"Hello, this is Rupert Hedgerington the Third speaking. How may I be of assistance for you tonight?"
The ambitious yet calculating corporate C.E.O. leaned back in his leather seat as he held his phone with an ebony leather case to his ear. The mainstream media, his rivals, or even student activists may consider him corrupt and soulless, but he considered himself persistent, diligent, and unwavering in pursuit of his objections. He would stop at nothing to achieve his goals, even bending the rules or working outside of the law, and it wouldn't affect his conscience one bit. Ever since he had that accident five years back, he had seen what true darkness was like and nothing fazed him anymore.
"Mr. Hedgerington, I hope I'm not pestering you at this hour as I figure it'd be late over in the United Kingdom."
"No worries, it is only 9 pm. " Rupert straightened his tie and pushed his glasses up onto his nose. "Please inform me of who I am speaking to."
"Forgive me, sir, but this is Don Sarengetti of the Syndicate's Top Brass. " The voice had a raspy Brooklyn accent that Agony had heard when he was on a business venture in the States." There is an urgent matter that we, me and the other Dons, that is, believe needs to come to your attention."
"You are asking me for a favor?" Mr. Hedgerington blinked, running a hand through his dark hair.
"I am not sure if it is considered a favor to ask for assistance in resolving an issue."
"Perhaps there is another method of remedying your problems," Mr. Hedgerington crooned.
"Go on, I am listening. As are the other Dons."
"You understand that you aren't the only Syndicate of Organized Crime in the world, right? I am currently brokering a deal with the British branch to collaborate with our interests. In other words, if you ever run into issues, you can rely on the Dons of the U.K. After all, can you tell me why the local crime lords in your province united instead of going at each other's throats like you did previously?"
It took a moment before the American on the other end replied. "So we can work together to build our underworld empire and offer each other assistance should the need arise. We figured that a strong brotherhood was more constructive than age old rivalries and constant turf wars.
Hedgerington chuckled, the left side of his face forming into a smirk. "There you go, Perhaps you could form a kinship of sorts with the your British counterparts. You know how much bribing and persuasion had to go into getting the local mafia bosses to set aside their differences and work together? Thankfully, when I reached out to you lot, you had already mended your past grievances and banded together to run an invisible empire right under the authority's noses. I am working on getting the European branches to take the same steps you had. Perhaps in the near future, you guys can work alongside each other in one vast underground empire."
"But how is that going to solve our quandary?" The voice rasped.
"Were you not paying attention to me this whole time, imbecile?" The unscrupulous businessman hissed. "I have orchestrated a possible link between you and your European counterparts, but it will only benefit you if you have the sagacity to utilize it."
"Sagacity? You getting fancy on us?"
"Why do I have such high expectations for you plebeian numbskulls?" The criminalistic mogul groaned. "Seriously, what is your issue? How bloody important is it that you come wailing to me like a schoolboy while the night is young?"
"It's easier for us to show you than to speak of it over the phone," the accented voice responded.
Hedgerington gripped the phone tightly. "If you are asking me to hurry my arse over to Heathrow this instant-"
"No, that won't be required. We were thinking of a video conference."
Rupert recognized the smooth voice as Don Moretti, the member of the Syndicate's Top Brass that he initially approached and preferred to do business with. It looked like he was one of the few gifted with sense.
"Fair enough." He then patched his secretary. "Miss Headley, please set up the video conference. Furthermore, send in my bodyguards."
---
"Greetings, gentlemen. I hope your evening is going well-pardon me, it is evening here in London, but where you guys are at is afternoon, I presume?"
Don Moretti, Don Clemente, and the rest of Syndicate's upper echelon sat in the dark conference room adorned with blinking red and green lights as the 49 inch flat screen hanging on the wall like the mouth of some alien creature glowed with the image of their benefactor and his three henchmen that looked like employees in a year round Halloween store. The bespectacled British businessman adjusted his tie, as black as his suit, before he cleared his throat to speak.
"Let me get one thing straight. You request a video conference over a trivial issue that occasionally arises with you lot. What is so dire that it requires my attention? Did you want more cash? More connections? Or perhaps access to one of my current stockholders? I am beginning to think you louts are turning out to be a poor investment."
After several tense moments, it was ultimately Don Moretti who broke the silence. "We will choose to ignore the affront for now. You may not be aware, but last night, one of the young members of our family was murdered in front of his wife and child."
"Hmph!" The British businessman snorted. "And how is that my problem? You Mafia types are always at each other's throats. Don't you lose at least several enforcers or capos a week? You were capable of making peace with each other so why not employ the same tactics here. Or if law enforcement is involved, bribe them like you always do unless you lack the cash, which would be preposterous as I just wired hundred of thousands into your accounts just last week. Perhaps you require me to get take the reigns?"
Moretti shook his head. "It's not that. I am going to send you the feed we received from Denza's, residence. Maybe that should explain our dilemma. Let me clarify that the slain man was the Syndicate 's junior commander who was killed in action. His funeral is going to be held in a couple days."
"Why didn't you consider that in the first place?" Mr. Hedgerington shook his head in bemusement. "That may have saved us some time. I swear that despite having strong coordination and funds, you lack the most essential thing between your head."
The balding portly Don with the thin graying mustache motioned to a heavy set Don with gray hair, Don Donatelli, to send the video feed to their sponsor. Donatelli used a silver rectangular tablet to transfer the feed to the Brit. Sure enough, a beep was heard as Rupert Hedgerington received the video on his tablet and played it for himself. Once it was finished, their English overlord glanced back up at the screen. Pushing his glasses up his celestial nose, Hedgerington sighed as he leaned back in his leather chair.
"I don't understand. What's so difficult in offing one gas-masked chav? You are trying to tell me that this one buffoon has been chipping away at the Syndicate unchecked? Is it too much to expect that a highly funded and well organized crime syndicate that lacks in very few resources to be able to squash a pest?"
"With all due respect, sir." Don Tarantelli, a slender don with thinning gray hair and a similar mustache, rose. "We sent quite a sufficient amount of our gangs, affiliated or part of the family, to collect this assassin's head, but we ended up receiving their heads mailed to us instead."
"Ever try to bribe him like you do to do others who you deem a threat or see as serviceable allies? If what you say about this person is true, then he may become an invaluable asset."
" We tried that beforehand, but everyone we sent to treatise with him has ended up six feet below as do the members of our family who initiated the deal." Don Tarantelli sighed and shook his head. "This Poison Gas is a constant thorn at our side and his reign of terror needs to be halted as soon as possible, but the question is how? The Syndicate has tried everything in our employ, but we ended up fruitless and with fewer associates each time. "
"I see." Mr. Hedgerington narrowed his dark eyes as he leaned back on his seat, resting his feet on his mahogany oak desk. "There is one thing you haven't utilized. You have a trump card at your disposal without realizing it and it seems it is time to put it onto play. If what you have informed me about our friend is confirmed, then we are left with no others option. I assure you this resource is so valuable that I only reveal it to my most trusted associates."
"And what is this resource?" Don Clemente rasped.
"It is known as Agony." A sinister smile formed upon Rupert Hedgerington's thin lips.
"What's that? Some sort of weapon or vehicle? An assassin? A secret squad of enforcers?"
"It's myself." The Englishman smirked, his eyes gleaming behind his spectacles. "We shall meet again in due time." He then picked up a phone with a cord on his desk. " Miss Headley, it's time. Cut the signal."
With that, the screen went blank.
---
"No! Get away from me!"
Poison Gas towered over the young thug, dressed in a beanie, baggy pants, and a red plaid jacket as he glanced up at him with nervous gray eyes. The alley behind the nail spa, dimly lit under the gray-black evening sky with a twilight that gleamed a heavenly azure on the horizon. The 6 foot 8 vigilante glared down at the anxious young punk who he intended to question. What he would do next would depend on his level of satisfaction with the punk's answers. Poison Gas reached a dark gloved hand and yanked him up on his feet. The young man yelped in surprise and fear as he was pinned against the wall, a gauntlet-sleeved hand wrapped around his throat. His gas-masked tormentor leaned in menacingly as the thug squirmed and gasped.
"I have some questions for you. Answer them truthfully and I may yet apply some mercy for you."
"I...I'm telling you." The delinquent struggled for breath against his assailants iron grip. "I wasn't i-intending to m-mug t-that woman!"
Poison Gas slammed the punk against the wall, nearly winding him. Coughing, the gray-eyed hoodlum glanced at the vigilante with a terrified gaze.
"L-look man," he said between coughs. "I..I don't m-mind s-splitting cash-"
"I have little appetite for your burgled cash. Don't get me wrong, I don't tolerate theft, but that's irrelevant. I want to know who those men were that you met in the alley behind Burlington."
"W-which men?"
Poison Gas tightened his grip on the uncooperative criminal. "Don't play dumb with me, boy. I know that you know more than you are letting on. Let me reiterate. If you cooperate, I'll be merciful. If you go on as you are now, then it won't end well for you. So what will it be?"
"A-alright! I-I'll spill!" The criminal croaked.
The criminal hunter relaxed his iron grip. "Now that's a good boy. Now hurry up, I don't have all day!"
After a fit of coughing, the mugger finally spoke up. "Gee, you really sound like Clint Eastwood. I wonder if that is your real voice." Once the gas-masked hulk tightened his fingers once more, the young man saw some sense and changed his attitude. "S-So you want to know who those four men with the queer-looking beards were? Well, um, I don't know who they are personally, but they spoke with unfamiliar accents, but they also spoke a language that I later learned to be Arabic. Who would have known playing Battlefield would come in handy? Hehe."
"I see," Poison Gas muttered. "What do they need a typical street punk for? Surely, they aren't asking you to join them for a cigarette."
"They purchase goods from me."
"Oh?" The vigilante was intrigued. "Like what?"
"Matches, electronics, guns, bullets, ball bearings, corrosive chemica-"
"I think I get the picture." Poison Gas's eyeholes, glowing green in the coming dusk, glowered at his prisoner. "Can you give me their names?"
The young man was sweating profusely. "Um, they never gave out their names and if they did, it won't be something I can retain for long. "
"Then what useful item can you offer me?" The brooding figure strengthened his grip upon the struggling punk. "Or have you exhausted your 'usefulness'?"
"N-no, here, their numbers are within my phone. Here, take a look." The young man handed Poison Gas a smart phone encased with purple and black stripes. "You can access their numbers by looking through our conversation. It isn't hard to find as my phone primarily contains our discussions."
Poison Gas then started to cackle. "So you managed to loosen your tongue after all. I was worried that you wouldn't loosen up and I'd have to cut that slimy piece of meat out of your mouth, but I'm glad you came to your senses."
As the frightened punk handed his phone to his interrogator, Poison Gas relinquished his hold and the kid fell on his butt, coughing. He looked up hopefully at the vigilante, who was scrolling through the boy's messages.
"Does this mean I'm free to go?"
"Sure."
As the thug started to head out, Poison Gas instantaneously reached out and threw him at the glass door of the nail spa. The astounded mugger glanced up in horror as the towering and imposing figure walked in through the broken door, stepping on broken glass.
"B-but you said I was free to go," he squeaked.
"Oh,about that-I lied!"
The gas-masked vigilante then put a round between the lad's eyes before turning to leave. Content with his night's work, he arrived at his hideout, located underneath a tunnel under the bridge where the Gordon River ran beside a sewage pipe. He came up to the midway point between the middle of the bridge and the northbound exit and placed his palm on the wall. A scanner, glowing a bright red, studied him before clicking in approval. A round section of the wall opened up like a door in a sci-fi movie as he entered his hideout. Removing his mask, Poison Gas let his shoulder-length auburn hair run down the base of his neck.
Who was Oakville's secret protector? His name was Alex Smith and he had served several tours as a Navy Seal in the Middle East and Africa. He had grown up watching shows like Spider-Man, Batman, the Avengers, the Justice League , Ghost Rider, and more. However, he had personally looked up to one: Frank Castle the Punisher. Inspired by him and all other characters that appeared in Stan Lee's comics, he had wanted to take to the streets to bring justice. It started with him standing up to local punks and those who bully weaker kids and then it morphed into him joining the Navy Seals after studying criminal justice at Oakville College. The grueling regimen he faced in the Seals shaped his discipline throughout his crime-fighting career. Afterwards, he had a brief stint with BlackWater before joining the Crazville police force. Unhappy with how the department was run and how little it was doing to fight crime, Alex took on independent security jobs, but moonlighted as Poison Gas to combat the city's crime rate, which was rising each day due to the corruption within the city's police force. Once he learned that many officers, even the chief of that time, were bought by local Mafia groups, he knew that if he wanted change, he had to take matters into his own hands.
I'm glad it paid off. Ever since I took to the streets, countless criminals have met a bloody end. Working in the shadows, my actions resulted in the city's once record high crime rate plummeting to near nothing. Oakville Daily doesn't describe me as the city's most feared vigilante for nothing.
Alex Smith hung his mask and coat on a rack where several of the same type hung. A computer screen and a flat screen television set emitted ghostly glows in the dark room. Figures of Wonder Woman, Green Arrow, Black Panther, Iron Man, and many others were littered around the room and a rack full of comics and video games lay nestled between the gun rack and the equipment wardrobe.
It's time to chill in my humble abode once more.
---
He is quite something alright.
Mr. Hedgerington, with his three trusted henchmen positioned in a triangle behind his desk, viewed the video feed from the Denza manor that his pawns sent him. The crooked businessman didn't have any regrets on accepting the video from Moretti, Tarantelli, and the other buffoons at the Syndicate as proof of their claims. Sipping some Earl Grey tea from a shiny porcelain cup, he watched the real time feed as the imposing figure, dressed like someone from a low budget post-apocalyptic flick, outsmarted the mafioso's soldatos and steadily took them out like a professional hitman.
He seems to exuberate the power of around ten mob enforcers. It's a shame he never accepted the proposal the Syndicate clowns offered him. Imagine a life he could have lived had he took a position in the Syndicate. The cash he'd make would be more than enough to retire in the Bahamas.
The eager business mogul chewed on a lemon scone as he viewed the final scene where the armored assassin brutally murdered Don Denza in front of his wife and daughter, spilling guts onto them and the wall. What's more? The wanker went as far as to write a message on the wall with his target's blood addressed to the Syndicate.
From Poison Gas, with love, eh? So he introduces himself in this fashion? The bugger sure has guts and style, in this case literally. Not only is he a ruthless and cold-hearted killer, he sure is efficient. I may have my work cut out for me. Perhaps I can accomplish what my foolish figureheads failed to do, thus validating myself in their eyes as their superintendent. They are nothing more than puppets in my grand scheme.
Rupert pressed the button on the intercom that connected his office to the room outside. "Ms. Headley, please book four tickets from Heathrow to the States under my name. You'll know what to do from there." He then turned to his henchmen. "Gentlemen, prepare yourselves for a lengthy flight to the United States. Some business requires attention."
---
Vrooom!
As the eerie glow of daybreak touched the sky that was partially covered in dark clouds, Poison Gas revved up his Harley, adorned with a bluish purple scheme complete with yellow flames with red and orange tips, down the highway. His blue eyes, concealed behind his futuristic mask, glowed with excitement as the adrenaline rush made a great substitute for caffeine. Nothing beat kicking some Al-Qaida arse.
Who knew that a cell would successfully sneak into US, let alone Crazville from the Anbar Province? That fact alone is disturbing and says something about their level of sophistication or the laxness of our security, but I'm not complaining. Taking out some Sunni militants would be a much desired shift from putting typical street thugs and their Criminal Underworld overlords in their places.
The last time he dealt with Islamic insurgents was during his tours in Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya, the Horn of Africa among other places. It made his blood boil that these degenerate rats would hide behind a religion and kill many of their fellow Muslims before hiding like cowards. It only roused him when the data supplied by the punk confirmed his intel that Abu Omar al-Baghdadi, a high-ranking terrorist wanted both by the FBI and Iraq, would be hiding out here in his hometown and was planning a terrorist attack of mass proportions. The question that remained was where and when would this imminent attack occur, but that wouldn't be an issue as Poison Gas would take the bastards out before noon.
It's a good thing I had most of the town bugged. I could follow the men's movements and who they dealt with. The rat's phone had only confirmed my suspicions. It appears they need weapons and material for bombs. I'll put an end to this now.
Soon, he exited the highway filled with few people driving to their morning shifts before coming up on a rundown-looking brown apartment block with brick walls. Parking his bike in the adjacent curb in front of a cream and blue house with bars on its windows. Readying his shotgun, he climbed off his ride and strode over to the house.
Okay, let's see what's going down inside. What am I going up against?
Using his infrared binoculars he bought from a fellow SEAL, he was able to see all four heat signatures up on the third floor.
Perfect, it's time to move in as we did in Team 8.
Rather than taking the stairs, a route his enemies would predict someone would strike from, he donned his gecko gloves, another military invention he purchased from a surplus store, and climbed upward to the large window on the third floor, taking precautions to stay out of view of anyone glancing outside. Once he came level with his intended floor, he glanced inside to observe his targets. They were huddled over the table as if discussing plans or watching a soccer game on someone's phone, their backs turned to the window. Poison Gas didn't fault them as no one expected an assault from this angle. That is precisely why he selected to launch his strike from this position.
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Breaking the window with the butt of his gun, he then threw in a smoke bomb to disorient his foes before hurling himself inside. Shouts in Arabic greeted him as he shot two of the Iraqi terrorists. As a shadow ran wildly in the artificial mist, the former Navy Seal grabbed his head from behind and drove it onto the sharp edge of the table. Admiring his handiwork, he then came to a realization.
Wasn't there four men in the room? Where is the remaining one?
Suddenly, a door burst open on his right and a voice shouted in Arabic, most likely curing him, before spurts from an AK-47 ran wild. Due to the smoke bomb altering the man whom Poison Gas assumed to be Abu Omar the cell leader's senses, the shots missed, granting the masked crusader his window opportunity to dodge and put a round into the man's chest. Once the cell leader collapsed, Poison Gas explored the place to see if he could gather intel on his enemies to put to light so the city, and possibly the whole country, would know what transpired here. He examined what they were occupying themselves with on the table below and discovered the medium-sized explosive device on the counter.
Nope,I'm not going to let that lie there in case some mad lad gets the wrong idea in his head to take this and use it against innocents or even sell it on the black market for a hefty sum. That will ensure that this will fall back into terrorist hands or worse.
Taking aim, Poison Gas fired his weapon and blew the bomb sky high. However, he had underestimated its yield and it sent him flying out the window and landing onto the street. As a crowd of onlookers began to appear, Oakville's savior sat up and brushed himself, noticing his coat was singed a bit and he was covered with dust and soot from the explosion.
That sure was fun.
He knew he had to get out of dodge as the sounds of sirens succeeded the growing crowd of curious civilians wanting to check out what was going on. Well, that beat an ordinary mundane life.
---
"Let's welcome our guests."
Outside of the Syndicate Casino and Bed & Breakfast that served as a cover for the Syndicate's base of operations, Moretti and the rest of the Syndicate's executive heads watched as the black limousine pulled up to the curb of the entrance way of the establishment and halted. Two pages dressed in the black garb of bellhops hurried over to open the door for him while a woman page reached over and took the hand of the occupant of the backseat and assisted him in exiting the vehicle. The occupant was a fair-skinned man with rectangular glasses and shaggy hair , dressed in a black smart suit and bearing a sinister-looking smile that made Moretti's blood run cold. As the limousine left, it's tail-lights flashing in the dark like a vicious beast, Rupert and the three men the Syndicate leaders saw on the video conference rapidly closed the distance between them.
"Many thanks, Celeste." Rupert Hedgerington smiled at the page and tipped her before turning to address the Dons. "Thank you for hosting us on short notice, however, I hope you understand it is only crucial that I personally take the helm in resolving this gas-masked conundrum. This won't be problematic for you, no?"
"Oh, not at all." Moretti smiled, concealing the puzzled demeanor he had earlier when he was made aware of the British businessman's arrival. "I'll have Don Vanzetti ready your quarters in no time."
"Excellent," the crooked corporate mogul crooned. " Ghoul, Reaper, and Shifty there are anxious to tackle this issue at their earliest convenience. They will be assisting us in getting rid of this thorn at your side. I hope this won't be an inconvenience for you."
"No, not one bit. Our chefs, top-notch in the country, have prepared a feast to celebrate your arrival. "He kept his chocolate-colored eyes on Hedgerinton's entourage.
There was a hooded figure with a face so pale that he looked like a phantom. What really ensnared his attention was the eyes that looked as empty as death. The second member of the Englishman's posse donned a purple mask with horns etched above the eyes and several circles that represented optical illusions. The third and final one looked the most human to him with tan skin and long dirty blonde hair wrapped in a headband. What looked like a permanent sneer was etched onto his face.
What kind of freak show did he bring about? On second thought, do I really want to know?
"Good thinking," their benefactor croaked. "It was a long and tiring flight from London and I'm famished. It is safe to assume my men are as well. " As soon as the Dons started to escort the newcomers from England to the establishment, the British man continued addressing Moretti. "Also, I have one personal request from me to you."
The Don's eyebrows perked up. "Name it and I'll see to it."
"It is imperative that you refer to me as Agony from now on when we are associating on this Poison Gas issue. Let's move along now. After some grub, I will pitch my first plan in eliminating our person of interest. I'm dying to see what he's made of, aren't you?"
---
"Alright, listen up!" Eddy Caputo, a local kingpin, announced over the intercom as the principal, vice principal, and other staffers huddled near the gap under the front desk. "This school is now under the dominion of the Caputos. You may carry out duties as usual under the strict supervision of my enforcers. Failure to comply will result in you or your fellow students and teachers getting shot. "
The Caputo cartel had taken over Wade Middle School that morning, knowing that it would root out someone they were after, Once they caught their quarry, they would leave.
"Gonzo, you can cut the intercom now."
Caputo's muscle man, a tattooed man garbed in a black muscle shirt with a black crew cut, pressed a button on the tabletop once the message was relayed. Caputo, a heavyset man with shaggy dark hair and a goatee, turned to the frightened administrators.
"Do not be afraid. As long as you comply and we flush out our target, you will be fine. You have my word." Turning to his men, he gave orders to shoot on sight. "Also take care not to shoot a bystander by mistake. Our employer won't pay us if he has to sort out a mess we created."
As they patiently awaited any further instructions from the top, the men chatted amongst themselves, took time to refresh themselves, play games, or other things that crossed their minds to keep themselves occupied. Eddy Caputo then pranced over to one of the hostages, a Latina with her raven-colored hair put into a straight ponytail, and brought his face close, looking into her eyes.
"Are you hungry, miss? I can let you have this apple on my knife although it won't come free."
As he gently stroked the panicked lady's cheek with his thumb, his radio cracked to life.
"Sir, we have contact on Wells. I repeat, we have contact on Wells!"
Eddy and his goons froze for a second, but rose once gunfire echoed outside. The kingpin wasn't sure if it was from the halls or outside, but he drew his M-4 Carbine and faced the door. His men did likewise. Here and there, gunfire echoed and shouts were heard. As the hostages whimpered in fright, Eddy grew anxious with the news. He decided to radio in asking for an update.
"All units, what's your status? Have you nabbed him? Please respond!"
The radio silence unnerved the cartel leader even more. A bad feeling settled in his gut as his eyes were trained on the doorway to the principal's office. After a few terse minutes, he thought he saw a shadow move along the walls of the hallway. Taking no chances, he ordered his men to fire.
"Make sure he's dead!"
As the guns went off, shattering the glass, Eddy took cover behind the white and cream desk to avoid ricocheting bullets or glass. After a minute or so, the firing stopped. The cartel boss cautiously peered over the edge of the desk as the men and women beside him bleated fearfully.
"Did you hit him, Gonzo, Jocko?"
Before Gonzo or Jocko could respond, a slime green canister landed between him and his men. Before he could survey the object, it exploded and emitted fog the same color as storm clouds that enshrouded the room. Eddy tensely gripped the handle of his Carbine as his eyes nervously flitted around, trying to see anything through the dense fog. Before he knew it, a broad shape materialized before him, getting larger by the minute. Finally, the shape stood right in front of him, still partially obscured by the mist, but glowing green eyes like those of the demons from his nightmares .
I should have listened to you, mama. You wanted the best for me yet I was the bad boy. You always said the demons would come for me in the night if I misbehaved. I think one has come for me now.
"Say goodbye, scumbag."
The demonic figure raised a silvery Colt handgun and fired at him. A second after the blast, everything turned to oblivion.
---
"You don't have to worry about those low-lives much longer. You can go back to running your school although the kids may need some therapy after what they have seen.
After Poison Gas liberated the school from the criminals, he surveyed the corpses and damage that resulted from the firefight before heading out the door. He had aimed to keep it as bloodless as possible, but it couldn't be helped this time. Cleaning up wasn't his problem. As he left, he failed to notice the camera on the wall relaying the feed elsewhere.
---
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