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Twenty-Three Brad rose from his bed without a word, throwing the window open to freezing, fresh, February air. I was sleeping on the floor of his tiny fraternity room, an overnight stay after a limo race. At first they were a classy way to bar hop. Later we just rode around the city drinking Macallan 25. Jesus Juice. We skipped the water and drank it neat, like no true Scotsman. In those days a bottle was only forty bucks, now itβs a thousand. Whatever the price, it produces foul fumes if you drink enough.
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