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01-04-2014, 11:42 PM | #1 |
Barty's Right-hand Man
Join Date: Nov 2013
Location: Ohio
Posts: 7,138
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The black Lexus made a left onto the cul-de-sac of a lower middle class neighborhood, then instantly slowed to a coast so the driver could read the numbers at the curb, in order to find the address he was looking for. While holding a conversation via the car’s built-in receiver, the middle-aged man glanced from side to side, until he finally spotted the number he was searching for in front of the fifth house on the right.
Easing the high-dollar vehicle over to the curb, the driver shifted the transmission into park, continued to relax in the car’s air-conditioning, then, once he’d finished his conversation, turned off the car, and stepped out. Taking a moment to adjust his suit while surveying the neighborhood, the man grunted his disapproval, then turned and made his way up the driveway. The summer sun shone down on the man as it hung high in the cloudless, late-morning sky, but it didn’t seem to affect him, even though he wore a custom-tailored three piece black suit. Walking past shrubbery that desperately needed trimming, weeds that needed pulling, and siding that needed painting, the man stepped over several children’s toys, then, upon finally reaching the front door, stepped up and rang the bell. The man adjusted his suit one more time, as he heard someone rushing to the front door from inside the house. Disappointment immediately shone on the man’s face when he laid eyes on a young boy with shaggy brown hair, but the professional, experienced salesman side of him quickly took control, and he replaced the frown with a bright smile. “Hi,” the man said, loudly and friendly, in an over-the-top tone of voice. “Are your mom or dad home?” Before the little boy could answer, a man with brown hair and a cold expression stepped into sight, eyeing the man on the front steps. “Go play, Billy,” the man said to the child, without taking his icy gaze off of the man. The little boy did as he was told without protest, as the driver of the Lexus began to sweat, although not from the heat. “Good morning, Mr.-“ “Get off my property,” the man stated, an edge in his voice. “Now, I’m not here to cause trouble,” the man in the suit quickly replied, hoping to calm the man down. “I just want to help.” “I don’t want your help,” the homeowner informed the driver. “I don’t need your help.” “Sir, with all due respect, I beg to differ. You are six months behind on your mortage. The bank is not happy.” “I don’t care if the bank is happy or not,” the man retorted, anger evident in his voice. “Sir-“ “I see that black Lexus you pulled up in, and your fancy suit, too, so I’ll let you in on a little secret that they’re probably not passing around at the country club: times are tough. The economy is bad, and the job situation is in the tank.” “Just sell the house,” the man suggested. “And where are me and my family supposed to live?” the homeowner screamed, taking a step out of the house, towards the bank representative, who immediately backed up. “You want to know the problem? The problem is that everything is run by arrogant, cold-blooded pencil-pushers like you, who don’t have a shred of compassion for anyone, ecspecially the common-man, and the middle class, who are doing everything they can to try and support their families, yet suffer setbacks everyd ay because your ten million dollar salary isn’t good enough! No, you want fifty million!” “Sir, getting angry-“ “I’m not angry! This isn’t angry! This is angry!” The homeowner pulled a revolver from the waistband at his lower back, and pointed it at the man. The bank rep froze out of fear, then wet himself. “This,” the homeowner continued, in a calmer and quieter tone. “This is angry, and this right here is a problem solver.” The bank rep was sweating profusely, as he stared wide-eyed at the gleaming revolver, glinting in the sunlight. “Now…I want you to go back to your buddies at the bank, and I want you to tell them that I’m not selling my house. They can’t have my house. I’ll pay them as soon as I can, but until then…don’t you ever set foot on my property again. Do you understand?” “Y-y-yes, s-s-sir,” the man stammered. “Then get.” The frightened man did as he was told. After he spun around, he raced across the front lawn, neverously looking over his shoulde the whole way, incase the homeowner decided to take interst in a little taget practice. The homeowner didn’t fire a shot, though. He simply grinned mischieviously as he watched the man practically dive into his car, and peel out. Forgetting he was in a cul-de-sac, the man whipped the car around so hard, the driver’s-side of the car came off the ground, then almost took out a mailbox before gaining control, and heading off down the street. Failing to stop at the intersection at the end of the street, the Lexus whipped around onto the man road, and drove out of sight. Pleased with the entertainment he had induced, the man returned the revolver to the small of his back, then turned and headed back inside his house. Once inside, he closed the front door, then paused as he leaned against it, while simultaneously releasing a pent-up sigh. After he’d been able to take a few breaths, the man made his way through the house to the den, which was off of the kitchen. The man emitted another weary sigh as he plopped down in front of an old, worn wooden desk, and stared at the stacks of bills that had been gathering there for several months. “Honey?” the man’s wife called softly from the doorway that connected the den and the kitchen. “Who was at the door?” “Someone from the bank.” “Oh.” The woman stopped, choosing her next words carefully, so as not to upset her husband. “What did he want?” “The same thing they all want,” the man answered in frustration, motioning to the ‘past due’ envelopes on the desk. “Sweetie,” the attractive brunette began, as she approached her husband, and sat down in the chair next to him. “Listen, maybe we should consider selling the house-“ “We’re not selling!” the man shouted defiantly, looking over at his wife. “We just need some more time, that’s all.” “You’ve been saying that for months now, hon.” “Things have just been tough lately. Everybody’s hit a bad stretch.” “Yes, but our’s seems to have happened when Dan died.” “When Dan was killed,” the man corrected his wife. “He didn’t die…he was killed.” “Honey, I know Dan was your older brother, and you loved him, but…he did have a high alcohol level when they did the autopsy.” “So? You think that gives that family the right to just run my brother off the road and kill him? Do you?” “No, I’m not saying that,” the woman replied, becoming frustrated. “Then what are you saying?” the husband asked impatiently. “All I’m saying is, that whatever we’re doing isn’t working. We’re behind on our bills, we’re losing the house, neither of us have any good credit left.” “That’s just financial woes,” the man stated, turning back to the desk. “I can change that.” “How? These sales ideas of yours aren’t working. Not to mention the people you’ve been hanging around with lately. They’re bad news, honey, I can tell.” “They’re just supporters.” “Supporters? O f what? “Of my ideas, my goals.” “Then why do you have to hold secret meetings when you meet with them?” “It’s complicated, dear.” “Fine. Then answer me this: why do I keep finding guns around the house? More and more, all the time? What do we need them for? And what if Billy got a hold of one?” “Look, I don’t expect you to understand, but I’m planning something, okay? Something big. I just need you to trust me, and to be one of my supporters, okay?” “I want to, sweetheart, I really do, it’s just that…everything seems so different…changed. You’ve changed.” “Change is what this world needs,” the man informed his wife, as he stared straight ahead, off into space. “It needs someone to stand up to big government, and the dominant corporations, to protect the little guy. They’re the real backbone of this country. Yet they’re the ones always getting trounce, and pushed around. “This world needs someone to stand up, stand out… to take this world by the horns, and turn it on it’s ear. It needs someone to squeeze the life out of these corrupt politicians, to sweep through this nation, and cleanse it of all it’s disease. It needs someone who will coil around this entire planet, and squeeze the very life out of every crooked banker, corporation, and official. What we need is someone to wrap themselves around this world, and squeeze, just like a…like a…” The man paused, as if he’d just had an epiphany, then finished his sentence with, “… like a cobra.” Ch.1 The wind blew slightly, as the sun periodically broke through the white clouds that floated by in the morning sky, while down on the street, people were beginning to gather around a podium that was set up in front of an office building, where several high-ranking military officials were seated. At first, the crowd had been thin, only a handful of people milling about the stage that the podium had been erected on. Now, however, as the event’s start time drew nearer, more and more people were arriving, giving the local law enforcement a reason to set up blockades at either end of the street, shutting down both intersections, and having to reroute traffic. Across the street from the stage containing the podium, a homeless man sat hunched over in front of an office building on the sidewalk, a green poncho covering him from head to toe. As one of the military personnel tapped the microphone attached to the podium, signaling that the event had begun, the crowd quieted, then waited. The homeless man slowly raised his head to glance at the podium, revealing a brown, neatly-trimmed beard, then allowed his chin to drop back down on his chest, having no interest in the events across the street. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” a man in a green military dress uniform began, looking out at the crowd. “My name is General Flagg, and I am one of the members of the Homeland Security Military Liason Committee.” The General paused as he looked out over the crowd, his dark sunglasses concealing his eyes as they scanned the crowd. “We are here today to discuss recent attacks on our very soil, and the first statement I would like to make is that these attacks will stop. Terrorists have no right to be in our country.” “We disagree!” a man shouted. Everyone stopped and looked over to the far left of the crowd to see a man throw off the clothes he had been wearing, to reveal a blue military uniform, complete with black combat boots and gloves, yellow ammunitions belts draped over both shoulder down to the waist, and topped off with a red bandana that covered the bottom half of the face. “Cobraaa!” the man shouted, brandishing an AK-47 into the air. “Coobraaaaa!” a unified shout rang out from the crowd as nearly a dozen other men flung off outfits they had been wearing, to reveal uniforms identical to the first man’s. No one moved at first, but when the first blue-clad soldier turned towards General Flagg, took aim, and let loose with a quick burst on his assault rifle, panic quickly shot through the crowd. Screams erupted from several people, both men and women, while others dove to the ground, hoping to avoid being hit with a bullet. Still, some tried to run, but the squad of terrorists quickly formed a border around the area, boxing the innocent civilians in. Across the street, the homeless man stared intently at the unfolding chaotic scene, as General Flagg turned and dove to the floor of the stage, narrowly avoiding the assassin’s bullets. The other military officials followed suit, joining General Flagg on the wooden floor of the stage, as local police surrounded the crowd. “Police! Freeze!” the lead officer commanded, as he and his men took aim at the twelve men. “I don’t think so,” the lead terrorist replied arrogantly. “Drop your weapons!” a second officer shouted. “No,” the terrorist responded. “You drop your weapons…or I’ll start dropping these people.” “I’m not going to tell you again!” the first police officer shouted. “Same here,” the lead terrorist said with an evil grin. A shot rang out, whipping the first police officer to his left before dropping him to the ground. After seeing blood quickly pool around their fellow comrade, the other officers looked around, causing one of them to spot a lone figure up on a balcony, down the street. “Sniper!” one of the officers yelled, taking aim. All the other officers followed suit, intent on avenging their fallen friend, which, unfortunately, took their attention off of the threat right in front of them, leaving them open to attack. One dozen AK-47s rang out simultaneously, barking through the morning air, tearing through every police officer on site, until they all lay in pools of their own blood, which left the crowd defenseless once again. “Anyone else?” the lead terrorist asked, looking around. “Didn’t think so.” Fear began to sweep through General Flagg as he watched the lead terrorist make his way across the street, climb the steps to the stage, then saunter over towards the group of military personnel. He then stood over the General, smoke drifting out of the barrel, as the rest of the blue-clad individuals tightened their perimeter around the civilians. “I’d say our demonstration is going better than yours,” the lead terrorist stated, as he pointed his assault rifle at the General’s head. Blam! The General’s body twitched as he heard the shot, but he felt no pain. Wondering if the terrorist had missed, although he didn’t see how at that close of range, or if maybe the shooter had simply hit his spine, and everything had gone numb, General Flagg glanced up to see blood running from a hole in the terrorist’s head. Obviously dead, the blue-clad individual dropped to the floor of the stage, causing the General to look across the street at the homeless man, and whisper, “Colton.” Springing up from where he had been sitting, the homeless man threw off the poncho that had been covering him, much like the blue-clad men had done, to reveal a uniform of his own. The homeless man’s uniform, however, wasn’t blue, and it didn’t represent any terrorist faction; his uniform was green, and it represented the United States. “U.S. Military!” Colton shouted, as he reached full height. A smoking M-1911 was firmly grasped in his right hand, and an M60 machine gun was being held in his left. “Drop your weapons and hit the floor!” The remaining eleven terrorists quickly glanced at one another, then to their fallen squad leader, unsure of what to do. “It’s not up for debate,” he added. Suddenly, a decision was reached by the terrorist closest to him. The man turned and lifted his weapon towards Colton, but he had been watching the man, and had anticipated the attack. With lightning-fast reflexes, Colton lunged at the man, tackling him to the ground and disarming him, then getting back up to a crouch before any of the other terrorists knew what hit them. “Don’t bull-shit around, Colton!” General Flagg shouted from the stage. “Kill those son-of-bitches!” In response to the General’s command, half of the terrorists turned their attention to the stage, while the other half turned their attention to Colton, who in turn, gave them not only his attention, but ammunition, as well. Colton shot one of the terrorists off to his far right with the M-1911, then fired another round into a terrorist off to that man’s right, before glancing over at his far left and squeezing the trigger on his M60. A second burst from the machine gun, and two more terrorists dropped, leaving only the ones focused on the stage. However, after realizing that their numbers had just been cut in half, the remaining terrorists gave Colton, who was quickly making his way toward the stage, their full attention. The terrorist nearest to the American soldier turned and took aim, but Colton, after holstering his M-1911, batted the man’s weapon away, then kicked him in the gut, and knocked him out. Looking up, Colton saw the next terrorist closest to him, and squeezed off a quick burst on the M60. The terrorist dropped, allowing Colton to continue, which he did, heading towards the left side of the stage, where the squad’s leader had ascended earlier when he had stalked Flagg and the others. Colton’s M60 barked twice as he headed to the stage, dropping two more terrorists, leaving him with two, which caused him to drop his machine gun, and redraw his M1911. “Hold it, hero, hold it,” one of the terrorists warned, as Colton stopped next to the stage. “Don’t even bother. You’re out of bullets.” Blam! Blam! Both terrorists jerked from the impact, then immediately fell to the pavement, as Colton looked from their still bodies, up to General Flagg, who was standing to the side of the podium, holding a smoking M-1911 of his own in a tight, two-handed grip. “What’d you do that for? Colton asked, holstering his gun. “I had ‘em.” “Can’t let you have all the fun,” Flagg replied, relaxing his body as he closed his stance and lowered his arms. Suddenly, before any celebrating could begin, two more shots rang out, neither of them originating from either Flagg’s or Colton’s weapons. One hit the podium, sending splinters of wood up into the air, which caused General Flagg to dive back down to the stage floor, while the other shot tore through Colton’s left shoulder, causing him to drop to the street. “I think you missed one!” Flagg shouted from the rear of the stage. “I thought you weren’t letting me have all the fun!” Colton shouted back, as he scooted back to the stage’s apron, hoping to get out of sight. “This is more fun than I can handle!” Flagg informed the soldier. “It’s all you.” “Of course,” Colton mumbled, jamming a new magazine into his M-1911. The man took a breath, then barely stretched his head forward, in order to get a bead on who had shot him. It didn’t take long; Colton spotted the sniper down the street that had taken out the police officers minutes ago. A third shot rang out, ripping a chunk out of the blacktop only a few feet from where Colton was sitting, forcing him to duck back under cover. “Kind of starting to miss the Middle East,” Colton said to himself, as he repositioned himself in preparation for his offense. Taking yet another breath, Colton got a firm grip on his M-1911, then stuck his out and took aim. He managed to squeeze off two shots before ducking back under cover, right before one of his adversarie’s bullets tore out another chunk of street near him. Deciding not to wait, Colton took another shot, only this time he wasn’t able to get back under cover in time. A bullet tore clean through his leg, going in one side, and coming out the other. Colton let out a howl of pain, then drew his left leg up to look it over. “Colton! You alright?” Flagg shouted over the noise of the bullets. “No! The bastard shot me!” The General popped up and fired off round after round until the clip was empty, then dropped back down behind cover, as the sniper focused on him. He didn’t know if it had helped Colton get to cover, but it had been the best he could do under the circumstances. Meanwhile, Colton managed to scoot back through the apron of the stage, and was now under it, tending to his leg. He heard the hail of bullets tear into the stage in response to Flagg’s barrage, as he tore off part of his sleeve, and used it to wrap his wound. Once he’d done that, he continued scooting himself underneath the stage, until he reached the back side. Popping his head out from under the apron, he called to Flagg, whose appeared over the edge of the stage. “I don’t hear any more bullets. You think he got bored?” “She,” Flagg corrected the soldier. “And yes. She got bored. She’s gone.” “She?” Colton repeated in disbelief. “Affirmative,” Flagg answered, looking down the street to where the shots had emenated. “I managed to catch a glimpse of her form before she ducked inside.” Fighting through the pain, Colton scurried out from under the apron and managed to get to his feet. Once he had, he quickly limped around to the steps that led up to the platform, hobbled up them as best he could, then, cautiously, found a line of sight with the balcony down the street that had harbored the sniper. Sure enough, the balcony was now empty. Whoever it had been was gone. Disappointed, Colton stared at the balcony for a few more moments, then turned to General Flagg, and asked, “She?” “Yep,” the General answered, coming up next to Colton. “You just got beat by a girl.” Ch.2 The black Ford Mustang Cobra drove through the sleepy little suburb known as Springfield, its pitch black windows blocking anyone on the street from seeing inside. Everyone in Springfield, however, knew who was operating the vehicle, and had no intention, or even desire, to glimpse any activity that was taking place behind the darkened windows. As the sports car neared the town’s carwash, the driver dropped down a gear, causing the car to suddenly balk as the transmission slowed the engine down, accompanied by a loud roar from the dual Flowmaster exhaust system. With the car’s rate of speed suddenly declined, the driver whipped left, into the bay of the carwash, only to head down a hidden ramp that had opened when one of the techs had pressed a designated button in the control booth. As soon as the Mustang had left the ramp, it raised back up into place, completing the bay of the carwash once again, as if it had never moved. The black vehicle travelled down a short tunnel, slowed as it approached the mouth, then came to a stop in front of a set of stone steps leading up to a man-sized tunnel. Two soldiers, both wearing identical blue uniforms, complete with yellow ammo belts, black boots, red bandanas on the lower halves of their faces, and blue helmets, stood guard at the top of the steps. Each man had a firm two-hand grip on an AK-47, along with a cold menacing look in their eyes. The driver’s-side door was thrown open, and a woman clad in a blue outfit, not unlike the two soldiers wore, stepped out, the six inch heel of her black knee-high boots echoing throughout the tunnel when it hit the cement floor. Slamming the door shut, the woman quickly made her way towards the stone steps, and it was evident to the pair of guards by her quick pace and all business stride that she was in no mood for pleasantries, so they both simply kept their mouths shut, and their eyes straight ahead. The woman blew by them, entered the tunnel the two soldiers were guarding, then made a bee-line for the opposite end, where a faint light shone. Her heels made a loud click-clacking rhythm that bounced off the stone wall, it volume amplified by the closer proximity than that of the tunnel she had driven the Mustang through. As she neared the other end of the tunnel, two more guards, both dressed identically like the two before, raised their weapons as the woman approached, then, upon closer inspection, realized who it was, and returned their weapons to their sides. The woman blew by those two guards, as well, and found herself in a large, domed room. In it, several guards wearing the same blue uniform were scattered about, performing various tasks, including guard duty, surveillance, weapons checks, and others. She ignored all of them, though, including their activities, as she headed for the center of the room, where a large throne made out of stone blocks sat. The throne was a drab gray color, yet the top of it was what caught the woman’s eye. The base was a block, with a short set of steps going up the middle to where a cushioned seat was. Behind the seat, however, the stone was formed into the head of a giant cobra snake, with the fangs pointing down, just over the man who occupied the throne currently. At the moment, the man was seated in the shadow of the snakehead, making him extremely difficult to make out. The woman, however, knew he was there. “Commander,” the raven-haired woman began in a thick Romanian accent when she stopped at the foot of the throne. “Ahh, my dear Baroness,” the man responded from the throne. “How good it is to have you back. I trust your mission was a success.” The woman hesitated, then admitted, “No, Commander, it was not.” The man was silent, then asked, “Are you telling me you failed?” “Not entirely, Commander, no.” “Is General Flagg dead?” “No.” “No?” the man repeated. “No.” “In that case,” the man on the throne began, getting to his feet. “You have failed me!” The man stepped out from the shadow of the throne, into the light, at the top of the steps, just as he raised his voice to finish his statement. Baroness looked up at the man she had called commander, a hint of fear streaming through her, as his cold eyes locked on hers. The man was clad in a blue uniform, much like his soldiers, except for the yellow ammunitions belts. A lone black belt was strung around his waist, and a black leather holster hung on his right hip, containing a .45 caliber pistol, while a ten inch dagger was strapped to his left thigh. The red cobra snakehead was prominently displayed on his chest, just like his soldiers, but it was also on the forehead area of the hood that covered his face, as well. “I asked you to perform a simple task, my dear Baroness,” the hooded commander began, as he headed down the steps of his throne, towards the dark-haired woman. “I sent you to perform a simple task. You were ordered to perform a simple task! And you failed me!” “Commander-“ “Silence!” the man shouted in the woman’s face, just after he’d reached the bottom of the steps. “You were ordered to kill Gen. Flagg! It was your duty to kill Gen. Flagg! Your mission…was to kill Gen. Flagg…yet, you tell me Gen. Flagg is still alive. How is that anything but failure?” “My squad was able to kill several local law enforcement members at the demonstration,” Baroness began. The Commander scoffed in frustration, then turned and ascended his throne. “And, although I didn’t assassinate Gen. Flagg as you ordered, I did manage to cripple a soldier that ambushed my men.” The blue-clad Commander abruptly stopped at the top of the throne’s steps, turned back to the Baroness and asked, “A soldier?” “Yes. My men had Gen. Flagg in their sights, but this soldier came out of nowhere, apparently lying in wait, and ambushed them.” “How many of your squad did he kill?” “All of them.” “All of them?” the man repeated in disbelief, now fully facing the Baroness. “All of them?! My men have been trained, and trained well! They’re ruthless! They’re dangerous! They’re… they’re vipers!” “With all due respect, Commander,” Baroness began, pausing to choose her words carefully. “This soldier, whoever he was, has been trained better.” “Then we shall have to step up our training,” he replied. “Because no one is going to be better than us. No one is going to stop us. For we are freedom fighters, waging an unstoppable war against the so-called leaders of a so-called free nation. We shall show them what freedom is all about. We will show them that they cannot keep us down, that they cannot simply step on us, grind us under their heel, then wipe us off like a piece of dirt, broken and forgotten. No, they will know our name. They will say our name, as we march through their cities, and bring a new order to their tired, old chaos. Ohhh, they will know our name. For we are-“ “Cobra!” the soldiers around the room shouted out in unison. “We are-“ “Cobra!” “We are-“ “Cobra!” “Who are we?” “Cooo-braaaaaa!” “Yes, my followers,” the man said with a satisfied tone. “We are Cobra… and I am your commander.” |
01-05-2014, 12:48 AM | #2 |
Cobra sloth ninja
Join Date: Aug 2013
Location: Ohio
Posts: 166
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you sir deserve a Nobel prize for that!
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01-05-2014, 01:52 AM | #3 |
Cobra Soldier
Join Date: Jun 2013
Location: NC
Posts: 34
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More, please.
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01-05-2014, 02:50 AM | #4 |
Barty's Right-hand Man
Join Date: Nov 2013
Location: Ohio
Posts: 7,138
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I've got ten chapters, at 34 pages, but I didn't know there was a limit on how long each one could be, so i'll have to do it in sections, but I don't want to get in trouble, because each story is only supposed to be one thread.
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01-14-2014, 10:16 PM | #5 |
Cobra Viper
Join Date: Jan 2012
Location: Sylmar, CA
Posts: 315
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Well... I hope you don't get in trouble, but now I need to read the whole thing.
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10-09-2021, 06:16 AM | #6 |
Barty's Right-hand Man
Join Date: Nov 2013
Location: Ohio
Posts: 7,138
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Bump
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http://www.hisstank.com/forum/g-i-jo...-bst-list.html http://www.hisstank.com/forum/buy-se...-feedback.html THE LATE NIGHT CREW |
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