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You have, I think, correctly identified the problem with the franchise, Mr Tricks.
It looks as if one Edward Brubaker has (like one of the many, many silver and diamond mining operations I've invested in, globally) been asked to produce too much.
What's he writing now, about four comics a month?
The tit. He seeems broken-down, over-worked, and depressed.
I long for that sort of opportunity.
I feed on his naivety.
If he's not careful, I would, if pushed, consider myself to be an artistic genius. James Joyce; I could shit that, frankly, but where's the percentage? How much bloody money did Marcel shitting Proust make? Less than me, I reckon. Sitting in his bloody room, stripped doon to his under-crackers. Eating cakes, I had the flesh stripped off my back. |
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