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Within the musical medium, a seemingly small and finite number of keys give way to infinite possibilities based entirely on the instrument of choice, interpretation, creativity and personality of each individual artist. Some channel their breath and energies into woodwinds, while others tickle the ivories or establish rhythmic foundations using drums and percussion. The Fiddler opts for cat-gut strings and a well-rosined bow, neither of which are ever out of his nimble fingers’ reach. To enter the public eye is to face inescapable propositioning from his adoring public. Oft are the occasions when fans rise to their feet at The Fiddler’s arrival, using pleading applause to petition him for an impromptu rendition of one of his sweet melodies. A gifted musician with a generous soul, he obliges as often as possible.

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You’ll find her straddling the line between Belgium and the Czech Republic, wearing little more than a grin. She’s not smiling because she just fooled you into believing the aforementioned countries share a border (though that was rather amusing). The Harlot’s upturned lips and dimpled cheeks merely complete the come-hither guise she’s painted on for the evening. She is filled with an insatiable thirst and she’s not leaving until its quenched. But first she must identify another whose hunger for unadulterated pleasure is as great as hers. It’s no easy feat, but the next carousel rider at her nightly carnival of the flesh shall not be disappointed. This fiery dynamo has a great deal to offer; attributes that go far beyond what’s visible at first glance.

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From bluegrass to death-metal, Old World lagers and Belgian-style ales to hoppy Out West IPAs, Stygian dark beers and Feral wine barrel-aged sours, Societe Brewing Company is a lot of things, but more than anything else, we are the passionate people guided by respect for beer and the art of brewing, doing our best, day-in and day-out, to make this brewery all that it is for all of you. We’re glad so many people appreciate it and are happy to present you to the incredible members of our family.

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You roll along, taking in scenes of uncharted territory while basking in the splendorous freedom of the open road. You have four wheels, a full tank of petrol and not a care in the world. The world is your oyster…or so you mistakenly think. In truth, this particular section of the world belongs to another—The Highwayman. He’s made the tarred narrow swath bisecting these otherwise deserted expanses his own, not by deed or contract, but by sheer force of will. Without a lawman for miles, this strategic hijacker is a self-appointed judge, jury and executioner…if it comes to that. He prefers to merely brandish his club, but the notches inflicted upon it by the skulls of those who would defy The Highwayman’s will are proof that it’s far more than a motivating prop.

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It’s impossible to lay gaze upon The Miser’s wealth of treasures and avoid succumbing to petty jealousy. He has it all, and he has it all on everybody else. But is he happy? Of course he is. He has everything, and your envy is the very proof that material things matter as much as they do. Otherwise, why would he eschew basic gestures of generosity despite having far more than he could ever need? Like all of us, The Miser has chosen what’s important in life, and what means the most to him is stuff, and the accumulation of it. Yes, he has it all…and he intends to keep every bit of it for himself.

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He watches the world like a bloated vulture atop an ivory tower awaiting the expiration of the wretched and the damned. For most, life is a journey versus a destination, but his entire life has been about reaching the lofty space he occupies. His personal voyage is over. Now he’s a fixture on a nearly astral plane of governance where the haves rule the have-nots. To get there, he painted on an uncharacteristically pleasant public-facing persona to garner ballots bearing his name. The road to his enviable place in the political hierarchy was paved with those slips of electoral parchment; so seemingly small and insignificant alone, yet so powerful when lumped together to convey majority-rule. But long gone are his days of groveling to curry the favor of the unwashed masses. A clever politico knows such tactics are only necessary the first time around. The Highbinder now employs more efficient, foolproof tactics for ensuring reelection and acceleration of his agenda.

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Some journey the world in search of that special someone; a soul-mate for which they are perfectly suited to spend eternity. The Bachelor observes this behavior—he can even find the nobility and normalcy in it—but for him, monogamy is simply too cruel a rule. This free-wheeling gadabout sees the fairer half of this spinning orb’s populace as a nearly endless source of pleasure. Were it possible, he’d have his way with all of them, but knowing his earthly and biologic limitations, he employs a more selective, fastidious approach that’s as frequent as it is fleeting, hand-selecting conquests, one after the other, unimpeded by the concept of forever. It’s always a one-time thing. There will be no repeat-performances. It’s going to be what it’s going to be, but it’s also going to be a thorough exploration that touches on all the senses.

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There you are, perched atop a barstool, perusing the beer-board, when suddenly you pick up the silhouette of a foreboding figure in your periphery. Though unassuming in most ways, this individual demands your attention—not by might or even with words—but by his mere presence. He stands at the doorway for a moment, surveying the place’s inhabitants, assessing…always assessing. For this is his business, assessment and, of course, collection. Though gaunt as a specter, his right forearm is surprisingly meaty, for it does the literal heavy-lifting. Dangling from the end of that appendage is an empty satchel, but it won’t be empty for long. The Exciseman has come to claim his due and he won’t be leaving until he’s been made whole.

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