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 No.13714

***The following is a story of fiction. The author does not condone
violence towards anybody***


Brother Felipe -

I'm just an old man now. Do you remember, Brother? We met only a year ago. I could not speak, but you stayed with me that evening, and what a delightful conversation we had with a stack of papers and a single ink pen. Let's keep that to ourselves. The Church would throw a fit if they knew we wasted precious ink and pulp to have but a fleeting conversation. I cherish it, though. And I am writing to you now, because I know I can trust you.

I feel I must tell you what terrible things I have witnessed and write them down, lest they had never happened. Nobody speaks of it, what they had witnessed that day. The regional Church of Santiago Marin had gone too far, of course. They were just whispers then. But we were all afraid. Who could say anything about the Church after what they had just seen? Back then, the Church of Santiago Marin was powerful and influential. We
had to protect ourselves. We had to keep our children safe. We were scared. Who could blame us? But then again, our silence is what damned us, and our silence is what will continue to damn us if nobody remembers what happened. And we won't remember, which is why I write this letter to you now, my dear friend. Many of these words will be painful to write, but I must.

It began nearly a decade ago in the town of Santiago Marin, my place of birth actually. I don't remember if I had told you that. I was a vocal opponent of the regional church there. Mind you, this was during the start of this new movement sweeping the country. The Inquisition, I believe some are calling it now. Things have started to slow a bit since then, but remember ten years ago when friends and family were whisked away left and right? That's when this story begins. I am not going to tell you about what happened to me. My story is unremarkable. Like so many others I was
unjustly imprisoned. I was tortured. I was locked up like an animal. But I was spared the worst of the cruelty. And I was eventually freed. They should have killed me. Now I am rotting in my old bones, with memories too painful to bear.

I was not a Pagan. Like you, I used to preach to those who hungered for the Word of Christ. I believe in Christ, our Lord, our Saviour, our Merciful Healer. But I saw it, like many others, that the Church of Santiago Marin was a corrupt representative of the Devil, falsely claiming they were representatives of a divine and Holy Presence. These men, these vile men, they were just hungry for power. They were old men. Who wanted more. They saw the local Pagan religion, old and rooted in the land, as a threat to their rising position.

So they rounded up as many Pagans as they could. Many they killed outright. Some they tortured and executed in public. But there was one family that held much influence in my province. A pagan priest and his priestess. Truth be told, though they denied the word of Christ and worshiped the land, their many gods and animals, they were in fact kind people. In my travels, I had chanced upon their village. They invited me in. They introduced me to their two young daughters, who were very polite and pleasant. We dined, and we talked. I told them of the sacrifice of
our Lord Jesus, and how his Divine Presence inspired thousands to gather to witness his many miracles. The priest and priestess listened keenly and nodded. They told me of their religion. They explained to me that it was, at its heart, a religion that emphasized a respect for the land, that all things were sacred, and that divine power flows from every living being on earth. Love, they explained, was an integral part of their belief. Love for each other, love and respect for the land. And I listened. And after I slept that night in their home, after they refilled my supplies for travel, they bid me farewell. I thought to myself, that there were many things in common between the teachings of Christ, and their beliefs, were
not entirely wrong.

Surely I thought, they were not a threat to those who followed Christ. Maybe, even, one day they could accept the Lord into their hearts. We must be patient, I told myself.

But one day they were taken. The entire family. Not just the priest and his wife the priestess, but their two daughters as well. High ranking members of the Church of Santiago Marin were upset with their pagan influence, and they decided to send a message to the pagan community.

My dear friend, I may have skipped ahead, though. I forgot to mention that by that time the family had been taken, that I was already imprisoned inside a dungeon used by the Church of Santiago Marin. I was too outspoken, apparently. From the start I had been suspicious of their wayward intentions, and I had worked to sway others against the influence of this church from the beginning. Their cruel leaders. Their traditions of public executions. Their insistence that it was holier to donate money
to the Church than to practice the teachings of Jesus. I was a strong opponent. And then one day, they whisked me away in the darkness. They tortured me. They forced me to sign false documents. And they kept me in a cage for years. How could they treat me as the enemy? I was a Christian! They simply wanted to silence anybody who disagreed with their practices. It was because I was against the Inquisition, of course. I was against the mass arrests and imprisonments. They made me denounce my faith
in Christ! I did it in a haze. I was delirious from pain. I just wanted it to stop.

So I was just rotting away in my cell. It was a small cell. Five feet by five feet. Just enough to lay down flat, diagonally. Of course I was one of the lucky ones. My cell was actually one of the largest in their stinking dungeon.

And then one day, I saw the priest and his family dragged in. They were led in with ropes tied around their necks. The priest followed by his wife, followed by their two daughters. The girls were older now. The oldest daughter was actually now quite the young woman. I remembered her name, actually. Elena. She still had the face of a girl but the body of a developing maid. She looked like she could be thirteen. Almost ready to be married, really. Her younger sister followed behind her. I think her name was Alisa. She still looked like a little girl. Her body thin like a
child's body. She was maybe eleven, and her brown hair, tied with a simple knot, flowing down to her legs.

My heart ached with sorrow. Such a beautiful family. What were they doing in this pit of Hell? The oldest daughter was so pretty she could pass as an angel. She had long wavy brown hair and beautiful eyes. The youngest one could have been a cupid. She had a round face with a small button nose.

They brought the family down to the center of the dungeon, which was filled with terrible instruments of torture. We were all there to watch, the prisoners. Our cells lined the perimeter of this sick arena. That was their cruel joke. Even if we were not actively being tormented, we were always there to witness the pain and suffering of others.

They threw the mother and father into a small cage and lifted the pair up close to the ceiling in the center of the dungeon. And then they began to work on the two girls. Oh it was terrible!

They stripped them of their dresses and left them naked and trembling. They bound their hands and lifted them from the ground, whipping their bodies from head to toe, and front to back. I can still hear their cries that night. I don't know what was worse. The hiss and loud crack of the whip against their soft flesh or their anguished cries of pain and squeals for mercy. I had heard many times since my imprisonment the sounds of the whip against flesh, but never had I ever heard the sound of a young girl in agonizing pain before. And for hours on end! It was like a nightmare. But I could not leave. I was trapped. As hard as it was for me, my dear friend, as a parent yourself, can you imagine how hard it was for their mother and father, watching from above?

But what happened next I did not expect. Up until that point, I had always argued that the Church of Santiago Marin had gone too far. But what happened next converted my beliefs. Instead of simply going too far, I was from that moment convinced that they were actually devious agents of the Devil, disguised as holy men.

A line of priests and guards walked in. These poor sobbing girls, naked and covered in red welts, some of them oozing blood from the lashing, were then ravaged in the most terrible way. They were tied down to a post, and man by man, were raped and sodomized by each of the guards and priests. They were not dressed as priests, of course. But I knew these men. They
were once my colleagues. They did not even have the sense to wear masks. Were we all going to die then, I pondered? Why didn't they hide their identities? None of us were leaving alive, I thought. I was sure then that these macabre scenes were the last scenes I would ever witness in my life.

When one man was finished, he would walk around and get in the back of the line, anticipating that he would be ready to repeat his evil deed by the time it was his turn. That's how long these lines were! The rapes lasted for hours. It was inhumane. You would think, my dear friend, that these girls would pass out. That God in his Infinite Mercy would allow there to be only a limited amount of suffering that these poor angels could experience. Some moment of respite. But they never did faint. They grew weak with exhaustion, yes, but you could hear their grunts of pain on every
thrust that these beasts inflicted, and their quiet sobbing when one man was finished and the next one lined up from behind.

When they were done, even from my vantage point, I could see a trail of blood lining the inner thighs of the two girls. The little one's thighs were colored with a darker red and the stain of it ran longer than her older sister's. Poor thing. She was just a girl, not yet a woman. Not yet ready for the material bond between man and woman, much less a multitude of violent animals descending upon her.

And then the strangest thing happened. I felt as if maybe I had truly lost my mind. But after those girls were ravaged, they were dragged to my cell, and thrown in with me! What was the purpose of this? The priests I had recognized I could see walking away, snickering and sneering their way out of the dungeon.

I didn't know what to do. But I knew I could not do nothing. I grabbed the rags I had on, and I tore it in three. It wasn't much. I used one of them to wipe off as much blood and vile semen off from the girls. It didn't help much. I actually felt like I just smeared that filthy material around. I used the other two rags to cover as much of the two girls as possible, but they were only large enough to be used as loin cloths. And so they slept. Given their exhaustion, I do not blame them. I sat in the corner of my cell, now naked myself, and watched as they rested.

 No.13724

This is what I come here for.

 No.13778

I will not lie, my friend, how tempted I was, to touch them. Defiled as they had been, they were still strikingly beautiful. I had not seen a young female in many years. I assume that is why they were left in with me. They wanted to tempt me. To torture me. But I kept myself pure, my friend. The devil was in that cell with me that night. Urging me to caress the soft breasts of the Elena. Urging me to peek, just one more time, between the legs of the Alisa. But I did not. I watched them sleep. They were safe in here, I told myself. This was the only place in Hell that they could find a brief sense of shelter. That night, my portion of bread I saved for them. If they were wake and find hunger, they would have bread to eat. But they did not want it. I gave them all my water, though,
which they lapped up furiously, eyes half shut from fatigue.

The next day was none the more terrible. The guards dragged into the center of the dungeon a large wooden horse. It was just a triangular board with a sharp horizontal edge on its top. And as a twisted joke, a thin wooden pole at one end served as some mockery of a neck and a triangular block a horse's head. I was intimately familiar with this horrific device. I was actually on top of it for not more than half an hour. It felt like ages. I pleaded for mercy. I'll sign whatever you want me to sign, I cried that day. Just get me off, I begged.

And when they opened my cage and dragged those two girls out, I thought surely not. Surely this is going too far. They grabbed their makeshift loincloths that gave them a brief moment of dignity the night before, and threw them back at me. They grabbed those poor girls and tied their arms behind their back, lifting them up high into the air. They called it the 'strappado.' I had felt it once, briefly, during the first few days of my own torment down in this dungeon. I still can barely lift my arm above my shoulder because of that cruel torture.

While the two girls, screaming from the pain, were hanging in the air, they put the wooden horse underneath them and slowly lowered them onto the sharp device. The strappado position was forcing their bodies to lean a little forward, so that all the weight of their body was pushing directly into their groins. This was beyond cruel I thought to myself. And all the while, you could hear the parents sobbing from above.

And then they left them there! Not for half an hour, which was how long I had lasted, but for hours! I couldn't believe my eyes. When the girls would stop screaming and squirming, they would lift them up again, straining their shoulders, reinvigorating their cries of anguish, and leave them hanging in the air for a few minutes, waiting only to drop them down again, sometimes not so gently, back onto the sharp edge that cut into what surely must have been the most sensitive part on their bodies.

For me, the instrument was painful, but I cannot imagine how painful it must have been for a female victim. The edge seemed to fit right in, and slice in between those two folds of flesh that women have at the entrance of their womb. It looked like it cut right through into them, and deeply too. But there was minimal bleeding, and in fact, it surprised me how little these two girls bled from this torture. And it was just went on and on, without end. When the two girls would grow silent from sitting on the wooden horse for a protracted period of time, they would be lifted up, stirring up fresh cries of pain. And when they would grow silent in the air, they would be set back on the horse. They were never given rest. This lasted all day. Can you imagine? But not once did they ever pass out.

When then day was done, after they had been spent with suffering, they were once again tied to the post and raped by the same hoards of men trickled into the dungeon from the night before, and thrown into the cell with me when it all finished.

They were thirsty, the girls. That night, many of the prisoners donated their water and bread to my cell. The girls drank more water than I thought was even possible. They even ate a little of the bread. The old woman in the cell next to mine tossed me all of her rags to use to clean the girls up. And this time, I was able to wipe off most of the blood and vile semen. I even tore off enough of the old woman's rags to wrap around the bosom of the older one, Elena. I was naked, and I felt exposed, but they were safe with me and the other prisoners, and that was the most that we could do.

I must prepare you, my friend, for the worst is yet to come. It did not get better. It never did. For the very next day, two more cruel devices, devices that you probably had only heard rumors of, were brought in to be used on these poor children.

A pear-like object, that they called the 'Pear of Anguish' whose petals could be screwed open and expanded, was brought in, and another device, that they called the 'Judas Cradle' was wheeled in. The Cradle was just a pyramid-shaped object. It's devious design lay in the fact that prisoners were lowered onto it, with the tip going into them, gravity working against them as their own weight pushed them deeper into the singular point. The Pear was no less devious. Its petals opened to a diameter surely larger than a newborn. I can still hear the cries of despair when the device was
opened and demonstrated to the abject horror of these poor little girls.

By now, the girls had lost their voice. Though their screams were
hoarse, but to me, they were still unbearably deafening. I was
unfortunately one of the cells closest to this horrific spectacle.

The little one, Alisa, was to suffer the Cradle. Her tiny body jerked with agony as they lowered her, her thin legs pulled wide apart by ropes, onto the pointed tip. They would lift her up and set her down, as her older sister Elena, forced to watch, would stare in disbelief and horror. They would do this again and again. Lift her up and set her down. It was madness. I looked up at their parents, locked in the cage above. They had just slumped over. There was no movement. Were they already dead? They had not received any water, I realized, for two days now. By God's Grace I
had hoped they had passed on. This would have been more than any parent could bear to watch.

Lift her up, the guards would say. She's not going down any further, they would laugh. Try the other hole, they would sneer. I could barely believe my ears. These were devils indeed. And so up and down she went. Raped and sodomized by the Cradle. It was not long before a trail of blood could be seen running down the sides of the Cradle. No doubt they were going to kill her if they kept this up all day. And then after a few hours, they stopped lifting her up, and set her down, letting her settle, letting her body weight slowly impale her on this monstrous device while they then worked on torturing her sister.

They began by hanging Elena from the air by her arms. And after forcing her legs open with an iron bar, they pushed the Pear of Anguish in. And it was aptly named, for she was in extreme anguish when they screwed the petals open. Then as I remember, they attached the end of the Pear to a bucket, which was slowly filled with iron scraps and tools, adding more and more weight and thus more tension to the rope. I could remember seeing the
girl's chest heave in and out as she struggled to deal with the pain as the Pear must have stretched her womb to its limits, tearing at its delicate walls as it was dragged slowly out. And when finally it came out, followed by a gush of blood, I could see her shudder, and grunt hoarsely.

I had thought they were done with her, but I was wrong. Try the other hole, I could hear them excitedly suggest to one another. Still dripping with blood, the beasts pushed the Pear back in the poor girl, who was twitching with suffering. And once again, they used the bucket and added weight slowly, watching with delight as the device tore and stretched through the entrance of her innards. I could hardly watch. In fact, I did not. I covered my eyes. It was too terrible to see. But to my extreme dissatisfaction, I could still hear them.

In between the laughs and jeers of the guards and priests, I could hear the two girls' rapid breaths and strained exhales when the waves of pain no doubt blanketed their minds. The Lord was merciful to the prisoners at the further ends of the hall. They could cover their eyes. And they were far enough away that they could not hear the soft suffering of the girls.

I opened by eyes to check every now and then. Maybe they would stop moving because they had died from the torture. But no, they were still squirming and tense from the pain. I hoped that maybe would they would pass out, or at least develop a numbness to the tortures. Still no. I remember that I could hear them breathing fast and heavily, eyes strained shut, teeth clenched, brows furrowed, hair matted in perspiration, bodies covered in sweat, stomachs that were tight, pushing in and out, trembling
in tense agony.

When the Pear finally fell from the older sister a second time, I felt that maybe this was the end for her. Surely she would lose enough blood to finally find some peace in death. But the beasts were aware of this. And soon after the Pear was out of her, using a pair of thick tongs, they pushed a short but red hot iron rod into her, causing undeniably more terrible pain, but cauterizing any bleeding. They put one in first into womb, and then another one into her rectum. And then, leaving the rods inside to slowly cook her from the inside, they threw her back into the cell with me. I was horrified. What was I to do? I recall still seeing the steam and smoke rising from her groin. She rolled around in agony, but when her hands reached down to grab the area, she could not, because it burned her fingers.

It was terrible, my friend. What I have witnessed nobody else should ever have to. And still this young lady survived. She survived the night. She was still hanging on to a thread of life. Please, I prayed to the Lord. Please take this Angel up to Heaven now. But the Lord did not listen. It was that night that He taught me truly, that the Lord does work in mysterious ways.

Alisa, however, sat on that cruel Cradle all night. We did what we could to comfort her in her suffering. We said prayers out loud to her. We told her it was going to be over soon. That this could not last much longer. Maybe we were lying to her, but we could not let her think she was alone or forsaken. I remember trying to comfort Elena next to me. Her breathing was hoarse, but slowed. Overnight, the iron in her body did cool. I did not dare inspect. I was terrified of what I would see. She was shaking now on every exhale. Her body once covered in sweat was now dry and cold. I did what I could to keep her warm. More prisoners found a way to throw their rags over and donate them to the shivering girl. We
covered her up and tried to keep her warm. Alisa, sitting on the Cradle in the center of the room, was not as lucky, but we did what we could for her older sister. Most of the prisoners were now naked, because they gave the only thing they had, which were just rags. We did what we could.

 No.13787

It feels real to read.
It's both my depraved fetish, and my heart, and it's my intellectual side also that faces a duality of good and evil, the prospects.
The duality essential is the flow, like it's a real written document, and the subject matter. So insidious yet classy. Well written but savage.

 No.13789

And when the guards came again that last day, we thought surely this was it. Surely this was close to the end of this insanity.

For those who were left to die and rot away in those cells, they will never know what happened next. But I was one of the unlucky ones, for when they dragged out Elena from the cell, who was now nearly lifeless, they also dragged me out. The little one they lifted up from the Cradle where she had been all night, and threw her limp body over the shoulder of one of the burlier guards. And up we went, out of the shadowy dungeon.

But where were we going? What day of the year was it even? In the dungeon, time was endless. Nobody knew when it was day or when it was night. How long was a week? A month? How long was a year? It was all relative. I had felt like I had spent an eternity in that hole, but in reality I was only there for five years. And then it hit me. Of course. Today was execution day. Once a month the Church of Santiago Marin set up festivities for the town to witness. Once a month it was execution day for the Pagans and heretics who opposed the Church. It was mandatory for the townsfolk to attend.

I remember the details very clearly. I could barely walk, I was so
weak, but I managed. They dragged me with a rope attached to my wrists. Elena was dragged on the floor by her arms, belly down. It was then that I could see the iron bars, now burnt into her flesh, a small portion of each rod, jutting obscenely out from between her legs. Alisa, on top of one of the guard's shoulder, was now freshly bleeding, the tears in her womb and elsewhere, agitated once more, now staining the backside of the guard's shirt. It was a grotesque sight.

I remember that many of us had our tongues removed that day. Maybe they didn't want us to say anything about what had happened down in the depths of that Hell. That's when they took mine. They grabbed my tongue with a pair of tongs and another with a small sickle and cut it out. They worked quickly, so in all honestly, my friend, it was painful and bloody, and every bit as terrible as you would imagine, but not anything compared to what I imagine these poor girls had experienced. Remember, this is their
story, not mine. And to prevent me from bleeding to death, they cauterized my wound with a hot iron. They did this to each of us, except the girls. I imagine they wanted them to squeal in front of everybody.

I remember that many of us were chained to wooden carts and led out onto the street. Those of us who could stand, we walked. Those who could not walk, were carried. The first few set of executions were simple and relatively mundane to the crowd. Their necks were tied with a thin metal wire, and the wire was twisted slowly behind their necks until they were strangled to death. Two others were hung. They died in a manner of minutes. But for some reason, they thought to themselves, well wouldn't it be better that day to have a little bit of fun with these poor girls. The crowd was restless anyways. Or maybe they thought that this would send a stronger warning. If you cross the Church, they may have thought, we will take your most vulnerable, and we will subject them to the most atrocious acts. Maybe they thought they were clever.

They did not kill me next. Actually, what they did next was most
puzzling. They put me in a wooden stockade, and forced me to watch, only a few feet away from the girls. Some in the crowd may have even recognized their old pastor. Then they grabbed Elena. Grabbing each of her breasts they impaled them on hooks, and pulling on a rope, they lifted her up, so that she hung in the center of town on her bosom. Still with life, she cried in anguish, and the crowd seemed to disapprove. Her silent gasps of pain were drowned by the growing murmurs in the crowd. This one was but a young girl, many of them could be heard saying. This was too much. Let her down, a woman from the crowd could be heard yelling.

But they did not stop there. Alisa was next. She was secured to a thin iron chair that the priests and guards brought from the depths of the dungeon. The iron chair had a large hole in the center of its seat, and they sat the little girl down, who was still oozing blood between her legs, down into the chair. A metal bucket was placed underneath her, and a few large shovels of red hot coals were tossed into the bucket.

It is truly too painful to describe. For the next few hours, they
cooked the poor girl from the groin up. The cries, though hoarse, felt louder than ever that day. Her eyes were wild with pain and terror. And the worst part is that she survived for most of the day. It wasn't until late evening that I was convinced she had finally died. I remember saying a prayer for her soul. Most of the crowd were finally allowed to leave, long before she expired. This wasn't what they had expected to see. They did not dare try to stop what was happening either. Like I said, my friend, we were all too scared to defy the Church of Santiago Marin.

Elena actually died a little bit after her sister. Impatient with how
long hanging the poor girl by her breasts was taking to kill her, they tied weights around her ankles, slowly adding more and more weight, until after an hour of adding weight slowly, the iron hooks finally tore through, ripping her breasts open as her body was sent to the ground in a loud thud. But she was still breathing. I could see her ribs rise up and down, still.


Wanting to kill her, because this was quickly becoming an awkward public spectacle, I could see the guards hunched over her body bickering on the fastest way to finish the deed. One of them suggesting ripping out the rods in her groin, hoping to quicken the rate at which she was bleeding. Agreeing on this, they attempted, but quickly found that those rods were stuck too tightly inside of her. Grabbing a pair of tongs, they twisted the metal rods inside her. The doomed girl, although she was almost gone, writhed slowly and groaned in pain on the floor, until finally they ripped
the rods from her flesh, bleeding her to death in a matter of minutes.

I was the only one of the prisoners left alive that day. I thought I was next to go. I wondered what horrific pain awaited me. I was
terrified. But the guards, eyes deadened with a bloodlust that was now satiated, looked at me emptily, and went about their way, disappearing from my field of vision into the evening. I was left there overnight, next to the two dead bodies of the girls and all of the other prisoners, who were piled on a heap in the center of the town square.

The very next morning, the townsfolk, in a moment of courage, and with a pair of axes, chopped me free of my wooden bondage. I remember little of what happened next. They whisked me to safety. These were my people. I had preached to them in the past, and as I had shepherded them in the past, they now protected and hid me from these evil men.

News of the atrocity in Santiago Marin spread quickly, all the way to the Vatican. This was an unacceptable amount of punishment, they quickly concluded. I write to you, though, in confidence, that what they had meant to conclude, was that this was actually an unacceptable amount of punishment performed in the public eye.

The priests and guards of the prison in Santiago Marin were rounded up by the authority of the Church of Spain, and charged with crimes against the Church. Their tongues were ripped out in similar fashion, and they were hung in the center of the town by one arm, left defenseless in the center square and alone against an angry mob who greeted them that day. That angry mob beat them to a bloody pulp, and tore them limb from limb. I was not there to witness it, thank God. I had seen enough violence for a hundred lifetimes. But this is what I had heard.

I write to you now, my friend, because I don't want our righteous
Brothers of the Church to think that what had happened was a one-time occurrence. I am sure that these dens of sin exist elsewhere in our glorious country. We must be aware of such corruption and act to end it!

We suffer so much more, hidden from the public eye. Instruments of cruel tortures are being constructed as we speak, and used on defenseless citizens, heretic or not, and we must speak up, lest they continue to be used on people in the shadows. I myself have lost the ability to speak, but thank God they did not take my hands. So I write. And I write to you now, Brother, spread the word. If we are to survive and lead the people,
these acts of atrocity must end. Godspeed, my friend.


-- Brother Adolfo

 No.13790

I welcome feedback. Please comment. If you like this style, of course, there's more where this came from.

As always, stay safe, be smart, and if you plan on hurting yourself or others, please don't, and seek help.

---CB

 No.13791

>>13790
I'm at a loss for words. This is the real world.

Not only is it brilliant, hopeful, cynical, unbelievable, believable, and so incredibly bitter sweet...
your author note at the end is honor.

 No.13793

While it did little to arouse me, this is probably the most well written thing I've seen on a fetish site.

The girls are just a little younger than I like, and I'm not into debreasting, but you've definitely got a talent for this.

 No.13794

This is the best story I've ever seen on GuroChan, and I've been here a long while! I´m at a loss of words, the quality of this work is way above what one can expect of this site. I usually come here to "do my business", but this one I just read straight through. Well done, CB!



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