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Post by Edward Darson on Sept 16, 2008 14:19:26 GMT -3
Why am I here? It is a question that has plagued humanity for generations. Why am I here? Am I alone? What is the meaning of life? All tough questions, questions that humanity stopped searching for long ago. You are here because you allow yourself to be commanded there. You are alone because people tell you that you are. The meaning of life? The meaning of life is merely to die. My name is Edward Darson. I have been in prison for five years now, on some trumped-up charges concerning the whereabouts of my assets. But the real reason? Oh, now that’s something that they never want to tell you. That’s something that they will never fess up to. I am here because with my knowledge, my expertise, I could put many very, very important people away. So what do I do, you ask? Officially, I am a paralegal for a law firm. A very large, important law firm. But, off the charts, away from the light, I am what this world prefers to call a mercenary; a man who murders, maims, and tortures to get the job done. But they’ll never tell you that. Oh, I’ve worked for some very important people over the years, and you might even know some of them. But there’s no need to add insult to injury. They think that I’m safely tucked away in my prison cell, rotting out the rest of my years in this place, never being able to tell my story. But one day, I will escape. One day, I’ll get out of here and make them pay for what they have done to me. What they have done to my wife. What they have done to my child.
My wife’s name was Linda Darson, my child Paul. Both are lying in graves right now, all because the wrong person got pissed off at me. And me? I was framed for the murder, sent to prison for the influx of cash that I had, and banished from society for… well, you get the point. My wife was a beautiful woman. She was also one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. She believed in second chances, fate, and she had hope. Hope that humanity would retrace its steps and go back to a more civilized time, one without war, poverty, famine, death. She was always an optimist. But in spite of all that, these men, these monsters, broke into my house in the dead of night. They shot my wife in both legs so she couldn’t run away. Then they raped her, and made my son watch. When they were finished with her, they killed her with a bullet to the brain. Then they turned to my son, my ten-year-old son, and shot him twice in the stomach, and just watched him bleed out onto the floor. Monsters. When I came home there was nothing I could do but sit and cry to myself. Calling the cops wouldn’t have even helped at that point. When S.W.A.T raided the house, I was there, cradling my wife’s dead body in my arms. They didn’t even have the heart to take me away from her. Two hours later, I’m in a holding cell, awaiting the arrival of my lawyer, when I’m told that there will be no lawyer. There would be no bail. There would be no more questioning. I was a sleazy wife-killer and I had killed my son as well. They thought that the beatings could hurt me more, but they were wrong. You may not know, but there is nothing more devastating then coming home to your wife and child, brutally murdered and lying in their own blood and feces. Here’s to hoping that you never have to.
So now I am here. I was convicted to thirty years in prison for embezzlement and forgery of official documents. I’m sure they wanted to book me for my wife too, but apparently you can’t pay off the normal cop. Not for something like that. So here I am, five years into my sentence and it feels like I just got in here yesterday. But that’s not saying that I’m exactly a saint. I may not have murdered my wife, but there’s a hell of a lot of people in hell that I’m sure want a piece of me. As of my prison term, I had murdered twenty-nine people. And for every one, I have a prize. A little souvenir, picked up off the body, off the terrain, off the local townsfolk; just to remind me exactly where I was and what I did. A lot of soldiers say that after the first couple of kills they just loose count. I can never forget. The faces that I’ve seen, the smell of the body as it releases its bladder, the feel of the gun, or the knife, in your hand. You can never forget. Twenty-nine people.
So, now you know. Label me a monster, see if I care. Tell me that I’m a freak; tell me that I’m insane. You would be absolutely right. I am a monster. I am insane. But I swear upon my wife and my child that I will get out of here. I will make these people pay for what they have done to me. I will murder them. I will murder their families, their associates, their friends, everyone remotely in contact with them. Every single one will die by my hand. And when I am done, I can finally rest. Until then, I am Edward Darson. I am a monster. I am a freak. And I will release a torrent of violence that this nation has never known. I will make the blood spill across the US. I will chase my adversaries across the world. I will make sure that every last one of them pays the dearest price to me for what they have done.
“Thus that which is the most awful of evils, death, is nothing to us, since when we exist there is no death, and when there is death we do not exist.” -Epicurus
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Post by Edward Darson on Sept 18, 2008 2:31:07 GMT -3
It’s six o’ clock already. I wake up, on command, and move to the entrance of my cell. Five minutes later, the wakeup call sounds, followed by the guards rapping on the cells with their nightsticks, carefully avoiding mine, nodding as they pass. I nod back, glad to oblige; after all, I am only in here for forgery. The buzzer sounds, the prisoners, myself included, take three steps forward and turn to the left. Morning inspection is the worst, they say, but I find it to be the quietest. The guards silently check the half-awake line for missing inmates. They check the clothes for money, drugs, magazines, anything out of the ordinary. They quietly skip me. They know what happens to people who touch me. After inspection we head to the cafeteria, where today’s special is cold oatmeal, with whole milk, as usual. I sit in my personal corner, alone and unafraid. Today, I decide, will be a good day. I observe what could be referred to as my loyal subjects. I know every gang, every tattoo, every sign and every look on every face. I slowly scan the room and get nothing but hurried looks and nods. To those brave enough, I nod back. The rabbit gets its carrot when it performs, why shouldn’t they? I return to my breakfast, the oatmeal swirling around in its round, white prison. How ironic. The talking suddenly ceases. I look up, slowly and deliberately. No need to ruin appearances. One man, standing at my table. One man, looking me in the eye, on purpose. One man, sitting down to eat. I look at him, I’m quite sure that my face is neutral.
“Sir, I am afraid that you have found the wrong table. It would be appreci-“ “Man, fuck you, holmes. There ain’t no fucking tables left.”
My lip quivers into a snarl. I try to keep from killing this man where he stands. The silence is endearing, the crowd is, of course, waiting for me to snap. It reeks of drama. I look at the man, he has tattoo’s I cannot recognize, and he is obviously new. Rage isn’t the right word, but it is the first that comes to mind.
“Sir, it would be in your best interest to get up and slowly walk away with your-“ “Man, fuck you! What the fuck you gonna do about it?!”
The man gets up, a foolish mistake. The table slides and makes that squeaking sound that I absolutely abhor. It’s enough to drive a man mad. By this point, even the guards are looking away. To stand up to me is potentially fatal. He is looking at me with anger on his face, mixed with what must be fear at this point. They say that in times of extreme emotion, most animals release hormones, pheromones, what have you, to telegraph certain things. This man must have gotten the whiff by now. Fear, from the crowd. Nervousness, from the guards. Anger, from me. It must have been an enticing aroma that he scented. I rise to the occasion. I grab his hand, scarred from drug deals gone wrong. Broken from loan sharks and coke dealers. Calloused from years of hard, pointless work. I process this information. I grab his ring finger. It breaks easily with a tug of my hand. A flick of the wrist and it is broken again. A push back towards him, and my job is done. A finger broken into three different pieces, the pain unbearable, I’m sure. He falls to the ground and I watch as he pisses himself in pain. He is on the ground now, pleading and begging for the pain to stop. I reach down and grab a lock of his hair, pulling his punched-in face, a face broken by so many punches, towards me.
“My name, sir, is Edward Darson. Edward. Darson. And I will not tolerate this insolence in my prison block. Do you understand?”
A silent nod and a “yes” spluttered through tears of pain is all I need to affirm my statement. I sit down quietly and nod to the guards, who come and take him to the infirmary. The oatmeal has never tasted so good.
The buzzer sounds as I head back to my cell. My little cell: the desk in the corner, next to the toilet and sink, my double-stack bunk bed with no one occupying it, my mirror and my television on my foot locker. My office, as it was. Everything is handled here, my taxes, my income, inmate issues, guard issues. The warden, sitting drunk in his office again, believes that he runs this prison, but all he does is sign the checks. I run this prison. I make sure that materials are distributed, the right people are bribed, killed, or fired, I make sure that the money comes in and goes out without a hitch. I review prisoner performances, prison guard statistics, and even some outside issues come my way. Prisoner #122-HCX-3445’s wife has just had a baby, can he extend his monthly allowance? It’s all up to me, in the end. The reviews are sent to the warden, who thinks that they are written by his lieutenant. The lieutenant gives me a modest 30% of his paycheck, and I take another 20% of all income made to the prison through prisoner-related activities. It is then distributed evenly to the prisoners, and they can decide who to bribe, who to send it to, who to spend it on, what to do with it. Once it is out of my hands, it is no longer my problem. Yes, day in and day out, I am here, solving the day to day problems, but this time, it’s in my little world. My home away from home.
The lunch bell rings. I get up from my little desk and shuffle to the cell door, the days exertions tiring me mentally. Snippets of conversations reach my ears. Meaningless words and phrases, all assaulting my ears, decibels at a time, but I don’t mind it. Talk means that the people are at ease. Unafraid of severe punishment, at ease with the current administrations ideals and policies. People should not be afraid of their government; the government should be afraid of their people. The line assembles, small talk and conversation flowing. This was not a prison made for murderers, not a prison made for gang-bangers or serial killers. This was a prison full of mistaken teenagers, pumped with adrenaline and mom’s money. Full of men who missed a number on a monthly report, added a zero or took away a one. The tattoos and muscular exteriors were a sham, all meant to intimidate the newbies. “What are you in here for,” the inevitable question came. Everyone in this prison was a gang member, a pusher, or a killer. But I knew the stories; I knew what became of these people. Did I ever tell anyone? That’s for them to decide. The line lurches away and a guard politely asks me if I am attending lunch this afternoon. I tell him that I would love to have turkey and gravy. He answers that it’s always on the house. I decide that I like him. He will have a bit more money in his paycheck next month.
The rest of the day goes like this. Waking up, getting breakfast, doing work, establishing rules. Days go on. Weeks will go on like this. Months, inevitably. Then years. I’m working on my fifth year, the Warden says to me. Only ten more years, he quips. But I had to think about that. Ten more years. You know the quote, “Better to rule in Hell then to serve in Heaven?” Is it true? For the longest time I never had the answer to that. For the longest time, I never knew if I would actually leave here, if I would give all this up. I never knew until I looked into that foot locker. My past, laid out before me. My sins, my mistakes, my life. All here. Trophies from a past, littered with the dreams of the dead. Photos of the crime scene. My beautiful Linda. My wonderful Paul. I am consumed once again with the hatred that burns within my chest. I scream into the darkness of my cell, my rage taking me over. Tears burn down my face, unavoidable sobs pierce the night air. And in the morning, no one says a thing to me. No one asks, no one ever has. No one can fathom what could make a man like me feel the way I do. The rage that Captain Ahab felt for the White Whale. I look out at the world and only see the faces of those who have done this to me. And it is at that moment that I know, I realize that I will have to leave this all behind, one day. I will make good my oath to track down and kill every one of these men and their families. They will know what it is like to come home to a shattered life. To live every moment knowing that they could have done something different. They will know my pain.
And thus, the day fades out, not with a bang, but a whimper. That day melts into the next, and the next. The next week, the next month, the next year. And on and on, I feel the pain that is inside me. The rage that is contained beneath my breast. I will excape from this cell. I will get out into the world and show these men what it means to die. When I am done with them, death will be as mercy.
“I have become Death, Destroyer of Worlds.” -Robert Oppenheimer
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Post by Edward Darson on Sept 25, 2008 0:18:59 GMT -3
The dream comes to me, again. I’m at the pinnacle of a skyscraper; the epitome of human achievement, really. Glancing around me, checking the wind, testing the humidity. I stare down the scope of the rifle, the propranolol coursing through my veins. Slowing down my breathing, almost stopping my heart, causing my aim to steady and my mind to clear. Classic, really. My son told me that Solid Snake used the same thing, I really had no idea it worked so well. There is a man looking out over what he thinks is his city in the distance. How naive. My hand moves slowly to the trigger, the finger extending through space to deliver its deadly fifty-caliber payload. Enter, stage left, our second player. A woman, probably about twenty-five, crossing the large outcropping to give him a hug… or something more. Some may call it sick, others just insane, but my only thought is how to shoot through both of them. My course is set. Their futures determined as I pull the trigger of my brand-new Barrett fifty-caliber. The shot echoes through space, traveling at three hundred and forty meters per second. The bullet, however, travels at eight hundred and fifty three. Science, look into it. The bullet speeds through the air. At this distance, it will take it about one point eight seconds to reach the target. The sound, however, will take almost four point seven seconds. Perfection. A second before impact, the head turns. The woman looks strangely familiar. The curves, the accentuation, the hair. I know this woman. And her name is Linda Darson.
I wake in a cold sweat. The dreams are more violent now; more than they’ve ever been. When you have a dream that you are so sure is real, how can you tell the difference between the dream and reality? What if the dream is reality? Stupid, unimportant facts; stupid dreams, meaningless and trivial. I look at the clock on the wall, 5:55, it reads. Just on time. I get dressed; get my white shirt on, the tightness showing off my muscles, impressive even at forty two. Looking in the mirror over my sink, I catch my reflection. Looking back at me is an aging man, haunted by his past and… made of bullshit. I chuckle; today is bound to be a good one. I get to the edge of my cell door, the guards already stirring about the perimeter. 6:05 rolls around and right on time, they begin the wakeup bell, followed shortly by the rapping of nightsticks on the cell doors. Mine is avoided, of course. The guards nod, and today I see how they react to a blank, cold stare. They look like scolded schoolchildren. Who knew that preschool manners crossed over into the prison scene? The doors open, with that sound of metal grating that I absolutely abhor. I make a mental note to order WD-40 into the block, maybe there should be an incentive programs based on the decibel level of the door. The checks begin, every prisoner patted down from head to toe. They hit the third prisoner in the second row and all of a sudden, the man is on the ground amid shouts and orders to cease the struggle. I calmly walk into the circle of activity and observe the tactics of the guards, some of who I taught myself. I found myself mentally ordering them to apply pressure here and there, carefully avoiding the death throes of this beast or a man. Finally he is subdued with a blow to the head. Stunning, yes, but fatal, it is not. The guards pull a small packet out of the man’s shirt pocket. A small bag of some material; probably cocaine by the looks of it. The guards look at me questioningly and I give them a small nod. The man will serve ten days in solitary confinement, far more than enough time for him to think about what he has done. The small crowd quickly breaks up with a few glances and we head off to the cafeteria, only thirty-three minutes behind schedule. An isolated incident, without rhyme or reason, I reassure myself. I get my meal and head to my seat, alone. And then I am disrupted, for the second day in a row. Absolute madness isn’t the right phrase, but it’s the first that comes to mind.
“Edward Darson! Is there an ‘Edward Darson’ here?”
I get up, slowly and deliberately. The warden is an overweight human example of fecal matter. The man can hardly get out of his office, much less intimidate a man. Nowadays, he keeps to his office while I run the scene for him. If I could kill one person at this moment, I’m sure it would be him. But I must keep up appearances.
“Edward Darson, sir. Reporting as you asked.”
He walks over from the observation deck to a small nearby catwalk. The asshole can barely fit.
“Report to my office ASAP, Darson. I need to have a word with you.”
“Aye sir. Will do.”
As the warden moves back to his office, the cafeteria alights with conversation. I look around, catching most eyes, and the conversation turns to quiet whispering. Loose lips sink ships. I throw my lunch away, and a shame, too, I had only finished about half. No bother. I head over to the nearest guard, and he leads me off into the labyrinth of safety corridors and security systems. Too bad I didn’t actually own the system, I’m sure this place could be quite a fortress. I look around and wonder what the old man could possibly want to talk about. Had he noticed that the guards no longer took orders from him? Had he wondered why his paycheck was less than that of his lieutenants? Had he read into the accounting books and found that I had sorted the place out? No matter. The guard and I approached the office and he let me in using a key the size of my fist on a door that was twice my size, at the very least. As he opened them up, a dissatisfying creak sounded from them. The noise was absolutely horrendous and I remembered at once why I hated this man so. As I head into the office, I notice the man looking out the window with his wide-brim hat on, smoking a cigar and motioning for someone to get the door. As it closes behind me I have to wonder how many times he watched “Smokey and the Bandits” as a kid. The warden gets up from his seat slowly, and I recognize the man standing with him as Lt. Brannigan, a man I held in some high respect. Irony, really. The only man I truly liked standing at the right hand of the man I most despised. The warden, or Robsen Paulson, as his brass nameplate claimed, stood up and looked me over slowly, like he was looking for something. Sick, desperate man. Truly the last person I would ever kill, if only to stop him from touching me for a moment longer.
“Darson. Right. I called you here because… Ahh, because… Dern it, I had it and it lost me.”
Brannigan whispered something in his ear and the warden… Paulson smiled and nodded. Maybe he just liked the fact that someone was brazen enough to whisper in his ear. Sick, fat man.
“Right. I called you here because we have some news for you.”
A moment of silence. I look him over, he looks like he wants me to say something. So I do.
“Out with it. I have work to do, Paulson.”
He flushes red as Brannigan whispers something in his ear, and he calms down a bit, the redness still pervading through his ears.
“You are going to have a roommate. Soon. Someone by the name of Charles Winter. Just thought you should know.”
“Well. Thank you. I’ll have my leave now.”
I could hear the swearing under his breath as I left the room, the guard that let me in waiting for me. So. I had a roommate. The last one I had died of natural causes, though, to me, death is about as natural as it gets. Heart attack, they say. Something tells me it was the fact that I represented the devil to him. I kind of gathered that after he saw me the first day and couldn’t stop muttering “El Diablo” under his breath at me. It drove me absolutely insane. And as luck would have it, nature was on my side. That night, he suffered from a heart attack and I never had to hear from him again. The writhing as he died was quite atrocious. Good thing I was on the top bunk, as it was. So I had another one to break. Another spirit to crush under my boot. Charles Winter. How natural. How quaint. Charles Winter. As I got back to my cell, empty for not much longer, I called upon a guard to get me this man’s information and number. I would know everything about him. His name, number, D.O.B. I would make him squirm with how much I knew. His convictions. His motive. Everything. I would make this prison a personal Hell for him.
Oh the fun we will have. Oh the times we will share. Oh the humanity. Oh the sickness of it all. We would have fun here in cellblock D. As I get to my accounting, the only thing on my mind is how best to torture the man. Sick, yes. Twisted, yes. Fun? If half of the U.S. knew how entertaining it was to torture others, half of the population would be stuck in a serial killers basement, serving only to please. Sometimes the only way to get rid of a temptation is to give into it.
“The healthy man does not torture others - generally it is the tortured who turn into torturers” -Carl Gustav Jung
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Post by Edward Darson on Jan 12, 2009 20:10:46 GMT -3
I woke up at six o clock, as usual. I don’t know what it was, but today just seemed different. The smells, the taste of the air, the sight of my bunk… I don’t know what it was but today just seemed like my first day here, again. I get up and stretch, my vertebra cracking in discomfort. I walk slowly to the entrance of my cell, the feeling of something new and refreshing very nicely sitting in my mind. The usual wake up call, the night sticks making the loud metallic noise as they rap past, the guards nodding to me quietly, the buzzer, the exit. All made sweeter by this feeling that I had. For the life of me, I cannot place it. The search, the walk to the cafeteria. The oatmeal, which I decided that I would have warmed today, is placed on the table in front of me, with my tray and my glass of orange juice. Although that would eventually find its way into the records, I felt that today was the day to celebrate. If I could only remember why…
Then it hit me. My new associate. My new partner, that enigmatic Charles Winter that would be joining me in my cell. My new… employee. He was – is – a drug dealer. I have a bit of a problem with them… but at least it proves that he was smart enough to succeed for a little while, at least. White, a very nice attribute. He showed signs of knee problems in the holding cell; that could be a good thing and a bad thing. He lived in a small apartment, no relatives that I know of, no contacts that I’m aware of. He worked on his own, which, though concurrent with many of his kind, shows initiative. No signs of struggle upon arrest, no signs of resistance in prison, and he got off with a very, very light sentence. Amazing what money can do for you these days. The only problem is his occupation. You see, when you get into prison, everyone assumes that your life stops, that everything is put on hold, and you serve your time, frozen in time. This is not the case at all. The forgers? They keep notebooks, filled to the brim with signatures they copy and those they make up, and swap them in their spare time. The tax evaders scheme for new ways to make money, and write them on the walls, tell them to one another, mutter to themselves in their sleep, just so that they know what to do when they get out. And the drug dealers? Well, they deal drugs, of course. It’s the two-sided coin, really. On one side, you have the ecstasy that the drugs give your employees in this hellhole, and the profit that you can potentially make from it. Liken the experience to prostitution in a warzone. On the other hand of that ugly coin, you get the addictions, the violence, the bartering and the black market. I run this prison, drugs do not.
Charles Winter. Drug dealer, supposedly reformed now. But isn’t everyone in prison? One oddity arose during my investigations of his actions. When he was booked, his phone call wasn’t made to the pawn shop, the bail center, or the lawyers. It was made to a cleaning service. What could a man like him need from a cleaning service? Perhaps he was one of those obsessive compulsive kinds. All the sweeter for me, I enjoy the pristine conditions of my cell. Charles Winter. Like my favorite ulcer. My most affectionate tumor. Ah yes, remembering this made the day that much more sweet. It was 9:13, and I was sure that the Warden was giving Mr. Winter the dullest speech of his entire life. 7th grade math class has nothing on the Warden. I sighed and got up from my seat, the oatmeal lying half-eaten on the tray. As I made my way to the entrance of the cafeteria, I stopped near a man who was eyeing his meal with some distaste.
“I assume that the cold oatmeal doesn’t serve your stomach well?”
“Well, yeah, this fuckin- Mr. Darson! Ah, thank you sir. This… erm…”
I chuckle a bit, it’s like watching an animal realize what it meant to be shot. That slow realization that there is a person behind that gun, and he is just as vicious.
“Do not worry about that. Here, take this… it should still be a bit warm.”
“Ah, thank you sir. I’m sorry about th-“
“Do not ever apologize for the way you think.”
With that I walked away, that entire table silent, the man testing the oatmeal slowly then ravishingly consuming it. Occasionally, it pays to be the nice guy. Fear does a body well, but it is respect that truly brings out the best in leadership. I make my way back to my cell, a guard accompanying me. After that incident the other day, they wanted to make sure I was safe, they told me. In actuality, we really couldn’t afford many more accidents; this month seemed to be filled to the brim with small incidents and things of that nature. Babies that needed to be delivered back home. Accidents with the new buzz-saw in the job reclamation area of the cellblock. This and that, medicine and operations, stitches and staples. Yes, yes, I had to watch my temper, or else that money would start to come from my personal Swiss account. And here they thought that the generous donations to the prison every Christmas came from a concerned citizen. Sometimes I do laugh at my audacity.
My cell seemed different, and I at once noticed that there was a new smell, a new taste to it. The clothing piled on the top of the bed clued me in that the conversation the Warden was having was about to come to a close. Mr. Winter was just in time for me to have a chat with him, for someone to show him around the place, and for lunch, of course. No, I couldn’t have my new employee not knowing what the deal was around here. The beat, as it be. As I sat at my desk, which had been pushed further into the corner to make room for this new being, this presence, I thought about what it would be like to have a partner again. Not a partner, though, it was too soon to introduce partnership into this. Associate, more like. An associate that could help me with the paperwork, lend a needed hand, give me a second opinion. From a perfectly businesslike standpoint, it was such a good idea. From my standpoint, I knew that I would have to keep one eye open when I slept; one of my hands free at all times around this man, never turn my back to him. Yes, he could be dangerous, no matter what his file said he had done inside and outside of jail.
As I waited for Mr. Winter, I focused on the job at hand. He would have to be put into the books, his name, fingerprints, and number. He would have to get a check for personal effects outside this place, and we would have to negotiate a program in which he could still… enjoy his occupation without touching my men. He needed something to help with his knees, presumably, and whatever he left in his apartment. Hopefully I could train him, teach him how to run things in here without my direct supervision, just in case something were to happen to me, unlikely as that may be. One step at a time, I have to think. One step in front of another leads you to your goal, slowly and surely. As I hear the guards gruffly telling someone to move along, the clack of shoes and slight clink of chains tells me that I have a new visitor. I straighten up in my chair and rearrange papers as Mr. Winter steps in to the cell, the slow squeak of the door irritating me, but not dissuading me as I hold out a hand.
“Mr. Winter? I am Edward Darson. Contrary to what the Warden may have told you, I run this prison, tits to toes. Please, sit. Welcome to Cell Block D. We’ve been expecting you…”
"Somehow our devils are never quite what we expect when we meet them face to face.” -Nelson DeMille
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