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Dear SafeLink Customer,
(one of the many recipients includes me).

The Federal Communications Commission (FCC) announced that the Affordable Connectivity Program (ACP) is ending, and April 2024 will be the last fully funded month for your benefits if Congress does not provide additional funding.

All ACP customers on all service providers will be affected but we have made it our highest priority to keep you connected. Even if Congress does not provide additional ACP funding after April, and the FCC only authorizes a partial funding in May, SafeLink will fully fund your ACP benefits through May 31st, 2024. This will give Congress more time to fund this program without impacting you.

Aforementioned bulletin elicited following:

SAFELINK TracFone synonymous...

not only as my lifeline,
and connectivity insurance
with family, friends and strangers,
whereby yours truly
experiences virtual safety net
as would be true
for many purple people eaters,
when havoc unexpectedly strikes
triggering an emergency situation,
where life and death

as very uncomfortable truth
teeter in the balance
necessitate immediate intervention,
hence survival
of one mediocre bipedal hominid
within twenty first century,
not only requires
allocated government funding
for unlimited talk and text,
to brook intervention

allowing, enabling, and providing help
while I channel urgent plea
via telephonic wireless portal
or surfing the cyber sea
if in need of an
up to date telephone number
until that one day in the near future,
when logical integrated circuits,
albeit miniscule or near invisible bots
to the naked eye,
of the foreign tiger

said telecommunication trappings
ideally, easily, and admirably
embedded within body electric
batteries not necessary
when capacity to energize lovely bones
emulates, jump/kickstarts,
and powers an uninterrupted
self sustaining feedback loop
courtesy subcutaneous
nearly microscopic solar cells

(similar in principle
to intrauterine devices)
generates ample electricity
with resistance from subjects
to communicate wirelessly,
which means every waking
and sleeping movement
grudgingly monitored,
thus surreptitious antics
possibly flagged for:

accusation of plagiarization,
barbarization of mine mien,
cannibalization of pet peeves,
demonization of politicization,
elation of short lived beneficence,
fictionalization of embedded chip insertion,
glorification qua state of art communication,
humanization of artificial intelligence,
idolization of electronic engineering,
jollification of electrons.

adieu from:
matthew scott harris
spaghetti Oct 2016
Erasers, they erase words on paper,
I'm a smoker not a vaper,
saw a bug,
so i sprayed her,
while writing a story of a caper.
Writing words,
made a mistake.
The eraser erases the mistake.
Now the mistake is gone,
time to mow the lawn.
The lawn is green,
which is the grass.
Upon my riding mower,
I place my fat ***.
I then realize that I should go to a gym.
Maybe even go for a swim.
Or visit my friend Jim.
I heard he broke a limb.
I think I will go and visit him.
I hop in my car,
a Dodge Monaco Sedan,
cause I am a really big Blues Brothers fan.
Arrived at Jim's house,
hope I'm not too late,
I made a stop for a burger,
which I then ate.
I ringed the doorbell,
the door opens up,
Jim walks out,
and I hear a "Pop!".
Jim is dead,
he lays on the ground,
I see a bullet shell,
a .45 ACP round.
I soon realized,
my mistake,
for that's the same ammunition,
that my gun takes.
I look down at my hand,
and see my 1911,
I killed Jim,
and sent him to heaven.
I walked home that very day,
underneath the skyscrapers,
Erasers erase words on paper.
TR3F1LD 7d
another **** nI̲ght in
this room in which you sit with li̲ghts off delightless (no light)
anger inside begins rising as this dA̲rk-ridden mI̲nd gets
preoccupied with hA̲rd-hitting, violent
electronic beats & also senseless toxic thinking
(no means to dump it than writing)
so unacco[ɑ]mplished & spineless
like slugs, but not O̲nes you sent flying
in the course of gun-utilizing
but all you're good for, just like an alliance
of vigilantes fighting org. crI̲me rings
and being a quartet, is typing & rhyming
["good four"]
besides, 'course, like performing the type of dance wI̲despread
among Caribbean party femmes, whining
["wining"; the Carribean dance known as "wine" & "dutty wine"]
about stuff you ain't fI̲ne with
self-buried alive by the time a **** fI̲ght is
not even started; on to[ɑ]p
of that darksome life stuff, like a wa[ɑ]nton nutjo[ɑ]b
bumping broa[ɑ]ds he swives o[ɑ]ff
your mind gets hau[ɑ]nted by thou[ɑ]ghts...
["thots"]
————————————————————————————————
about this ro[ɑ]tten world rI̲fe with
injustice-multiplying ******, blinded
by their fI̲nances, license
allowing those scU̲m to do vI̲ce deeds
and the fact of being unpunished, plus mindless
web skites in chase of society's liking
all those po[ɑ]p-trap artists, lifestyle blo[ɑ]ggers, IG mo[ɑ]dels
[by "pop-trap artists", I mean both pop artists & trap artists]
whose underlying jo[ɑ]b is
keeping our minds less co[ɑ]nscious
of unjU̲st things in this world; auto[ɑ]cracy with or—
—ganized crI̲me on the rI̲se, which
means corruption is thriving; works of A̲rt simplifI̲ed, which
goes to no[ɑ]nsense sometI̲mes, yet
both are things the larger slice of the highly
evolved kind is alrI̲ght with (so what?)
who in the world where the larger slice of the highest
biolo[ɑ]gical kI̲nd seeks fun & vI̲ce needs your li̲ne kit
that, while not tip-top, just like an alpI̲ne peak
is way above plain? like one occupI̲ed with rock-climbing
who needs that if your stuff is nothing but silent
and features no boasting 'bout riches, dope, boning?
like a simplistic club trap
tune the pace of which is hund. slaps
per min. (give or take) & to which a young lass
of Western CBG makes her freaking *** clap
it's a pretty dumb track
[twerk music; "hund. slaps per min." - "100 beats per minute"; "CBG" - "cultural background"]
that this world's going down, like an airshI̲p that's go[ɑ]n' crash
a sentient kind, though so nutty & childish
["naughty"]
that's why the world seems like a gargantu[—]an kinder—
—garten with media posers, stU̲ck-up bad guys, &
ching-blowers buying bananas fixed ta
[that valueless piece of work presented as "art"]
[and purchased for $6.2 mil by a media-attention-seeking bozo, I'd say]
walls for the sum authorizing
to buy around 9 mil rounds of firearm ammo with the
addition of around 400 gU̲ns that I'd highly
advise utilizing on a hU̲nt spree for vI̲ce-rich
creatures, such as mo[ɑ]bsters & tyrants
[you may check a long note on these lines left under the last one]
with compliant lA̲p dogs of theirs
I'd say, just like an attic nigh bare
of belongings, thA̲t billi[—]onaire
doesn't hA̲ve much upstairs; & such highly gaga affairs
as that are despite the fact that somewhE̲re
out there conditions of living
may be regarded as a nightmare (so what?)
such finances-trifling when there are ones winding up dying
'cause of an aliment crisis (so what?)
which is mostly a result of armed co[ɑ]nflicts ignited
by marbles-lost tyrants (so what?)
how many of pro[ɑ]sperous gU̲Y̲s give
a **** regarding stuff li̲ke this
apA̲rt few ones forming this
mad world's philanthro[ɑ]pic minority? (so what?)
that's about it
yeah, let's blow funds buying fruits fO̲r six mi—
—llion go[ɑ]ddamn bucks O̲r some-thing
like that to keep satisfying that horribly
big ego, enlarging it mO̲re than it
already is, than help ones downtro[ɑ]dden or those in need
————————————————————————————————
there's no[ɑ]t enough words to e[ɪ]x—
—press how mU̲ch this **** world is sick
like a set of li̲nes on some morbid sh#t
indited quite lurridly
semantically loaded, &, rhyming-wise, swarming with
multies constructed nigh perfectly
————————————————————————————————
as if you're a stud in an **** with
an abundance of whorey chicks
f#ck all the wanton... mobs, tyrants, plus loyalists
of theirs,  inasmU̲ch as it's morally corrupted authorities
being alright with abhorrent things
with the now-said in mind, the soundest reply
to such an abnormalcy
is, as if you're 'round a few ***** with an urge to ge[ɪ]t
spanked red-hot, to strI̲ke them bods forcibly
["𝗯ooty-𝗼bsessed 𝗱egenerates", where "*****" means "prize"; "butts"]
just like the bloodthirsty re—
—gime of that Assad schmU̲ck overthrown in ju[ɪ]st
11 days (**** it, you sordid b#tch)
every physically fI̲ne-fettled pE̲rs. who gives
a ****, to whom justice is mO̲re than ju[ɪ]st
a word, should get thE̲mselves wiser, get E̲xercised ta
a level of an effective fighter; find sympathetic partners
who'd be helping with acquire—ing intel, prepping o[ɑ]ps a—
—gainst evildoers & executing them
get intel, prep your offense, get tO̲O̲led up, then
go hunting

[THE AFOREMENTIONED NOTE]
Caliber-wise, the most common types of ammo used in the next 4 types of firearms, which are pistols, SMGs, assault rifles, & ****** rifles, are the following: 9mm; 10mm; .45 ACP; 5.56x45 NATO; 7.62x39; .308 Win/7.62x51 NATO. Here's (all time) average prices of brass rounds of the types mentioned (taken from southerndefense.com/ammo-prices): 9mm - $0.29/unit; 10mm - $0.47/unit; .45 ACP - $0.44/unit; 5.56x45 - $0.43/unit; 7.62x39 - $0.45/unit; .308 Win/7.62x51 - $0.67/unit. $6.2 mil ÷ $0.67 = (~)9.253.731 brass rounds of the .308 Win/7.62x51 type.

Let's say you have $6.2 mil. Given that a unit of brass ammo of any of the other types mentioned is cheaper than $0.67 & that ammo of those types should be purchased too, you can purchase 8.9 mil of diverse brass rounds for less than $6 mil. Keep in mind that if you purchase some or all of the rounds with steel casings, which are cheaper than brass ones, then you'd have even more than 9 mil rounds. Let's say you've purchased 8.9 mil of diverse brass rounds for $5.9 mil, then you have $300.000 left to purchase firearms.

Most firearms cost $400-$800/unit. $300.000 ÷ $800 = 375 firearms. Given that, caliber-wise, you have diverse ammo, you shouldn't purchase only $800 (or more costly) firearms. Let's say, for the sum mentioned, you've purchased around 400 firearms, which can be used by at least around 200 expert assassins in operations against mafias & agents of authoritarian regimes worldwide. Don't know about you, but to me, that's a highly better way of spending $6.2 mil than purchasing one **** banana for that sum.

Of course, to go on such a hunt spree, you should be organized way better than just having firearms & ammo. You also need other means & equipment, such as money, trustful allies, intel on targets, transportation, a place to stay, knives, firearm accessories. Just in case, I don't try to promote a criminal lifestyle. If there's any lifestyle I try to promote, it's a vigilante/evil-fighting one.
"in the dark (𝗥𝗜𝗦𝗘 𝗨𝗣)" by TR3F1LD (TRFLD) is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (to view a copy of this license, visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0)
Vanidy Nov 2017
.45 ACP.
The bullet's velocity.
It speeds through the street
With just a single fleet.

7.62
The temperature drives through
Through the way the bullet flies
To where it can finally shine.

.44 magnum.
And the time comes.
The bullets hit their orders.
We finally meet each other.
Chapter 13: An Uncertain Trail  
Cutty was once again headed down a trail with an uncertain end.  He didn’t feel good about the riders ahead or what their true intentions were.  Jimmy had said: “They are probably cowboys from the Bar Circle T Ranch,” but he had only been guessing.

He charged up the rapidly darkening trail…  

The only thing he was sure of was that he was forever duty-bound to a code that had taken him captive so very long ago.  It never mattered the circumstance or the odds of success.  When her voice called—and his honor was once again at risk—everything else became subservient to his sense of duty.

It had first called his name in Central Park over twenty years ago.  He had been hunting pirates behind a pond, on the east side of the park, when the message was first handed down.  It was delivered in the scream of a young girl coming out of a small cave on the far side of the pond.

As the bats flew out of the cave, all of the other boys ran.  Cutty never wavered, as he covered his head and charged.  Inside, was a defenseless seven-year-old girl who had wandered away from her nanny.  Cutty covered her with his jacket and led her back outside. As the other boy’s heckled and jeered, he never stopped or even looked their way.  That young girl’s name was Miss Shepperd, but Cutty had heard the nanny call her Destiny—Destiny Shepperd.

Cutty was now riding his five-year-old horse at a full gallop and the white sweat from the horse’s withers had covered his trousers.  His knowledge of tracking was enough to tell him that the shoe prints were becoming more pronounced the further west he rode.  He was gaining on them.

Five miles later, there was less distance between the front and rear hoof prints of the riders ahead.  They had slowed down.  They were now either cantering or walking their horses. Cutty decided to get off and walk his horse until he was sure.  He knew his horse could use the rest, and he needed the quiet to be able to hear what might be up ahead.  

He walked for twenty minutes, as the tracks in front of him became fresher and fresher.  There was no doubt in his mind that the riders ahead of him were walking their horses too.  

It was now late into the evening, and he thought he heard voices coming out of the trees ahead.  As he edged closer, he could smell wood smoke and hear the sounds of a fire.  Cutty knew the other mounts would smell his horse in the night air before he got much closer.  He decided to tie his horse to a tree thirty feet off the trail.  He had learned from the Gurkhas in Nepal how to move soundlessly through the brush.  He held his sword close against his body, as he advanced through the dark.

The trail started to enter a deep ravine.  At the bottom, he could see five horses all tied together.  Fifty yards past the horses was a raging fire.  These men were not worried about being seen.  Cutty listened for voices as he moved past the horses.  The sounds that he heard in the night air were emboldened with inebriation.

These Men Were All Drinking

“Good,” Cutty said to himself.  “A drunken adversary is only half the threat that he is when sober.  This adjusts the odds a little more in my favor.”  Still, Cutty wasn’t going to take anything for granted.  Five drunken cowboys, if that’s what they were, could still be a lot for him to handle.

He checked the cylinder of his Colt .45 to make sure it was fully loaded.  He didn’t want to repeat the mistake he had made when rescuing Adrian on that hill in Portugal.  After chasing the Basque Assassin, Bakar, through the hills above Lisbon, he had forgotten to reload after shooting at him and several of his men.

He was sorry now that he hadn’t asked Jimmy for his Colt, Model M1902.  It would have given him eight rounds in case the six in his Colt .45 were not enough.  The Colonel had always told him that, … “In direct confrontations, there is very little chance to reload.  Most fights are over by then.”

The M1902 was a semi-automatic pistol developed by John Browning for Colt in 1902.   It was an improvement on an earlier design.  The military version had a square and lengthened grip frame allowing it to carry an additional round in the magazine.  It fired eight rounds of .38 ACP from its six-inch barrel.

With his Colt .45’s capacity of only six rounds, Cutty would have to be deadly accurate with each shot.

DEADLY ACCURATE IS WHAT HE HAD BEEN BEFORE!
  
As he came out of the woods and passed by the horses, he tried to move quietly so as not to startle them and give himself away.  
The lead stallion whinnied as Cutty brushed by him in the dark.  The noise was loud enough to arouse two of the men and they came to investigate.  Cutty moved further off into the shadows until the men were satisfied that the horse had only been reacting to a small animal in the brush.  The two wobbly figures mumbled to each other as they walked back to the fire…

“We’ll teach that filthy redskin a lesson about wandering this far off of the reservation,” the bigger of the two said.  “His body will only strengthen our story about the missing cattle.  When we get done with this running iron he’ll wish we had killed him when we killed his horse.”

All five men were now seated again around the fire and passing two bottles of whisky back and forth.  There was no sign of Not-Many-Prisoners anywhere.  Cutty said a prayer that he was still alive.  Based on what the one cowboy had just said, he was pretty sure that he was.

But Where ?

A running-iron was a free-handed branding tool that allowed the cowboy to create a design of his choice on the animal with its hot glowing tip.  Unlike the forged designs of most branding irons, the running-iron allowed the brander to change, or go over, an existing design making it a favorite tool of rustlers throughout the west.
Cutty circled around the ravine to get closer to the fire.  The five men had continued to drink, and their words got louder as their attention span’s diminished.  As the sparks danced in mock adoration …

Cutty Started To Plan


Chapter 14: Right Toward The Fire

He looked down at the gleaming brass on his blouse.  As an afterthought before leaving home, he had stuffed it into his satchel.  He wasn’t sure why, but he thought that maybe—just maybe—it would be useful in some way.  The buttons were now alive in the distant glow from the firelight.  They would appear as multiple sets of eyes coming out of the dark.

Cutty looked intently at the five men as they continued to pass the two bottles around.  Their faces were greasy and unwashed, and they sat with a demeanor that gave away their intentions.  They were among the lowest of men ...
  
These Men Hadn’t Seen A Washtub In Over A Year

Cutty remembered back again to his cowboy friends in Abilene and Dodge City—they looked nothing like this.  They had been righteous and straight, and their posture and speech only reinforced their true makeup.  They were nothing if not respectful of those around them and totally dedicated to their craft.  Cutty appreciated that. Their loyalty to the ranches they worked for equated to his unwavering commitment to a life of duty and honor.

Those Men All ‘”Rode For The Brand”

He had developed a kinship and brotherhood with those cow hands back in Kansas, and he had made himself a promise to one day go back and visit them again.  He knew as he made that promise to himself, going back was something he had never been able to do before.  He hoped  this time it would be different.

“All right, who’s going first?” Cutty heard from the cowboy seated at the far end of the fire. “Who wants to put the first mark on that filthy redskin?”  “I’ll do it, Jack,” said a man seated ten feet to his left.  “I’m going to burn a dark groove right between his two beady eyes.”  
“OK, Pete; you and Bill go get that stinking Piegan.”

At this point, Cutty had not seen Not-Many-Prisoners, but he knew he had to be close.  The two men walked toward where the horses were tied and within five minutes were back.  Each man had Not-Many-Prisoners by an arm, and the Piegan Elder was slumped forward and struggling to walk.

Cutty Had Walked Right Past Him

“I don’t think he liked being tied to that horse, Jack.  He about pitched a fit when we cut the ropes and took him down.  Bill gave him a good jolt to the head with his Peacemaker to get him to behave.  I don’t think he’ll give us any more trouble.” “Good, you and Bill tie him to those two small cottonwoods over by the water.  Then we can let the real fun begin.”

Some Of These Outlaws Were Carrying Colt .45’s

Cutty couldn’t believe that he had walked right by Not-Many-Prisoners when he had entered the ravine.  “How could I have missed him so close in the dark?”

Not-Many-Prisoners had been tied cross-saddle to the biggest of the five horses.  It had been the fourth one back as Cutty passed by in the dark.  After tying him to the saddle, the outlaws had covered him with a canvas tarp making him impossible to see.  It also made it almost impossible for him to breathe.

Not-Many-Prisoners was lucky to be alive.  Had Cutty been able to see and untie him, it would now be two against five and they would still have had the element of surprise working for them.“I wonder if Not-Many-Prisoners knows I’m here?  He may have heard me as I walked by, especially when that lead horse whinnied, and has kept quiet to protect me.  Or, he may have been in such rough shape, that he missed me entirely.”

Cutty wasn’t sure of Not-Many-Prisoner’s mindset but he was sure of one thing ...he didn’t have much time.   As the vile, and now drunk, outlaws tied Not-Many-Prisoners to the cottonwoods, Cutty hurried back to the horses.

He quickly and quietly untied them from each other—he needed to make a statement.  The cowboys were still drunk, and a drunken man’s imagination often gets the better of him.  He was hesitant to do it, but he felt he had no other choice…

He Unholstered His Colt


Chapter 15:  A Different Brand Of Justice

The horses had been bound together with a technique that Cutty had never seen before.  They had all been tied to a forty-inch branch that allowed them to move freely and graze without getting tangled.  It lowered down as they fed and then rose when their heads straightened back up.

Cutty vowed to remember this for the future.  It provided for both security and a limited amount of mobility.  It had been invented by the Cheyenne and was used extensively throughout the southern plains. The Colonel had been right when he said: “The Native Americans are noted for their prowess in stealth and tactics.” Cutty untied the horses from the branch, and—with three of the reins in his right hand and two in his left—started to walk them slowly toward the fire.

He knew his next move would be costly, but he needed to create as big a diversion as he could.  It would only leave five shots in his Colt, but the effect would be worth the bullet, at least that’s what he hoped.
.
He Reminded Himself About Hoping Again

The Colonel had warned Cutty repeatedly about hoping.  “Wishing for a certain outcome is not worth the mental effort you will put forth.  Keep your attention focused on the task at hand.  That will afford you the best chance of success.”

Cutty slapped the lead stallion on its **** as he fired his Colt up into the night sky.  At the report of the gunshot, all five horses took off toward the fire like they were being chased by the underworld god, Hades.  Entering the mouth of the ravine, there was not enough room for them to go around and avoid the fire.

They Charged Straight Through

The horses charged across the fire as the five cowboys looked on in drunken horror.  There was smoke and flying embers everywhere.  Two of the cowboys at the far end stood up and tried to run but were trampled by the horses before getting very far.  The lead cowboy, Jack, managed to get to his gun before leveling it in Cutty’s direction and firing.

Cutty redrew his Colt while dropping to one knee.  He sighted his big .45 and fired before Jack could get off a second round.  The bullet went straight through Jack’s right shoulder causing him to drop the big Peacemaker as he fell back away from the now-scattered fire.  
Cutty picked up Jack’s gun and ran toward where Not-Many Prisoners was tied.   As he cut his restraints, he handed him Jack’s gun saying: “There are five shots left in the cylinder.  Here’s six more rounds in case you run out.”

They both turned to face the startled cowboys who were now crawling through the dirt trying to make sense of it all.  With a KIAI that none of these rustlers had ever heard before, Cutty advanced.  One by one, he grabbed the men and threw them face down onto the dark ground.  He then yelled to Not-Many-Prisoners: “Tie them up with their hands behind their backs.  I’ll tie the one that I shot after I check on his wound.”

The KIAI Had Been For Not-Many-Prisoners Benefit

Cutty checked on Jack’s shoulder.  It was bleeding profusely, but it was a clean wound and the bullet missed any bone or cartilage as it passed through.  Cutty grabbed the bandana from around Jack’s neck, ***** as it was, and wrapped his shoulder.  “This will help to stop the bleeding,” Cutty said.  “Keep pressure on it with your other hand.  It’s better than you deserve, but you might just live if you keep it from bleeding out before you get to a doctor.”

Jack had been staring at Cutty’s blouse as he doctored his wound.  “So, you some kinda government agent?” Jack asked, as Cutty started to walk away. “I’m a Major in the United States Army here to investigate charges that rustling has been taking place on government land.  I can see now that the rumors have been true.  In addition, you were getting ready to commit capital ******.  I am ordering you, and your men, to stay here until my detachment comes back to pick you up.

If you’re not here when they arrive, they will hunt you down like the wild dogs that you are.  I need to get this Indian Scout back to headquarters. We know who you work for and what you’ve been doing.”

“You Are All Under Military Arrest”

Cutty tied Jack’s right hand to the top of his other arm. He knew he had just stretched the truth, but he wasn’t above doing that if a man’s life hung in the balance.  He looked across the scattered but still burning embers.

Not-Many-Prisoners had a look on his face that Cutty had not seen from any of the Piegan Elders before.  El Cristo had been the first to look at him that way when he had mortally wounded his son, Elligretto, in Seville.  His expression transcended the present moment as it acknowledged Cutty’s immortal warrior spirit.

Not-Many-Prisoners ran into the darkness in the direction that the horses had just gone. In less than ten minutes he was back with all five of them in tow.  “How was he able to find them in the dark and to have done it so quickly?” Cutty wondered.
  
Horses, when frightened or startled, will often run for miles without stopping.  He was sure when he fired that shot from his big Colt, those five had been both.  The Colonel’s assessment about Native Americans—a breed of men Cutty had only met once before in Abilene—rang true again tonight.

At West Point, Jimmy had been masked in eastern tradition hiding the best parts of himself.

Cutty Jumped On The First Horse As He Yelled
Ommmmmmmmmmm
Goodbye to great lex marinos
Ommmmmmmmmmm
Was on ACP and aunty jack
Ommmmmmmmmmm
And he was on chopper squad as well
Ommmmmmmmmmm
He was known as the *** on
Ommmmmmmmmmm
Kingswood country
Ommmmmmmmmmm
Easy now teddles
Ommmmmmmmmmm
Pickle me grandmother a *** has died
Ommmmmmmmmmm
He helped a lot of people
Ommmmmmmmmmm
Bringing laughter to our faces
Ommmmmmmmmmm
See you later you great man of tv & radio
Ommmmmmmmmmm
You were a funny man
Ommmmmmmmmmm
R I P lex marinos may your next life be good
Ommmmmmmmmmm

— The End —