When I was a teenager I painted the Dark Side Of The Moon album cover on one whole wall. My father entered when I had the wall painted black and yelled to my mother: Rita! He is now painting the walls black!
I already had a poster of Frank Zappa sitting on the toilet. LoL!
... I finished reading...
**SPOILER**
LoL! You know you are reading a pulp fiction from the 1970's when the solution against the big bad is paraquat...
"Idly Cliff opened his newspaper. Naturally the Welsh coast was still commanding front page space on most of the London dailies. WHERE ARE THE GIANT CRABS NOW? the leading headline ran. He skimmed through the article rapidly. The whereabouts of the crabs was certainly not going to be pin-pointed by Fleet Street. Pat was reading over his shoulder. 'Poor kiddy!' she muttered. 'What's that?' he grunted, being more concerned with the ridiculous views of some reporter who surmised that the crabs might be hiding out in the mountains. There, she said, pointing with her finger to a small paragraph at the foot of the page. CHILD DRINKS WEEDKILLER AND DIES, he read. 'An eight-year-old girl who drank a solution of paraquat weedkiller last week in her parents' garden in Surrey, died this morning. There is no known antidote. Parents are warned. He broke off and suddenly his hand gripped Pat's until she gasped in pain. 'Ouch!' She snatched her hand away. 'Whatever's up, Cliff?' If's a terrible thing to happen, I know, but there's no need to...' 'Paraquat.' He banged his fist into the palm of his other hand. 'Paraquat weedkiller. Deadly to all forms of life. Kills through the pores. Rots the lungs. I wonder...'" (from "Night of The Crabs (Crabs Series Book 1) (English Edition)" by Guy N. Smith)