Behold a whiskey bottle with a twisted grin, sporting a patchy beard of moss and a lone, bloodshot eye glaring from its label. Its arms are gnarled vines, dripping with sap, while a pair of hairy, muscular legs sprout from the base, ending in cracked cowboy boots. It staggers forward, sloshing amber liquid, a drunken, feral mess reeking of oak and regret—equal parts menace and pathetic hilarity

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