From December 1st until December 24th, Scum writers will be building onto this growing story. Check in every day to watch it unfold!


Twas the night before Christmas and all kinds of jive shit were going on.
Mel, in the corner, twas lighting Stacey’s bong.
In their flat far away, without curtains or doorman
far from mums, dads and nans sprawled our Christmas “orphans”.
When there fell a deep silence, their faces grew long.
Mel gave a deep sigh: “I miss Wollongong.”
Then Travis sprung up in his festive regalia, took a sip of his gin: “yeah nah, fuck Australia.”
Then all of them laughed and they threw back their heads.
Well, all, except one, you see Nathan was dead. – Bridget Lutherborrow

Yes Nathan was dead, he knew it right then.
He could tell this was hell by the smoke in the den.
His friends smoked for Christmas, no joy in their faces,
And that fucking ad on the tv put him through his paces.
No tree in the corner, no stockings hung’d the shelf,
Christmas was ruined by the devil himself.
“What happened to Christmas?” Nathan said, Mel replied:
“Oh shit man you’re back, we thought you had died.”
Nathan said nothing, the weed made him quiet,
But inside his head his mind was a’riot.
He struck down the beer tower, it fell with a clatter.
His friends stunned to silence, Trav asked: “What’s the matter?”
Could Christmas be saved? Nath’ fought with the thought,
As his gaze cast upon the destruction he wrought.
Nathan said: “Twas nothing, you may resume banter.”
But he thought: “I did die, once Nathan, now Santa.” – Samuel Maguire

‘I’m Santa now bitches’ Nathan did cry
all through the house there was no reply,
Not Mel, nor Travis or gentle Stacey,
So Nathan decided he’d bring them a tree.

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the park
Rang the sound of a steak knife cutting through bark
‘This sprig of eucalyptus will be just the stuff
to give my housemates a kick in the muff’

A rosy glow on his jaundiced cheeks
a merry twinkle from crazy eyes he leaks,
Nathan couldn’t get the branch through the door
So he smashed a window and dumped it ‘pon the floor – Patrick Lenton

Nate entered the house, and heard: ‘Run and hide!’
For it wasn’t the house where his friends did reside.
There was a man and some kids, at least two or three,
‘Fuck off, mate!’ said the dad, ‘baby, call the police.’

It was then as Nathan spotted the wife,
that he realised that he was still holding the knife.
‘Ho ho ho! It’s me, Santa.’ he cheerfully said,
as the dad swung his fist, hitting poor Nathan’s head.

Twas the night before Christmas in a suburban home,
When Nathan’s bruised mouth was beginning to foam,
That he thought, ‘this old man must be naughty, not nice!’
screamed: ‘Santa never dies!’ and then stabbed the man thrice. – Mike Day

So right now there’s this guy sprawled out under his tree
getting blood on the presents and Nathan decrees
through a fluffy white beard that just kind of grew:
His booted feet crunch on both bauble and bone
and Santa/Nathan whips out the app on his phone
where the naughty list’s interfaced with Google Maps
and he plots out his route, ready to pop some caps—
but the next stop on the slay ride is the flat next door
where Mel, Travis and Stacey play Kings on the floor.
’Twas the night before Christmas and Santa arrived
bearing presents that he hoped no one would survive – Emma Marie Jones

Nathan scoffs stolen Christmas cookies,
first one, then another
When a buzz on his phone brings a text from his mother
Fuck, Nathan thinks, what hideous timing
(but for the reader at least comes an end to this rhyming)

“Hi sweetheat:):):):) Its mum!! Just wanted to make sure your still coming 2 the coast tomorrow…. and your dad wants to know if you’re still vegetarian,,, and if you’ll eat some fish because he doesn’t want to make 2 stop up the shops,,,, old bastard lol :p :p can still bring anyone you want you know…. ;)!!!!”

Nathan flashbacks to last Christmas; his ex-boyfriend Dean had got rum drunk and yelled at his dad about the carbon tax before spewing over the balcony into the pool. He remembers the muffled yells through the bathroom door as he called Mel, and how she and Travis had driven an hour and a half to come get him the next day, dropped Dean frostily at the train station and then taken him home to drown his sorrows in tinnies and leftovers. Naughty list or not, they’re good mates and he knows what he has to do.

Looking around at the carnage he’s created, he texts Mel.

“Hey, come next door. Shit’s fucked.” – Madeleine Laing

Mel arrives and is like WTF MAN I CANT DEAL and Nath is like FUCK JUST LET ME EXPLAIN FUCK FUCK and Mel is like I NEED TO TELL YOU SOMETHING and Nath is like I NEED TO TELL YOU SOMETHING and they both start speaking at once, pacing around the bloodied room and mashing the poor dad’s congealing blood deep into the fibres of the carpet.



Nath: oh shit
Mel: oh shit

Emily Stewart

This was it: they had finally ruined Christmas, just like everyone knew they always would. They’d taken Christmas outside and beaten it with reeds and stepped on its bits in high-heels like in Dad’s internet videos.

“They were right about us!” cried Mel, tearing through the decorations, flinging blood n guts across the room and biting branches from the tree. “Our teachers and community leaders! They knew all along the monsters we would become. St Nick FORGIVE US!”

Nathan said, “No! We’re not letting this happen, there’s still time to make this right.”

“Won’t SOMEONE please GET me some fucking EGGNOG god DAMN you.”

It wasn’t yet midnight. Nathan surveyed the room: it was toilet situation to be sure, but he knew—he knew­ it, in his Christmas Heartthey could pull this around. He grabbed Mel around the waist and began spinning her around to calm her down.


“BUT,” she said. “I’VE. CALLED. THE. PO. LICE.”

He let her go and she flung into the drywall. A knock at the door.

“Hello this is the police,” called a voice. “Merry Christmas! Bang bang! We’re here to arrest robbers or whatever!” – Jack Vening

“What do we do?” Nathan howls in dismay. He’s too good looking for prison, and the food there is crap. Suddenly he regrets not eating before he came out. There’s a waft of charcoal, and Nathan’s blood runs cold. A bad gift for a bad kid, but it’s Mel who staggers fourth, clutching her head as it bleeds a seasonal red.

“Calm the fuck down,” she replies, striding out towards the kitchen. She jerks open the oven and pulls out a dead man’s burnt honey glazed Christmas ham. “Answer the door otherwise it’ll raise suspicion.”

Nathan inches towards the door, a bounce to his step, dropping a throw over the body, and aiming for pep.

But Donna the Policewoman stands out in her blues, the Christmas lights over her head sparkling bright as a festive debut. She takes one look at Nathan then behind at Mel, the blood round her face and the blackened ham as well.

“Right-o,” Donna says. “Probably time for jail.” – Sophie Overett

Suddenly a boom! A crash! And a shock!
The three of them freeze, then look at the clock.
“It’s midnight!” they hear
“Enough of this fiction.
It’s now Christmas Day – it’s my jurisdiction.”

The sky fills with reindeers,
All is tinged red.
Donna clutches her arm,
Then falls down like dead.

Our man quivers at this unearthly voice.
“What do you think?
Have you been naughty or nice?”

Mel tears at her hair, screaming
“Why all this rhyme?”
“Why Meleanor”, the voice chuckles.
“The punishment must fit the crime”.

Suddenly baubles fall from the sky.
Nathan crashes to his knees, and begins to cry.

A sharp, cruel laughter fills the air.
“Nathan, some baubles and you already can’t cope?
Then you’re in for some suffering,
That’s only the first Christmas trope.  – Elizabeth Flux

“Now Christmas begins!” Santa decrees.
Mel lookes agast “What the fuck’s in that weed?”
And as jolly red fire rains down from above,
Santa squeezes his hand inside latex gloves.

He swoops from the sky and scoops up Donna,
He trusses her legs and pours herbs upon her,
Filling her stomach with rosemary and thyme,
He basts her skin in butter and lime.

Santa digs out a pit and lobs in the tree,
Alighting poor Donna, he reclines with some brie.
And Mel begins sobbing as Donna’s skin begins cracking,
Somewhere children scream as Santa sits snacking.

Travis runs down, an office chair bearing Stacey,
Her head lolles sideways, her eyes white and spacey.
Travis brandishes an umbrella, prepared for attack,
Then his eyes open wide and his jaw hangs down slack,

“That’s him!” Travis screams, “He’s Stacey’s dealer,
I went to his house once and he gave me tequila.”
And Santa does chuckle, he throws back his head,
“Ho ho motherfuckers, soon you’ll be dead.” – Alexandra Neill

It’s at this point that Santa’s narrative pauses
I’ll introduce a new one, before returning to Clause’s.

Not that far away, Joe’s in a public toilet
Taking a slash, as he happened to call it
But just as the bells rang twelve o’clock
“What is that glowing?” My! The tip of his cock!

Alarmed and afraid, he ran to the sink
Soaped up his thing, but before you could blink
The glowing had moved, transferred to his hands
So he tried out the dryer, the extent of his plans.

And with a quick flash! The glowing was gone.
But what of his hands? Bye flesh, so long!
For in the place of his two kebab holders
Were Dyson Airblades, heavy as boulders.

Joe toppled over, but he soon worked it out:
His Christmas wish came true, there could be no doubt!
“I want to be a superhero,” he’d shouted that day,
(or spoken into a wineglass, I guess you could say).

He emerged from the toilet, no longer “Joe”
But “Dyson AirbladesMan” – (he could have his own show!)
And with his new senses of justice and direction
D.A.M.rushed to resolve this Santa infection.  – Alex Bennetts

Returning now to our team at the house
Where Nath is screaming “this is not very grouse!”
For Clause has finished his dead cop snack
And is now stuffing Stacey into his sack.

The friends unite to defeat St Nick
Travis armed with bon-bons, Mel, a big stick
And Nathan, our hero, takes up a knife
That was meant for the ham, before all this strife.

And just as the friends pose like fucking ninja turtles,
in through the window Joe, screaming, hurtles.
Dyson Airblades for hands and a grin on his face,
“I’m gonna motherfucking WRECK this place!”

“Who the fuck are you?” cries everyone there.
(Except Santa who’s stealing Stacey’s chair)
“I’m Dyson Airblades Man, don’t you know?”
And just for effect his hands whirr and blow.

“Come Travis, come Mel, come Nathan and Stacey”
(though Stace, still in the sack, is a little spacey)
“Let’s kill the fat man, let’s make it our business,
to teach him the true fucking meaning of Christmas.”  – Lizzy King

Joe’s Dyson Airblades create a small cyclone,
And as it gusts from him, he lets out a low moan.
The thrill of his power gives him an erection,
But he can’t quite control its flow or direction.
The air spurts out wildly, but to the gang’s alarm,
All of their weapons are swiftly disarmed,
Leaving Travis, Mel and Nathan bereft of bon-bons, sticks and knives,
Defenceless against Santa, afeared for their lives

The force of Joe’s wind churns through the room,
Tossing up bloody baubles and half-smoked joints in the gloom
Like a money-filled glass box on a Japanese gameshow,
Or a snowglobe with elves n shit frolicking through snow.
Joe faces Santa, recalls the reason for his trip,
And the bag filled with Stacey is sucked from his grip,
(Quickly and hygienically, and here’s a fun fact:
Dyson Airblades have low environmental impact.)

As this Christmas approaches its sunrise hour,
Joe is intoxicated by his newfound superpower,
Dyson Man action toys flash before his eyes,
A hero for kids (let boys be boys) to idolise.
Joe summons the Spirit of Christmas,
By saying, ‘I summon you, Spirit of Christmas!
Come, and reclaim your foul envoy,
Cast him back to the North, free from warmth and from joy.’  – Veronica Sullivan

Blue snowflakes burst into life on the walls
and a dirge of dark sleigh bells echoed down halls.
Santa stood frozen like a kid caught shoplifting
his hands round Naths’ neck, a present in need of regifting.
“Sweet Coca Cola Marketing Icon what have you done?”
Santa went snow white, “Fly you fools. Run!”

But just like poor JoHos knocking at doors
the bells kept a’ringing, and the strange noise of paws…
“It’s the mounted police, you’ve done it we’re screwed.’
“Calm down Nath,” said Mel, who was more shrewd.
“What’s that shit about summoning the ‘Spirit of Christmas’?”
“Horses don’t go on roofs,” whispered Joe “Ya fucking dingus.”

For the snowflakes were pentagrams, the eavesdroppers were deer
and the soft humming a carolling crazed Claus knew to fear.
“My probation officer, you summoned her, you meddling brats.
Now your intestines are tinsel, in your stockings bobcats!”
All fell silent, Joe turned his dryers to min, Santa swore.
On the roof a low tapping. And Nathan said to his joint, “Nevermore.”  – Rafael S.W

Twas the morning of Christmas, an eco-friendly breeze blowing,
and instead of the gravy, Stacey’s blood was a-flowing,
when down through the chimney slid Officer Lucy Foot
looking badass and pouty and brushing off soot.
“Now Santa, what’s this? C’mon, you know the rules:
No more stolen goods, two hundred metres from schools.

No nocturnal visits, no– is there a girl in that sack?!
Be straight with me Santa, you back on the crack?”
Santa quick ditched his pipe, “I’m clean, babe, I swear!”
She snorted: “The whole block’s mad high from the shit in this air.
For too many years you’ve got away with this crap.
Tell me, kids, did he make you sit in his lap?”

Santa backed out the room, dragging Nath by the neck,
“You can’t take me, hoe, I’ll blow his brains out on the deck!
Travis wanted to scream but Joe was keeping him cool.
“Sorry Santa,” said Foot, “today’s the end of your Yule.”
A chorus of cackles rang through the dawn just before
a thousand beefy elven bros broke down the front door.  – Annabel Brady-Brown

Outside, two elf bros lingered in the street, each reaching out to light the other’s cigarette. The one with Ham-Grade forearms said, ‘I hate travelling like that, just being summoned for the sake of something.’

The one with Ham-Grade calves said, ‘I know. I can’t remember the last time I walked a great distance. I’m in the gym, I walk to the kitchen, and then pop, I’m outside a house on the other hemisphere and Foot’s yelling at us.’

Ham-arms flexed a little, blew smoke out. ‘I know this might sound crazy, but right now, in this moment, I feel that I’ve only existed for a few seconds. Everything before this moment seems about as strong as wrapping paper. I’m trying to remember my mother but she won’t stop moving in my head, won’t let me look at her.’

Ham-Calves nodded. ‘We could just leave. We could just walk off.’

They finished their cigarettes, flexed a little. From inside came the sounds of an awkward struggle: grunts, furniture breaking, a soft scream and then a loud one.

‘Alright,’ they said together, and shuffled toward the door. As they approached, Santa burst out, holding one hand against his neck. Red flowed from between his fingers, staining his white collar and cuffs.

‘Fuck,’ Ham-Calves said.

Santa, taking surprising care for a man close to death, brushed some leaves off a plastic chair in the front yard and sat, looking at Ham-Arms and Ham-Calves. The two elf bros knelt beside him. Ham-Arms embraced Santa a little, said, ‘It’s good to see you, friend. Aside from the gash you’re looking well.’ And Ham-Calves said, ‘It’s good to see you,’ then he took a cigarette and put it between Santa’s lips. A moment passed, then Ham-Arms lit the tip.  – Harlan Ambrose

Let’s take a step back to ‘meanwhile, indoors’:
998 elven bros to the rescue of Claus,
hustled Mel, Trav, Nath and Joe into the study
and took stock of the scene, all broken and bloody.

They settled old Santy in a big easy chair
and whipped a knife out on Foot, who said a swift prayer.
All seemed calm and in imminent repair
when from the study came a whoosh and flurry of air.

See, before shutting the door on our stoner friends (and Joe)
the elves tied all hands, without accounting for air flow.
So Joe turned his leaf-blowing hands up to max
and jetted the gang out care of DIY-jetpacks.

Over the din of the getaway scheme
our sneaky old spacers missed the stab and the scream
but hovering above the garden watching precedings
they saw Santa stumble into the night, bleeding.

He was welcomed by two existentially ponderous elves
who settled him down and lit his cigarette themselves.
This gesture of kindness was the last Santa did witness,
as his highly flammable red suit burst into flames –
And he became a red ho-ho-hot bonfire for Christmas.  – Samantha Van Zweden

Meanwhile, fifteen years later, in a sound booth in Chicago,
A Cultural Phenomenon™ is bursting right now out of embargo.
Touching tongues in studio corner, under mistletoe fig,
It’s NPR hosts Ira Glass and Sarah Koenig!
“We’re both sorta Jewish, but whatevs, here’s a gift just for you:
We’re bring back Serial, now season deux.”

“In these eps, a case that will leave y’all cold with shock,
A fella called Joe and his Rudolph-style cock.
Oh, don’t worry, dear listeners, there’s some murdering, too,
And the fire-death of Santa (pending judicial review).
We’ll check the phone records of Mel, Travis, and Stace,
To find out for certain… did Claus traipse by their place?”

“Who’s guilty, you ask? I’m still not sure I can tell,
Nate’d be obvious, so let’s focus on Mel.
After all, she was there when Stace obtained her ‘permanent limp’,
And she’s also the one who can’t pronounce fucking ‘Mailkimp’.
But what about Dean, who’s heard from him lately?
Another flashback would pad this season out greatly.

“You’d think by this stage that I’d have a good hunch,
About who ruined Christmas, which one of this bunch.
To tell you the truth, I think we’re really all guilty,
The blazing of Santa’s a shared ‘sponsibil’ty,
Nah, j/k, I know exactly who did it, the evidence’s venereal,
But you’ll need to wait to hear it… next week on Serial.”  Connor Tomas O’Brien

Back to the present, ‘cause time’s a flat circle,
And too many pop culture references make you sound like a jerkhole.
Santa’s been stabbed and is now set alight,
In plain view of the neighbours (who haven’t slept all night).

Says one “That’s it, I’ve had enough of this shit,
Those wasteoids are gonna get slapped with a writ.”
You see, dear reader, Trav, Stace, Nate and Mel,
Could be kindly described as ‘the neighbours from hell’.

Ever since the four moved in, property values have gone south.
Stace smokes too much weed, and Trav runs his mouth,
Mel gets drunk and maudlin (tears fog up her specs),
And dear naughty Nate has too-loud gay sex.

The neighbours are used to a racket, and now full of spite,
What just happened sounds like any other Saturday night,
Now into the dewy Christmas morn’ one neighbour angrily struts.
(He’s a senior barrister at Mannheim, Waterhouse and Lutz.)

“Now listen you fuckers, I’ll say this once—” he cries,
Before trailing off: he can’t believe his eyes.
Straight ahead is a smoking corpse surrounded by elves,
Some dude with Airblades for hands, and our stoner gang themselves.

(Although Stacey, we must admit, is not looking too good.)
“What the fuck’s going on here? What have you done to our ‘hood?”
Before our gang can answer, Officer Lucy strolls out,
Pistol drawn, aviators on, full lips in a sexy pout.

She barks, “This asshole Santa’s been iced for breaking parole,
And now, in accordance with section 27C of my role
Description in the Department of Supernatural Administration
I’m gonna embark on a program of witness neutralisation.”  – Chad Parkhill

“Neutralisation?” said Nate, his voice incredulous.
“I must say, as a concept, that sounds a bit nebulous.”
Officer Foot raised a sculpted eyebrow.
“I like you,” she sniggered. “But you’re dead anyhow.

“I mean, it’s a public holiday. Not to sound like a jerk –
But the last thing I want is more paperwork.
You think these situations just clean up themselves?
You wait till this reaches the Union of Elves.

“Their primary employer is dead in the dirt –
In today’s economy, that’s going to hurt.
So instead of sorting through witness statements,
I’m just gonna leave you fucks dead on the pavement.”

(If there weren’t a gun pointed at our gang at this time,
They might’ve pointed out Foot’s sub-par rhyme.
But as it stood, they had plenty worse
To deal with than the quality of verse.)

The officer screamed at them, “Hands in the air!”
At hearing these words, Joe had an idea.
He lunged at the officer, fan-hands on HIGH,
“MORE LIKE AIR IN THE HANDS!” came his blood-curdling cry.

Now Officer Foot was taken by surprise,
The wind had her blinded, her hair in her eyes.
She stumbled and tripped on the body of Stacey
(Wait, is she still alive? My memory’s hazy.)

As Foot hit the floor, the tension abated,
Dyson Airblade™ Man’s appetite for heroism was sated.
As they thanked him for boldly leaping into harm’s way,
Joe knew he’d gained more than just two new fans that day.  – Alan Vaarwerk

The barrister neighbour stands motionless, silent and surprised,
he just came out to yell at deadbeats and instead he almost died.
This dude is only used to dealing with jargon and torts,
he has never in his life even laid eyes on a corpse.

“HOLY CUNTBALLS is that…Santa?” he gasps, clutching at his face,
he takes shocking news like he makes love, that is, not with much grace.
The two elf bros leave Santa Crisp, and saunter over to our crew,
one gestures to the body “It’s Christmas, what the fuck will we do?”

The other elf says “I don’t know if you realise how important this guy is-
to ensure that all boys and girls around the world have a nice Christmas”
The group look around at each other, their faces concerned and ashen,
have they ruined Christmas because of all the cones they’ve been smashin’?

All it takes is a solemn nod from them all, and the decision is made.
One hero puts his hand up to save Christmas, and on that hand is an Airblade.
First they decide to tie up Officer Foot, the woman who threatened their life,
When another elf comes outside and yells ‘what are you doing with my wife!?’  – Brocklesnitch

Ham-grade Forearms turns to look and throws some serious shade.
Ham-grade Calves tenses and his legs burst through Christmas-colored plaid.
The interrupting elf shuts his mouth and quietly defecates
And now the smell of sweet mint candy-cane comes and permeates
Our gang of stoners and their new cyborg friend,
Who sniff the air and think how can they make this Christmas mend.

Dyson Airblade™ Man is reluctant to mention,
That this night his member glowed red to his startled apprehension
But he thinks about who he is, what he’s promised and who he now represents,
And reflects that a Dyson product always delivers, at any expense.
So he tells the street, loud enough for all to hear,
And instantly Nath realises he must get to Santa’s smoking bier.

‘I thought I was Santa, no, I knew I was him,
So I’ll take his title and be known as Santa *Insert appropriate Patronym*
I’m just like Tim Allen. If I put on the coat I’ll get the job!’
And he’s met with a big round of huzzahs from the elfin mob.
Now he runs over and tries to peel off Santa’s hat,
but everything’s enveloped in burning, crispy, crackling fat.

Then Mel kicks the corpse because she’s had enough of asshole slouches,
Giggling cause kicking him feels like kneeing her ex’s expensive, leather-upholstered couches.
And from the kicks some blood starts seeping through,
Cause though Santa’s charred on the surface, elsewhere he’s moister than a mean home brew.
So Nath cups some in his hands and pours it all over his head,
And Mel shouts out, ‘This is crazy! you’ll get Hep C, or worse, drop dead!’

‘We’re going to save Christmas everybody just give us a sec,’
Nath says, hugging his arms round newly-titled Robo-Rudolph’s neck.
The air flowing through the airblades whirs in wait
Then turns to red plasma as the two rocket up to meet their fate.  – Paul Dalla Rosa

Yes, ’twas the night before Christmas, the lead couple would die,
‘A tragic waste of life,’ all the journalists could lie;
Mel breathed a sigh of relief, Nath felt secretly pleased,
Burning out early, their dying ambition achieved!

But mere seconds before their impending collision,
A glitch interrupted this sick Christmas ambition;
The blades just quit spinning, elevation suspended,
Tragedy dashed as their bodies descended.

From the heavens a homeless ghost rode down on a horse,
A tragic third act developing into a farcical fourth;
Mel and Nath’s fear went weak as the spectre grew near,
It was Karl Marx riding Rudolph, the legend! reindeer.

He said, ‘You pieces of shit think that history ended?
The cathedral was empty, the wake unattended;
Greed monkeys like you can get what you’re given,
A lifetime spent sucking up oxygen in this prison.’

Mel threw herself at Karl’s feet, one last chance to reform,
She was sheepish with guilt, a lapsed socialist scorned;
Nath was weary with speed, his grasp of theory fell flat,
He said, ‘I’m wigging out, Santa; what the fuck was that?’

He said, ‘D.A.M. ™ was a trick of post-modern fiction,
But Ham-Grade was a symptom of your ice addiction;
Stick to Xanax and beer, remember the Russians were right,
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!’  – Lech Blaine

Contributing Authors:

Bridget Lutherborrow
Samuel Maguire
Patrick Lenton
Mike Day
Emma Marie Jones
Madeleine Laing
Emily Stewart
Jack Vening
Sophie Overett
Elizabeth Flux
Alexandra Neill
Alex Bennetts
Lizzy King
Veronica Sullivan
Rafael S.W
Annabel Brady-Brown
Harlan Ambrose
Samantha Van Zweden
Connor Tomas O’Brien
Chad Parkhill
Alan Vaarwerk
Paul Dalla Rosa
Lech Blaine

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