The ceramic Santa she swiped was chintzy, lazy-eyed, and reeked of bar stool piss. She glared it down across the table, exasperated as to why this detestable, second-hand salvage lacked the necessary revulsion to treat her kleptomania. Across town, a man similarly afflicted continued his rehabilitation, donating more Santa figurines to a smattering of thrift stores. The nebulous dregs of hope convinced her to steal again.



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