Craphound had mischievous yard-deal karma, for a spoiled, squalid outsider charlatan. He was excessively acceptable at working out the single grain of gold in a furious stream of pointlessness for me not to like him – regard him, at any rate. However, at that point he found the cowhand trunk. It was two months’ lease to me and only some squirrelly outsider kitsch-fixation to Craphound.
So I did the inconceivable. I disregarded the Code. I got into an offering war with an amigo.
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