By 11 PM we had divested ourselves of the clucking nightmare that is thirty drunk Worcester girls.  Sent back to their party bus by impatient bouncers explaining that their drunk was too drunk, we could still hear their shrill, accented curses echoing off the walls of the Alley.

The brief but cold wait in line helped reset overclocked nerves, and I was soon ordering a Stella in the Liquor Store's airlock lobby, an artificial and necessary calm before the storm.  A Stella because the Liquor Sto...
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