It's 3am. You're lying in bed. Something woke you upyou don't know what it was. You pull back the covers, get up, and tiptoe out to your listening room.
There, standing by your record rack, thumbing through your prized LPs, is a man in black (no, not Johnny Casha different man in black). You see a bulge in his pocket; it could be a gun. Something shiny catches your eyethere's a switchblade knife between his teeth! At his feet, leaning against your record shelf, is a cudgel. Oh, and it looks like he might have some infectious disease. You, of course, are in your PJs.
You notice, at the top of the stack of records that he holds under his arm, that one record, the one you love the most, the one you can't live without.
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