THERE WAS a spider in the glove. Stupid of me, I suppose, to just leave it out on the potting bench, so inviting, five long dark tunnels warmed by the sun. Hell, if I was a spider, I’d gallop right in there myself. The brown widow is not known to be aggressive but if some big pink monster pushes you up against the wall, what are you supposed to do? I’m still able to play the bass. What’s one finger more or less?

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