I’m preparing for a trip to Southern California, cutting a family visit short. The nature of the event in Encino demands my presence; I dread the necessity, but a dim neural recess tells me I should have known better in the first place.

I go in the name of Modern Humor Authority, and I go to finally lay to rest an old demon that haunts me, as it does the rest of the staff here.

That is but two pages of three-hundred-seventy. I have been in consultation with a lawyer, but I insisted in preparing the document myself, much as a noble Gaelic knight might have forgecrafted his own sword of battle.

There, in the rising embers, I too am hewn.

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