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    Summary

    Poor Shane, Ilya has half the thought to think, but he isn’t really pitiful. Shane should’ve fessed when he had the chance: I’m sorry Ilya; I’m upset because I like you hairy, Ilya; I want you to grow out your chest hair and stomach hair and pubic hair because it makes me hot under the collar, Ilya. Dangling a carrot in front of a horse, and who is Ilya to deny himself a little bit of fun?

    Ilya shaves. Shane mourns.

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