well, cat's out the fucking bag...

I think I stuck it to that little bitch Stoney well enough on FSJ, but I really hope he doesn't think for a second that's the last of it.

We move in the same circles, Brad; you can't hide for long. At one of those smarmy tweed-jacket-with-suede-elbow-patches cocktail parties we professional journalists attend every night, while you bask in the glow of the smiling sycophantic faces around you, blathering on and on about your big scoop... I'll come out of the shadows and I will ruin you like hymen blood on a light pink prom dress, Stone.

This isn't over.