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It's not about the money, I told myself.

  • It's not about the money, I told myself. But I knew it was. Jane was on her way to me now and all I could think of was how badly I wanted to

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  • just hide in my room. I did not want her here. I paced back and forth around the room still thinking about the money. No, I decided that when Jane got here I’d tell her

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  • everything that had happened. But, what if... no. I can't back out now. I reach for my door handle and cringe when the cold metal touches my skin.

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  • I opened the door slowly and was blown away by what I saw, literally. Someone had torched my car. Great, just what I needed. As if things weren't going badly already. I saw

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  • my left rear tire roll down the street and take out someone's mailbox. Quickly I turned and walked in the opposite direction, pretending to know nothing of the blazing vehicle and

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  • the large chunk of suburbia it had ignited. I stopped, sighed, walked in the opposite direction again, slipping a cigarette into my mouth. I lit it at a burning tree and saunte

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  • red off into the night, the wind blowing back my soot-covered trench coat. This mission had been a success. Although Fraiser would probably say it had been a failure. But fuck that

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  • whiny neurotic collander-domed snob of a psychiatrist, I was enjoying this. I brushed off my coat & made my way to the fire escape. They'd never guess I went up the chimney

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  • as plagued as I was with Vertigo and claustrophobia. I came across a message, scratched into the chimney wall,"Tell Mrs. Klaus I love her....Santa." Bones below and coat above.

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  • I carried that message to Mrs. Klaus, along with his charred remains I'd carefully scraped into a bright foil gift bag. That's why, kids, Santa doesn't come to our house anymore.

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