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Thread: The Assassin

  1. #1
    Registered User beroq's Avatar
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    Mar 2009

    Post The Assassin

    The man, who looked forty five but who was actually in his early thirties, with long brown hair, climbed up the stairs of the hotel for the last time, got into his room, locked the door behind, tossed the heavy bag in his hand on to the bed and looked around carefully. He should not leave no evidence behind which could be used against him.

    The man paid the one-week stay fee at the Reception's desk and dashed into the night partially dissolving under the city light.He needed to get rid of the bag in his hand.

    "Three months," he thought. "Three months of absence is a must this time, to say the least. This will make a big uproar. The mark was the biggest private employer in the city and the most eminent member in the city council."

    It proved to be a real hard undertaking. Learning the daily habits of the mark, determining different routes he had been taking on his way to work and finding tiny cracks in the tightly held security wall; moreover, doing all these without attracting anyone's attention became possible after three- week of very meticulous and exhausting endeavor.

    He felt the weight of the zippered bag, walking under the strong lights sent by the lamp posts toward the bus station. Now every place in the city was equally dangerous. He could not cast off the bag in any place in this city.

    The road was getting lonelier. Advancing through the large storage buildings, he noticed a night patrol take a left turn and approach toward himself and plunged himself to a dark, narrow side road. The dogs were barking threateningly against the night owls and any possible intruders but the man's nervous was of steel, showing no trace of fear or hesitation.

    He emerged from among the large depots, walked on toward the bus station on the bumpy dirt road along the small brick factories. The man had forgotten the heavy bag he was carrying; now his mind took him to the late evening when he had last seen the mark. He had rented a studio apartment on the tenth floor. Through the large window, he was able to see the high fenced small mansion where the mark was visiting routinely and in an absolute secrecy.

    The man did not mind why the mark was in the habit of stopping by this place. What really concerned him was that the sixty-something, short, chunky man made his visits with less than usual armed escort. This hidden place was the weakest point in the security wall around the mark. The big, heavy, armored car pulled over near the iron gate and it took the mark fifteen seconds to get off the car, take the short distance to the door of the house and get into. Fifteen seconds was long enough to complete a well paid mission for a very experienced assassin.

    Fifteen seconds and eight hundred yards. A faint breeze and very hot and humid weather. In such weather conditions the objects seen through the lens of the rifle never stand still. So does the mark. The visibility is limited.

    The man crossed a small stream which was turned into a pond of mud because of industrial waste and now the lights at station was illuminating the buses waiting under the high platforms. The man kept on thinking. This one was a big job but still it was just one of the many. A rich and powerful man got himself into some dirty business that he was not supposed to and made a richer and more powerful man angry. This was a big mistake and now it was his job to deal with it. He had to, because, if he turned the job down, they would find another assassin and, himself, possessing now some highly classified information, would become too dangerous for those dirty men to live. Once the offer made, the only thing to do was to get as much as possible from it.

    The car where the mark was in had approached the house in a late evening as he had anticipated. In such cases, a man doing such a distinct job develops a kind of respect for the mark; for instance, he takes pains to shot him in a way that the body won't look humiliated in the morgue. This is nothing trivial even for a dead man. You do not like the bullet to hit you in the back of the neck and slam the liquid of your brain and part of your face to the wall. If death is certain (and, indeed, it is), you like to be shot by a single bullet in the heart in the cleanest way possible. If you are a good man, and if your killer is a relatively good and a professional one, even an ordinary bullet does an incredibly clean job.

    He had picked a long barreled assault rifle for the job. He was planning a clear, single shot but had two more separate bullets. When the car came to a stop in front of the iron gate, he had adjusted the weapon sight and his dry left index finger was now resting calmly on the trigger.

    The mark climbed up the stairs and gave the assassin the three seconds he asked for. His finger pulled the trigger gently, only once, and the silencer whispered. The mark came to a sudden halt
    for a very short while; the bullet had hit him between the scapulas in a very well measured angle, ripped his heart up and, having fractured the ribs, emerged below his right nipple and plunged into the wall. When the man fell prostrate, he was about to die with his right leg spasming lightly and his glassy eyes looking blankly at the crimson liquid gathering around his head.

    The lights in the station shone on his face. That he looked older than he was was a good thing. People were inclined to be less suspicious of middle aged men.

    "I want to get off at the old iron furnaces," he said to the ticket clerck standing behind the counter. "How far are they from here?"

    "You are there in one and half an hour," the attendant replied him, handing the ticket to the man looking at herself with a slightly sad eyes. She added, saying, "But that place has long been forsaken."

    "Yes, it must be so. This is not a big deal, though."

    The girl did not try to hide her admiration. "You are an adventurer, are you not? I would like to be..."

    "No, you wouldn't." He smiled, shaking the ticket in his right hand. "You are safe here."

    "Yes, I am. And someday I might die of boredom."

    "Good night," said the assassin. It was always a better option to die of boredom instead of dying from some other unnatural causes. He bent down, grabbed the bag and walked towards the platform where his bus waited. At the old iron furnaces he was going to do away with the load forever and, with the help of luck, keep on playing the middle-aged man role for a long time to come.

    Life is not always perfect and seamless. Life can be perfect only in some poetry books. Some philosophers ascribe this to the pursuit of perfection burried deep in us. However, very few of them, among them stands a very ordinary man, the assassin, believe that man chases after his own comfort, not perfection or anything of high, spiritual value.

    Sinking tiredly into the window side seat in the bus, the assassin believed deeply how sometimes comfort would be of a great importance. The truth is that we are comfort chasers even though most of us are unaware of it.

    He leaned back and and closed his eyes. He needed to rest. It was always the same. After the job is done, he used to feel deadly tired and strove to get rid of the image of the mark in his eyes. He was not a cold-blooded killer. He let his soul communicate with the mark and for a long time lived in the body of the person he was planning to kill. His body concentrated on the pain that the mark was destined to go through, thereby killing himself in a different fashion while at the same time killing the mark. Indeed, he would feel the pain the mark was experiencing, however, differently from the mark, he kept on living after the mark died. The mark would never be given such a chance, at least, until the day of resurrection.

    He knew he was very experienced as to the ideas of death and life (death always came first) but he kept this to himself. He was a dangerous man and he believed dangerous men should not be allowed to have any meaningful relationship with ordinary men. An assassin is allowed to have an intimate affair only with his mark and, sadly enough, he loses him in a relatively short time.

    Still, he could not share what he knew about death and life with his target; this would terrify him. He would be so terrified that he might die. The assassin needed the mark alive, not dead, until he himself killed him.

    The picture of the man he had killed three hours ago now occupied a large space in his mind and this picture was more alive than the man himself. The assassin knew that he owed this to the good side in him. In a way, this was a gift he did not hesitate to bestow upon a good-natured dead man; it was a commendation, immortalization and maybe a sincere apology. The assassin had apologized to many of the marks he had met and been friends with for a certain while.

    Those whom he met was men with numbered days in this world. Their death warrants had already been signed. This fact had quickly turned him into a lonely man, a misanthrope. He had no friends and some times this made him sad.

    The assassin moved restlessly, opened his eyes and looked around. In the meantime, the announcement was being made that the bus was to leave the platform in five minutes. People looking for their seats began to get on the bus. Then a very unusual thing happened. The assassin thought he saw the mark that he had killed three hours ago.

    He blinked at the man. The chubby man wading through on the narrow aisle of the bus was no one but the mark himself. If it was not him, the assassin had come across with his twins in this world.

    While he was struggling with his astonishment, the man came and stood right beside him. He was looking down at the ticket in his hand and at the seat number. Finally he was convinced that this was the seat he was looking for and dropped himself in to the seat with a deep sigh. Then his hand went to his side pocket and emerged with a large handkerchief. Now he was smelling like a dead rat.

    The assassin examined the man's face with the side of his eyes and saw that he was the mark. His mind was at the same time considering the possibilities. Was he set up? No, he had killed someone in front of the house and he was sure it was the man he had been kept under close watch for three weeks. Then who was the man now sitting beside him?

    Like all the assassins, he believed in the immortality of the of human soul and they could be stubborn some times. Maybe it was what was happening now. If someone kills you on the veranda of your house in the middle of your back, this angers you a lot. You want to meet the man who have done it to you and to learn the reason behind that. Or you simply seek revenge. But a soul is never allowed to take revenge from an already living entity.

    As the assassin's mind was working at full speed, the man sitting beside him had wiped his face and neck up and drank cold water from a plastic bottle. The assassin looked at him and tried to figure out how much water a hell-bound soul would need to drink.

    "Jee, it is hot as hell outside. It was the worst day I ever had. It was a real catastrophe."

    The assassin gazed at him and tried to figure out if what he was hearing was real. A soul of a dead man was supposed not to talk to his murderer. Should he talk to a dead man's soul?

    "Hey, are you alright?" asked the man beside him.

    The assassin nodded. It was as if his identity would be disclosed to the whole world once he began to speak.

    The man continued, "In such a hot weather you are right to feel a little droopy," he said. "As I told you, it was hell of a day."

    "Really?" said the assassin finally and braced for what was going to happen.

    Nothing happened.

    " You know what kind of feeling is it? No, sir, you ain’t want it."

    "What kind of feeling is it?"

    The man's eyes rested on the bag standing between the assassin's legs. "Why did not you checked it in?"

    A strong current of electric went through the assassin's body. "What are you talking about?" he asked, waiting at the same time on alert for the worst.

    The man said, "You could have checked that bag in."

    "I'd rather have it with me."

    "All throughout the trip? I know what kind of torture human soul can endure and this is not one of them."

    The assassin looked into the eyes of the man and searched for a sign there. "What kind of tortures a soul can bear with?" he asked.

    "An awful man catches you unawares and takes a valuable thing that belonged to you," the man said. "Oh, this is unbearable. And what happened to me this evening was like that."

    "Has that thing happened this evening?"

    The man's eyes slid once again to the bag standing between the assassin's legs. He pretended not to hear the question. "Chap, you can place it in this overhead rack."


    "I can do it for you."

    The assassin straightened up in his seat. "The bag shall remain where it is."

    "Don't get mad at me, chap," the man drew back. "Keep it for yourself. I am sure there is not money in it. It is none of my business even if there is."

    The assassin leaned back and closed his eyes. What the hell was happening? What was the man trying to tell? Why was he so interested in the bag?"

    He needed to get rid of the bag. Why did the goddamn bus not leave? He needed to get to the old furnaces and do away with the bag soon.

    The nudnick beside him? He could not kill a soul. Not because he respected him; only because it was not practically applicable.

    One other thing he knew was that he had to bundle him off. He could not spend his life feeling the breath of a dead-soul in his back.

    The engine of the bus roared and headed towards the exit gate, got on the highway and soon began to move fast, along the yellow broken lines.

    The assassin tried to leave himself to the flow of the trip and relieve. He was not supposed to handle all the nuisances in the world. To his own credit, he was sorting some out and that was all he could do.

    Half an hour flied by quickly and now he was feeling better. He turned his head to the man beside him and tried to discern his face in the half-darkness. At the same time his legs send an urgent message to his brain: The bag!

    He bent down and groped for it. The bag was gone. He felt the man move.

    The man turned his head and looked at the assassin who were still searching for the bag. He shook his head and touched him on the shoulder and "What is it, chap?" he asked. “Looking for your bag?”

    "Yes," the assassin replied him, fearing of the possibility that he might have already called the police. "Do you know where it is?"

    "I put it on the rack," said the man.

    The assassin let the breath out. “How come I did not notice it?"

    "I was as sneaky as a soul, chap."

    "How did you learn to be as sneaky as a soul?"

    The man looked at him in suspicion. "Do you know how tense you had been? It was as... as if you wanted to get rid of something." He lowered the tone of his voice to whisper. "You can tell me everything. I can keep secret."

    "Really? But I have no secret."

    "No, no. You can't fool me."

    "What do you mean?"

    "That bag... I think you keep something valuable in it."

    The assassin fixed his eyes in the man’s eyes as if it belonged to a worthless mark. There was no mercy in his look now. "What do you think I am hiding?" he asked silently.

    "Money. A hell of a lot of money."

    The assassin breathed deeply in relief and forgat every superstition he had concerning the souls of men. He smiled at the chubby man, "You said you knew how to keep secrets, did you not?"

    The eyes of the man shone in anticipation. "Sure I did."

    "Come closer," told the assassin to the man. "Please. And be careful."

    "As you wish, chap. Tell me about the money."

    "You are a clever man. I think I have to share the money with you. Or you would tell on me, wouldn't you?"

    "I knew you were not an ordinary guy."

    "You are not, too. But you should keep your mouth shut."

    The man raised his left hand to his mouth and zipped it. "You have my word."

    The assassin leaned back. "I am not sleepy. Tell me about yourself. What are you doing for living?"

    "I am a salesman," the man explained. Then he kept silent a while. "A salesman. You are not surprised, are you?"

    "No." A boring salesman who thinks himself to be clever was the last person to make him surprised.

    "There is no filthy place I was not in in this city," said the man. "There is nothing as easy money. In addition to goddamn clients, you wrestle with the rival salesmen."

    "You kept talking about how your soul had been tortured."

    The man grimaced. " There's always a rat race going on between salesmen. "

    "You are right about that."

    "You are a thoughtful man. That's why you accepted to share the money with me."

    The assassin glanced at his watch. "Yes. But there's something else I did not tell you. We have got to get off the bus."

    The salesman's eyes got cloudy in suspicion. "Why is that?"

    "You don't know what is waiting for us ahead, do you? If you weren't an amateur in this, I would be surprised. All I could tell you is that in half an hour the bus is going to stop at a checkpoint and will be searched throughout. We are getting off at the furnaces."

    The salesman looked at the darkness outside. He was undecided. The bus was now getting slower.

    The assassin got up and stepped on to the aisle over the salesman. "Are you coming?" he asked. "I know a nice and clean hotel fifteen minutes by walking."

    The salesman rose to his feet. "I sure am coming," he murmured. "I will not leave the goddamn money."

    The assassin turned his back and, "Don't forget the bag," he said before moving along the aisle.

    "Chap, how long do we have until the iron mills?"

    "Be patient," said the assassin to him. "Can you see the buildings up there?"

    The salesman stopped and squinted to make out the buildings the assassin was pointing out. He could not see anything. "Do we have to climb all the way up there?" he asked. "Why don't we whack the money here and then we would take our own damn separate ways?"

    "We have to get there first." The assassin looked at the man's sweating face. "Once we get there, you will have enough time to rest."

    The two men climbed up the deep valley and now they were walking easily through the trail on the flat country. Soon the full moon showed its shiny head from behind the distant mountains and shone over the old mill and the dark forest right behind it.

    "Chap, you were talking about a damned station."

    The assassin assured him. "It is somewhere around here. Did you think we would pick a busy place with all that money? This place has more ghosts than men. Don’t you trust the ghosts?"

    "What the hell are you talking about, chap?"

    "Ghosts. Souls of the dead men. Ghosts that I used to believe to be living among us."

    "Don't you believe in them anymore?"

    "I do." The assassin looked up at the stars. "But there's no need to believe that they walk around and poke their nose into our affairs."

    "I'm always scared of ghosts."

    "Why? You know you have one of them in you."

    "It's simple," said the salesman. "I'm scared of death."

    'And you're greedy. Now you have a chance. You can be a rich man."

    The old iron mill rose before them like a castle. The assassin, with the confidence of a man knowing the surroundings, approached the building and the salesman followed him.

    When the assassin pulled a handle attached to the wall close to the iron door, the two lamps in the plant cast weak a light. Now they could see around. On the three walls of the building, there were big dusty furnaces with mouths remained open in anticipation of more heat and dead iron.

    The salesman clutched the bag tightly. "This place is horrible," he talked to himself. "God damn it, I don't like to be here."

    "Don't stand by the door," the assassin ordered him. "Come in and shot the door. We have a job do."

    "Chap, we don't have to be here."

    "Yes, you didn't have to. But you are now. Now shot the door and help me."

    The salesman did what he was told to do and approached the assassin standing by one of the furnaces which looked cleaner than the others.

    "What are you doing?"

    "We have to light up this furnace."

    The man's eyes grew bigger. "I can't understand."

    "There are some evidence in the bag. If I don't clear them off completely, I will never feel secure. If I don't feel secure, I don't feel like sharing the money. Do you understand now?"

    The salesman mopped his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket. "Tell me what to do."

    The assassin pointed the dark corner in the building. "Leave the money over there."

    "Do we have..."

    "Leave it there," the assassin repeated coldly. "You are of no use with the bag in one hand."

    The man left the bag in the corner. "Do you know how to operate this thing?" he asked, returning.

    "I do, just as I do know lots of other things. It's kind of hard to start a fire. But together we can make it. Now I want you to put your foot on this treadle and fan the flame."

    The salesman placed his left foot on the pedal of the big, dark blower. "Like this?"

    "That's so simple," said the assassin. "If you grab these handles, your legs get less tired. That's just a friendly suggestion."

    In then minutes, the furnace had begun to growl. As the salesman was fanning the fire with a slow but steady tempo, the assassin stepped aside.

    "What's now?" the man shouted. He was sweating again.

    "You keep on," the assassin replied him. "I will empty the bag."

    "Maybe I should be there with you."

    The assassin walked and stood right before the salesman. "You will get your share. How else could I silence a witness?"

    "Bring the evidence," said the man. "Let's burn them for good and leave here."

    Now the assassin was in half darkness. He could see the man laboring hard by the furnace but the salesman could not see him.

    He opened the bag and placed the parts of the rifle on the heavy, iron table beside him without much hassle. Then, in the same leisurely manner, he started to assemble it.

    "Hey, why did it take you so long? "

    "I am about to finish," he shouted without looking at him. "If you leave it now, you will have to start again from the beginning."

    Having assembled the rifle, he took out a bullet from the inside pocket of the bag and loaded it into the chamber. He could make a good shot from this distance. He put the rifle on the table and turned his face to the man by the furnace. His finger was on the trigger. After a long time, he was now looking at a person, not at a mark. It was a nauseating feeling to have to kill a normal person.

    He had no time to falter. When an importunate man had an eye for the hard earned money of a contract killer, he should be ready for the consequences.

    He aimed at the man's heart first; then he lifted the barrel a little up. It was to be a quick death, but he did not respect the man. So he wanted the man experience a dirty death.

    The assassin pulled the trigger and the rifle banged loudly, making queer rolling echoes inside the naked building. The bullet hit the man in the temple and exited it, taking part of the skull with it. The salesman collapsed like an empty sack.

    The assassin shouldered the rifle and walked to the furnace. Now he had one more evidence to clear off. He was now sure that he needed a long rest, both physical and psychological, until he took on another job.
    Last edited by beroq; 07-08-2011 at 06:45 AM.
    ars sine scienta nihil

  2. #2
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    Apr 2010
    I would have to say that you’re asking a lot of anyone expecting them to plough through such a long piece unless it’s a compulsive read or earth-shatteringly original. Unfortunately this needs quite a bit of work doing to make it even approach such heights. I got no further than the end of section I.

    I’m guessing you watch a lot of action movies, thrillers. Possibly play computer games in which an assassin features prominently. But I would question how much you read as this story is extremely hard going – to begin with it is littered with typos and grammatical errors. But that’s not such a big deal if what you’re writing shows some originality or at least style. But I have to say that I found it rather boring and repetitive.

    To give you an idea of where you need to address matters, firstly you must grab the readers’ attention right from the opening words. Hit them between the eyes. This story doesn’t do that because it opens with a dreadfully weak paragraph that is likely to get most readers pressing the ‘exit’ button.

    You take time to describe in painstaking detail how the man climbs the stairs, enters the hotel room, locks the door and drops the bag on the bed. Is this Exciting? NO. Also you tell us he looks younger than he really is and has brown hair. Do we need to know such trivial detail right at the start? Again NO. Most of this is what I would call filler because it adds nothing to the plot.

    You also include a double negative ‘not leave no evidence’ actually means leave evidence.

    So not a promising start, and certainly there’s nothing here to grab the reader’s attention.

    Then he’s back outside the hotel anyway – with ‘the bag’ back in his hand - which begs the question why even bother with that opening paragraph.

    Perhaps the 3rd paragraph would have been a better starting point – although Three months of absence is a must this time’ is a terribly clunky sentence. I assume you mean he has to lie low for three months. And ‘to say the least’ is a cliché which means absolutely nothing so you would do better to leave it out.

    Some of the dialogue and the way you express yourself is also confusing :

    "You are there in one and half an hour," the attendant replied him, handing the ticket to the man looking at herself with a slightly sad eyes. She added, saying, "But that place has long been forsaken."

    doesn’t sound right at all. For example – is she watching herself? If so, how? In a reflection?

    “You’ll be there in an hour and a half,” the attendant replied, handing him the ticket as he watched her rather sadly. “But that place has been empty for years.”

    would probably work better.

    I could go on commenting about every single paragraph but I won’t. The best advice I can offer is for you to read it carefully and remove any bits that don’t push the story forward. I reckon this would be a much better story if you cut it by half. Also you need to vary the words you use – I lost count of the number of times you used ‘the man’ and ‘the mark’. It can get tiresome.

    But more importantly read as much as you can to get a feel for how to pace a story. It’s a bit like a movie. Exciting films where the plot seems to flow from set piece to set piece keep your eyes glued to the screen – second-rate ones that either drag on and on or jump about without much in the way of plot progression make you wish you’d not bothered buying a ticket.

    You’ve obviously worked extremely hard on this and I hope you enjoyed writing it. But it needs more work if you’re to attract a wider readership. Keep writing – but also read!

    Good luck.


  3. #3
    Word Dispenser BookBeauty's Avatar
    Join Date
    Apr 2009

    Right, well...

    Fully agreeing with H.W here.

    Another case of a lot of telling. As a writer, you've really gotta show us. Description is another way of telling us.

    This story has potential, which is wasted on needless words. It's hard to be concise. It can be hard to show us, but with a story about an assassin, you really have to show us the action.

    I admit, I haven't read as thoroughly as he, but he did a good job of pointing out a lot of weak areas.

    To be honest, I think your story really starts here (With slight editing, if you don't mind. I can't find the cross-out button.):

    ''He could not share what he knew about death with the target.''

    There. I think that sentences catches us up-front. There are so many sentences where you pump it full of words that aren't needed, but I'll give you a few examples so that you can get a feel for flow, and how to bring that energy into your writing.

    Random writing as follows:

    ''The man did not mind why the mark was in the habit of stopping by this place. What really concerned him was that the sixty-something, short, chunky man made his visits with less than usual armed escort. This hidden place was the weakest point in the security wall around the mark. The big, heavy, armored car pulled over near the iron gate and it took the mark fifteen seconds to get off the car, take the short distance to the door of the house and get into. Fifteen seconds was long enough to complete a well paid mission for a very experienced assassin.''

    The security point of the Big-Wall-O-Text was enough to deter the readership of the hard-working author.

    My editing (modify at will):

    ''His target was a chunky, short man in his sixties. (Consider introducing his name at this point, maybe. The man's name was Leroy Jenkins. Jenkins was in the habit of.. If this doesn't add to your story, no worries. Forget I said it. )The mark was in the habit of stopping by this place, and he made these trips with less than the usual armed escort.

    The security wall was at its weakest point in this hidden place. Within fifteen seconds, the man was at the door to the house. That was long enough for an assassin to complete his mission.''

    I admit this modification isn't perfect, but it's an example of how you can remove unneeded words, and move them around, to make your writing clearer. (H.W also made some very good examples, probably better than mine.)

    Try moving sentences around and see if you can find a better order than the one I've chosen. I'm not the writer here, only trying to help.

    If you want to add description, make sure that it also adds to the story. Also, I agree that you've really got to throw in some more words for the assassin's job.

    'Mark' is just making me want to strangle the assassin.

    Go back and revise. My best advise for revision is to read your work aloud so you can hear where it snags. Well done though, and keep writing!
    Last edited by BookBeauty; 07-08-2011 at 10:46 PM.
    There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written or badly written. ~Oscar Wilde.

  4. #4
    Registered User beroq's Avatar
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    Mar 2009
    Hillwalker and BookBeauty... Thank you very much for the thorough analysis of the story, which I agree was needlessly repetitive and boringly long. It contained a lot of grammatical errors, as well. Yet, your suggestions are indeed on the mark and worth listening. I thank you for the time you spent in revising it. I will certainly go through the whole piece in line with your suggestions and perhaps put up a revised version.

    ars sine scienta nihil

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