Ringle dingle
Urk, tummy rumbles...
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In the pocket of a jacket on the balcony of Club Inferno a phone rings. Unfortunately its owner (along with almost everyone else for that matter) is currently too busy with other things to even hear it over the music and groans, much less answer it.
The call eventually goes to voice mail.
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"Michael, not a time to be screening calls. We need to put our brains in the same room. Hit me back when you get the chance."
end voicemail
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