You back away slowly, heart pounding. Papera Roll steps forward, her TP dress rustling ominously. “Don’t run,” she coos, eyes wide and unblinking. “We haven’t had our morning chat yet.” You bolt for the door—she glides after you like a ghost in a Charmin commercial. “You left me hanging on that empty roll,” she calls. You scream. Somewhere behind you, she whispers, “Two-ply… too late.”
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