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The Companion: Part 44

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Edited by William Justin Thirsk-Gaskill, Thursday, 27 Jan 2011, 00:43

Wolf’s troops would do anything that night to avoid standing guard or going on patrol.  Those who were disappointed to find that the Blue Sky Taverna was full to bursting were relieved to find that The King’s Head, though less brightly-lit, was nearby, and was open, well-stocked, and had a cavernously large interior.  The sign above the door was a creditable portrait of Kelvin, in mediaeval costume, complete with chain mail, surcoat and crown, painted by me. 

            My first task that evening was to finish counting the invaders and, as soon as I had a reliable number, report it to Kelvin and to McCann.  The provisional figure was 2,395.  Those who had been detained longest on board ship with menial tasks spilled out onto the quayside and the narrow streets.  Queues started to form.  There was a queue for the phone box, a queue to get into The Blue Sky Taverna, a queue to get into The King’s Head, and queues for stalls and handcarts selling various kinds of deep-fried or sugary food and alcoholic drink.  The queue for Starlight Escorts was limited by the availability of the phone box, but it was swelled by hopefuls who did not have a booking and had not yet learnt how fatal that was.  Many of the men were asking if there was any other way of getting hold of Anna.  No-one had the foggiest idea.

            I needed to find out what was happening to the prisoners taken from I-2 and I-13.  I had not seen them being taken out of the ships.  I did not at that moment know how many invaders were guarding them.  I sent Olivia to have a look.  She stood next to the first ship, listened carefully, and put her face right up against the side.  She detected nothing.  The same happened at the second ship.  At the third ship, she found cargo.  The cargo was abused and brutalised, mostly female, humanity.  Olivia untied the ship from the bollards.  She pulled up and discarded the walkway, and jumped noiselessly into the water.  When she surfaced on the other side of the ship, she climbed up its wooden side by gripping it with hands augmented by short, sharp titanium spikes.  She peered down over the handrail, and saw three guards, each with an automatic rifle.  The guards were not doing anything.  At least one of them appeared to be asleep.  Olivia studied the positions of the guards for a moment, received a projection from me about which areas they could see, and tipped herself over the rail into the vessel.  She climbed down into the hold. 

            Once in the well of the hold, she could present a silhouette which would look to a guard like a bound and agonised prisoner changing position.  She moved over to guard number one, and tapped him sharply on the calf.  The tap injected 12 milligrams of a marine toxin which was enough to paralyse him in two minutes while he was still trying to work out what had happened, and kill him in ten minutes.  Olivia crawled and staggered and jerked over to the second guard, and did the same to him.   While guards one and two lay dying, Olivia stood up and walked as normally as she could (given that the cargo deck was covered in the bodies of prostrated prisoners) over to guard three.  She tugged his trouser-leg.  She tugged it insistently.  He woke up. He looked bleary-eyed.  He looked annoyed.  He looked surprised.  He sat up and tried to aim his automatic rifle.

            Very, very quickly, Olivia held his right shin in her right hand, very, very tightly, stopping the man’s circulation, lacerating the muscle and traumatising the bone .  He gasped with pain.  He tried to concentrate on aiming his automatic rifle at this woman who was too close for him to miss.  He decided he was definitely going to pull the trigger and spray her with bullets at the first possible opportunity.  

            While these deliberations were going on, Olivia brought down her left hand very, very fast.  Olivia’s left hand was very heavy, and very hard.  Olivia’s left arm was very, very strong.  There was a crack.  Olivia’s arcing attack motion followed through on itself, and the sentry’s lower leg and booted-foot came off.  His trigger-finger never received the impulse to fire his weapon.  He passed out, and died shortly afterwards of blood loss and general trauma.  

            The blood-spattered Olivia climbed up to the bridge of the ship and began to steer.  Noiselessly (because it was being towed by another vessel) the ship moved out of the harbour, up the coast, and to another harbour where there were no invaders.  

            Wolf  re-emerged from his investigation of the quayside arsenal and looked around at the men standing, sitting, and leaning against walls.  He wore an expression of snarling disapproval.  He took his baton out from where kept it sheathed in his left boot.  He still held his automatic pistol.  For a while, I shut down a few of the data feeds I was monitoring to enable me to concentrate on Wolf and Brunton. Brunton looked full of uncertainty.  A detachment of the Racial Guardians in their black uniforms were loosely clustered round the two officers.  At that moment, the attention of every invader was jolted by a sudden noise.  They had not noticed until then that, among the street lights and on the corners of some of the buildings were loudspeakers.  From these, an announcement blared.  The voice was that of John Mallard, the lawyer. 

            ‘Visitors, please hear this.  My name is John Mallard.  I am the honorary mayor.  Welcome to our town.  We hope you have a pleasant stay.  We have arranged billets for you all.  I need to talk to your leader face-to-face to discuss the terms of your occupation.  Please let your leader stand forth, and meet me by the flagpole in front of the mayor’s office as soon as possible.  As soon as possible.  Thank you.’ 

            Everybody looked at Wolf.  Most of the faces were apprehensive, as if the Leader might be about to do something that his followers would regret. 

            Rain began to fall, and quickly became heavy.  The men backed into doorways for shelter wherever they could.  They wanted beds, hot food, beer and, if possible, women.  Wolf sneered at them, and judged that the weaknesses of appetite and desire were driving the Spirit of National Socialism out of his followers.  He walked a short distance away from the key, and saw the stout figure of John Mallard waiting by the flagpole.  He was wearing an overcoat and holding an umbrella.  Wolf drew nearer.  He appraised Mallard’s appearance: he was affluent, educated, upper-class, self-confident, perhaps a bit eccentric, and possibly Jewish – everything that Wolf  hated.  He was also imperturbably red-faced and cheerful, in spite of the wind and the rain. 

            I watched them into “they mayor’s office”, and then switched viewpoint to the cams inside the makeshift building.  The “office” was well-lit, and it was easier to see clearly in there. 

            Mallard took his coat off, and offered to take Wolf’s  military greatcoat.  The invader stood there in his black tunic, black breeches and black jackboots.  His right side was towards the camera, and I could see every detail of his swastika armband.  Mallard offered him a glass of whisky, which he declined venomously. 

            ‘We can accommodate you here for up to seven days.’

            ‘You can accommodate me here for as long as I like, you mean.’

            ‘Can’t be done, old man: food situation, you see. ‘

            ‘What are you talking about, you filthy kike?’

            ‘Ahem.  I’m talking about food, old man.  It is in limited supply.  You’ll need to move on.’

            ‘I’ll stay here as long as I like.  You are going to get me all the food I want.’

            ‘Er.  OK.  If you insist.  I have to warn you, that if we have to scour the surrounding countryside, some of it might not be exactly cordon bleu, if you get me.’

            ‘You will supply my men with adequate food for as many days as I tell you.  Is that clear?’

            ‘Absolutely.  Crystal.  Yes.  Glad we had this little chat.  When are you going to move your force?’

            ‘When I am good and ready.  My men need – how shall I put it – recreation.’

            ‘Oh, splendid.  They’ll get all the recreation they want here.’

            ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

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The Companion: Part 31

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There are times when I wonder if Anna really exists.  She wants to use the new spa that Pamela and I have opened as a knocking-shop.  I invited her to a meeting so that the three of us could talk about it, but she said that she only wanted to talk about it over the phone.

            We did talk about it over the phone, eventually.  I tried to make a joke about using the art screen in the reception area to display Picasso’s Les Desmoiselles D’Avignon, but she seemed to think I was serious.  She said, ‘I know it is your favourite painting, but I don’t think it would be appropriate in that setting.’  How did she know that?  I can’t remember mentioning it to any-one on the ship.  The last time I had a conversation about Picasso, it was years ago, on a trip to London with Violet.

            For reasons that I am not in a position to discuss at the moment, I have been having detailed discussions with some of the ship’s military people recently.  I have invited some of them to the opening of the spa.  Most of Anna’s ladies will be there, Pamela tells me.  I hope everybody will conduct him or her self in keeping with decorum. 

*

I must admit that I experience a certain frisson whenever Kelvin calls or emails Anna when he and Pamela are in the same room. 

            Kelvin has started a campaign recently, the details of which I can’t divulge at the moment, which means that I find it advantageous to earn as much money as possible.  This is why Anna suggested broadening the range of services on offer at the new spa.  Kelvin does not seem keen on this idea – what a hypocrite. 

            I have also been feverishly busy in my scientific research.  I have been making some enhancements, but not to myself: to Rosalind.  I have been doing experiments for some time now, and have finally had a breakthrough.  I have invented a device for reading the signal from a nerve, reproducing it, and broadcasting it, all without interfering with the original signal.  I made them partly by using my tunnelling electron-microscope.  As well as looking at atoms and molecules, it can also pick them up and manipulate them.  When I receive these signals, I can interpret them to turn them back into images and sound.

            I have planted these devices in both Rosalind’s optic nerves and aural nerves.  I did this in stages, making sure each time that the nerve was still working.  I did not want her to go blind or deaf.

            Rosalind makes quite a good observer, because she belongs to a species which is hunted, and so she has all-round vision (but of course she can only see in black and white).  I can switch on both her eyes and ears and sense internally what she is sensing. 

            This, of course, was not my main objective.  This was vivisection in the cause of reproducing the same procedures on Kelvin.  Kelvin will get a further modification: the devices I am going to implant in him will be two-way: I will be able to make him see and hear things, should I so choose.  I am sure this will come in very handy, one day.

            The problem is to work out how I can perform quite invasive surgery on Kelvin without his realising what it is for.  Among other things, I will have to take both his eyeballs out.  They are beautiful (mostly grey, but the kind that change colour from one day to the next) and I want to put them back properly.  When he comes round from the anaesthetic, he must be completely unsuspecting about what I have done to him. 

            I am thinking this as I look at Kelvin across the reception area of our new spa.  Kelvin and Pamela are here as the hosts, in our brand new, white, towelling dressing gowns and flip-flops.  Kelvin has brought out a very light and fragrant beer in honour of the occasion, which he calls Space Hopper.  Most of the guests are drinking sparkling wine, but Kelvin sticks resolutely to his own produce.  We splashed out for some of the good stuff (brought from Earth rather than made from the ship’s own grapes).  It is eye-wateringly expensive, but we are quite well-off now.  The birch panelling for the changing-rooms and the slate for the wet rooms was also very dear, but worth it – and it will all be re-cycleable after we land.  

            Cerise Vallance is here, with an entourage even bigger than usual.  She was politely instructed to leave her camera and all recording equipment except a notebook and pen in the reception area.  Jessica Springer and Emile Bourdelle are talking to Patrick Fitzgerald and Cecily Johnson.  At least, Emile is talking to them.  Jessica is nodding frantically and trying to keep up with the conversation, which is about freedom, the individual, and the State, and their relationship to artistic expression in a democratic society.

            Partly to bump up the numbers, and partly for a laugh, I have enhanced some of my simulacra so that they can hold a kind of conversation without needing to be under my control.  They still have no real intelligence, but I have programmed them with what is in fact a much more sophisticated version of an antique computer algorithm called Eliza.  Eliza was the first of the line of chat-bots which used to be fashionable, and first appeared in the 1960s.  It ran on an old-fashioned mainframe computer, and you communicated with it by typing on the keyboard.  It analysed what you had said, one sentence at a time, tried to locate the keyword, if possible, and responded with something that sounded vaguely like a Rogerian psychotherapist. 

            To make it more interesting (and remunerative) I have programmed each of Anna’s ladies to prostitute herself to the men at the gathering.  I doubt if any of them have got any money on them, but Anna can always collect later.  

            I am just sidling over to where Kayla is talking to James Holt.  I did not think he would be able to make it, but here he is. 

            ‘Er.  So.  What did you do back on Earth – before we set off?’

            ‘My dad was American.  I was born in Hawaii.’

            ‘Er.  I see.  But what did you do for a living?’

            ‘I was half-American.  Just like I am now.’

            ‘But, surely, you didn’t make a living out of that?’

            ‘Are you saying that I’m not living?’

            ‘Not at all.  You are clearly very much alive.’

            ‘Yes, I am.  I want to live.  I want to live.  I want to live.’

            ‘Er…’

            ‘When I’m twenty-one, I have to decide on my citizenship.’

            ‘I’m beg your pardon?’

            ‘I have to decide whether I want UK or US citizenship.’

            ‘But there won’t be a United Kingdom or a United States on the new planet.’

            ‘Are you challenging my right to citizenship?’

            ‘No, no.  Not at all.  Not a bit of it.’

            ‘You don’t want a bit of it?’

            ‘Er…’

            ‘We could go upstairs if you like.’  She begins gently to stroke  his arm with her index finger.  Poor Doctor Holt.  

            Next is Layla. She is with a short, stocky, red-haired man called Andrew Downing, who on Earth was an officer in the British Army.

            ‘You’re really my type of girl.  Do you know that?’

            ‘It’s four sovereigns.’

            ‘Pardon?’

            ‘For a fuck.  Four sovereigns.  One for a hand-job; two for a blow-job without CIM or face-cream; three for a messy blow-job; four for a fuck.  If you want anal or any extras, you would be better talking to Angel.’

            ‘Please excuse me.  I’m just going for an other drink.’

            Layla can be a little over-zealous sometimes.

            Here we have another soldier.  He is nearly seven feet tall, has muscles like coiled pythons,  and his head looks like a turnip.  His name is Brian McCann.  He looks bored.  Angel is talking to him.  She is blonde, petite, with delicate features, and an intelligent and impish expression.

            ‘Are you big all over?’

            ‘Er.  I suppose so.’

            ‘In every department?’

            ‘Er…’

            ‘What I mean is, are you well-endowed?’

            ‘Do you mean…’

            ‘Yes, your cock.  Do you have a huge cock?’

            ‘Er…’

            ‘Can I measure it when it’s erect?’

            ‘No.’

            ‘For length and girth?  I’ve got a tape measure in my bag.’

            ‘No.’

            ‘No to length, no to girth, or no to both?’

            ‘No to both.’

            ‘You are unreasonable.  Do you know that?’

            That’s my girl.  I was cheating there.  Part of that conversation was authored directly by me.  Now for Olivia.  She is talking to the last of our army men, Ben Stewart.

            ‘What did you used to do, back on Earth?’

            ‘I was a bomb-disposal expert.’

            ‘Oh, you brave, brave boy.  Did you face death every day?’

            ‘Every weekday, yes.  I didn’t have to face death at the weekend unless I was on overtime.’

            ‘What did you used to think of, at the moments when you thought you might be going to die?’

            ‘Shagging, usually.’

            ‘What are you thinking about now?’

            ‘I am thinking that you remind me of a lady I used to know once in Hanover.  She was a gymnast.’

            ‘I’ve got quite flexible joints.  Would you like to see me demonstrate some moves?’

            Kelvin did not quite realise why, but we had spent some considerable time in building some hot tubs on the platform above which were each surrounded by a soundproof and vibration-proof enclosure.  Since we are running a high-class establishment, each tub will be completely emptied, scrubbed, and re-filled with clean water and new aromatics in between clients. 

            I gave one of the hot-tubs to Cerise Vallance and her hangers-on (all female).  You should have seen Cerise’s face at the moment when I told them it was ready.  Her minions all went wild, but she looked utterly repulsed.  I got a very good shot of her.  I don’t know why she did not just come clean and say she did not want to get in it. 

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The Companion: Part 24

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Edited by William Justin Thirsk-Gaskill, Wednesday, 22 Dec 2010, 13:23

On Saturday I had a long rehearsal, including a lot of singing and dancing, which tired me out.  I went back to my cabin, and had a good long soak in a hot bath.  I sipped some of my new whisky, which has been maturing for one year now and is at the point where it is just about drinkable if you put plenty of ice in it.  Holt and I have designed a portable refrigerator, and have set up a workshop to make them, which is staffed by some of Kerr McLean’s employees.  I now have one of these appliances in my room and it comes in very handy.    While soaking, I occupied myself in trying to think of a name for my Christmas seasonal beer, but I was too fatigued to come up with anything. 

            I tried to do some reading after supper, but I fell asleep with the book still in my hands.

            I had nothing planned for Sunday, apart from a walk round the Temperate Zone and a quick visit to the brewery to make sure the equipment had been cleaned properly from the previous batch.  I went back to my cabin with the intention of reading Kurt Vonnegut’s Welcome to the Monkey House from cover-to-cover before bed. 

            I was interrupted by my phone ringing, which is a such a rare event that it took me a minute to work out what it was.  Virtually all my communication is via the ship’s email system, and I set my mobile not to make a noise when I receive one.  I check it whenever I feel like it, which is usually quite frequently.  I tried to work out who it might be, but I was so mystified that I just answered it, but only after it had been ringing for some time. 

            It was Anna. 

            ‘Kelvin, I am wondering if you could do me a favour.’ 

            ‘A favour?’

            ‘Yes.  A favour.’

            ‘What kind of favour?’

            ‘I’ve got some-one new on my books.  She is very new, and in fact has only had one client.’

            ‘Yes?’

            ‘He turned out to be a weirdo.  He paid her, and he wasn’t violent, but she described his behaviour to me and I agree – this client was scarily weird.  I want to make sure that her next is some-one I know I can trust.’

            ‘Are you saying that you want me to book a session with her?’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘Any special time?’

            ‘Now.’

            ‘Now?’

            ‘Well, as soon as you can be ready.’

            ‘Why now?'

            ‘Well, I don’t usually take bookings on a Sunday, but I don’t want to put her into the normal schedule until her head is a bit more together.’

            ‘You want me to book a session with her, in order to help her get her head together.’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘Do I still have to pay?’  The response was silence.  ‘I take it that means that I am still expected to pay.’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘What’s her name?’

            ‘Olivia.  She is auburn, freckly, and quite effervescent.’

            ‘OK.  I’ll do it.  I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

*

            Why now?  Why now?  Why do you think, you stupid, ignorant, thick-headed, moronic, infuriating idiot?  Do you still have to pay?  Do you still have to pay?  Four the sake of four sovereigns, you ask if you still have to pay.  This is not the real payment, Kelvin.  This is not even something on account.  What is four fucking sovereigns to Doctor Kelvin-bloody-bleeding Alexander-twat-Philip bastard-Stark PhD?

*

Olivia buzzed me through the main door and stood in the entrance, Layla-style, in an overcoat and high-heels.  I was expecting her to have little on underneath, and I was right.

            ‘Hello, baby.  How are you today?’

            ‘A bit tired, actually.’

            ‘Ooh, baby.  Come on in and sit down.’  She led me to a large and very comfortable sofa, covered in dark green fabric.  It was new, and I wondered where it had come from.  I guessed that Kerr McLean’s company had made it.  She sat opposite me on one of the upright chairs from the cabin’s dining area, and looked rather uncomfortable.  She was wearing white lingerie, including a basque with suspenders, white stockings with lace tops, a piece of white lace secured around her neck with a brooch, and white court shoes.  She kept tapping her feet.

            ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, suddenly.  ‘I am going to have to take these shoes off.  I borrowed them off Angel and they are at least a whole size too small.  They are killing me.  Ah, that’s better.’  A pause, and then, ‘Do you think I look like a tranny in this outfit?’  I laughed.

            ‘You look absolutely nothing like a tranny.’  She looked relieved.  ‘Would you like me to give you a foot massage?’  I asked her, for want of something better to say.

            ‘Ooh, baby – that would be lovely,’ she declared.  ‘But – hang on a minute – you’re supposed to be the client here.’

            ‘Don’t worry about that.  Just lie down here.’

            She reclined luxuriously on the sofa, which was wide enough for me to sit next to where she lay without sliding onto the floor.  I lifted her stockinged foot onto my lap and slowly began to massage the sole.  She moaned with satisfaction and closed her eyes.  I took my time.  I was just about to move my attention to her other foot, when her head started to loll slightly, and her breathing become very regular.  Suddenly, she sat bolt upright, and looked at a small watch on a very narrow strap on her wrist. 

            ‘I won’t count this towards the hour, you know.’

            ‘Relax,’ I re-assured her.  ‘Just relax.  It doesn’t matter.’  I carried on with the massage.  I rubbed her insteps, and her heels, and each of her toes.  This was the longest I had been in the Starlight room without taking my clothes off or somebody’s touching my penis.

            ‘Ooh, this is good.  Ooh, baby, this is so relaxing.  Mm, I could lie here all day like this – all day.’  There was a noise.  Olivia sat bolt upright again.  ‘Oh, shit.  That’s my phone.  I forgot to turn it off.’  She leaned over,  barely maintaining contact with the sofa, and grabbed the strap of an enormous red leather handbag with chrome buckles.  She fumbled frantically in the depths of the bag, and dug out the phone.  ‘Shit City.  It’s from Anna.  There’s a text as well.’  She pressed some buttons, and looked perplexedly at the screen.  The phone continued to ring.  ‘The call’s for you,’ she said as she handed the instrument to me.  I hate using other people’s phones, almost as much as I hate any-one else touching mine. 

            ‘Hello?’  Olivia lay back, silent, still, and unblinking, with a concerned look on her face.  She looked like a child whose parent was talking on the phone to an irate schoolteacher. 

            ‘Kelvin – Anna here.  I hate to break my policy of never any interruptions, but I just wanted to say – before you got started – that I might not have been clear enough in what I was saying before.’

            ‘Yes?’

            ‘Intercourse.  There has to be intercourse.’  I began to wander to the opposite side of the room.  I clamped the phone to the side of my head as if I needed it to staunch an arterial bleed.

            ‘Sorry?’

            ‘To help her get her head straight – you remember?’

            ‘Er, yes.  I remember.  Of course.’

            ‘Are you OK with that?  She needs cock.’

            ‘Of course.  Of course.’

            ‘Inside her.’

            ‘Indeed.’

            ‘Fuck her, Kelvin.

            ‘By all means.’

            ‘Fuck her brains out.

            ‘Oh, yes.  Absolutely.’

            ‘Ram it right up her soaking wet cunt.

            ‘Goodbye, Anna.  Speak to you again soon. Thank you.’  I rang off.  Olivia seemed no longer nervous, more half-asleep.  She perked up again as soon as I handed the phone back to her.

            ‘What was all that about?  Was it to do with me?’

            ‘Partly.’

            ‘Have I done something wrong?’

            ‘No, not at all.  Everything’s fine.’

            ‘What did she want?’

            ‘She wanted me to do something for her.  For you.  For her.’

            ‘What was it?’

            ‘The instructions were quite vague.  I think she just wanted us to get to know each other better.’

            ‘Better?’

            ‘Er.  More intimately.  You know.  Anyway, where were we?’  I started to massage her feet again, but this time I moved gradually up to her ankles and then up her legs.  After a while, I was kneeling on the floor beside her as she lay on the sofa, and was rubbing the inside of her thighs.  She was moaning with pleasure.  We moved over to the bed and I undressed. I resumed my position next to her, parted her labia, and began licking her clitoris.  She was very wet.  I think she had a mild orgasm.  For the third time during that session, she sat bolt upright and looked at her watch.

            ‘Kelvin, do you want me to wank you off, suck you off, or would you prefer to fuck me?’

            ‘Mm.  Let me think about that for a moment.’  She frowned, her eyes wide.  

            ‘Huh, baby?

            ‘I would very much like to fuck you, please.’  She feigned shock, while continuing to open the condom-drawer and get one out for me.

            ‘What a disgusting way to talk.  You should be ashamed.’

            ‘I am utterly overcome with guilt and remorse – quite prostrated,’ I said, as I sheathed myself, climbed on top of her and slid my pulsating erection inside her.  She pulled her basque down to reveal her smallish, pointy, freckly tits, with very brown nipples.  I fucked her very slowly, very rhythmically, and very hard.  We both grunted in unison with the muscular effort.  By the tenth exclamation, we were both coming strenuously.  

            After a few brief moments for recovery and token exchanges of affection, we wiped up, and I got dressed while Olivia went to turn the shower on.  We had gone slightly over time and she was fretting about it.  I told her not to worry and to let me know if Anna ticked her off about it.  She forgot to ask me for the money.  I left five sovereigns on the coffee table before I let myself out.  As I was shutting the door, I darted back into the room, and deposited another sovereign.

            I sent Anna a text message: Mission accomplished.

*

Mm.  Oh, yes, Kelvin.  You did accomplish that mission very satisfactorily.  You deserve a medal for that.  Ooh, baby.  

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