Theft on ice

Joan was on her third consecutive double-shift when Frosty slid in, top hat and all.

“Empty the register,” he ordered, thrusting a bag across the counter.

Joan didn’t move. “Come on, Frosty, not again.”

Frosty stuck an arm into his white chest and pulled out a revolver. “EMPTY. THE. REGISTER.”

Joan, staring into his button eyes, opened the drawer. As she pulled out the bills, she discreetly felt under the counter for the thermostat.

“Why do you do this?”

Frosty only stared his cold stare.

Ten minutes later, she walked around the counter and lifted the bag from the puddle.

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