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Summary
Andrealphus had no fucking idea how he got here.
Well, he did know.
Andrealphus knew damn well how he wandered into the disgusting, plebeian bar for the poor on a Thursday night looking for someone who could follow through with his little scheme. He also knew that a few fruity tequila drinks sometimes made his robe fall off, one could say, even if the man he took home was beneath his station.
And this one wore the stupidest fucking hat Andrealphus had ever seen.
