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This story is lovingly dedicated to anyone who ever opened their Facebook page only to feel their heart sink when they encountered this message:

 

You can turn off the goddamned music using this thing.

Hover your cursor over underlined textYeah, like that. for an explanation of its meaning.

Once upon a time, there was a "writer" named Hack Werker. I put that word in quotation marks because Werker actually made his living as a janitor at a Shakey's Pizza Parlor on Laurel Canyon Boulevard in the shadiest part of North Hollywood, and lived in a windowless van parked behind it. But when he wasn't cleaning kiddie puke from the pizzeria's video game arcade or getting hammered in his van from appalling wine he liberated from the bar when his supervisor was busy on the phone with his mom, Werker was ceaselessly knocking out narrative fiction.

And I mean ceaselessly. Starting at noon when he would awake with a throbbing hangover to 10:00 p.m. when he had to start scraping whatever nightmarish foulness that was caked to the Shakey's toilets, Werker would be writing novels in which he would try and purge the demons of his hellish life. Virtually all of his work was tiresomely derivative of detective stories of the 1940s and 1950s...Mickey Spillane without the artistic sensitivity. But they were so saturated with Werker's twisted world view and disturbing sexuality that it found a tiny readership of like-minded perverts who would buy anything he cranked out.

It wasn't easy on Werker because while he was certainly prolific, he lacked the imagination and communicative skills that most writers would consider basic to the job. So he would constantly hound anyone he mixed with in the dark world he inhabited ... bartenders, strippers, bail bondsmen... for anecdotes about their own lives that he could retell in his creepy point of view. And since Werker found original creativity was a drain on his writing time, he would badger his acquaintances to provide as much detail as possible so that the real people they described would turn up unfiltered as characters in his novels. This would sometimes lead to awkward encounters after a character that was obviously based upon someone's mother would turn up in a story as a crack-addicted prostitute, but Werker simply took the beating that would inevitably be dealt to him with as little fuss as possible so that he could get back to his writing.

John Kane (Werker's publisher at Nasty Tales, Inc.) loved him, because he crapped out so much copy – easily ten time more than any other writer that Nasty Tales had under contract – that there was never a shortage of product for the degenerates who bought the garbage. And since Werker cared more about exorcising the devils in his head through his work than he did about money, Kane paid him a pittance on what the books brought in, forcing Werker to continue living in his van and cleaning vomit at Shakey's. The books brought in what little profit they did because the publisher came across the ingenious idea of decorating them with the most salacious cover artwork he could get away with. It wasn't anything close to the debauchery between the pages, but it was evocative enough to pique the interest of the flotsam and jetsam who cruised the dubious bookstores where they were sold. All Werker asked was that he have complete and final say on how his novels were presented to the public, while all Kane required was that he kept 99.5% of total net profits. It was a partnership that everyone was happy with.

The artist who made the covers was an expatriate South American named Roberto Gilipollas"Gilipollas" is Spanish for "douchebag." That's the level of humor you have to look forward to in this thing., who caught Kane's eye when he saw a a nude portrait Gilipollas had painted on black velvet of Mexican president Ernesto Zedillo having sex with a donkey. From that day forward, the artist was put under exclusive contract to make the covers for Werker's books. With all of the work Gilipollas had making covers for Nasty Tales' penny dreadfuls, he didn't have time for anything else; but based on the stories he told Werker that wound up in the books, it was probably just as well because when he had a few free moments, Gilipollas could be one outrageous pervert.

Kane, Gilipollas, and Werker would get together once a week so that Werker could deliver the sixteen to twenty new books he had written since their previous meeting and the artist could show off his latest covers for the novels that were about to be rolled out for the writer's approval. Werker loved them because Gilipollas depicted the subjects exactly like the characters as he described them in his narrative, and the publisher loved them because the artwork was inevitably depraved enough to coerce would-be buyers to hand over their minimum wage paychecks so that they could labor through Werker's livid prose between the covers.


Kane, Gilipollas, and Werker would get together once a week

Everything was running smoothly until one day when Werker showed up at the Starbucks on Burbank Boulevard for their weekly meeting to deliver the sixteen novels he had written in the interim and found only Kane, looking intently into his untouched Caffè Vanilla Frappuccino.

"I've got bad news," announced the publisher solemnly. "Roberto went back to Mexico."

"That's terrible," replied Werker. "Deported?"

"No, they're only deporting hard-working people who have been in this country for decades. Roberto has only been in the U.S. for eleven months but he was concerned that after Trump built the border wall that he'd have a hard time getting back into Mexico, so he wanted to go home so he could personally supervise his drug cartel that he's been running from here."

"I don't understand," replied Werker. "Just a few paragraphs ago it said that he had too much work to do anything else. How could he find the time to run a drug cartel?"

Kane shot him an annoyed glance. "These idiotic Christmas Extravaganzas have been around for 28 years, and you're expecting them to make sense now? All I know is that he says if he's in Mexico, he can deliver ten times as much illegal drugs into the U.S. as he can from here. Do you want this stupid story to get started or not?"

Werker ignored the taunt, thinking only of all the times he'd shared his private stash of weed with Gilipollas when the little bastard was sitting on a mountain of hallucinogenics the whole time "This leaves us with a huge problem," said Werker as he dusted off the manuscript of Murder in the Sherman Oaks Arclight Theatre, his latest unreadable piece of junk. "I already have 27 books that are ready for publication and they'll all need cover art."

"What's the big deal?" asked the publisher. "There are countless unemployed art students looking for work. I'll just hire one of them."

Werker did a spit take with his Frappuccino.

"We can't just get anybody to make the cover art for my books. I have a unique artistic sensitivity which the covers must reflect!"

The publisher's face went cold as he wiped the whipped cream off his chin. He suddenly remembered that business had been disastrous with cover art provided by his previous artists until he accidentally stumbled upon Gilipollas' donkey portrait included with his profile on the Megan's Law website. Without the provocative covers which sold the books, he might as well renew his notary license right now.

"By God, you're right," Kane said, shuddering at the prospect of having to go back to sitting in a gray cubicle in Riverside. "The only reason these god-awful books sell at all is because they have such a deviant perspective that you can't help but want to see what foulness is between the pages. The artist we hire has to be so disturbed, so perverse that he can create image that will send chills down the spine of any rational person who looks at it. Who can we get who's that degenerate?"

At about this time, a young muse named Jonny M. was being fired from his job at his job as an usher for the touring company of Hamilton because he would stand at the back of the theatre and screech the score for Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark. Undaunted, Jonny returned to the squalid apartment he shared with his beloved pug Winston. The muse had given up alcohol following his heart attack two years before (as described in last year's Jonny's Feminist Christmas) but the complex cocktail of heart medication he took on a daily basis added to the marijuana-laced edible goodies he occasionally chowed down on to still the demons in his brain allowed him to continue having long conversations with the little dog.

"I looked at the calendar and realized you were due to get fired from this job so you could start whatever asinine assignment you would get to begin this year's Christmas story," said Winston as Jonny stuffed a chocolate chip cookie crammed with reefer down his throat, "so I decided to be proactive and get on Craigslist to find some job openings for you. This one leapt out at me."

Winston adjusted his laptop so Jonny could see it and pointed to a listing which read "Earn good money while you work from home! Artist needed to create cover illustrations for reputable publisher. Prerequisites: loose moral standards and the ability to exist on a sub-poverty income. E-mail samples of artwork to JohnKane@NastyTales.com."

Jonny was excited. He had been annoying his friends for years by depicting them in humiliating illustrations on the social network, and now it was time to cash in on his finely-honed skills. He dragged Winston to Toys for Twats Adult Books & Novelties in West Hollywood, one of the few booksellers outside of the sex-obsessed Bible Belt to carry Nasty Tales' merchandise, and the muse realized at a glance that they were onto something. They tore into every title and while Winston thought that everything he looked through was exploitative crap, Jonny felt transcended into a world in which he finally belonged. And of all the books he leafed through, the ones he loved the most were written by Hack Werker.


Jonny dragged Winston to Toys for Twats Adult Books & Novelties in West Hollywood

Jonny and Winston planned to spend the evening assembling his portfolio (mainly images he had Photoshopped of himself with actress Mara Marini or one of his other unwitting female acquaintances) but with so many samples to choose from, they were surprised to look at the clock and see it was 6:00 in the morning when they were finally ready to submit Jonny's application. After having time to consider it, Winston was dubious of his master's chances.

"I just don't want you to get your hopes too high," the pug said gently as Jonny tried to rub the exhaustion of the previous night's work out of his eyes. "These pictures, they ... they have their charms, but they're clearly the work of a libidinous amateur. Once glance will tell anyone who peruses them that they lack any kind of artistic style. The only thing your 'artwork' is about is sex, and pretty alarming sex at that."

Jonny's mind thought back to the orgy scene of Werker's novella Adam and Evil, and sighed longingly.

"Let's just hope you're tight," said the muse, hitting the "Send" button.

““

"No, no, NO!!!" screamed Werker as he appraised another of the countless portfolios his publisher asked him to look at from hopeful applicants. "None of these capture my artistic sensibilities!"

"What about this guy?" asked Kane hopefully while handing the writer a gorgeous oil painting of a reclining nude. "He's a graduate of the Royal College of Art in London and he recently had a show at the David Zwirner Gallery."

"The boobs are lopsided!" screamed Werker as he tossed the sample in the rejected bin. "We're just going to have to keep looking until we find the right person."

The publisher sighed as he opened his e-mail inbox to find messages from another few dozen hopeful applicants. Werker rejected them at first glance like he did the hundreds of others he had looked at, until he saw a message with the subject line "Applikashun 4 Jobb Openning." He opened it and was inundated with an avalanche of crudely Photoshopped images of Jonny's pals' heads superimposed on other people's bodies. When Werker came across an image of the muse's friend Harmony Sanchez digitized onto some anonymous woman with enormous boobs, the writer's eyes grew wide in astonishment at what he beheld.

"THIS! This is what we need! This artist's work represents exactly the same insights as can be found in my writing! And just look at the rack on that model!!! I'm telling you, we've finally found the perfect artist to give the covers of my novels the dignified presentation they deserve."

Werker scanned the "From" line of the e-mail to find the artist's name.

"Contact this man immediately. I already have a huge backlog of novels ready for publication and you're going to have a lot of work for this....Jonny M."

““

Winston was shocked when he opened an e-mail from Nasty Tales asking to meet with Jonny. Usually in these stupid stories, they had to show up at a cattle call where Jonny's appalling personality and lack of personal hygiene somehow impressed the person giving the interview. But this was a case where the people with the job knew who Jonny was from the offset, were able to research his checkered personal history online before making a decision, and yet still wanted him for the job. Dumbfounded, the pug interrupted Jonny from his thrice-daily masturbation routine (which, unlike many other Hollywood celebrities, Jonny did completely by himself and never forced or even suggested that anyone watch him except for Winston, who would inevitably lie on the couch nearbly and focus on licking the remnants of his own scrotum sack, the majority of which had been neutered off him some years before) and motioned him over to his laptop to read the message.


Winston interrupted Jonny from his masturbation routine, which Jonny always did alone and forced no one to watch

"They say they want to meet me at their corporate headquarters at the Starbucks on Ventura Boulevard," said Jonny, who was free of guilt because he never forced anyone but Winston to watch him whack off. "Do I have anything going on tomorrow?"

The pug checked Jonny's Outlook calendar and replied "You're scheduled to masturbate at 10:00 a.m., 5:00 p.m. and 11:30 p.m., in the privacy of your own home with no one being forced to watch but me, your faithful and disinterested dog. Other than that, you've got nothing."

"Let's meet them at noon," said Jonny as he gingerly cleaned his right palm with a Kleenex while the pug sighed in resignation, wondering what the hell any of this had to do with Christmas. "That way, If I blow the interview, I'll still have plenty of time to get my confidence worked back up for my 5:00 session."

"That's perfect," said Winston. "You won't need any more time than that because you would never dream of coercing anyone to watch you pleasure yourself in a pathetic display of your perceived power. That would be unforgivable and very wrong."

"Very wrong," agreed Jonny.

The muse finally gave Winston a satisified thumbs up, assured that any pain-in-the-ass journalist or tree-hugging feminist blogger reading this story would have nothing to get him on. The little pug rolled his eyes as he began composing the e-mail saying that they would make a 12:00 meeting.

““

Jonny and Winston arrived at the Starbucks a few minutes early and saw no sign of the people from Nasty Tales, so they went to the counter to order some coffee. An attractive young barista took their order with an inordinate amount of kindness and friendliness. Winston was used to such attention but the muse was taken aback by anyone not treating him with contempt upon first seeing him, and his mind leapt to the unlikely conclusion that she was hitting on him. He was about to charm her with a selection of his inexhaustible supply of knock-knock jokes when he sensed someone standing behind him, and the barista's sweet smile suddenly evaporated into a frown of contempt.


The barista's sweet smile suddenly evaporated into a frown of contempt

"What do you want, Hack?"

Jonny and Winston turned around to see a face they recognized from the portrait on the back of most of the books they had studied in preparation for the meeting, the writer Hack Werker. Werker paid no attention to the pair standing between him and the counter, and spoke to the barista with the diffidence of somebody one encountered every day and simply took them for granted.

"I'll have a tall Dark..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, a tall Dark Mocha Crème Frappuccino with a shot of chocolate. It will be ready when it's ready. Go stand against the opposite wall and someone will tell you when you can pick it up."

"Thanks, Amy," replied Werker with a smile. "And what new with you?"

"I said against the opposite wall!" she thundered back. Werker didn't appear to register the aggression, and simply shuffled to the spot he was told to go. Once he was safely out of earshot of what she was saying, the barista's warm smile returned as she directed her attention back at Jonny and Winston. "Your order will be ready in just a second. I'm going to make it personally so it's just right!"

Winston was perplexed at the barista's sudden change in demeanor at the sight of Werker, but Jonny was too excited at being in the presence of his favorite writer to notice anything else.

"You're Hack Werker!" exclaimed the muse as a gusher of urine cascaded down his pant leg."I think you're awesome! I've read Adam and Evil three times, and the I've the read chapter with the orgy scene sixteen times!"

Werker wasn't accustomed at being recognized in public, much less at anyone having anything good to say about his work, and simply stared back in surprise.

"I'm Jonny and this is Winston," said the muse as he motioned to the little pug, who merely snorted in acknowledgment so as not to betray his contempt for Werker's writing. "We're here about the cover artist position."

The publisher joined them moments later, his face still numb from the botox injections he had just received, and he offered Jonny a contract that Winston immediately rejected as being too one-sided against Jonny. After an hour of negotiations, the pug reluctantly allowed his master to sign the five year deal that he still felt gave too much power to Nasty Tales. Jonny was insistent at being allowed to join the team, even though he would have to follow Werker's descriptions precisely and if he varied even slightly from what was in the narrative, he would have to resubmit the art until the author was satisfied. When Jonny's illegible scrawl was scribbled irrevocably on the dotted line, Werker exited to his van and returned a few minutes later with a massive pile of manuscripts.

"These are the books I've written since we lost our last artist two weeks ago," the writer said, dumping the mound of paper in front of Jonny. "You can get started on these."

"The pug rolled his eyes as he saw some of the titles laid out before him: White Trash, Hot Pants Homo, D for Delinquent, and The Trailer Park Girls. And when Werker began describing some of the ridiculous plots that they followed, the little dog nearly threw up. But Jonny sat wide-eyed in wonder at what he was hearing.

"And you're telling me that these are all true stories?" asked the muse as he cradled his chin in his hands, overwhelmed at what Werker told him.

"Completed and unabridged," assured Werker as he sucked the last of his Frappuccino from the bottom of his cup. But Winston had zoned out by this time and was focusing only on the pretty barista, who was staring daggers at Werker as he showed Jonny the manuscripts.

"But enough about the books, for now," said the writer with a strangely sinister smile. "I want to hear about you. All about you. Your life, your dreams, and your friends."


Jonny told Werker about his favorite people

The muse didn't need any more coaxing than that as he enjoyed nothing more than talking about the relationships that were the most important in his life. He rambled on and on about the people he loved as Werker listened with rapt attention, interrupting only to ask Jonny to provide more and more descriptive details. Finally, he held up his wrist to display the forty year-old Timex that he'd received as a high school graduation present.

"Look at the time," said Werker. "It's been so interesting that I completely lost track of it. I have to get to work writing and you, you've got plenty to do making covers for the new books. Shall we meet here in a week to share what we've accomplished?"

With that, the writer scurried out of the Starbucks and into his van as the barista's angry glare never left him until he was out of sight. Winston wanted to hang back and ask the young woman why the image of Werker awoke such resentment in her, but Jonny was anxious to get home and go to work. Reluctantly, the pug left with his master but made a mental note to follow up at some point.

““

Jonny had never worked so hard in his life (we'll make the connection to Christmas eventually, I promise). He had to read all of Werker's opuses cover to cover and then come up with an exciting, sexy and preferably sleazy (in Jonny's twisted mind, sleazy and sexy were synonymous) piece of art that would make readers want to buy the book. The publisher made it clear that the scene depicted on the cover didn't have to have anything to do with the story as long as it was provocative enough, but the terms of Jonny's contract dictated that he had to adhere exactly to the descriptions of the characters. Fortunately, the muse loved Werker's sensational writing style and he was able to plow through the dozens of manuscripts fairly quickly (fortunately Werker wrote at a third grade reading level, which a little beyond Jonny but he somehow managed to keep up) without any help from Winston, since the pug found the stories too crude and vulgar to get through one paragraph of

When Jonny completed the first cover, for The Return of the Hot Chick Who It Turns Out Has a Boyfriend, he was proud of the result and handed over to Winston for appraisal. The pug had to admit that Jonny's artwork was vivid and provocative but what leapt out about him was that the character on the cover, a beautiful hot pants-clad young woman who was about to remove her shirt as another gorgeous woman salaciously watched, was strikingly familiar.

"Isn't this the barista at the Starbucks where we met Werker?"

"Is it?" asked the muse densely. "I just followed the description from the book."

The pug picked up the manuscript and began laboriously reading through the childish prose. The physical descriptions of the characters were minute down to the smallest detail (some of them went on for pages), and Winston recognized many of them as the staff or customers of that same Starbucks. He took great interest in reviewing Jonny's covers and found himself recognizing many of the characters, from people he had seen at neighborhood coffee shops, laundromats, and the occasional adult bookstore that Jonny would drag him to in the dead of night to stave off a hysterical crying fit that Jonny sometimes succumbed to if he hadn't masturbated enough that day.

Jonny and Winston met with Werker and the publisher at a nearby Coffee Bean a week later to show him the covers, and the writer had myriad edits so that the characters in the artwork matched his description precisely. Jonny accepted the burden silently but when Winston objected to the additional labor being leveled on his master, Kane simply produced the contract specifying that the muse's work would not be accepted until it met with Werker's complete satisfaction. And while the writer dumped even more new manuscripts on Jonny's lap on top of the hours of revisions to the covers he had already turned in, the pug noticed that the staff at this coffee shop gave Werker the same cold reaction that he got at Starbucks. Then Winston observed that a cute young jogger who came in for a bear claw bore a striking resemblance to the nymphomaniac blonde on Jonny's artwork for The Trailer Park Girls (one of the few covers that was accepted on its first submission). He tried to get his master's attention but Jonny was too engrossed in receiving Werker's intricate directions for the cover of his latest book. Then the jogger caught a glimpse of Werker, shot him a disdainful glare, and continued on her journey. As painful as it was to him, Winston was going to take a look at Werker's new manuscripts and see what it was all about.

““

It didn't take Winston long to figure out was going on. The first manuscript he lifted from off the tall pile was titled The Boob Cup, a sensationalized telling of their friend Glenn "Piece of Shit" Simon's obsession with his porcelain mug shaped like a woman's mammary glandGlenn Simon is legendary amongst Jonny Pals for always being depicted with the famous Boob Cup. It started when Mr. Simon posted a beautifully-written Facebook status about how he had made some hot tea the night before and accidentally dropped it, breaking his favorite cup in the process. This got Jonny's imagination working and he started writing blog posts about the Boob Cup, ultimately even giving Mr. Simon such a cup for his birthday. So far as we know, Mr. Simon's real-life sexual appetites are relatively conventional and do not include the Boob Cup in any way.
 
. Winston remembered that Jonny had talked about Simon in detail to Werker at their first meeting together, and now Werker had dashed out an entire book about him.

"Jonny," asked Winston gingerly as he rubbed his mater's feet after a grueling day of cranking out artwork. "Did you make the cover for The Boob Cup yet?"

The muse could barely keep his eyes open, but smiled warmly at his little dog's voice. "The Boob Cup? Uh, yeah, I did it this afternoon."

Winston picked up the artwork and saw the mirror image of Simon and his implausibly hot girlfriend gracing the cover. "Didn't it occur to you that the characters look a lot like people we know? And the stories seem to be about their lives."

"Huh?" responded the exhausted muse. "I hadn't noticed. I just read the books and make them look like the character, like my contract says. I hadn't..."

Jonny fell asleep in mid-sentence. As his master slumbered, Winston took a manuscript from the pile and read it. And another. By daybreak, he had concluded that all of the books Werker had crapped out that week were about the people Jonny had talked about at their first meeting. The little pug had a momentary crisis of conscience, until he finally shrugged and curled up next to Jonny's still-sleeping hulk on the couch.

"Oh, well," sighed Winston as he began drifting off to sleep. "Those idiotic books are only available locally at Toys for Twats Adult Books & Novelties in West Hollywood. Who that we know could possibly shop there?"

““

A couple of Sundays later, Jonny and Winston went to a local diner to have brunch with some friendsThe real–life author of this story really did do Richard III with these a-holes and frequently brunches with them. It is never a pleasant experience. they had made when they acted in Richard III for 2015's Christmas story Jonny's 99-Seat Theatre Christmas. To their astonishment, all of them were holding Hack Werker novels based upon their lives. And none of them looked happy about it.


None of them looked happy about it.

"I feel violated!" wailed Glenn Simon as he waved a copy of The Boob Cup in the air. "I stopped by Toys for Twats Adult Books & Novelties in West Hollywood to get some boob polish for my cup this morning, and I found this! Who is this Hack Werker guy, who knows about my innermost secrets"

"And even worse," intoned Jesse Merlin though his manly baritone as he leafed through Reanimated, a sordid telling of his scandalous history performing in musicals based on cult horror moviesMerlin has practically made a career of appearing in musicals based on cult horror movies such as The Exorcist, Silence of the Lambs and most notably Re-Animator, for which he was nominated for an Ovation Award as a disembodied head.
 
, "who is the scoundrel who created the cover art? This isn't my nose! And to think, if I hadn't gone into Toys for Twats for a cat o'nine tails and some strawberry-flavored lubricant, I never would have known about it!"

Jonny and Winston stared at each other nervously as their friends spent the brunch complaining about the books, Hack Werker, and worst of all the artist who came up with the cover images. But the pair were buoyed by the knowledge that their own participation was anonymous and that those four pervs were the only people they knew who were deviant enough to set foot in Toys for Twats.

The next morning was Jonny and Winston's weekly meeting to drop off the new covers and pick up the new manuscripts. As soon as they walked into the Starbucks, they saw John Kane happily waving them over to a table.

"There they are!" he shouted, enveloping Jonny in a massive bear hug. "There are my heroes of the hour! Do you realize that sales of Werker's books have skyrocketed since you started making the covers?"

"The manager at Toys for Twats must be thrilled," sputtered Jonny as Winston looked at the publisher disapprovingly.

"Toys for Twats, nothing!" laughed the pulp fiction baron. "Starting today, we're going for a larger audience! We're going to be advertising the books on Facebook!"

Jonny and Winston's eyes widened in horror.

"That's right," said Kane. "From now on, every time we roll out a new book, we're going to splash your cover across the social network with the message 'On sale now!' You're going to be famous!

Dog and master stared uncomfortably at each other. That was exactly what they were afraid of.

““

Everyone Jonny knew freaked out when the covers began appearing on their Facebook newsfeed. Because of Werker's prolific mediocrity, a new title would be announced on the social media almost every day, with each one inexplicably depicting at least one of Jonny and Winston's friends on the artwork. And since the muse and his little pug were frequently pictured on the covers as well, it never dawned on anyone that they weren't as outraged as anyone else. What's more, since only Werker's name appeared on the cover, Jonny's contribution was anonymous. But try as he might, the muse's weak brain was never enough to stand up to Werker's magnetic presence, and Jonny would inevitably chatter on about the intimate details of his friends lives whenever they were together, all of which would wind up in Werker's manuscripts.


Everyone Jonny knew freaked out when the covers began appearing on their Facebook newsfeed

"If I ever meet this Hack Werker character face to face," spouted Jesse Merlin at brunch one day, "I'll tear him limb from limb! I don't know how he's getting my image or why he's using my name in so many of those horrific books, but I intend to raise kingdom come!"

"Why don't you just sue him for illegally using your likeness without your consent?" asked David Pinion, another actor-friend of the group who found work in short supply ever since he misguidedly had a scrotum tattooed on his foreheadA scene in Jonny's 99-Seat Theatre Christmas described Mr. Pinion as getting such a tattoo on his forehead while he was in a drunken stupor, which so annoyed him that whenever he is depicted in an illustration on Jonny's Facebook newsfeed, he is pictured with a forehead scrotum tattoo. To our knowledge, the real-life Mr. Pinion is completely tattoo-free but we encourage you to picture him with one whenever you think of him because it's freakin' hilarious..

"I tried that!" thundered Merlin in his manly baritone while Jonny stared wordlessly into his vegetarian omelet. "My solicitor tells me that since the blackguard lives in the universe of this idiotic story, he can't be legally touched!"

The muse heard a lot of comments like that, with the speaker never realizing that they were uttering them to the person who was responsible for their anguish. Every week, Jonny would meet with Werker and Kane and beg to be allowed to depict the characters as being physically different from how they were described in the books and every week, he would be reminded of his ironclad contract and how if he failed to live up to it, he would face financial ruin (the legal system in the universe of this idiotic story was a complex one, and best not be thought about too much). And no matter how upset Jonny was about it, Werker would always dupe him into telling new stories about what was going on in his life, with the same detailed descriptions of the people he was talking about.

October inevitably turned into November and November into December. This was usually Jonny's favorite time of year since he was surrounded by the sights and sounds of the Yuletide season (I told you that we'd finally get around to Christmas if you'd only be patient about it), but he found it difficult to enjoy it. He was working day and night to keep up with Werker's feverish output, and every day one or two new covers would appear on the Facebook newsfeed, outraging whoever was depicted in it. On the first Monday of December, Jonny walked sadly into the tinsel-decorated Starbucks to hand over his stack of cover art, and was dumbfounded at this meeting to only be handed a single manuscript.

"Christmas is by far our most lucrative day of the year," explained the publisher. "The perverts who buy our books are so depressed on Christmas Day that they're ready to kill themselves, so we save our most disgusting and perverse book to premiere on that day to give them something to look forward to."

"I've been saving up your most depraved stories for this one," smiled Werker. "And that wasn't easy, because some of the stuff you told me even freaked me out, and that's a bold statement. But it was worth it because I've come up with the most unsettling and perverse book I've ever written. It's my masterpiece."

"We have a huge backlog of books to roll out between now and Christmas," said the publisher, "so I want you to focus all your attention on this cover. It has to be the most disturbing one yet!"

As soon as Jonny and Winston got home, they cracked the cover on the manuscript. Werker didn't exaggerate, as it contained anecdotes about everyone Jonny knew. There was such a massive amount of material to choose from that he could depict any of them on the cover, but it didn't matter. As soon as the artwork appeared on the social network on December 25th, it was going to ruin everyone's Christmas.

Fortunately, Jonny did have one distraction from the upcoming débâcle that Christmas was guaranteed to be this year: his birthday on December 15th. For decades, the traditional means to celebrate the day was with gifts of alcohol. But since Jonny had given up drinking following his heart attack, Winston had decided to throw a huge blow-out birthday party and invited all of Jonny's friends. The muse felt increasingly guilty at celebrating with everyone he knew while at the same time being the anonymous source of the artwork that was driving them to distraction, but this was guaranteed to be the party of the decade and he took some consolation in knowing that at least he and Winston would be able to give them one unforgettable night during the holiday season before it all came crashing to the ground on Christmas Day.

Winston kept up his part of the bargain, renting out the lavish ballroom at the Budget Inn in North Hills. And what a guest list! Jonny's pal PennyJonny's beloved pal Penny is in a longterm relationship with a dude neither Jonny nor anyone he knows has ever laid eyes on.
 
Yeah...sure she is.
showed up with her Canadian boyfriend who nobody had ever seen because she claimed that he was always out of town on modeling gigs. Glenn Simon arrived with his Boob Cup and implausibly hot girlfriend. Jesse Merlin walked across the red carpet wearing a crushed velvet burgundy tuxedo that drew oohs and awes from the crowd in the bleachers. Frances Fisher wowed everyone in a stunning floor-length Bernie Sanders for President tee-shirt. David Pinion covered his scrotum tattoo with concealer. And Mara Marini brought her boobs.

From the moment the first guest arrived, it was obvious that this was going to be the party to end all parties. And so it was, until about 8:30 when Hack Werker's windowless van appeared at the entrance and he walked shyly into the ballroom. As soon as Jonny and Winston got a look at him, they flew into a panic.

"What's he doing here?" asked Jonny, taking a momentary break from unsuccessfully attempting to hit on Mara Marini.

"I...I don't know," replied a flummoxed Winston. "The invitation list was checked and rechecked by my social secretary, but Werker's name must have found its way on it by accident. What are we going to do?"

"There's nothing we can do," replied Jonny. "We're just going to have to hope that no one figures out who he is. Now if you'll excuse me, I think Mara is about to cave into my charms."

"She actually left with Dwayne 'The Rock' Johnson as soon as you walked over to me," said Winston. "But you go ahead and mingle. I'll keep an eye on Hack."

At first, their fears seemed to be groundless. Werker's social skills were essentially nonexistent and he spent most of his first hour at the party hanging around the open bar drinking Coors Lite and keeping to himself. But Jonny and Winston's friends were all so charming and welcoming that he soon found himself loosening up and happily chatting with everyone. It was all fine until he stumbled into a circle consisting of Diana Burbano, Jesse Merlin, Harmony Sanchez, Lisa Glass, Bro Joe, Robin Greenspan, Lacie Harmon, and Jonny's ex-girlfriend, porn star Tera Patrick.


Jonny and Winston's friends were all charming

"And what's your name?" asked Joe with a wide smile on his face.

"I'm Hack," replied Werker. "I'm a writer."

"Really?" replied Robin. "I love writers! Have you written anything that I may have read?"

"Oh, a few things," Werker answered while trying to surreptitiously check out Jonny's pal Amanda James' ass. "Veterinary Clinic, Rock 'n Roll Gal, The Pug Peed on the Corpse, Space Girls from Space, Love Slave, Murder at the Funeral and Junior Ranger and the Gorillas of Griffith Park."

The group stared at Werker in wide-eyed astonishment. Every person surrounding the writer had been depicted on the cover of at least one of the titles that he had rattled off. The silence was finally broken by Lisa Glass.

"You mean that you're..."

"Hack Werker," replied the writer cheerily. "But you all know who I am. After all, it's Jonny who makes the covers for all of my books."

The clamorous party suddenly turned into a silent crypt, with the only noise being Winston taking a nervous dump as he eavesdropped a few feet away.

"Oh yeah," enthused Werker. "Jonny not only makes the artwork for the covers, he's provided me with the details for most of the characters. You'll be happy to know," he continued while turning to Bro Joe, "that we've got a new Junior Ranger book coming out next week where Ranger JoeJonny's brother Joe is a devoted outdoorsman who actually is a Junior Ranger. That's a program set up by the parks department that is intended for small children (the picture below is of Joe actually being sworn in as a fucking Junior Ranger), but Joe found a loophole in its rules and takes a test to get a Junior Ranger badge at all the parks he visits (yes, you have to take a test to get one). It's a family shame, but compared with some of the whopper shames that the Mullichs carry it is a relatively harmless one.
 
has an experimental homosexual encounter with a guy he meets while camping in New Zealand."

"That bastard!" cried Bro Joe. "I told Jonny about that in confidence!"

Within minutes, everyone at the party was buzzing with outrage about one of Werker's books that included intimate details that they had shared with the muse. Within a half hour, the ballroom was empty save for Winston, Jonny and Werker. Not aware of any difference in the surroundings, the writer finished off the last of his Coors Lites and happily shook Jonny's hand.

"I've got to run," Werker exclaimed as Jonny and Winston stood in dazed misery, having watched every human being who was important in their lives storm out of the room with utter hatred towards them. "I have to put some finishing touches on my book that's being released on Christmas Day. This is going to be the best Christmas ever!"

Werker turned to leave but he stopped after a few feet and hastily scampered back to Jonny.

"And happy birthday!" the writer exclaimed. "That was a great party!"

““

Jonny and Winston spent the next day trying to desperately apologize to everyone for the mess they made, but almost no one would return their calls. The few people who did pick up only replied with curse-laden diatribes, and Jonny's sweet little friend Emzi Runyan told him that she had hired a thug to shatter his kneecaps. By the time they had dialed the final number on their list, the pair came to the bittersweet conclusion that they no longer had a friend in the world except for each other.

"That's it," said Winston, not mentioning that everyone he had talked to said they would happily embrace his friendship as long as he dumped Jonny. "I guess it's just you and me. What should we do now?"

"What else can I do?" responded the muse with a resigned sigh. "I'll go work on the cover for Werker's Christmas Day release. I am under contract, after all."

Jonny got to work. The manuscript was so deviant and foul that the muse quickly discovered that a conventional cover wouldn't do it justice, so he devised a three-panel fold-out that whetted the reader's appetite for all the perversion that was inside. The artwork was dripping with scandal, violence, and intrigue – and more sex than Winston thought could be depicted on a single work of art. And all of it acted out by the same people who had walked out of Jonny's life the night before. He pulled an all-nighter, and by dawn the cover was done.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" asked Winston nervously as his fat little stomach churned at the finished product that laid before him. "Everyone was furious about the covers you've made in the past, and this one is easily fifty times worse than any of them."

"Why not?" asked Jonny bitterly. "They all walked out of my life last night. I don't owe them anything. Let's have some fun!"

The muse rolled up the canvas and brought it to the Starbucks for his weekly meeting. The publisher was there but Werker was nowhere to be found.

"This cover is amazing!" exclaimed the pulp fiction baron. "Between this and Hack's disgusting manuscript, this will be our best seller yet! I can finally tell my mom that she can go ahead and pull the Oldsmobile into the garage because I'm definitely not moving back in there. It's going to be one Merry Christmas!"

““

It might have been an unforgettable Yuletide for some people, but not for Jonny and Winston. The days leading up to Christmas were usually the most treasured ones of their year but without friends to share them with, the hours were cold and empty. The muse pretended not to care but the little pug knew that inside, his master's heart was broken. And when Winston awoke on Christmas Eve morning, he was alarmed to find Jonny sitting at the edge of the bed in tears.

"I was getting ready to go to brunch this morning with those idiots from Richard III," sniffled the muse. "Then I remembered that they didn't want anything to do with me."

"We'll just have brunch by ourselves," said Winston reassuringly as he cuddled up next to Jonny. "We don't need anybody else to have a Merry Christmas. You'll see."

The pair made the most of the day, walking through the hectic mall just to take in the humanity of the shoppers crushed against each other to pick up one last present. But every time Jonny dared to wish anyone a Merry Christmas, they simply snarled at him that they were in a hurry to get home to their loved ones. As Jonny and Winston walked through the busy streets, they passed by Toys for Twats Adult Books & Novelties in West Hollywood and beheld a massive queue of losers and perverts who were lined up to snatch the first issues of Hack Werker's Christmas Day novel when it was released at midnight. Jonny shuddered when he thought of the depraved contents between those pages and of his own debauched artwork that covered it, and sadly shrugged.

"At least somebody is going to have a nice Christmas."


Jonny beheld a massive queue of losers and perverts who were lined up to snatch the first issues of Hack Werker's Christmas Day novel

With nothing else to do and nowhere else to go, Jonny and Winston went home. They watched their scratched DVD of Santa Claus Conquers the Martians and Winston announced that it was time for dinner. The pug went into the kitchen to microwave some of the fifty pounds of uneaten cocktail wienies from Jonny's party the week before, when there was a sudden knock at the door.

"I'll get it," said the muse in a robotic monotone. "It's probably our neighbor from across the alley threatening to beat me up again if I keep looking at his wife undress through my high powered binoculars. What the hell, at least it will be some human contact."

But the muse opened the door to behold everyone he knew standing on his front lawn and beaming a great smile.

"MERRY CHRISTMAS!" they shouted in union. Winston scampered from the kitchen and happily jumped into his master's arms.

"But I don't understand," sputtered Jonny, barely able to hold back tears of joy. "You all said that you never wanted to speak to me again."

"It's true," admitted Jesse Merlin. "But let's face it, we think that about you just about every time we see you."

"It's Christmas," said Glenn Simon as he sipped bourbon-laced eggnog from his Boob Cup. "That's a time of forgiveness and togetherness. As pissed off as we all are at you – and believe me, we are still pissed off at you – none of us felt like it was really Christmas without our entire family being together. You may be an insufferable selfish asshole, but you're our insufferable selfish asshole."

At that, the entire assemblage poured into Jonny and Winston's living room. The little pug broke out the mountains of leftover food and booze from Jonny's birthday party and their lonely little Christmas Eve suddenly turned into the Christmas Party to end all Christmas Parties. There was drinking and laughter and the kind of togetherness that only happens during the holidays, and as the clock began ticking towards midnight, no one could remember why anyone was mad at anyone in the first place.

But Jonny knew. As soon as the clock struck twelve o'clock, his disgusting cover for Werker's perverse book would be splashed all over Facebook. He thought of the foulness he had pumped into that artwork and realized that his friends may have been able to draw upon the magic of Christmas to forgive him once, but there was no way that they would find it in their hearts to do it again. As the final seconds ticked away to midnight, the group began a happy countdown to welcome Christmas Day. The only sad face in the room was Jonny's as he sullenly studied every face in the room, certain that he was seeing it for the last time.

"FIVE! FOUR! THREE! TWO! ONE! MERRY CHRISTMAS! Let's check out Facebook!"

Everyone whipped out their smart phones to see what was doing on the social media. The room suddenly went silent the same way that it did the night of Jonny's birthday party. Winston felt his heart break for his beloved master as Jonny's hayseed crony Eddie Frierson finally put down his phone and with a stone face, marched over to the muse. Frierson studied Jonny for a moment as the muse waited for the redneck to punch him in the face. Instead, Frierson's hardened expression melted into a euphoric smile and he threw his arms around his friend.

"I love you, Beast!" Frierson shouted as the entire room tossed their phones in the air and cheered.

Neither Jonny nor Winston knew what was going on, but Jonny wanted to get the hell away from Frierson because he was pretty sure he felt a semi-chubby in Frierson's pants rub against him as the illiterate hillbilly held him in an embrace. Jonny stumbled to the center of the room to pick up a discarded phone to see what everyone was so happy about. Instead of the grotesque fold-out cover he had made for Werker's disgusting manuscript, he saw this:

Jonny accepted praise and well wishes until the early hours of the morning (and since this is my story, he wound up in bed with two of his hottest female friends who were so aghast when they awoke the next morning at what they had done that they swore off men and left while Jonny was still asleep so that they could start a new life together in the Netherlands). When the muse finally did get up, Winston had prepared a lavish Christmas breakfast for him and then the two exchanged presents (Winston got Jonny a $1,500 custom-made Real Doll® sex manikin while the muse gave the pug a can of Alpo and an old tennis ball). But Jonny wanted answers and he knew that there was only one place he was going to get them. So after he and the pug were finished putting the Real Doll together and Jonny took it out for a spin, the pair made their way to Toys for Twats to pick up one of the last remaining copies of Werker's book. Jonny was too slow a reader to follow it but Winston recognized the contents immediately as the valentine to everyone in their world that the cover indicated. The pair finally looked at each other solemnly and sauntered over to the parking lot behind Shakey's Pizza Parlor and an old-windowless van which stood alone in the otherwise vacant lot.

The muse pounded on the back door and Werker silently opened it and sat on the fender with his legs dangling to the asphalt below. Winston looked inside and saw there was nothing but a new mountain of manuscripts, an ancient typewriter, and a small sprig of mistletoe hung optimistically but fruitlessly over the back door.


Werker sat on the fender with his legs dangling to the asphalt below

"Hello...I mean, Merry Christmas," said Jonny awkwardly, realizing that this was the first time he had seen how Werker lives. "We just wanted to come by and wish you the best of the season."

"And to find out why I had replaced my original manuscript with the one that was announced on Facebook at midnight," replied the writer, knowing full well why Jonny and Winston were there. "I've written thousands of novels and while none of them are very good, they're my passion; the one thing that makes me happy. And I'm when I'm hounding people for story material, I always think of the people they describe as characters for my books, never as flesh and blood human beings. So when I actually met all your friends last night and realized how wonderful they are – not as potential characters, but as people – I suddenly realized that I didn't just have something to write about... I actually had something to say. So I called the publisher and withdrew my permission for him to publish my original book, and replaced it with something that was more positive and life-affirming. I used one of the samples you sent us when you applied for the job as the cover art."

Jonny did the math in his head and realized that Werker had written the book in a few hours. The writer pooh-poohed the idea that his effort was remotely remarkable.

"I write at least twenty full-length novels a week," he said. "Crapping one out over one drunken weekend is something I do all the time. Anyway, I didn't want to put the first one out after meeting all your people and seeing how nice they are. And to tell you the truth, I thought that cover you came up with was pretty disturbing even by my standards."

Jonny didn't think that Werker had that much power. "But the publisher must have been outraged at having to pull the..."

"I just told him that if he didn't replace the book," interrupted Werker, "I'd move to his competitor and my next story was going to be about his first sexual experience with his aunt's cat. He didn't need a lot of coaxing."

"Listen," said Jonny. "Winston and I are going to go see Pitch Perfect 3 and then show up at Frances Fisher's doorstep uninvited to scrounge some food and badger her for gossip about Leonardo DiCaprio. Would you like to join us?"

Werker was stunned. No one had so much as wished him a Merry Christmas in years. "Are you sure? I met Ms. Fisher at your party and she obviously thinks I'm an alarming douchebag."

"That's okay," smiled Jonny. "She feels the same way about me. Anyway, we're sure to be tossed out by the help as soon as we show up and we'll probably end up spending the night rooting through a dumpster for leftovers. But you can find some pretty tasty stuff that way."

A tear welled up in Werker's eye. With all the wonderful people Jonny and Winston knew, he couldn't believe that they'd choose to spend Christmas with him. He looked shyly at the pair and offered them one last chance to back out of the offer.

"And you really don't mind sharing your Christmas Day with an insufferable selfish asshole like me?"

A glowing smile suddenly lit up Jonny's face and he thought of Glenn Simon's words the night before. He put his hand on Werker's shoulder and looked warmly into his friend's eyes.

"I can't think of a better person to spend Christmas with," said the muse. "You may be an insufferable selfish asshole, but you're our an insufferable selfish asshole."

So all was happiness that holiday season. The Best People in the World became Werker's biggest seller by far (netting a profit of $1,216.74) and, in a major upset, won the Nobel Prize for Literature. John Kane became a legendary figure in the world of adult entertainment. Glenn Simon married his implausibly hot girlfriend and she looked the other way while he paid for a discreet apartment for the Boob Cup near their villa in Seattle. Jesse Merlin broke through to superstardom in a stage musicalization of I Spit on your Grave. Frances Fisher got a restraining order against Jonny requiring the muse to stay at least 500 feet away from her at all times. And everyone that Jonny and Winston knew – young and old, rich and poor – had the merriest Christmas ever.

But happiest of all was Jonny M. As he looked around at the loving contentment of all his beloved friends on this Christmas Day, he was thrilled that he was able to play a small part in contributing to it. And after spending an unforgettable Yuletide with Werker, Winston, and Frances Fisher's bodyguard detail, he retired to his bedroom with his Real Doll to re-read Werker's unpublished Christmas book and realize that it was freakin' awesome.

And happiness to you, dear friend. I hope that if anyone has screwed you over during the course of the year that you can prove yourself the better person by finding it in your heart to forgive them and embrace them, at least for the duration of the holiday season. And whether someone is making you part of their story or you are striking out to craft one of your own, I wish you joy, prosperity, and all the wonders of the Yuletide.

And know that you always have a loving friend in Jonny M.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!
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Conceived by

Jonny M.

Written by
Jonny M.
(and a team of ghostwriters)

Illustrated by
Jonny M.

Costume Design
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Best Boy
Winston

Caterer
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FEATURING

Loser hanging out at Starbucks
Roberto Gilipollas
John Kane
Hack Werker
Model on The Hot Chick
Model on Adam & Evil
Model on Satan was a Lesbian
Model on Slut
Jonny M.
Winston
Toys for Twats cashier
Flasher
Model on black velvet painting
Horizontal Pin-up
Professor Morlock model
Busty bust
Chia head
Model on cover of Glamour
Gorgeous barista
One of Jonny's favorite people
One of Jonny's favorite people
One of Jonny's favorite people
One of Jonny's favorite people
One of Jonny's favorite people
One of Jonny's favorite people
One of Jonny's favorite people
One of Jonny's favorite people
One of Jonny's favorite people
Jesse Merlin
Micah Watterson
David Pinion
Glenn Simon
The Boob Cup
Freaked out friend
Beautiful woman in picture
Mara Marini
Partygoer
Tall partygoer
Partygoer
Partygoer
Sultry partygoer
Charming partygoer
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Partygoer
Partygoer
Partygoer
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Penny
Penny's boyfriend
Toys for Twats logo girl
Movie poster chick #1
Movie poster chick #2
Perv in line
Perv in line
Perv in line
Perv in line
Perv in line
Perv in line
Vibrator spokeswoman
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Bikini Model

Bro Joe
Jerry Winsett
Robert Vestal
Joe Colligan
Amy Ball
Kelie McIver
Erica Scott
Nancy Sullivan
Himself
Himself
Jeff Simon
Tony Pauletto
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Harmony Sanchez
Jesse Merlin
Stephanie Fredricks
Phyllis Buchwald
Carol Potter
Amy Ball
Robin Greenspan
Lisa Glass
Lacie Harmon
Bro Joe
Winston
Mark Ringer
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Robert Mueller
Himself
Himself
Himself
Himself
Itself
Frances Fisher
Francesca Eastwood
Herself
Frances Fisher
James Cleveland
Emzi Runyan
Donna Susskind
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Amanda James
Roses Prichard
Christian Chan
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Adam Lindsey
Roslyn Cohn
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Herself
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Diana Burbano
Lacie Harmon
Robin Greenspan
Donald Trump
Kevin Spacey
Louis CK
Roy Moore
Harvey Weinstein
James Toback
Rosanna De Candia
Tom Ashworth
Larry Zerner
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Rick Simone-Friedland
Guillermo Cienfuegos
Kevin Delin
Carol Potter
Amanda James
Davida Bourland
Reese Timm
Genelle Izumi
Dan E. Campbell
Maxine Lewis
Megan Reynolds
Roslyn Cohn
Justin Levine
James Cleveland
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Jerry Winsett
James Jaeger
Kelie McIver
Jason Fogelson
Jaz Davison
Jeff Simon
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Mary Kay Dean
Tony Potter
Audrey Lavin
Christian Chan
Roses Pritchard
Steve B. Green
Mark Ringer
Mimi Freedman
David Eck
Natasha Troop
Tom Ashworth
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Harmony Sanchez
Tony Pauletto
Lisa Glass
Stephanie Fredricks
Peaseblossom
Robin Greenspan
Lacie Harmon
David Mullich
Diana Burbano
David Pinion
Emzi Runyan
Braddon Mendelson
Robert Vestal
Jesse Merlin
Micah Watterson
Eddie Frierson
Frances Fisher
Donna Susskind
Penelope Psaltiras
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