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Mr. Omen replies, “I see. Well, listen, let Mr. Prophet regain his composure, ok? Then pour him a drink– I believe behind the bar is a tumbler of Glenfiddich; 1946, if I’m not mistaken. And, uh, yeah, slip him a Vicodin, ok? It’ll take 20, an hour at best to relax him–”
“Well, he already knows about the loss of his legs. I mean, look at him go.”
Mr. Omen sighs. In frustration, he rubs his eyes and shakes his head in disapproval over the interruption, “Yeah, I KNOW that. You’re trying to soften the blow when you tell him that one James “Logan” Howlett will be taking him to court over a copyright infringement regarding ‘the berzerker rage’, ok?”
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