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Zac - The Unlucky One

Part 9

The courtyard southern Iran


These are pain tools, not pleasure toys.

This exercise would be a significant ordeal without the addition of a sixty minute timing limitation.

The boy believes he is straining every sinew, and deploying his physical and mental reserves to the fullest to meet his immovable target.

The mans stony features betray only impatience and disappointment.

There is, as so often, an expectation gap between Marine Zachary Efron and his sadist. The Californian kid remembers his simple briefing from Master:

“Violate yourself. Utterly.”

The boy reflects. Perhaps the agony etched on his face; the dilation of his hole and the sounds he is making has not been sufficient to convince Master this violation is total.

Such is the distance Zachary has come that part of him now believes Master is right, whilst legacy Zachary remains indignant, and wishes to fight.


Eyes teary with exertion, the compact piece of American soldier meat squats and sinks onto a butt plug of grossly excessive girth.

The captor moves to Zacharys rear, and verifies the plug has been ass-swallowed in totality. Cheating the system will see the plug re-taken, and five minutes removed from the boys timing allowance.

Every part of Zachary knows how important it is to bring this exercise in within sixty minutes.

Across the yard a bulb powered by a car battery flashes, guiding the kid to the next challenge: a thirteen inch gut-buster.  

He sprints to his test not with enthusiasm, but because he knows Masters intolerance of downtime pain free time.


Raw, inside-out ass lips leak greasy trails through the grime of Marine Efrons inner thighs.

The boy cradles a diminishing tub of Boy Butter to his chest, like the teddy bear of a child scared by lightning. 

There was a tactic for lubricant use, at the outset:

Save it for the big challenges, Zaccy. There may not be a second helping.

He said to himself.

Yet the math tells all. One third of the dildos and plugs taken and one third of a pot of grease remaining.



The truth is, these anguished exhalations are not a consequence of moderation, but of oily surplus.

Master watches the kid make the calculation, and then impose self-rationing. It is unlikely the store room will be opened again to aid this avoidable crisis. If necessary, soldier boy can run dry and work off natural rectal lubricant. That will prompt some raw, mellifluous, sexual grunting from this youth, at an intensity rarely heard outside 30-plus punch fisting porn.


Each and every one of the twenty phalluses ranged over the yard has been assessed carefully, by Master, for the degree of anal challenge it presents.

This collection is the fruit of a ten year, worldwide purchasing tour, from the sex shops of Amsterdam to the street bazaars of north Africa. Indeed, a number of the impalement tools resemble the unfathomable heritage tourist trinkets brought back from Kenyan safaris, more than sex accessories.

Thick rubber truncheons have cruel additional bulges, mid-shaft.

Polished wooden sticks bend at thirty degrees, two-thirds of the way home.

Thirteen inches of latex-coated schlong arcs a punishing curve.

Ribbed, hand-blown glass dildos catch the morning sun at its brightest and sit, ready-heated, awaiting Zacharys sphincter.

Yet this is not just about size. Each pole is mounted such that the boy must consider his angle of approach: to the extent three minutes, average, per self-rape allows time to ponder anything.

Bulbous plugs force a total squat.

Jack-mounted phallic tools require the kid to tiptoe before he may drop.

Board-mounted, curved impalers see the boy bent double, reversing away viciously at what remains of his rectal tautness, and rising off his soles to accommodate the last four inches.

To all of which, there is the familiar soundtrack of forced boy sex:


“Ahhhhh…noooooooo man!”

Gleaming black boots shuffle on the sand, digging in as the boy takes another big one. Where they end, the wispy dark down of Zacharys calves mats wet with exertion-induced sweat.

Master would like an X-ray of this marine, to capture the hard rods lodged deep inside him. Instead, he must satisfy himself with repeated vistas of distended ass lips stretched so very thin around rubber, wood and glass; and he must conjure images of excruciating internal rigidity as the straight boy butt-swallows his latest tests.


“There was a photo amongst your personal effects, Zachary. You appear to be singing, with Vanessa. Tell me about that.”

Master patrols with the cattle prod, his very closeness encouraging extreme self-abuse.

“It was just….awwwww….some dumb musical we put on at high school.”

“So, you two go back as far as San Luis Obispo High? Childhood sweethearts, then?”

“AHhhhhhh……yeah, guess so.”

“Have you always enjoyed performing, Zachary?”

“How do you mean…….Master?”

“Oh, I think you understand, Zachary. Putting on a show; being the centre of attention; amusing and offending with your outrageousness; going one step further than the other boys, to please your audience.”

“Youre trying to link some fuckin school drama to this?! There is no connection. None at all, yeah, Master?”

“Keep stuffing rubber up your cunt as we talk, Zachary. Remember your timings.”

The marine fumes as he opens himself for a ribbed, conical twelve inches.

Master continues.

“You have changed physically, since high school. Once the floppy-haired soft-centred kid, and now this buzz-cut little muscle boy. But your evident desire to put on a good show albeit one thats constrained by your inhibitions and capacity for hard work, at present still burns inside you, I sense. Am I right, Zachary?”


“Zachary, I asked you a question.”

“Master……I……I wanna make this happen. But its difficult.”

“I know, Zachary. Sadists make the lives of boys difficult by design. But difficult needs focus, so I wonder if we could get that by asking you to complete your twenty dildos in fifty-eight minutes, rather than sixty? With your consent of course, Zachary.”

As Master waits patiently for a teary response, he taps the prod over the leather chaps encasing his thighs.

“Is there any more lube, Master.” The kid snivels.

“No, Zachary. But complete within fifty-eight minutes, and you have my word there will be more available next time you take this challenge.”

“Yes, Master.” Consent is given with faltering voice.

The digital countdown timer, hung upon the tall yard walls for Zacs benefit, is duly adjusted. 


Dildo nineteen, taken at fifty-three minutes, requires the kid to put on a gymnastic display.

The veined twelve inches by three inches of fake cock is mounted on an adjustable steel arm, bolted to the compound wall. Whilst the shaft is itself dead-straight, it is locked at an angle such that it cannot be squatted or mounted in the conventional way.

The boy is near-faint at the unrelenting ass wrecking he has driven himself through, in the full desert sun. He wipes his furrowed brow with a forearm as his befuddled brain tries to work out whether, and how, this is physically possible. Beady perspiration is exchanged between forehead and limb, to no net advantage. 

The countdown ticks away.

“No, man. Fuck!”


Master allows a precious thirty seconds to elapse.

“This one requires you to be a ballet boy, Zachary. Its a shame you only took musicals at high school.”

The kid makes weird, animal-like little noises as he tries to clear the mental fog. A gay boy would have understood by now, but straight lads have this anal block.

“You need to clear your right leg out of the way, Zachary. Raise it, up to horizontal, and hold the ankle in your palm. Then, you crab sideways onto the dick, arching and angling your torso as necessary. The first step for a boy, when taking a rod, is always to clear a good path to his hole.”

The marine has no time for expert analysis. He throws up the leg in a single, athletic movement and clasps it in hand. Hopping to the exaggerated, flared dick head and lining up his chute, everything becomes clear.  

Slack-jawed, gasping and cursing, Marine Efron shuffles onto the phallus. Tilting his trunk to aid the accommodation, the observer has advice.

“Time is short, Zachary. Hurt yourself. Violate yourself. Let your sadist see real pain.”

With a series of anguished grunts, legs as opened scissors, the kid makes his rectum accept the punishingly-angled intruder. Military anal muscle can be heard crackling as the heavy rubber forces it wide, and the soldiers determination makes it gobble greedily.


Dildo twenty. Fifty-six minutes.

The Fist is its name, because thats the moulded form it takes, with complementary forearm.

The boy throws up sand in his wake, boots thudding as he launches himself across the yard. Yet as the final, desperate seconds tick away, the open-legged dash might almost be in slow motion.

This is life on the edge for Zachary, dealing with the burden of impossible expectations as any pre-existing concept of his masculinity is stripped from him, layer by layer.

Yet Master and Zachary have a shared understanding. For 0.1% of boys, these cruel targets; this ceaseless torment; this ultra-extreme service, is not impossible. They have not spoken about this directly, and it is unlikely they ever shall, but Master demands this boy to be a component of that 0.1%.

Zachary, for his part, finds himself bullied, disciplined and driven into that same, tiny segment of population. And now that dark crevice is so close, he finds his fascination with it deeply disturbing. 

Forty-eight seconds to fist fuck his ass down to a rubber elbow: that is the demand.

Reserves of Boy Butter are exhausted. There is nothing more to be scraped from the tub, long since thrown aside in disgust.


As the last twenty seconds slip away, Master has simple encouragement.

“Slam it, Zachary. Slam your ass onto that fist and please me. Open up like a good boy, Zachary.”

The marine reaches for his rump and pulls his mounds far apart, the moulded fingers tickling and teasing his hole.

The kids lips are dry: both sets. One is so very sore.


He believes he hates it, yet the boy has been absorbed in his debasement, throughout. His psyche is lost somewhere, in his torture.

“Push down onto it, Zachary. Get that forearm wedged up your A-hole. Its unacceptable for a boy to try and get comfortable.”

00:00 says the digital display, but the kid continues his descent, head thrown back and drool seeping from the corners of his thin, chafed lips. His eyes are narrow slits. Perhaps the time has passed him by? 



The sound of a straight boy taking a HUGE one.

A drop of perspiration hangs from the Americans left tit nub, a legacy of the meandering flows criss-crossing his violently-heaving chest.

This is very hard, forced and timed anal absolutely core to Masters programme.

The boys butt cheeks settle flat on the stool seat to which The Fist is mounted, clammy skin cold against polished wood. 

Master checks the obscene column is fully deployed up rectum. Such a wrencher of a boys private space, this one: the black hole-punch in brutal contrast to Zacs whiteness between his tan lines.

The speared buttocks are tense, drawn, as their owner awaits Masters de-brief.

Marine Efron has seen the countdown, now. He therefore anticipates Masters boot sending the stool flying over the yard. He anticipates the searing internal pain as The Fist fucks his prostate, mid-flight. He anticipates the face down landing in burning sand, and the sole of Masters boot pushing then screwing his military skull into that sand.

Once crushed, Zachary receives a lecture from Master around failure, and disobedience, and discipline, and punishment. That is sufficient, momentarily, to turn his agony and despair into a vicious caged erection in his crown-of-thorns chastity.

Rising to his knees, Marine Zachary Efron wets his parched throat with Masters fresh milk, straight from the tap. The long rod wedges as a visible bulge in his gullet, and the boy gags, yet the perfect white teeth do not bite back. Master, hand at the back of the kids neck, controls his suffocation expertly.

It is all so very far removed from the high school musical.


The bathroom 16.00 hours

Master uses shaving foam with an open razor, to boyscape the Marine.

Weightless clouds of white swirl momentarily grey, and then black, as the blade forces contact with Zacharys effort-filthy skin.

The kid has been in stirrups for two hours, limbs spread asunder permitting unfettered access for the denuding razor. Total depilation would have been swifter, of course, but would also have left Zachary with nothing further to lose. 

Master believes this soldier boy would hate a totally bare dick stalk, so has manicured a nominal pubic lawn of perfect rectangular geometry. The monotonous click-click-click of scissors being worked hard filled the bathroom for a short time, as the bush was trimmed and thinned. The razor and foam did the rest of the work, stripping extraneous pubes from everywhere but the anointed tight, almost Afro, dark brown fuzz.

The unruly treasure trail had already gone, as had the dense pit hair every last wisp of it creating two concave sweat wells from which copious tears of exertion will run each and every time Master forces Zachary to toil in this sweltering desert.

If the kid cannot perform like a real man, he cannot expect masculine accessories. This grooming will take Zachary back to his fourteen year old state, but with his then innocence so thoroughly trashed.

The remaining pubic patch shall be toyed with, undoubtedly. It will serve as a reminder, for Zac, of what might have been, and all that has been taken from him. Master shall make threats against it, with veiled words and explicitly, with blades that will nibble the edges. It may become an absurd totem: something for this kid to continue fighting for, until Master decides a run has been too slow; or a rimming job not delivered with requisite thoroughness; or a boot not sufficiently mirror-perfect in its polish. And then, to a soundtrack of boy tears, Master shall speak of a betrayal of trust as the razor and foam make one final sweep.

“Sore, Zachary?”

“Mmmm….yeah, Master.”

The blade plays alongside the kids ass lips, pouty and raw and increasingly reluctant to close, such is the frequency with which they are jammed open.

Individual, fine strands of hair are skimmed away. A smooth, unsullied ass crack can only assist in intensive boy training. The size and precise texture of anal tools are better processed without the sensual loss created by even the thinnest fur.

Sharp steel glides over Marine perineum, cold as it strips.

“This is making you a lighter, more efficient machine of a boy. Yes, Zachary?”

“Fuck yeah, Master!”

“And as we shave the grams from you, we can shave the generosity of your time allowances in the desert running trials. Yes, Zachary?”

“Fuck yeah, man!”

The tone of the response is sarcastic.

Masters blade nicks the kids leathery ball sac, the threat to spill his swimmers immediate.

“It must appal you, each time we subtract another precious thirty seconds. Im guessing you find it quite horrifying?”

Masters intonation is measured; grave.

“Yeah….I cant……I dont…..understand it.”

The Marine is reflective, now.

“Theres a paradox isnt there, Zachary? The more time we strip from your target, and the narrower the margin in which you bring the run home successfully, the harder your pierced erection rages in that chastity.”

“Yes, Master.”

He is humbled. That cutting observation is like a gut punch.

“Thats why each and every time you run, Zachary, and whether these testes are laden with one boot or three, there shall always be less time for you. Yes?”


The razor severs wisps of darkness from Zacs scrotal sac, as Master stretches and kneads the pouch into a tight pommel. 

One boot or three: a line delivered as an aside to prepare the Marine, mentally, for the day he will be asked to sprint the Arabian sands with a cluster of two boots at his groin, a third hanging below and a long, multi-plaited whip curling diagonally over his perspiring buttock mounds for motivation.


Master permits no dancing under the shower head, despite the force of the icy blast.

The kid operates with one hand clasped behind his neck in the formal pose, whilst the other works over his torso with a plastic-headed brush, onto which liquid soap is drawn from a small pail.

The sadist watches finger and toe nails turn blue as Zac scrubs, spent water disappearing in a filthy vortex down the plug hole.

Marine Efrons skin is transformed, a few shades lighter through removal of layer upon layer of grime established over a fortnight of use. That, alongside his fresh military buzz cut and lack of body hair, makes him appear an entirely new boy. 

Clean, trimmed, tidy: an opportunity for Zachary to reinvent himself as the perfect masochist, should he have the courage to make that journey.

The harsh bristles scrub the curves of Zacs pectoral meat, and clear dried sweat from the cleft.

Perfect young skin breaks into goose bumps below the cold jet, and the kid shivers.

“Keep scrubbing and keep warm, Zachary.” Master instructs.

“Dont knock back this opportunity to get fresh.”

The boy gulps for air but finds only a freezing torrent of water, as his work hand applies the brush vigorously even harshly to his ass mounds.


The bristles find boy crack, and there is momentary eye contact Zacharys suddenly as clear and icy as the water itself. Master nods, and the brush head disappears between muscular buns, abrasive against private boy space.

And then, there is a swap. 

Master extends both hands: one to receive Zacharys dishwashing item, and the other to pass a longer handled tool with a head of bristles closely resembling a pastry brush.

“Hole. Now. Lose the handle inside you. Do it.”

Master fires orders with an economy of words.

Head bowed as a cold flood lashes his scalp, the Marine fumbles at his butt and locates the sore rosebud: gateway to his aching rectum.



The cylindrical black handle disappears up his shit chute.

“Fuck yourself. Hard, and fast. If it isnt scratching, it isnt cleaning.” Master insists.

“Awwww fuck!”

“Awwww hurts!”

“Awwww shit!”

With the tightest of youthful grips, the pastry brush fucks like a piston. Zacs clenched fist impacts his hole, every two and a half seconds, with a rhythmic wet slap. Legs spread, the boy abuses himself comprehensively. Amidst his drenching, the Marines eyes close as he loses himself in the shafting.

One larger, stronger hand probes through the flood and latches onto an alabaster hunk of military boy butt. 

“Work that ass.”

The instruction is delivered close to Zacharys right ear, in an insistent, barely heard whisper.


The self-plowing shifts up three gears.

Engorged dick bites chastity spikes, and droplets of blood dilute amongst the ice-cold swirls by the plug hole.


US Marine Corps Contingency Operating Base Delta, Al Kut, Iraq

The squadron of three helicopters arrives under cover of darkness, flying at height over the Tigris before descending, inch perfect, to secluded spots between old Iraqi air force hangers.

Airborne activity is hardly unusual here. Perhaps the insurgents, or any aviation connoisseurs mad enough to inhabit these parts, note the unusual thrum of the engines upon approach. If so, maybe they glimpse the angular fuselage and concealed tail rotor of the three choppers and wonder, what the hell is that?

But as these are exceptionally quiet beasts the chances are they are down, lights extinguished, before interested locals can focus their infra-red binoculars. Their mission, after all, is one of stealth. 


The bathroom - 19.00 hours

Marine jaws stretch out a brief yawn Zachary cannot supress. Such a shame, as otherwise his lock-muscled, spread-legged pose is a picture of compact perfection. 

Master busies himself arranging items in the bathroom. Perhaps he failed to notice. He does not respond immediately to the discourtesy.

With a hollow clink, a pail is placed to rest on the tiled floor. 

“Why the yawn, Zachary?”

Of course, he noticed.

“Because Im shattered, Master.”

The kid confesses without hesitation. 

“Why, Zachary?”

Master continues to bustle around.

Zac is lost. Isnt the answer obvious? Yet, the form of words needs to be right.

“The work is too ha………..very hard. And Im not getting enough sleep. There never seems to be enough time for rest, Master.”

The boys tone is matter-of-fact, not whingey.

“Uh-huh.” Master acknowledges.

“Its kind of a vicious cycle, isnt it? Youre far too slow in completing your exercises, so they eat into your sleeping time. Then, your fatigue slows you even further. Isnt that right, Zachary?”

The kid is invited to agree.

“Yes, but…….”

“Go on, Zachary.”

“Im not sure I can get much quicker, or take it any harder, even if I really try. I think this is it, for me, Master.”

“But what if I believe the contrary, Zachary? Which of us, do you feel, is best placed to judge your potential as a machine of a maso boy?”

“You, Master.”

The answer is immediate, but resigned.

“And which of us has the grave responsibility of managing your potential, Zachary?”

“You, Master.”

“And who will see you utterly unrecognisably transformed, to something much lesser, but also much greater?”

“You, Master.”

“Again, Zachary.”


The hollered sentence bounces around the airless bathroom, as Master moves the kid back to task.

“We move on, tomorrow evening. In return for use of his property, I promised the owner a clean bathroom on our departure.”

Master pauses. He likes a boy to work it out for himself, before being told.

The Marines sunken eyes dart around, re-evaluating the old white wall tiles, black with dirt. The recently used sink will be an easier job, the filth here being quite soluble. Alongside are twin urinals, in white porcelain.

Finally, against the far wall, the door to a single cubicle hangs off its rusty hinges, almost fully closed.

“Its more of the same sanitary ware, inside.” Master comments, voice hushed so as not to interrupt the kids thought processes.

The whole is lit with a single fluorescent tube, underneath which the corpses of a dozen fat flies lie prone. The cubicle inhabits a shadowy corner in this stale stillness.

The boy looks for confirmation.

“Yes, Zachary.”

On the floor are mother and child pails. The larger is empty, but will fit under the faucet. The smaller has been pre-filled with cream cleaning fluid. Alongside is a brush on an eight inch plastic handle, the head sized between toothbrush and kitchen scrubber. On the reverse of the head is a small sponge.

Both pails, and brush, are affixed to the wall by metal chains secured at their respective handles. Slack drapes over the cold floor.

“Ready for the rules, Zachary?”

“Yes, Master.”

He sounds unsure. Arent the games inherently bad enough, without further controls and impositions?

“No solids are got rid of via the plumbing. The urinals and stall are disconnected from their flushes, in any event. The sink waste will collect in a clear plastic tank, outside, and will be reviewed please believe me.”

The kid nods.

“We leave in twelve hours. Youll have the job finished by then. In fact, as soon as youre done, grab some sleep. Theres a thin mattress folded up in the stall cubicle. With me still, Zachary?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Spotless. Thats the third, simple rule. Pristine and gleaming those are also great descriptors. Our generous host must be overwhelmed with delight. I think you understand, Zachary?”

“Fuckin spotless, Master!” The kid parrots back.

“Good. I want you to take this task this piece of service very seriously, Zachary.”

The big, open-palmed hand drapes over Marine cheek bone, with a brief pinch of encouragement before the door shuts and is locked from the outside.


“Fuckin chains are too short, man!”

“Cuntin chains wont reach to the troughs!”

Seventeen minutes: thats how long it takes Zac to establish the slack in the pail and brush chains is insufficient to complete his task. Or so he believes.

Master listens to the chinks as sturdy metal is yanked with gym-trained Marine bicep. The wall anchorages hold, and then the kid reflects, maybe, on the consequences of working lose the pails and brush so deliberately affixed to chain of a certain length. The hullabaloo ceases for a while, a silence broken with a crack as the water pail is launched from head height upon floor tile.

This is boy frustration. This is boy denial of the realities of raunch.

“Fuck! No fuckin way, man!”

Immaculate military boots pace the bathroom.


The kid spies the multiple cigarette butts. The Arabs have been enjoying the exotic taste of Marlboro, supplied by Master, and have discarded the filter stubs in the urinals, where they clog the drains.

“Oh, holy shit!”

Marine Efron analyses the extent of the staining on the porcelain pissers, rendering them dull grey from the drains, up to where a tall guy with a full bladder might jet.

The sound of a door creaking, very slowly, like a suspenseful is there a ghost? scene in Scooby Doo, for thats the kind of innocence on which this soldier meat was reared.



The sound of a boy gagging as he beats a hasty retreat from a decrepit stall.

This is boy denial of the necessity of working with yellow, and with extensive brown.

Dirt boy Zachary Efron.


Masters thick rubber sole rests upon the kids pale back, regulating the height at which his face works.

He had not intended to disturb the boy mid-scene, but CCTV monitoring, as the evening drew on, cast doubt on whether the youth would ever draw sufficient courage to face the wrong end of the bathroom.

One long, curled tongue laps at a urinal, cutting a swathe of white through the grey. This filth does not lift easily: a dozen sweeps are needed to leave each patch as pristine as the day it rolled off a line somewhere in Staffordshire, England, empire-bound. Master pushes the skull firmly into porcelain, and enjoys the sound of wet doggy-style tongue lashing.

The cigarette butts are fished out by tongue, also, from the dammed pools of stagnant piss they have created. Each is swallowed whole, and on all, the kid chokes as the fibrous filters descend to his stomach.

Under Masters boot, toilet cleaning is executed swiftly and thoroughly, yet ultimate performance should not require supervision.


The sadist towers over the tightly-packaged Marine.

Both tit nubs are taken between thumb and forefinger, twisted, and yanked skyward.


The kid rises, calves straining. Master and boy face each other off, centimetres apart. 

“Theres a bigger challenge left for you, Zachary.”

The teats are wound a further forty-five degrees.

“AHhhhhhh….yes Master!”

“Heres a little help. Only the bathroom need be spotless, not the cleaner. If, in five hours, there is brown grouting between those white incisors, well, thats no cause for punishment, hey?”

“No, Master!”

“Would you like me to put you down, Zachary?”

“Ummm….up to you Master.”

“Your flapping hands tell me you dislike your titties being worked hard, but perhaps thats another days training session.”

“Awww…..yeah, Master.”

“Tell me youre going to take these next few hours seriously, Zachary.”



Master has switched off the CCTV in his makeshift office. 

What will be, will be.

Whilst the Arabs pile two Land Cruisers with larger pieces of kit, the boss fills soft bags with personal effects, and assembles a further heap of the paraphernalia of sexual torture.

The bathroom is below, and on the opposite side of the building, yet the sounds coming from it cannot be mistaken. For two hours, blasphemy and profanity have been punctuated with heaving. How much of that was dry, and how much wet, is a question of which Master is intrigued to know the answer.

Then, there is the extension question. If additional mess has been created, to what extent has it, also, been dealt with?

Master believes his instructions to have been crystal clear. For now, however, he pictures his boy at the toilet bowl, kneeling in supplication, buttocks reared. He sees the clammy forehead, encircled with porcelain three times Zacharys age, as a dark stained tongue scrapes the side walls, then attempts a cleanse in the still water deep down near the outlet.

If Marine Zachary Efron can, and does, perform satisfactory toilet service, his transformation is potentially irreversible.

Either way, Master anticipates tears, and the temporary provision of a shoulder to cry on for Marine meat, at 07.00 hours.



To be continued







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