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The bottle came from the guards.
Obviously empty—just like my future and my testicles after hitting six times a day—and the guard must've passed out mid-chug, because the drunk opera they were performing in their sleep suddenly went silent.
I peeked my head out like toes from a ripped sock.
As expected—three guards, snoring like buffaloes with sleep apnea and anal beads.
I picked up the bottle, snapped it in half as silently as a disappointment in an Indian f ...
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