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Heavy snowfall coming down hard and plentiful as if it was the parmesan being shredded at Olive Garden, mother nature must’ve forgotten that the waiter won’t stop until you say to do so. The ground, or you could consider it the chicken Alfredo if you didn’t quite get the initial Olive Garden analogy, covered with about five inches of snow, give or take. I venture out farther as I make my way to the hooptie. I open up the backseat door as I grab the scraper to brush off the pile of snow that will soon reveal the car.

“Hey… Hey!” I hear from a distance, but no one in sight.

“Hey, come here, get out of there!” a menacing man hollers as I look over, his outline appears in the distance through the thick flurry.

As a man who has been working at the same job, in the same position for ten years, I’m certainly not going to take a chance here. I frantically toss the scraper into the backseat, racing to the driver’s seat, I jam the keys into the ignition and turn. I peel out quick like a hungry monkey with a banana.

“Stop, that’s my car!”

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