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Steve Schaffer was a little weasel of a man. Everyone he knew described him as a weasel. He lied about everything. Short of stature, standing only about five foot five, he never looked anyone in the eye. Whenever he was caught telling one of his tales, he’d put his head down and mumble. It was quite reminiscent of those old cartoons where the ostrich would bury its head in the sand. Steve had deep crows feet twisting up from the corners of each eye; because he was constantly squinting. Adorning his lip was a small mustache just a little bigger than Hitler’s. When he’d walk he always did so hunched over as if the weight of the world stood balanced on his back. Known for his whining more than his skill, he rarely received complements on a job well done. All of this seemed to stem from being emasculated by an overly dominate mate. He was a short little scumbag, frightened of his own shadow.

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