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Summary
YOU: They tell you you’re worse in winter.DRAMA: Maybe you’re some kind of cryptid. The Revacholian Gutter-Drunk, turned by the winter moon, stumbling and moaning through the streets. Particularly affected by blonde welkins and wiry and authoritative dark-haired men. Leave a half-drunken bottle of Commodore Red out, they say, and The Revacholian Gutter-Drunk’ll puke on your doorstep. His natural enemy is the sea, and he is regularly foiled by motor carriages…
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