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Tom, a weary veteran of the liquor industry for a quarter-century, decided to hang up his hat and seek solitude. He traded the clinking of glasses and the buzz of neon for the whisper of pines and the crunch of snow, snapping up a 50-acre plot in the Alaskan wilderness, as removed from civilization as one could dream.
With only the weekly postman and a monthly pilgrimage for provisions breaking his hermit-like existence, Tom basked in the tranquillity. Then, half a year into his reclusive reverie, an unexpected knock rattled his door.
Behind it stood a mountain of a man, with a beard that could house a family of squirrels. “Name’s Lars,” he boomed, his voice echoing the surrounding forest. “Live about forty miles north. Throwing a Christmas bash this Friday at 5. Figure you might want some company.”
Delighted at the prospect of social interaction, Tom accepted with a grin. “Count me in,” he enthused. “It’s been too quiet around here.”
Lars nodded, pausing as he turned to leave. “Just a heads up, there’ll be a bit of drinking.”
Tom chuckled. “I’ve got a liver trained by two and a half decades of liquor trade. I’ll fit right in.”
Lars gave a nod, his beard swaying like a conifer in the breeze. “And there’ll be fighting,” he added.
“No worries,” Tom reassured. “I’m all about the peace and quiet, but I can handle myself if needed.”
“And, uh,” Lars continued, a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “there’s a chance of some raucous lovemaking.”
Tom’s eyes sparkled with the same mischief. “Well now, that’s the best news I’ve heard since I got here! It’s been a lonely six months. I’ll be there with bells on. Speaking of which, what should I wear?”
Lars shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. “Whatever you like,” he said, casting a final glance over his shoulder. “It’s just gonna be you and me, anyway.”
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