Crystal Shackles, Loosed.

Archon and I are just enjoying a brandy in the drawing room, discussing the day's goings on. (For those of you with a palate and deep pockets, the drink in question is a Cognac Frapin

Cuvée 1888). Crystal Shackles, loosed.

Quite, Draco. If I may interject: In the end it came down to that old chestnut 'irreconcilable artistic differences'. One of us sat him (him being the third member of our 'writing team') down and gave him a stiff drink. (Not the Frapin, the man's tastebuds are as dull as his wit). In any case, I quoted him F. Scott Fitzgerald: 'Cut out all those exclamation marks. An exclamation mark is like laughing at your own jokes.' But he was outraged. 'You think you're the Marx Brothers', he barked at us. What's that, Draco? Ah yes, of course, he didn't say that at all. What he actually said was 'You think you're the Marx Brothers!!!1' He then stormed out, but not before finishing his drink in the manner of a dog that's been beaten into obsequiousness.