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Submitter Tom was taking a selfie with Illidan in the Black Temple when he suddenly felt a disturbing pang of self-awareness. How many times had he stood atop this temple, fighting the same demon? How many times had he destroyed various threats to Azeroth only to have them rise up again a week later? Was it possible that this was all some sort of charade, a kind of
game for a cruel and capricious master? Fortunately, he had a cask of Dark Iron Ale with him. Nothing drowns out those fourth-wall-breaking sorrows like alcohol.
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