Michael Hurst is pissed and pissing. A bottle in his hand, a bucket at his feet. Sweet relief and it's hard to know which is sweeter.

He sways. Swings his coat. "The sheer weight of it," he says and the sentence buckles under an heavy Irish "r". The actor stops. Does it again. Stops. "Except it's not that heavy," he says, considering the coat, which, according to the script and the label sewn into the collar, belongs to a dead man.

His voice is back to normal. Pleasant timbre, excellent enunciation, segueing from stage to true story. Once, Hurst informs

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