I imagine myself. As I use the powers of imagination, I picture a sweat-slicked chest, heaving in. Heaving out. I have stolen the top secret Avengers 2 outline from Whedon’s bed side after he and I had a tickle fight. I won, but he wasn’t resentful. After passing into a calm repose, Joss rolls over. I spy it on his bed stand. It can’t be! Can it? I grab it. It is. Or so I imagine.

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