My lawyer called me the other day and wanted to know if I could start asking and talking about Ir.
I hung up without a word, just staring at the reflection in the mirror in the hallway of my penthouse above the 15th floor of the apartment house on 666, Whitaker Lane in Bromford, the friendly town by the bay and seaside.
And I threw away the phone.
Nobody asks me about Ir!
Did you hear that?
Never ever ask me about Ir!
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