Sorry Don't Make It So

Unrelated stories that take place in a setting besides Star Wars...

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Sorry Don't Make It So

Post by TinyHippo » Mon Mar 26, 2007 5:28 am

OOC: This is a little ditty I've been mulling around with for a while. It has some adult-ish content, so if you're liable to be offended or anything like that, STOP READING NOW.

Consider it Rated-R.


Chapter One: Sugar Downs in Old Swan

Shame is relative. I'm one of those people who's aware of how bad Corporations are, but sometimes you're just too tired to give a shit.

Cold blue sky and a low winter sun glinting in the glass pyramid of Tesco. I push my way through the covered tables and immigrant traders that surround the supermarket like some sieging army, avoiding the sales pitches and pleas. Nothing good on the stalls today. Third world simstim kits and saline paste you couldn't chip with a rock hammer. I should buy from the little guy rather than ta glitzy whore of capitalism. Shame tugs at my consience.

The music in my ears fights the aches in my bones and I can almost forget.

Supermarkets are, at least, warm. But that's it. Between two of my tracks, the infectious jingle-jangle of a Christmas tune breaks through and my knuckles flash white. And I know, before I've thought of a purchase, that this was a mistake.

People. Aisles packed full with young, old, mostly obese people. I don't like people. Supermarket, middle-class sheep from the 'burbs are not my crowd. That's an understatement. They're the *opposite* of my crowd. Normal and naive. Naivity isn't a good characteristic. It's a nice word for ignorance. And these people have it in spades.

But I don't hate them. Can't. When I was young, an idealist fighting in the streets of Kensington, I hated normal people and their 'naivity'. Over the years, the coals of my hatred faded to a simmer. A quartet of Primark sisters block an aisle, all bad make-up and rolls of fat flopped over their beltlines. Anger sparks. But my hate isn't strong enough to elict even a scowl. Sugar come downs always dim emotion, but this is terminal.

Inexplicably, I'm served by management - a stern, wasp-like woman with database microsofts jammed into the slot behind her ear and a scanner jacked into her wrist. I refuse a branded bag, and meet her look of disdain with an empty grin.

I pack my purcases - the new Private Eye, a pack of pistrami and a bag of icing sugar - into my custom-made satchel which (I think, with a rare spike of ire) none of these peons could appreciate and look up into the eyes of this tiny, black baby at the next checkout over. Naivity may be ignorance, but innocence, today, is bliss. I pull my tounge at the babe and leave out into the cold. I think, through the layers of clothes and blankets, I caught a tiny wave goodbye.

Maybe the idealist in me isn't dead, after all.
Last edited by TinyHippo on Mon Mar 26, 2007 5:34 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Post by TinyHippo » Mon Mar 26, 2007 5:28 am

Chapter 2: Until the Sun's High and Hot

A flash of me in a passing tram. One night's beard. Black beanie. Glasses shaded white in the late-morning sun. And my custom bag, emblazoned with my tag (which again, the inhabitants of Old Swan plain wouldn't get). The sting of December frost on my cheeks, I duck into old Ladbrokes. The dirty chesnut stink of cheap cigars is all I can smell, warmth is all I can feel and I smile. Now this place - I like.

It shouldn't exist. The advents of communication, the 'Net and home gambling was supposed to be the betting shop's death knell, and yet these customers hung on like creepy-crawlies under a rock. They refused to change because someone wanted them to. The companies, for once, tasted inexplicable defeat thanks to a bunch of stubborn old fuckers. How could I help adoring them?

Staring at the football odds - the only thing I have any idea of how to bet on - watching the old guys transfixed on old cathode ray TVs, Triads scribbling on betting fax and I'm reminded I don't fit in here. But between here and Tesco? No contest. But I don't like to stay. Too much like wearing someone else's shoes. A quick bet and my feet are back crunching frost and grit carrying me past identical shop windows back home.

The five minute walk felt longer with the cold and Christmas shoppers. Not that I was in a huge rush. Home was one of a hundred fat, black boxes crammed into racks like a giant's wine cellar. There was plenty of positive spin and buzz words for 'economic accomodation', but most people called them what they were. Coffins.

Mine? Seven across, two up. Some terminal coffin jocks would've called the place 72, but I had no desire to make this place feel anything like home. It opened with a tired wheeze of CO2. Four metres by two by one. Temprafoam mattress, a fridge and a vidscreen. Any wonder I was never in a rush to get here?

I found room in the fridge, and powered up the screen. A message from Fee flashed ready-to-read but I'd need some sugar first. Alt-tabbed to the my second Stream. An asian woman, scantily clad, projected onto the pitch at Anfield talking about the match in regional Mandarin. Sports Streams were constantly shut down and starting up again, but the themes remained the same. Nippon Streams had their half naked starlets, whilst the British Streams gave you old players and out-of-work managers. A lot of people spent time searching, sifting through the trash and dead links to find their favourite channel. I watched whatever the bot found me.

I'd have to check Fee's message soon, but not now. Not until the sun's high and hot enough to warm my bones and shake away the Down.

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Post by TinyHippo » Mon Mar 26, 2007 5:29 am

hapter 3: Three-Step Plan

Coffins are, if anything, as economical as advertised. It didn't take long for a person's own heat to warm the tiny space. When it gets too warm, automated microfilters kick in to swap hot air for the chill outside. I'd woken up countless times before, in the scorching dark, heart racing and that primal fear you've been buried alive.

Yet another bad way to start a Sugar Down.

I watch the match screen-in-screen, hovering over my P2P. The server I'm leeched to has maybe an hour left before Cinc. shuts it down and there'd be maybe half an hour before it pops back up again, different paint job, different I.P. A quick turnaround in the grand scheme, but still long enough to screw up my downloads, for sure. Minor annoyances.

Fee's message flashes, unrelenting, in the corner. She'd personally set up my mail server, leaving a string of code that meant, no matter what I did, her messages wouldn't go away until replied to. So typically Fee. By half-time, I'd given in - which she probably knew I'd do before I did.

Little job for you, sweetheart,

A friend of a friend wants a boy to go to work on this new Thatch.
Who did I think of first?
You've guessed it.
The address is attatched.
You're looking for Jen.


P.S. Make sure you're armed. It's not a nice neighbourgood.

Pimp was just one of the roles Fee had decided to play in my life. Over the last year she'd transformed from ex into a syncretic agent for all seasons. Agent, dealer, fixer and outfitter all in one. Each role showing more and more interest. Lost as I am, I'd found very little desire or reason to halt her glacier-like progress into my affairs.

Glance at the address of the fresh, receipt-sized print out. Fuck. Definitely not a nice place. First things first; a boost. My hands reach automatically for my masher - squat, custom black and yellow Nippon import of which I'm adequately proud. A clump of icing sugar into the bottom plate - eight fluffs enough for a morning dose. I like icing for a morning. The crystals stick in your throat like fairy dust, filling your eyes with glitter and your bones with sparkle. And, if only for a moment, I can forget.

I lay on the temprafoam, watching my ghost in the canopy above. Thoughts simplify. Three-step plan; Shave. Do hair. Get a gun. Easy.

The ghost smiles.

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Post by TinyHippo » Mon Mar 26, 2007 5:30 am

Author's Note: I've set this Chapter to Friends only, because it gets a bit blue. Bear that in mind before you read it in work, yeah? This chapter has taken forever, and is still open to edits. Enjoy.

Chapter 4: All Part of the Service

Just to make it clear, Thatch's don't live in bad neighbourhoods. It's a lifestyle thing - if you have the money for the treatment, you buy yourself into a cushy little 'pen in the 'burbs. Problem is, these 'pens are surrounded by the real shitty areas. Overcrowded slums sold off to corporations who put in the bare minimum of investment. I flash the driver my usual empty smile as he snatches my token, I grab a hand hold. The first lesson you learn on the trams, even in the middle of the day: you don't sit down.

The 'pen - the name of which I read and immediately forget - towers over the Dovecot slums like a church organ over it's congregation. It's mouth yawns open to admit the dirty tram, under the watchful gaze of two African rent-a-cops with the corp's logo splashed over their body armour. Their supervisor looks me over, speaks in broken English.

"Are you expected?"

"Here to see Jen,"

He checks a clipboard - also emblazoned with the two triangles of whatever company owns the 'pen - and nods. "Name?"

"My name? J. R. Hartley,"

I crack a smile. Basically because of the joke, but mostly because I know he has no idea what I'm talking about. Elitism never seemed to get old. "Move along."

The apartments towered above me, a glass-plastic honeycombed hive of indentical dwellings. This wasn't the first 'pen I'd been in, by any means - I could find the elevator with my eyes closed. Three floors up meant the Thatch was rich - I reflected, as the lift spirited me up the side of the hive - but not successful enough to buy a good view.

Jen, it turns out, isn't the Thatch. She answers the door in a faux-silk kimono and fluffy pink slippers - a disgusting clash I successfully ignore.


As soon as Jen offered me her hand to shake, I knew ordering me over hasn't been her idea. "Afternoon,"

"Come in, please," she blurted, closing off the cold behind me. "We're in the living room,"

The living room is first on our left of a corridor so cramped we were forced into single-file. The living room was better, with enough room for an old plasma screen, a leather three-piece and laminate sideboards. Proof, if I needed any, that money really doesn't buy taste.

I don't see the Thatch until I'm sat down, on an armchair facing their plush couch, and she's not pretty. Originally she was probably a plain, slightly overweight woman with an unfortunately flat nose. The fairy dust is gone now, I look upon her anew. The treatment has added bulges of muscle to her already chubby frame, giving her the look of a convincing drag queen. The look in her eyes does little to add any femininity. Glazed, using or just drunk, and horny.

"So, your friend Fee has been telling us stories about you... Would you," Jen gulps, trying her best "Like to tell us more?"

"Steph," the Thatch smiles, her voice deepened by the treatment "Tell us about Steph,"

I take a second to assess, to get my shtick together. Jen is on her second glass of wine already, expensive Merlot threatening to spill up and out of her quivering hands. Was she scared of me, or her lover?

Steph is an old story of mine that'd barely happened in real life, but Fee seems to appreciate it, plus it works like a dream on the newly Thatch'd. The core of the tale hadn't changed since conception, but I'd added a lot of describing words, personal emotion, and - of course - filth.

"Steph's my boss," I began "And I always thought she was this horny old Thatch who just didn't get laid at home. Forever staring at me, like a piece of meat..."

Her eyes lit up at that point, Jen squirmed in her seat.

"I always felt on display, like everything I did was a sexy little show for her, until one day I realised we had something in common,"

"What was it?" asks Jen, clearly nowhere near as informed as her partner.

"Oral," I shrug, that one word elicting a noise from the Thatch "You see... she got me drunk at our last Christmas party," That part of the story was changeable. If I was telling it in the middle of summer, I'd change it to the Summer Ball, for a bit of realism. "I told her this... secret of mine and she got very excited. Took me into a toilet stall and got me on my knees, demanded I hike up her skirt," Again, realism. Hiking up a skirt always seemed a bit more sexy than messing around with a belt.

"What was the secret?"

"I'm," I pause, dramatically, despite myself "addicted to giving head. Oral fixation,"

The Thatch leaning forward now, something between lust and fascination buring behind her eyes. "You... you like it?"

"Love it... one of my favourite things," I purr, holding her stare. "I lifted up her skirt, and saw my first ever Erida," That's bollocks - the first ever girl I loved was Thatch'd, and I spent a lot of time between her legs. "As soon as my tounge touched the clit, I was hooked... Steph's been calling me into her office ever since,"

Jen, for the first time since I'd arrived, looks relaxed. Lets out a giggle, even. The Thatch's eyes don't leave mine, although fire behind them seems to cool. "You let her cum on your face?"

"Sure, whatever she wants. As long as I get some in my mouth, I'm in heaven," That bit, widely speaking, true. The Thatch can tell.

"Jen can't," she grunts.

"Won't," Jen corrects, definitely tipsy now. "It's too big..."

"And she thinks doing it will break some feminist oath," the Thatch chuckled, a first sign of character through the lust. The problem was common. Women experience sex as a whole body experience - their skin is this entire feeling organ. The Thatch treatment takes all the feeling, all the senation and injects it into the clit. The untreated partner usually hates it. Enter me.

Jen asks "Why do you like it?"

"Don't you love..." I begin, realising I still don't know the Thatch's name. I kind of liked it that way, too.

"Becci, and yes, of course I do,"

"Then don't you want to make her happy?"

"Could.. could you-"

"She wants," Becci says, all the malevolence back in her tiny eyes "You to show her,"

Becci opens her own kimono before my knees hit the floor, revealing her Erida like a kid with a new toy. Sat above her slit like a tiny watchtower, erect and ready. I thought it'd be bigger, the way she'd been acting, but at an inch and a half it looked like this pink acorn jutting proudly from her crotch. Already very wet, I wonder if they were playing before I arrived.

Run a finger down the shaft, towards her opening. Tease it back again. Her hips jolt at my touch. "On the face, yeah?"


"Shirt on or off?" I ask, as unbusinesslike as possible.

"On," Becci breaths "Definitely on,"

Jen adds "We'll pay your dry cleaning bill," and I fight the urge to giggle. The courtesty to my clothes was novel, but leaving a mark was a pretty common desire for the newly Thatch'd.

Brush my thumb up the shaft until I can pinch the tip, rub it roughly between the two. Jen had probably been nervous, but I know exactly how hard, how quick. A lot of naive people'll treat the Erida like a normal clit, but - as mentioned - navity is ignorance. And just won't do.

'Take it like you like it,' Fee had always told me. A mantra for the modern age. I go to work firm lipped and busy tounged, carefully bobbing up and down, and her hips really start to buck. Tastes hot, musky - not unpleasant. Suck a little, lick a lollipop you don't want to let go of, then let it go. Set up perfectly for an old trick.

"Jen," I say, looking up. "Spit on it,"

Her jaw drops, a rabbit in the headlights. "Do it, Jen..." Becci moans "Please,"

She looks back at Becci, and underneath her stupid, tipsy grin I see a spark of love, of the bond so fractured by weeks of steroids injections and hormone patches. The spit hangs on the presipice of her painted lips, falls and I'm rubbing it in, much to Becci's delight. My lips and tounge quickly back into play, up and down the swollen nub. Becci's fingernails raking my scalp. My hands pulling her closer to my face, for that sweet taste, to itch the need suddenly alight in my head, my crotch.

She struggles to last out my expert ministrations, one hand pulling me further down, one set of fingers clamped around a fat, nipple to steal further sensation. A quiver then a shiver in her hips becomes a rumble becomes a quake and suddenly she's all I could taste, all I can feel. She starts in my mouth, jerks my head up and off so she could see her juices splashing on my face, my shirt, my hair. Don't think I can remember a new Thatch smiling so wide.

"Oh.. okay. I think..." Jen stammers, possibly even more bowled over than Becci "I mean, maybe I could... Now you need money,"

"You pay Free, not me," I fight the urge to lick my lips, to touch my face. "Can I clean up?"

"Rub it in..." Becci mumbled, fighting the 'blues "Wear it home,"

"Is that okay?"

"Sure," I shrug to Jen "All part of the service."

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Post by TinyHippo » Mon Mar 26, 2007 5:31 am

Author's note: Weekdays mean less time to type, so maybe only one or half of a chapter at a time. Patience, please.

Chapter 5: Meticulous Spontaneity.

Two minutes out of the pen and I'm on my knees again. And this time, not in a good way.

I hear down in London the power on the streets is always changing. The Yardies, to the Poles, to the next group of international super villians. One thing you can say about Liverpool is all our street thugs are home grown. Brings a tear to your eye.

"Give us 'yer money," came a voice in that accent I'd systematically bled out of my system years before. "Or I'll fuckin' cut 'yer,"

The leader in the mirrored edge of my glasses - tall, crude sunbed tan, skinhead. Him, his three mates, the angry tram driver. Identical to me. Camoflauge for the urban age. Darwin'd be proud. I shrug in their direction, and the smallest one is on me, checking my pockets. Amatuer. Like I'd bring anything into Dovecot.

His hands frisk down my arms, chest down my legs and - with tangible horror at the thought - up my inseam. Stop at the bulge. "Ee! What 'd fuck is that?!"

I feel the corners of my mouth tense. A grin full of a glee I don't really trust. "This?" I sneer, snatching through my fly "Steyr ACR-d. It fires darts filled with all kinds of things. Right now it's spider venom. Great stuff. Ever see a black widow work? "

I sit on dirty pavement, this morning's frost nipping at my trou, quite casually waving the little gun from thug-to-thug until one of them takes his chance. Too slow. A blur of movement, the cold of the trigger, the 'fwip' the gun and the crash of thug #1 to the floor. "Victim ends up a lot like this," I explain, over the noise of their friend gasping for air. "Helpless. The 'Widow usually eats it's prey up slowly, piece-by-piece. Drag your mate off the street before one comes along, eh?"

A flair for the dramatic, yes. It's a weakness. I reach out onto a passing tram, hopping on with the kind of Hollywood spontaneity that only comes from meticulous pre-planning. To my muted delight, the thugs look suitably impressed as I dissapear off into the Dovecot slums.

A handjob, a stick up and it's barely 2pm. And this could probably count as a slow Saturday.

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Post by TinyHippo » Mon Mar 26, 2007 5:31 am

Chapter 5 -part II:

I get Fee's follow-up whilst giving into my help-the-little-guy guilt in Old Swan's remaining unfranchised bakery. I do biz through an old Nokia handset, connected to my coffin via relay-sat. It was a highly inefficient way to do biz, given the 5 minute send-recieve delay, but it's retro hort co'ture, which some clients adore. Anything to make you stand out from the crowd.

Jen and Becci just loved you.
Someone from out of town's coming.
Set up a meeting with JJ, would you?
Need you@Cava@4pm.
Don't let me down.

Even back when she had my wearing her collar, Fee never spoke about business much. More than anything she seems to act as a tour guide for the North West. Handles a lot of introductions for out-of-towners. JJ, for example, is one of Liverpool's more unscrupulous arms dealers stocking all sorts of treats; including my highly illegal spider venom. People think he's creepy, but - cliches aside - I chalk it up to eccentricity.

JJ's not on the 'net. He handles outsiders through a 14-year old rareite in Aigburth. Half two, already. If I was after my venom, I'd walk. To keep to Fee's schedule, though, it was going to be another fucking tram-ride.

Winter through the cafe's glass window - daytime's barely here and almost gone. And I don't want to be out alone past 4. Spider venom or not.

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Post by TinyHippo » Mon Mar 26, 2007 5:32 am

Chapter 6: Sparrows Don't Even Factor

Aigburth is cleaner than the slums, with more character than the 'pens, but still not one of my favourite places. The biggest of the militias ended up in Liverpool when Bonn fell. Mercenaries had a lot of bunch of money to throw around back then, and their leader - this fruity old Belgian woman - sunk it into Aigburth, buying cheap property, re-selling under the the Forth Regiment's protection. People were willing to pay for the safety outside of the 'pens and Layla Jensen seemed to care a lot more than the corps. A barony for the modern age. And there's something quite sweet about that. But, given I don't live on the side of law and order 24/7, something about fully trained, AK-toting legal killers made me feel unsafe.

I hop off the tram in the middle of a traffic jam. Urgh. V-Oil stinks the place like a rancid chip shop. The afternoon chill dances an icy waltz on my skin and I get moving.

The 14 year-old sells from this old McDonalds on the high street. She's had the big 'M' spun around to look like an 'E' - she's never said why.

I love my custom gear, but even I struggle see value in the majority of items collecting dust on Selby's shelves. This crpyt for the collectible. A wide eyed boy stares at me from behind blister pack, setting my teeth on edge.

"Bratz Boyz "My Prom"," calls a voice from the dark "Available only with Kurupa Candies in Nippon,"

Selby shuffles out from between an aisle, her short hair tied in braids, the sleeves of her jumper trailing along the dirty floor. Bovine-brown eyes assess me through the dark.

"More darts?"

"Not today. JJ. Someone needs to see him,"


"Don't know. I'm just the monkey on this one,"

"JJ doesn't do blind dates, Munroe,"

"There's money in it," I lie. Well, guess. Newcomers usually bring new money. Old money. "A lot,"

She regards me still, busy hands rearranging a display without looking. From what I hear, raritism ain't biz. It's more of a fetish with big scores now and again. She probably lives of her cut from JJ.


Crap. Fee hadn't given me a day, or even an idea. "Say tomorrow. Whenever he can do it,"



"I'll speak to him. No promises," Those eyes settle on my wrist, seem to sparkle "Where'd you buy that?"

My bracelet was made from beer bottle caps along a latex thong. I've drank and saved every one of them, all around the world. Way custom. Very cool. "Didn't. Made it,"


"Not today, Selby. Call me when you know?"

Two Sparrows shove the door open for me. Sparrows a this gang who worship this obscure film character I've never heard of. Gang uniformity pisses me off, especially in middle-class kids like Sparrows, but there are things I hate more.

Sad fact, but in a world were you hate lots and love little, it's all about priorities. Things like the Sparrows don't even factor.

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Post by TinyHippo » Mon Mar 26, 2007 5:32 am

hapter 7:

Bar Cava stands in Wood Street, this wax crayon scribble wedged between slabs of coroporate concrete. It serves flavoured tequilla illuminated by old fashioned candles in bottles and halogen-ads. Ancient wood tables buried under an inch of industrial varnish.

The foreigner arrives ten minutes late, but she's worth the wait. If Aigburth is a modern day barony, the foreigner is an Amazon of a concrete jungle. Big, blonde with fire burning behind blue eyes. Muscles coiled beneath a leather 'jockey jacket.

"Hello there,"

She's done a better job over-riding her accent than me, but she's certainly Scan. I think Norway, but I wouldn't put money on it.


Don't know how long I've been aliasing as Munroe, but it's a new thing. I use it as a time-stamp, really. If anyone calls me Pete, we ain't done biz in maybe a year. I made an exception this morning - personal jobs require a personal touch. Anyway, Fee made sure clients like them never set eyes on my number.

"That's me. Sit down, please,"

I wave us over two bottles of Desparados. "Is Fee joining us this evening?"

"If she didn't tell you, she's not. Mind doing business through me?"

"Modified Keramin hair strands, iris augmentation, Clinique laced into your sweat glands, Chiba-tweaked olefactory and skin sensatorium..." She reels my patches off like items from a black clinic shopping list. She could go on, but the look in her eyes says her point is made. "Very few combat mods. We can do business,"

Her smile is tight, but genuine. I didn't see a bag when she came in, which meant she had a scanner built-in. Expensive. She swallows some tequila beer, not taking her eyes off of me. The sensor is in her eye, or she likes looking at me.

"That bandolir of yours... Keratin, too?"

At the mention, I can feel it's grip, from shoulder to waist. "Keramin-polymer, yes,"

"Cute. Job's a corporate hit. Somewhere on the waterfront. Fee said you'd be available as back-up,"

"It'll cost,"

She smiled again, as I felt my Desparados go down. Beer, with a hard edge. "Plenty of money behind this hit,"

"Corporate, innit? Same shit, different Company,"

"Exactly. It's a big hit, though. You're going to need more than those darts you're packing,"

"Which is why you want to buy weapons?"

"When can we do it?"

"Soon. And don't worry. I know this is a backwater old town, but JJ is on the level. Not just crummy old war stuff,"

"You used that sort of gear in Kensington, right?"

Words caught in my throat. Kensington... I'd been wrong in thinking I was going to be a lowly tour-guide this job. Fee had been touting my combat rec. Someone wanted me involved. "Wasn't much money down in the slums," I say, as stand-offish as I can. Not really my favourite subject, anyway.

"We meet your boy when?"

"Tomorrow, sometime. He's akward about new people, but worth putting up with. Any idea what you'll need?"

"Not until I see what he's got,"

She's quick - in wit and mouth. A run-of-the-mill street samuri, but one I could get along with. "Then we'll meet again tomorrow,"

"Not exactly my bedtime yet, Munroe. Show me the highlights of this town, why don't you?"

Candle flame dances drunkenly between us and the table feels like a haven from the cold, darkening city ouside. She looks at me, promise behind those blue eyes. How could I refuse?

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