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Millionaire tries to bu11y a 20 year old out of security deposit
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The only thing loftier than M’s sense of self was his dad’s Shelby Cobra, parked in the garage while M diligently forgot the minor details of adulthood, like paying his share of the security deposit or picking up a vacuum. In the grand story of young-adult cohabitation, everyone has a horror story, but not everyone gets hand-delivered a cease-and-desist made up in the backseat of a sports car by a millionaire with a questionable grasp on grammar and an even looser hold on reality.
The move-out ritual should have been simple, scrub, mop, trade passive-aggressive group chat farewells, collect whatever security deposit survives your collective disregard for baseboards. Instead, M and his plus-one vanished the moment the scent of citrus cleaner filled the air, leaving our narrator alone with dirt, bills, and the existential question of why the world’s largest safety net always seems to land on the least deserving acrobat. When the refund check dropped, so did the pretense of friendship, replaced by legal threats riddled with typos and the urgent correspondence of a man whose millionaire hands had never seen a mop.
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The image does not depict the actual subjects of the story. Subjects are models.
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The image does not depict the actual subjects of the story. Subjects are models.
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Some would say returning the fair share of the money was the right thing, but it is a rare kind of maturity to do so, especially after receiving several middle-school ransom notes disguised as legal documents. If class were measured in Windex fumes and spelling accuracy, the guy with the bleach and the bank deposit slip would be cruising past everyone in the fast lane.
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