Rich slapped his forehead. “Wait, I almost forgot to confuse the centipede.”
“Do what now?”
He opened the cellar door. The entirety of the basement was filled with it. The writhing, segmented body looped around itself countless times, an infinity of slender legs rippling as the tangled mass churned. Rich grabbed a basketball from the bin. He aimed and threw. The coils surged in response.
“The head goes after motion,” Rich explained. “I try to put three knots or so in it before leaving every morning. Not sure what it is, but I think it’s better if it keeps busy.”
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