by Hannah Marie Smart
“If you look up, you’ll notice that the light fixtures are long and old-fashioned and dangle from the nonexistent ceiling. Lots of parodies use regular bulbs, but the actual show uses lights like these. Small details are important.”
Set designer Daniel Hill is giving Avery Munson, host and co-producer of the TV program Washed Out, a complete rundown of the stage he’s constructed for tomorrow’s episode, which will feature a comedy sketch parodying the reality show Teach Me, Oh Celebrity. He’s pointing demonstrably at each implement and explaining his rationale for any choices that could be seen as unintuitive or unconventional to the untrained eye. Backstage, 2000s punk singer Cameron Taylor Brown, now in his forties with short, naturally blond hair he hasn’t dyed black in over a decade and piercings that have fully closed up, awaits directions.
“You should also note that the windows are not so much windows as one-way mirrors,” Dan continues. “The audience can see through them, but the actors can only see themselves reflected back. If you have one takeaway here, I want it to be that this is all intentional.”
“Set designers don’t usually give me a whole crash course in their artistic process,” Avery says. “However you’ve constructed it, I trust you.”
If Dan heard her, he doesn’t let on. “And, finally, the bookshelf behind the desk. I listened to some of Cameron Taylor Brown’s music and tried to get a sense of the literature he’d keep in his classroom. So there’s a lot of Burroughs. A Salinger or two. Some Woolf and Plath. Et cetera.”
Dan was a novelist before he was a set designer, but his books never took off, despite his Dickensian mental eye for scene-setting. Three piddly years in the brutal and cutthroat literary world taught him, brutally and cutthroatly, that your average reader has no interest in envisioning scenes beyond their most basic necessities. In books, sets can remain empty until they need to be filled. But in the televisual world, there’s no such thing as an empty set—designers must carefully consider the seemingly mundane details readers see as superfluous. Stuff like the fact that Avery Munson’s astrology sign is Virgo, which practicing astrologers would claim indicates organizational savvy and coolness under pressure. Or the fact that when Dan read books as a kid, he always flipped to the end and read the end first and then read the rest of the book like that—back to front—so he knew he wasn’t being deceived or tricked or misled in any way. Or the fact that the real reason most audiences want to know as little information as possible is because knowing too much is overwhelming—they long, impatiently, to Start The Action Already, knowledge-gaps be damned. But these gaps—the inevitable disparities between creator- and reader-perception—always provoked in writer-Dan a kind of hostility; he hated owing his artistic existence to an audience who didn’t understand him. “Death of the author?” Psh, the readers were the ones he really wanted dead (Dan obviously not quite grasping the metaphor).
Cameron Taylor Brown, Washed Out’s newest celebrity guest star, is brought onto the set now, for blocking purposes. He squints as his eyes adjust to the ceilingless lights. Specks of dust form an angelic haze against the stage’s muted black. He tries not to sneeze.
“The skit’s general premise,” Avery explains, while Cameron inspects the first professional soundstage he’s graced since his coke scandal in 2012, “is that you’re this week’s guest star on Teach Me, Oh Celebrity. You’ve seen that show, right?”
“Sure,” Cameron answers. “Public figures teach introductory classes in subjects they’re unfamiliar with. Enjoyed primarily by college students and mid-twenties burnouts.”
“Exactly. Of course, Washed Out is a parody show, so you won’t actually be teaching a class on the fly. You’ll memorize a pre-written, bumbling lecture on the topic of set design.” Pauses. “Which Daniel here was just lecturing me about, coincidentally.” Avery hands Cameron the script she’s been carrying this whole time.
Cameron flips through a few liberally-highlighted pages. “My acting experience is limited.”
“That’s okay,” Avery reassures him. “You’ll just be playing yourself.”
Earlier this week, Avery had a similar conversation with a USC freshman named Natalie, the until-now-amateur actress she hired to make a surprise appearance on Cameron’s episode of Washed Out, which it’s probably worth mentioning is not a parody sketch show—that’s just what Avery tells her famous victims. What the show really is is a reality prank show. Clueless, desperate, washed-up former celebs are invited to “play themselves” in what they think is a cameo in a live parody sketch but is actually a practical joke of which they are the butt. The improvisational heat of an “unplanned” event, followed by the dawning realization that they’ve been cruelly pranked, has caused some pretty ludicrous and unpredictable breakdowns.
“Do you want me to bring, like, a fake gun or something?” Natalie asked while Avery led her down the backstage hall. “Like, for verisimilitude or whatever?”
“No, nothing that extreme.”
“So, like, just a knife?”
“No weapons whatsoever. A gleaming, murderous facial expression will suffice. We wouldn’t want anything out of the ordinary to happen.” Natalie struck Avery as one of those camera-hungry brats with rich parents who doted on them as kids and gave them homemade participation trophies for stuff as simple as eating their vegetables or wiping their own asses—the type of “actress” who cares more about seeing herself on TV than the quality of the performance therein. Avery can usually clock these types because she herself was a reluctant child actress whose rise to stardom was swift and indecent-exposure-and-public-urination-related fall even swifter. In a way, Washed Out is her rebirth.
“Like this?” Natalie’s face assumed a gleaming, constipated expression.
“Good enough.”
For Cameron, who experienced a near-fatal incident back in 2007 (an ill-planned ambush that likely would have killed him had the Molotov cocktail not bounced off the leg of the autograph-signing table before exploding) and who hasn’t been the subject of any critical press in over ten years—not a Rolling Stone article, not a TV interview, nothing—and who (all this speculation occurring inside Avery’s head) likely yearns for the days when people cared enough about him to try to assassinate him, understandably possesses some complex fan-attachment issues and interpersonal paranoia, plus, as a bonus, a weird morbid desire for his paranoid fears to come true, so Avery figured the obvious “unplanned” event would involve a “crazed fan” storming erratically onto Washed Out’s set while Cameron is declaiming passionately to what he thinks is a scripted cast of parody sketch show actors and a loving and amiable live studio audience who wants to see him succeed unimpeded by unexpected interruptions.
So let’s back up, then, to a few months prior, when Avery sat in a musty audition room as prospective crazed fans filtered through one-by-one and gave mostly lackluster performances and begged a lot afterward, and one hacktress (Avery’s mental term for these sorts; male equivalent: hacktor) seemed creepily enthusiastic to just the right degree, plus had a near-unhealthy obsession with the topic of true crime. Natalie squealed excitedly when Avery called her with the news and even more excitedly when she received her in-person debrief. Avery didn’t tell her that her persistent insufferability was the reason she got the job.
As a mostly unrelated aside, it’s probably also worth mentioning that after seventeen long years in prison for the attempted murder of Cameron Brown, Dylan Roger Stein (whose full name rolls catchily off the tongue as all assassins’ do) has finally been deemed fit for polite society and that today—March 22, 2024—is his first whiff of freedom.
One reason for his relatively early release is that his initial 2007 hearing decreed that he was “not of sound mind” and therefore not morally culpable for his actions the way a normal and sane celebrity-assassin might be. Another reason is that he was technically still a juvenile when the crime was committed, just weeks away from his eighteenth birthday. But possibly the most important reason of all is that his behavior these past seventeen years has been pristine—he’s spent his every waking hour trying first to convince the staff of the prison-slash-loony-hut that’s served as his de facto home for the latter half of his life that he was willing to change, and then that he was changing, and then finally that he had changed. He’d known right away that his character development and sanification and ultimate epiphany that assassination is unethical had to occur gradually in order to be maximally convincing. So he constructed a persona.
All the while, he kept careful, covert tabs on Cameron Taylor Brown and his whereabouts. After a totally understandable and expected five-year retreat from the public eye, Cameron released his 2012 album Snort! to mixed reviews. He was busted for coke shortly thereafter, paid a fine, and retreated from the public eye once again.
March in California is pleasantly warm and gently-breezed, so Dylan Stein (as he’s commonly known; he’s never gone by his middle name) is taking careful advantage of his newfound autonomy, sitting alone in a public park on red-and-black checkered picnic blanket (without any accompanying food—wouldn’t want to lose his prison physique). Leaves rustle. Joggers jog, their shoes thumping rhythmically against unpaved gravel. Birds converse in chirpy gibberish bird-language. Trees are mercifully sparse, though.
Truthfully, Dylan never even wanted to kill Cameron. Seventeen years of psychoanalysis and introspection have made him realize that the person he actually wanted to kill was himself. But reflected in Cameron, he saw all the parts of himself he’d rather forget—his anger, his dissatisfaction, his emptiness, his disillusionment, his impending decay, his penchant for questionable fashion choices like eyebrow piercings and leather vests so tight you can see the outlines of the nipples of his AA-cup moobs, etc. So killing Cameron was the next best thing, he’d thought, as a naïve seventeen-year-old aspiring assassin with a Molotov cocktail, a humble dream, and a willingness to construct an ever-growing and -evolving and -sanifying persona. In all his years of self-examination, it never occurred to him to consider whether the Cameron Taylor Brown he viewed as his artistic soulmate was himself a construction.
***
On the night of the show, Washed Out’s backstage is cramped and dim and, in Dan’s view, poorly designed. Cameron has an allergy to a nonspecific something in the air and keeps sneezing. Well-intentioned but snoopy friends and acquaintances have asked him how his nasal sensitivities impacted his ability to snort the copious amounts of coke he snorted during the now-hazy 2007 – 2012 timeframe, before the clandestine rehab he never mentioned to the press, but in all truthfulness, allowing his nose to feel something besides a constant, mild itchiness came as a weird kind of pleasant relief. Feeling different is always preferable to feeling the same.
Cameron and Dan sit across from each other on yellowish-green padded chairs, watching Avery’s monologue to the apparent live studio audience on the high-def backstage screen, light bouncing off the creases of her red, tight-fitting dress to create a kaleidoscope of subtly dissimilar shades.
“I can’t believe they invited me on here,” Cameron says. “I kind of assumed most people had forgotten I exist.” Which is the truth. In his worst moments, Cameron himself almost forgets he exists.
“Are you kidding?” Dan exclaims. “When you almost got shot or bombed or whatever, that shit was all over national news.”
Cameron remembers, and he also remembers the depressing exhilaration of the event’s aftermath. Suddenly, paparazzi were approaching him on the street, shoving microphones in his face and nearly whacking him in the head with giant, mid-2000s cameras. “How did it feel?” they all wanted to know. “How did it feel to be narrowly missed by the glass shrapnel of a poorly aimed Molotov cocktail?” When Cameron told them he couldn’t remember, they didn’t believe him. Since then, therapists and fans and ex-girlfriends have advised him to keep some pepper spray on him at all times, to be used in the unlikely case of another attempted assassination, but the mere scent of pepper is enough to send his respiratory system into anaphylactic overdrive, so a pepper-spray deployment would be a kind of mutually assured destruction of assassin and victim. His perpetual emptyhandedness is a source of both pride and fear.
“It made me paranoid,” Cameron admits. He’s wearing the classic, black, graduation-robe-ish Teach Me, Oh Celebrity garb. “The thought that people were out to get me. Plotting maliciously. But I’ve come to accept this thing as a one-time isolated incident. People think about you way less than you think they do.”
Dan, now feeling a strange guilty internal prickle as he considers the malicious plot he’s participating in just by virtue of having designed Washed Out’s pseudo-set, changes the subject. “All set pieces accounted for?” he wonders aloud. He’s busied himself with important tasks like repeatedly checking and repositioning the newspaper stack on the backstage coffee table, adjusting his chair by micro-amounts, asking Cameron to please stand up for a second so that he can adjust Cameron’s chair by micro-amounts, etc. A complete and constant curation of his environment.
“I’m not so sure about this character who’s supposed to be me,” Cameron says now, pointing to the open script on his lap. He reads, “‘If you’re as emo as I am, you’ll know that even brushing your teeth in the morning is enough to start the waterworks. Don’t let me breathe on you too hard, guys.’” Looks up numbly. “They’re supposed to laugh there. ‘So some of you might be asking, “Then what gives you, Mr. Brown, the authority to lecture me about anything besides the best brand of tissues to buy?” You might have a point.’ That doesn’t sound like me.”
“It doesn’t? Were you not the man behind ‘Anhedonia’—that heartfelt, depressed ode to a metaphorical former partner named Anhedonia?”
“I suppose.” A brief but priceless jolt of dopamine at the prospect of Dan knowing one of his songs, albeit his most famous and radio-friendly one. He’s always considered “Anhedonia” to be the “Creep” of his extremely diverse and mostly honest oeuvre—both his anchor and his sail.
“So you’re not depressed?”
“No, I am. Just not like that.”
Dan shrugs and adjusts his chair one millimeter to the right and then one millimeter back to the left.
“Would you quit it?” Cameron asks, after many minutes of tongue-holding. Onstage, Avery is introducing tonight’s celebrity guest. She spends about five seconds on his musical accomplishments before moving onto the murder attempt and painstakingly describing all the grisly, traumatic details Cameron has spent seventeen therapeutically intense years trying to forget. “Actually, no. Squeak the chair even louder.”
It wasn’t sarcasm, but Dan interprets it that way. “A set designer never rests. Nothing unaccounted for.”
“This isn’t even a set, though.”
“The cocktail hit the leg of the table and exploded only a dozen or so feet from where Brown sat,” Avery reads. “Shrapnel flew in all directions.”
“But that’s where you’re wrong,” Dan says, tweaking the wall’s mirror and examining his reflection distastefully. “Once you’ve been a set designer for long enough, you realize that everything is a set. Set design is life.”
This statement doesn’t quite ring true to Cameron, whose own life thus far has been more than just a compendium of carefully chosen parts. It’s also involved absences. Negatives. The stuff too abstract to capture concretely, like the way you feel when you realize you feel nothing. The stuff antithetical to “life” as “life” is generally understood.
“How would you set-design death?” he asks Dan.
“One piece landed in a nearby field. Another pierced the cheek of an eager fan. Another hit the back of Brown’s chair.”
“An empty room…” gesturing broadly with his hands.
“Screams issued. Police were called. Autographed materials were dropped.”
“…with purple wallpaper…”
“It’s about time for me to go on,” standing up abruptly.
“The perpetrator was a seventeen-year-old, Caucasian male named Dylan Roger Stein…”
…which name Cameron knows quite well, having kept covert tabs of his own on Dylan throughout the years. He was oddly disappointed to learn that Dylan’s recent release from prison created hardly a splash, news-headline-wise—Cameron had to click through like two pages of Google search results to find a single article about it.
He knows other stuff about Dylan too. Like the fact that he brought a copy of The Talented Mr. Ripley to the courthouse with him, for the trial (probably figuring The Catcher in the Rye was too cliché). And the fact that he owns every Cameron Taylor Brown record and even some unreleased, black-market, Torrented bootlegs with unremovable Chinese subtitles. And the fact that he’d already been admitted to two inpatient hospitals—one more than Cameron himself—before the incident even occurred. Cameron got most of his info from Dylan’s self-published Assassin’s Manifesto, which contains no mention of Dylan’s surreptitious and short-lived music career—he began playing the ukulele during his second hospital stay (it was one of the few available items that couldn’t be used for hanging or cutting, the suicide ward’s staff had explained).
Dan contemplates telling Cameron to break a leg as he heads onstage but doesn’t want to bring back memories of broken glass and table legs.
“The key is to just throw a bunch of random shit together,” Washed Out’s constructed actor persona Cameron Taylor Brown declaims to his “live” studio audience and constructed stage audience of prank show actors playing parody show actors playing students. Dan, still watching the screen backstage, cringes at the immense incorrectness of the assertion. Avery has retreated to her producer booth and now sits between her two male co-producers (who don’t do much in terms of the show’s overall organization but demanded spots in the producer booth nonetheless), ready to give voiceover instructions to performers should anything go wrong.
“Overwhelm them with clutter,” Cameron is saying. “Viewers don’t even look at set pieces.” To the audience: “Do you guys pay attention to what’s happening in the background when you watch TV?” The non-live studio audience emits a collective laugh, because a couple ski-masked men in all black have just shuffled onstage to place an additional book into the bookcase, so Cameron’s question is more than just a direct address—it’s a challenge.
Audiences might not pay attention to setups, but Dan sure does, and if he squints at the screen, he can see that the little red book they’ve added is an unaccounted-for set piece. Not only that—it positively clashes with the benign depressive vibe of Cameron’s character. Dan suppresses the urge to emit a loud and unplanned-for groan.
Cameron continues declaiming. Studio audience continues laughing at all the right times. And here comes the actor playing the rabid fan now, dressed in all-black professorly garb just like Cameron, which is a bit literarily heavy-handed, Dan thinks, but he’d never stoop as low as to tell the costume designer how to do her job. Some other interesting and hitherto unmentioned things about Dan are that he’s only five feet tall and very stout and balding like nobody’s business on just the top of his head. Every new hair he loses reminds him of his transient corporeality. He wishes it were within his power as set designer to construct a toupee that doesn’t make him look like a complete tool.
“The identical outfits are a nice touch,” male co-producer #1 whispers to Avery, covering his microphone with his hand even though it’s turned off.
“That’s not her.” Avery’s lips barely move when she speaks.
“Him, you mean.”
“No, her. The crazed fan is female. You’d know that if you came to the auditions.”
What went wrong here should be obvious, but in case you’re not up to speed: Dylan Stein, through some kind of otherworldly stalker-fan magic, knew that Cameron would be guest-starring on Washed Out today and naturally turned up at the studio (not even bothering to wear a disguise—his adult facial structure differs pretty dramatically from the baby-faced teenage mug that was plastered all over national TV). The security guards asked him whether he was “the crazed fan,” and he instinctively told them Yes, having internalized an honesty’s-the-best-policy ethos during his prison years. For reasons wholly unclear to Dylan, this was the correct response. The guards let him in.
But once inside the drab, gray bowels of Washed Out’s studio, he encountered a girl of similar age to the pre-sanified iteration of himself who’d attempted the first and only assassination of his life thus far. Suspecting a malicious plot, he asked her who she was.
Natalie, a devout practitioner of the Daniel Day-Lewis style of method-acting, replied, “The crazy fan who’s going to ambush Cameron onstage” with a gleaming, murderous facial expression that told Dylan the bulge in her tight jeans’ left pocket meant business and bloodshed.
But Dylan couldn’t have another fan storming the stage and ruining his moment, so he struck Natalie’s neck with a non-lethal knockout move he’d learned from his prison cellmate Minyang, who’d been a Kung Fu master before the WuShu KungFu Federation had dishonorably excommunicated him for using his skills to commit an armed robbery with only his arms and legs as weapons.
So now Dylan locks eyes with Cameron, and Cameron’s pupils widen with the dawning realization that he’s about to die, and Dan, who hasn’t seen a photo of Dylan in years and envisions him as much less male-model-looking than the blond, thirty-four-year-old man onscreen, regrets not telling Cameron the truth about the prank and preventing him from reliving his trauma, for however briefly he has to relive it now as he peruses the person Dan believes is a hired actor, and Avery clutches her head and pulls at her hair and removes and replaces her large square glasses a couple dozen times and whispers aggressively into her microphone, beaming a dozen futile variations of “Where the fuck are you?” into the unconscious Natalie’s earpiece, experiencing a desperate and déjà-vu-ish need to pee, while her male co-producers urge her to Cool it, lady. Take a chill pill. This is Cinema, unfolding before our very eyes.
“Kill me, then, if you’re gonna kill me,” Cameron says. He feels oddly at peace, standing there at the center of the room’s focus. Facing the person he’s thought about and dreamed about and followed for years feels a bit like looking into a mirror. After all, when he looks into real mirrors nowadays, the man he sees staring back at him is not Cameron Brown—who once, as a child, aimed his father’s gun at a squirrel he saw in the backyard and blew an accidental hole through the living room ceiling—but Cameron Taylor Brown, the famous punk singer whose constructed image used to be a matter of public speculation and debate and intrigue.
“That’s not what I’m here for,” Dylan replies, too quietly for the producer booth’s sound-system to pick up.
“Get him off,” Avery demands to whoever will listen. She’s never intruded on a prank before, but she will if this guy, whom she doesn’t recognize but who looks up to no good, pulls a weapon. Natalie just recently regained consciousness and is stumbling dizzily down the studio hall toward the action, visible to no one, some uncomfortable truths about her assaulter’s identity finally dawning on her. She wishes she’d deployed her pepper spray.
And here’s Dan asserting his presence onstage now, his bald head reflecting the theater lights like a disco ball. “Enough,” he declares. “This whole prank show concept is stupid.”
“Can you say it a bit louder and look into the camera?” male co-producer #2 asks him via his earpiece.
“This is not the right crazed fan,” Avery insists.
“Who cares? We gotta roll with the punches. How else can we call ourselves ‘reality’?” Male co-producer #2 leans over to speak into Avery’s mic again. “Once more, chin up, into the camera, boyo. No mumbling.”
“For shame,” Dan goes on, not acknowledging the request, holding The Talented, unaccounted-for Mr. Ripley up in one hand like Who could have predicted this?
“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” Dylan Roger Stein tells Cameron Taylor Brown, eyes fixed on his own sandaled feet, “for the cocktail. Or for almost killing you. Whatever you’d call it.”
“I’d call it almost killing me. Yeah.”
“I think, at the end of the day, I was just a scared little boy. But I’ve grown since then.” He manages a small smile. “I’m a scared full-grown man now.”
Who knows what he’s thinking.
“It’s like you say in your 2003 song ‘Scared,’” he continues. “‘We’re a bunch of scared children who overshot our dreams.’”
But the naïve, dyed-haired pussy who wrote that line is a complete stranger to Cameron now. Suicidal songs notwithstanding, that guy knew nothing of how it feels to confront your own mortality head-on. Twice.
“I’d say you literally overshot yours,” Cameron replies, still oddly calm. “It’s all in the wrist.” Gives a brief, frisbee-like demonstration of the ideal Molotov-cocktail-throwing wrist-action just as a winded Natalie tear-asses onto the stage and sprays a liberal misting of pepper into Dylan’s eyes and nasal passage. Dylan clasps two hands over his face and falls to his knees with a pained shriek. Cameron sneezes and then begins to cough. He tries to say he’s allergic, but no words escape. He hopes Dylan will say the words for him, presumably being enough of a stalker to know about the allergies. He does know about Cameron’s allergies, right? Surely he knows at least that if he knew where he’d be on March 23.
But he doesn’t. Cameron never sang about his allergies or even mentioned them publicly. If he had, it would have killed some kind of celebrity illusion—the same illusion, perhaps, that would die if he acknowledged the furtive, parasitic relationship between his own life and the life of the man who tried to end it.
“Aaaauuugh,” Dylan screams, rolling around on his back and letting loose a few coughs of his own. Cameron chokes some more, his lungs nearly empty and his throat nearly full, and then eventually stops coughing—never a good sign, as any chronic anaphylactic knows, but Cameron’s the only chronic anaphylactic here (he believes).
Dan’s gaze moves dumbly back and forth between the two dying men on the floor. Dylan’s coughs transmute into wheezes. Natalie asks whether anyone has called the cops on the grown-up teenage attempted assassin yet. Various audiences gape. Avery strides briskly downstairs, yelling, “Class dismissed!”
“You recognized me?” Dylan croaks, blinking pepper out of his swollen eyes while he struggles to meet Natalie’s gaze. “You know me?”
Because at the end of the day, that’s all anybody wants—to be known.
***
“Are you worried?” a female paparazzo asked Cameron during the fallout of the Molotov Cocktail Incident of 2007, shoving a microphone in his face while a male paparazzo nearly whacked him in the head with a giant, mid-2000s camera.
Cameron sneezed, his dyed-black hair blowing slightly in the wind, a few strands catching on his eyebrow ring. “About what?”
“Well, about something like this. Happening again.”
His eyes wandered like a burgeoning coke addict’s. “If it does, I just hope it goes down quickly. Cleanly.”
“You don’t really believe that.”
In all honesty, he wasn’t sure whether he believed it—the chronically numb tend to eschew belief in all its forms. But in that moment, as he watched some pollen scatter in the breeze—a sinister but beautiful aerosol dusting of the first thing that ever tried to kill him—he at least felt it. Or felt something. He knew that much.
“Sure do,” he said, feeling more alive than he’d felt since “Anhedonia” peaked at #3 on the alternative charts. “A glass shard to the stomach—bad news. Painful. Straight through the temple? Peaceful as hell. I won’t know what hit me. You don’t know anything once you’re dead. Death is just an empty sheet of nothing.
______
Hannah Marie Smart’s short stories have been published in West Branch, The Harvard Advocate, Puerto del Sol, SmokeLong Quarterly, and Cleaver, among others, and her essays have appeared in The Boston Globe, Potomac Review, and The Sunlight Press. Her work has been shortlisted in The Masters Review 2023 Chapbook Open, nominated for two Pushcart Prizes, and nominated for 2025’s Best of the Net anthology. She is the founder and editor in chief of experimental journal The Militant Grammarian. Her debut novel Meat Puppets is forthcoming from Apocalypse Confidential sometime next year.
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