The hoodlum swilled a lot of booze. After he swinged his
vessel down a muddy path, arrived swaying before a glorious sun. Stomping with
his inner rattle, ended up spluttering and twitching. The gurgling of the cold flow
nearby, witnessed a source of survival. His thirst would no longer sway.
Snooping around the wood made his angst bland. He would have possessed
something to brag about, bit later, when he would meet with the rest of the
hecklers. At the moment, there were far more essential disputes over yonder: he needed
sating his hunger.
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