“A bee smoker is what we call the smoking apparatus.”

“Enough!”  Galashnikov was at his wit’s end.  “Please, I implore you, lie down and let me peruse the inside of your head.”

The portly spider gave a good tug to the corner of the web he had spun.  Dazzling and intricate, the web quivered and stretched, but held firm.  Satisfied, the spider idled up to and reposed upon a velvet divan.  He poured himself a puffing hot mug of tea, and with two legs shuffled a deck of cards.  He crossed the remaining six legs and languidly commenced a round of patience, not looking much amused when a good card showed, nor much bothered when one failed to. 

It was several tranquil moments before a fly, sparkling like a firecracker, crashed into the portly arachnid’s intricate snare.  “Drat!” said the dipterous sparkler, but the spider paid him no mind, stretching lazily and looking about ready for a nap.

“I say spider, might I have a word with you?”

The spider looked to the fly, who rebuffed him with a steely glare.

“Over here,” said Galashnikov, peering at the spider through the loupe plunged in Dzhugashvili’s left nostril.

The spider only now noticed the glass lens of the loupe, protruding without subtlety into his domain.  Looking into the glass, the spider saw Galashnikov’s eye reflected as many.  “You’ve got eyes aplenty, stranger, but something tells me you’re no spider.”