Mr. Grindhouse Infilitrates the Fridge but Will the Juices Turn Him Loose?
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The bag of coffee beans, Mr. Grindhouse, plops down on the tiled floor and stares at the monolith of a fridge before his eyes. He approaches slow, weary that he may alert the peering eyes of the demonic infused Leftovers, who patrol the crisper bins and the main entranceway intro the frigid aired front gate. Grindhouse spills a few beans out, to get as flat as possible against the crisper drawers as one of the Condiment Commander’s glass feet tap….
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