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Carpe Vinum

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There was, of course, no fine wine in the Boar’s Head Inn, but the cheap shit flowed twice as fast: Hal was no stranger to house ale, but he couldn’t remember when it had made him feel stranger than this, everything a little out of focus, a little numb, as if walking through a fog or maybe a dream— he stood up from the table and left Poins to his right and Falstaff at the head, roaring loud so the whole inn could hear some bawdy tale or joke they’d heard a dozen times before (Falstaff didn’t remember that now, wouldn’t next week when he told it again, bigger, falser.)