December 1965 was an uneventful year for ABOVE USER, a cold month with only the bite of frost and the solemn faces of clowns, who's makeup was long since smeared. ABOVE USER clutched a lukewarm bottle of cheap vodka through the fabric of a tattered army surplus vest, hoping that his teeth could talk to the potato wine and wear away the pain. Unfortunately for ABOVE USER, His bottle was far too cold when he reached his decrepit old apartment, a niche dwelling for those accustomed to dirty tap and brown upholstery. ABOVE USER climbed the stairs, spitting in the face of Sisyphus, and reached a peeling door ajar. "Of what could I have worth stealing?", ran through his head as he stepped into the thresh and waded through tension. All for naught, his condo turned out to be vacant, nothing but a busted bolt. This was going to be a cold, slow Christmas ...