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Believe me on this. They are scrambling like cockroaches in the light. I got this in the mail, scrawled on a cocktail napkin in sharpie, from one of the secretaries:
"Al From has developed a nervous tic. Don't make sudden noises around him unless the oxygen is close at hand. And Bruce Reed has to bring an extra shirt every day to the office because he keeps sweating through the first one. His hands shake uncontrollably , so much so he can't light his cigarette unless he uses two hands to hold the match.
They have taped aluminum foil up on the windows to keep the rays from reaching them, and they have stacks of newspapers and magazines that reach to the ceiling.
Any day now you'll spot Will Marshall with a three day growth of beard, a half empty coffee cup in hand , wearing fuzzy slippers , sweat pants and a robe, cradling a box of tissues in his arms while he shambles down the lumpy cracked DC sidewalk talking to himself, bursting into tears every ten minutes or so.
Merry Fucking Christamas"
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