A thumping bass line yo-yos about like an arachnid on its silken web, bobbing in carefree locomotion as Entwistle describes his fixation on the little critter which makes its way across the room. With a guttural growl he dubs it Boris, mimicking its “creepy, crawly” movement in a puckish falsetto. Yet, despite Entwistle’s engrossment, poor Boris meets a grim fate, squashed flat, courtesy of a good old-fashioned book-slammin’.
Around these parts, the streets were never again bustling with trick-or-treaters, either.
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