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There is something fundamentally disconcerting about waking up with a vacuum-sealed steak resting reverently atop your sternum. Not a lover’s arm. Not a blade. Not even a weird alien fungus with aspirations of symbiosis. No — a packaged bovine fillet. And it wasn’t even warm.
Turning my head sluggishly, the culprit of this sacred morning rite was already sitting cross-legged at my bedside, beaming with a kind of pride usually reserved for hunting trophies or first kills. Kimch ...
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