Steve quickly befriended one of the elusive holy men, thinking if he held me closely enough when the alarm sounded we would both be safe. But monk power, apparently, extended only to the original befriender. So I was eventually snatched out of Steve's arms. While he fought to get free of our monk's superhuman, protective grip and save me, I was putting up a pretty good fight on my own, caught between two huge yellow fangs, trying to punch and kick my way free, and yelling obscenities and anything else that came to my wildly determined-to-survive brain, including at one point, the words, "Let me go, you nasty #*$%-er, I give money to the Wounded Warrior Project every month! And the ASPCA!" At that, the slug turned into a tall cascade of briny liquid and seeped down between the tiles below us. I fell in a clump on top of my husband from about 15 feet in the air, and we scrambled away, presumably to safety. Seriously?
I woke up thinking that 1) maybe the cold pineapple and jalapeno pizza before bed was a bad idea; 2) I really need a vacation (but not in Dubai); and 3) maybe it's time for me to once again remind our readers about the importance of pursuing recurring gifts. Hell, if merely being a monthly giver saved my butt from being eaten by a giant slug, imagine what having a bunch of them could do for your organization.