cynicism into craft.”
Jeeny: “And truth into rhythm.”
Jack: “That’s the thing about his world — it wasn’t clean, but it was honest. The people who tried to hide their dirt always looked the worst.”
Jeeny: “Like tarantulas on angel food.”
Jack: “Exactly. You can’t disguise danger with sweetness. It just makes the poison look polite.”

Host:
The rain eased outside, a drizzle now, softer but no less persistent. The city lights shimmered through the window, blurring into watercolor shapes — a drunk painter’s dream.

Jack lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the rough edges of his face, the tired defiance in his eyes.

Jeeny: “You know, people read Chandler for the crime, but what he really wrote about was exposure.”
Jack: “Exposure?”
Jeeny: “Yeah. Every line peeled back a layer. The city. The people. The illusion. His metaphors didn’t describe — they revealed.”
Jack: [nodding slowly] “The tarantula line — that’s not about one man. It’s about all of us. Every time we pretend we’re harmless, but we’re not.”
Jeeny: [softly] “Because we’re all crawling over something pure?”
Jack: “Or trying to.”

Host:
A police siren wailed distantly, its sound fading into the hum of the city. Jeeny’s hand brushed against her glass, tracing the condensation with her fingertip.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, maybe that’s what noir really is — the moment innocence realizes it’s been watching corruption all along.”
Jack: [smiling faintly] “And finds it oddly beautiful.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. Chandler didn’t glamorize decay. He made us admit we were part of it.”
Jack: “Yeah. He gave the darkness dialogue.”
Jeeny: “And irony its conscience.”

Host:
The clock above the bar ticked toward midnight. The bartender started turning chairs upside down, the sound of wood against wood echoing through the emptying room. Jeeny stood slowly, wrapping her coat around her.

Jack rose too, finishing the last of his drink — the burn of whiskey as familiar as regret.

Jeeny: [quietly] “You know what’s funny? For all his cynicism, Chandler still wrote about justice.”
Jack: “Yeah. But never the legal kind.”
Jeeny: “The human kind.”
Jack: [nodding] “Justice between the broken.”
Jeeny: [smiling faintly] “That’s the only kind that counts.”

Host:
They walked outside, the rain now only a whisper on the street. The city glowed beneath them — slick, alive, unapologetic. Somewhere, jazz still played. Somewhere else, someone was still lying.

Jack pulled up his collar, and Jeeny glanced at him sideways — his silhouette stark under the streetlight.

Jeeny: [teasingly] “You know, Jack, under that halo, you look about as inconspicuous as a tarantula on angel food.”
Jack: [smirking] “Story of my life.”
Jeeny: [softly] “Then maybe that’s not so bad. At least people notice you.”
Jack: [lighting another cigarette] “Yeah. But not always for the right reasons.”
Jeeny: “Maybe there are no right reasons — just real ones.”
Jack: [exhaling smoke] “Maybe that’s what Chandler was really writing about — being seen, even when you’re trying not to be.”

Host:
The streetlight flickered, and the fog swallowed them both — their footsteps fading into the pulse of the city.

And in that brief, cinematic silence,
the truth of Raymond Chandler’s words lived again —

that some souls are too vivid to vanish,
too flawed to fade,
too dangerous to disappear into sweetness.

For in a world built on pretense,
the honest ones — the bruised, the aware, the alive —
will always stand out,
like a tarantula on angel food.

And as the night carried their silhouettes into the rain,
you could almost hear Chandler’s voice
whisper through the neon and the smoke:

“It’s not about hiding in the light —
it’s about surviving in the shadows.”