This is a disclaimer to say that Bill's post may well have been a lie, though I cannot guarantee this. All I can say is that the part concerning me is a lie.
First of all, let me point out that I am the furthest from bald that you have ever seen in a person. Matt has likened me to cauliflower (insensitive, but unusually true) while others have, in their own time, called me Afro-Cat and Mop. Some say that my longest work of fiction to date was all about my killing someone - I dispute this: it was the mop who murdered the man. And that was written years ago, back when I had time to spare on haircuts.
Secondly, I have no Iron Wool in my hair, though people (myself included) have speculated as to what actually does reside in my golden locks. I'm pretty sur there is no Iron or Steel Wool in my hair. Deal with it. If there was, then I'm sure I would set off the metal detectors in airports all the time, and seeing as I'm there a fair amount, the lack of that occurring leads us to assume that NO STEEL WOOL EXISTS. Unless, of course, my hair simply threatens to eat the metal detectors unless they lie.
Thirdly, I have hired our good Bill, but not for the given reason. I have hired him to casually and slowly kill Matt, and seeing as to his recent undeadness, one can assume that he first succeeded before slowly failing. This is an error in judgement on his (Matt's) part, as is rather obvious. He should never have been near that radioactive chicken.
Well, now I'm off to prepare to visit France in honour of those who read my blog. Hello, France! We shall be seeing much more of one another rather soon, I'm sure. Come to Paris to meet me. Just don't expect me to a) recognise you or b) care very much.
Until the time of Geel,
Pisces
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