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Summary
“My mother was a saint,” he slurred and visibly tightened his hold over the neck of the bottle.
If he had been sober, Crocodile would’ve swiftly changed the subject. The past is a place he doesn’t like to visit, be it his or someone else’s. Drunk as he is, he just nods.
“Mine was an amoral bitch,” he shared. “I do miss her sometimes.”