Newspaper Page Text
.. The Summerville News, Thursday, September 4, 1986
4-B
from second front
m)wcrfun{ with a tree trunk leg, and sank his shoulder pad
the kicker's ribs up to the straps. Suddenly, unaccoun
tablg. the kicker found himself flying through the air with
his heels higher than his head.
Jamie cut for the gap and crossed the 25, following
Truck, who was still on his feet and mowing people down.
Jamie shifted into high and flew past the 35. A hand slap
ped his thigh pad hard and he spun.
A voice behind him said, “l-fixp!" and he cut for the
sidelines. Truck went down under two men. A train hit
Jamie on the right side and he stumbled crossing the 45.
Ever{one in the stands was standing and screaming.
Another “HUP" came to him and he cut afiain. An
18-wheeler hit his left leg and he let it go limp and felt the
tackler slide off.
On the sidelines, Trella Baines was a tight.lfi strung
wire. He was so slim, and those pigs from Blairsville so biF.
“Fly, Jamie, Fly," her sweet soul cried to him silently
across the emerald grass of the new field.
Jamie heard hoofbeats all around him. He ducked one
huge arm, got caught between two smart tacklers at the
Blairsville 40 and %rought hard to the springy turf.
Everyone on the Hound side held their breath to see
if the bacK would get up. When he bounced to his feet there
was a sigh of relief.
The man with the pipe took it out of his mouth and
gazed in susprise at the crack running all the way up the
stem.
Truck Gross slapped Jamie on the tail. “Mfl Christmas,
my man, can't {ou (fi) any better than that? Why, I've seen
ygu run kickoffs back against our own guys better than
that.”
“Some big idiot got in my way over next to the
sidelines,”” Jamie saidg with the shy grin that was his
trademark.
“Yes, well, big idiots tend to do that.”
Anyone who had not been with the team duriniits for
mation would not have known that the two players had just
passed compliments to each other.
Travis, who had overheard the exchange and who had
been with the team during its formation, only grinned and
shook his head.
Joe Merlin trotted into the huddle. *“*All right,
gentlemen, what say we give our visitors a little surprise?”
Skee Farnsworth, the tall skinny tackle, grunted.
“*Capital idea, Mr. Merlin. What say, cf‘;aps?" A c%\rorus of
grunts and one syllable replies led to the break and they
came up to the line.
The Blairsville coach, the legendary Bulldog Bledsoe
leaned, hands on knees, anxiously watching his defense. At
the snap a huge hole suddenly opened in t%le middle of the
line. With lightning reflexes, all three linebackers dived to
gluithe hole, through which a big, awkward lOOkigg Hound
ack was chugging. Bulldog straightened, started to clap
his hands, but froze. The Hound end on this side had looped
around the Bear cornerback after faking a block and was
suddenly gliding along the sidelines in yard-eating strides.
In an instant, the head coach's eyes darted to the line of
scrimmafie, where the tall Hound quarterback was just
starting his passing motion. It looked for all the world as
though the long arm waved as if to say, “Aw, g'wan,” yet
the ball climbed the lob path in a spiral so tig%lt it didn't
seem to be turning.
Billy Ray laasaks looked back at the Bear 30. The ball
hung softly in the heavy air 20 feet above him and 20 yards
behind him. He took it over his shoulder in full stride like
a pet brown bird. It was so soft Billy Ray found himself
crooning to it as his long legs ate up the final yards to the
money stripe.
Oh, how you been, little ball of mine?
Did you Hy so high in the sky?
oOld Gunner threw you and Billy Ray caught you,
Made Blairsville lay down and die.
Hoo Hoo Hoo, Hee Hee Hee . ..
He would have sung more but about three tons of beef
hit and bore him happily to the dewy turf. Big hands pull
ed him ulpright and he was mask to mask with a grinning
Joe Merlin.
“Lawdy, lawdy, lawdy, what a catch, Billy Ray!"”
*“You fuzzin me, white boy? My little 2-year-old sister
could have caught that ball!™
On the Blairsville sideline the man who had had more
players on scholarship than any other coach in the state
was blisterin%l players and coaches alike in language that
was causing the air to turn blue and some mothers to cover
their children’s ears.
Bledsoe turned back to the field, his face puffy with
broken blue and red veins and the results of a f)ong life of
hard drinking and short temper. He was less worried and
angry than he showed. He had been scored on before on
the first play. He had been behind early before. He smiled
grimly to himself. The game was decided on the score at
the end of the game, not the beginning. Besides, he had
some secret weapons of his own, and they weren't plays.
The sawtootg sized Hounds had kicked the point, a{it
tle bow-legged banty rooster putting the ball amost out of
sight through the geometric center of the uprights, and the
teams were lining up for the kickoff.
At the same time Walter Houston was stumbling
through the kudzu jungle on the rise East of the saucer of
light from the football field. He was on his way to his shack;
hit bottle, his precious bottle, his life for the next few hours,
was tightly clutched to his thin chest. He lurched against
a big pine to listen again, the rough bark cutting into the
skinny shoulder through the filthy shirt.
He did not think of the pain. He thought only of his
bottle and, since he had started the two mile walk from his
long-time supplier, one other thing.
Something was after him.
He had had this feeling of being followed or watched
for three or four days now. Dreading what he might see,
he turned in the direction from which he had come.
Shadows.
Monsters.
Walter jerked away from the pine. His legs wouldn’t
work right from fear and years o? substituting wine for
food. He went down in a tangle of kudzu and barely manag
ed to twist his body so that his bottle was on top. The
breath whooshed out of his tired lungs. Frantically he felt
his bottle. He breathed a sigh of relief. Still intact. Then,
up on his knees, he looked again at the path he had come.
One shadow seemed to detach itself gom the rest. *'Oh,
Lordy, oh Lordy . .. " Walter blubbered, scrabbling away
from the tall, cloaked shadow, his terror stricken mind
noticing the glint of something long and shiny in the
moonlight.
On the field, the bow-legged Hound kicker trotted
toward the ball. It rose off the tee like a thing alive. When
it crossed the Blairsville thirty it was still climbing. It hit
15 yards behind the goal line. Two counts after it bounc
ed, at least five Hound Suicide Squad runners crossed the
goal line.
For the second time, the Blairsville assistant coach
breathed, ‘‘Lord amercy!"
In the Blairsville huddle, the weasel faced quarterback
rasped to the offense, "'Let's show these hayseeds how to
play football! They look like a bunch of farm boys! It'll be
25 to nothing at the end of the first quarter! What you say,
Steve?’ This last to the candidate for all state tackle.
“Chew 'em up and spit ‘em out!"" growled Barringer. He
had already been hit on the kickoff like he had never been
hit before. His kicking and coverage was being counted on
to contribute towards his scholarship. He had been shown
up and he was mad.
The big Bears broke the huddle. Their offensive line
averaged 185, with tackles that went 225 and 245. At the
snap the down linemen came off the ball with quickness.
Barringer came off and went for his blocking assignment,
the middle linebacker.
Turk Barnes took the all state tackle by the shoulder
pads and flung him away. Barringer, an astonished look
on his face beiind the mask, wound up skidding on his
shoulder. The Bear ball carrier, big powerful legs churn
ing, counting on five to seven yards through the clodhop
pers this first play on offense, saw a skinny sh?e rise up
out of the writhing mass of pads and arms and legs. He
was hit in the chest with a force that knocked the wind out
of him. From long training he started to spin and was hit
again. He felt arms and hands clawing at the ball, which
he suddenly found himself clutching frantically up under
Copperhead Strikes, Hounds Blank Bears
his chin. He was hit the third time from the other side, lifted
off his feet, and slammed to the turf with bone jarring force.
He had lost two yards.
*“Whassa matter, Barringer," sneered the quarterback
in the huddle, "i'ou finally run up against somebody that
can pla‘y" football?"
lé , hung my toe getting out,’’ he croaked toward the
ground. ’
Across the line, Turk Barnes slapped the dark red
helmet of Mike Josephs, the tall, skinny middle guard.
“Way to hit, Slat! How do you do that?"
The long, serious face behind the mask didn't change.
“‘Leverage, my boy, leverage,” he said quietly. Turk's dark
face split into a grin and he crabbed sideways as the Bears
came to the line. He waved at the outside linebacker on the
wide side. 'Coming at you, Junior!" he called.
Junior Pollard waved back. He fixed his hunter's eyes
on the faces of the running backs. Sure enough, he saw the
fleeting glance of the taifback flick to his side.
At the snap it seemed to Junior that most 6f the peo
ple in the stangs had pulled out of the Bear line and were
coming at him. He took the first blocker in the chest and
heaved him up off his feet and backwards into the two or
three others behind. As he was going down, he saw the ball
carrier suddenly catapulted backward and to the side about
five yards.
“Nice to meet you," said Turk as he extended a hand
to help the tailback up. The ilayer slapped the hand away.
“*Have a nice evening'’ Turk called after him.
Tim Storey, the knock kneed defensive end, got up from
under the interferance. ‘' How many did you get, Junior?"’
he asked the slim hipped outside %acker.
**Must have been 30 of 40, at least,” said Junior, shak
ing his head.
“Well, I don't want to alarm anyone, but that means
these gentlemen have at least a 131 people on their team.
Is that legal?”
Luke %’arsons, the outside backer on the other side, tail
slapped Turk. ‘“These boys don't seem very friendly, Mr.
Barnes. Have you noticed?"
I have im{eed. Mr. Parsons. And I wouldn't be a bit
surprised if that one with the rat face didn’t try something
dastardly on us. What's the name of that new-fangled play
they have now?"
*“I think it's called a}rass."
**Ah yes. The pass.” He turned and spoke to the slim
defensive back wearing number 13. *‘Dexter, that means
you.
Dexter Penrose tried to swallow the lump that came
suddenly into his throat. Turk grinned.
“Eat 'em up, Tiger." Turk ca.fi;d as Dexter trotted back
to his defensive sa%ety osition. Dexter was a complete
mystery. To himself ang to everyone else on the squad.
Before any test or trial, Dexter was all sweaty palms and
wobbly knees. But when the ball was snapped, he hit with
a savage power that had many times in practice turned even
Turk’s heels up.
I guess q‘m just scared, Turk,” he had barely
whispered the Saturday the whole squad had gone swim
ming in Deer Creek.
Turk had spoken softly. They were sitting agart. from
the others munching on hot dogs and fiotato chips.
**Scared my hing leg,” he had said then. ‘‘Dexter, you
hit harder than nearly anyone on the squad. Scared is the
last thing you are. I'm no shrink, buddy, but I'd be willing
to bet that you simply have an adrenlin system that goes
into hyper-overdrive.”
Dexter had swallowed hot dog, his adam'’s apple bob
bing up and down. ‘‘Huh! You really think so?”’ And so
he had been somewhat molified that day.
Now he watched as the ball was snapped and the lines
meshed. He saw a big runner smash into the line. He sens
ed Bear people moving in his peripheral vision, both right
and left. Suddenly he saw the whippet thin Bear quarter
back with his arm cocked. He pumped to the weak side.
Dexter refused to be suckered.
The quarterback bounced to his receiver's side and
Dexter drifted into the flooded zone. Dimly he felt Troy
Cordell and Sham Stewart playing the pattern.
Suddenly a tall Bear receiver cut out of the zone across
the middle. Dexter gathered himself. The quarterback’s
arm went back. Dexter's ears went back ang he launched
himself toward the crossing receiver. The tall number 84
reached for the ball, inches from his fingers. The briefest
shadow fell across his chest, and the ball was gone, tucked
under the arm of a gazelle who headed for the sidelines at
the Bear 25.
**Whoo-Hah!"’ yelled Sham Stewart, the right corner
back, ‘‘Come on, Dex!"
Dexter slid behind the pigeon-toed cornerback, who
ducked his head, straightened up quickly and sent a Bear
flying. Sham got two more as Dexter crossed the 20, went
down under three men, and Dexter was pushed out of
bounds on the ten.
On the sidelines, the peculiar feeling the solidly built
head coach had had ever since the game started had not
changed. He felt an all gone feeling in his stomach. The
stands were unusually quiet. There was something strange
here. Something very strange.
.Travis Y\ut an arm around Joe Merlin's shoulder pads.
**Joe,” he asked in what he hoped was an even voice,
“What is it? Are we playing over our heads, or is Blairsville
just over confident, or are they that bad, or,"” he swallow
ed, **God help us, are we that good?"
Joe Merlin had a funny half grin on his wide mouth.
““Maybe a little of all of the above, coach. What do you
figure would be good to do here?"
“Well, I guess one of the things we should find out
about as quickly as possible is what we are like in the tren
ches. Truck!”, he turned and called over his shoulder.
**Yes, sir!"’ the wide form of the offensive guard was
at his elbow.
“Thinking about seeing if we can ram it down their
throats here. What do you think?"
**Good idea. Our balffside guys over here have been try
ing to figure out what's goinf on."”
I know. So have we. OK, lets stay on the ground, bet
ween the tackles, and try to move the thing 10 yards.”
The offensive team sl}(])wed the defense considerably as
they passed.
““My, my, Mr. Storey, I didn't know you liked to eat
dirt all that much.”
“Dexter, how many times do I have to tell you that
it is illegal to intercept a pass when you jump more than
63 feet off the ground.”
*Oh, guess, I did forget, didn't 1?"
“*Way to go Turk, Junior, Luke,” Joe Merlin had a word
for each of the sweaty linebackers.
**Get it in, Joe,”" Turk Barnes said.
“Give it a go, my man. We will definitely give it a go.”
**Skee, leave us see what things are like on your side
first, what say?"
The hulking tackle put on a ten second bashful little
air-brain accent. *‘Me? Little old me? Why, sir, I'm honored.
Why, I declare. I mean, really . . . " They broke the huddle.
Bulldog Bledsoe ceased his tirade against the offense
as the Hounds came up a%lainst his defense. He scowled.
His assistant had been right. They did use a two quarter
back offense.
“Two quarterbacks!"" he had thundered when the word
had come gown from the coaches in the press box. He had
}sltalged over and snatched the phone out of the assistant’s
and.
“*What the devil do you mean, two quarterbacks?"" he
had shouted. But as usual, he made more noise than was
necessary. He knew the formation, or something very close
to it.
It was a variation of the old short punt formation,
which usually had two backs squatting on either side of
the center to take the snafi. These two backs had their
hands on the center’s mid-t ifih. A modified T snap. Bled
soe’s eyes narrowed. His mind clicked off the advantages.
He was gulled back to the field by the snap, and saw one
of the advantages unfold before iis eyes.
A big stringy Hound tackle slippe({ his man and made
for the linebacker. The defensive lineman took two chop
?y steps, felt somethini was wrong, and was about to de
end against the trap when he was slammed from the side.
Joe Merlin eased the ball into the iron ribs of Ham
Guest and the squatty farmer chugged into the opening
created by the trap.
The Bear middle linebacker, the number 55 seemin
small across his massive chest, shrugged off a decent blocfi
and met the back head on.
Ham never slowed. His leiaction never faltered. He
ran into, up, and over the linebacker,
The other two linebackers and three deep backs
brougvlclt Ham down at the four,
“Way to go, Ham. How did that feel?'' asked Joe
Merlin.
“Bout like rasslin steers,” Ham muttered.
On the next play, Joe stuck a hand into Ham's belly
again, and the quarterback turned his head with Ham as
he went by, supposedly to watch his progress. But Plug
Short, the loose jointed deep back, picked sfe ball off Joe's
hip and an%led for a hole over left tackle. Plug did a jig step
once and then a slight stutter step and pranced into the
end zone.
Bulldog Bledsoe threw his hat to the ground and
stomped on it. “What did he do?" he elle(fr to anyone
around him. *‘There was no hole! What di! the sucker 6'0?"
He dgot no answer.
And neither did Walter Houston get an answer when
he wailed to the billowing shadow that he thought was
following him. He had stumbled, scudded and slid most of
the mile and a half towards his shack with the evil spectre
flitting from tree to tree behind him, ever in shadows, with
now and then a glint of shiny metal in the full moon.
Walter Houston was plainly terrified. Terror had con
sumed him. His normally pasty face was chalk*white. His
eyes budged. His breath rasped from his lungs. If he could
only make it to his shack, he would be safe. Then, suddenly
there it was! His shack! He was safe! Only a hundred yargs
away! Renewed courage flowed into him, and he increased
his g}ice.
e was brought up short by the terror which sudden
ly materialized in front of him. There was no mistaking it
now! It had something raised high over its cowled head.
Whatever it was gleamed in the moonlight. Walter rais
ed his hand to ward off the thing. There was a swish and
Walter stared stupidly at his arm.
It had no hand!
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEE . .." Walter keened as it
registered that the stump was jetting blood in great arterial
squirts into the thick kudzu.
Mindless now, Walter suddenly realized that that was
the hand that had held the bottle. Frantically, he searched
the vines for it. His left hand reached down to part the
vines.
Another swish and Walter was pushing at the vines
with the stum(;) of his left arm.
Fascinated, Walter held both arms up, both pumping
blood nearly in unison.
Walter felt faint. The thick, sweet smell of a lot of blood
came to him. He began to sink slowly to his knees, then,
as the night woods got darker, to fold slowly onto his back.
Now he could see the huge black shadow over him, and
the shine of the long metal again, though dimmer now.
Another swish and a THUNK! this time. A count or
two and a like swish and THUNK! again.
Walter's toes twitched in his broken down work shoes.
But the shoes were no longer attached to the legs. They
lay, pathetic things, two or three feet from the stumps of
Walter's legs. Walter's life blood was pouring out of his
wasted bofy from four fountains.
The last thing Walter wondered was what had become
of his bottle.
The last thing Bulldog Bledsoe wondered was if his
team, region champipns last year, could come back from
two touchdowns early in the game.
After the Hounds had kicked off again, the Bears made
little headway, and punted. The Hounds, starting on their
30, made two first downs on the ground, then stalled
against an inspired defense, and the punting team trotted
onto the field.
The Blairsville kick rushers, though down 14 points,
smirked and elbowed each other when the Hound punter
trotted onto the field.
Cyrus Franklin Percy was six feet four and weighed
128 pounds.
A big Blairsville lineman guffawed, *“The ball will
knock him down,” he hooted.
Chuck Harger spiraled the ball back waist high.
And Cyrus Franfilin Percy was transformed. Sudden
ly the knobbiness was gone. Afi the parts of him that seem
ed to go in different (firections at once disatppeared.
Striding into the ball was a long, graceful slingshot.
The ball was dropped dead still and the leg that swung right
to left had full extension.
THOOOOOMMMMMBBBBB! The ball rocketed
away from the size 13 shoe, pointed its nose at the moon
and climbed in a tight spiraf
Bulldog Bledsoe's mouth dropped open.
**Good Christ!" he breathed.
The Blairsville safety took one look and turned and ran
for his life.
At the apex of its flight the ball was 35 yards from the
line of srimmage. It nosed over and bounced at the
Blairsville five.
“Seventy-three yards in the air!" husked a Bear
assistant.
On the Hound sideline, Travis flashed back to his first
sight of Cy Percy kicking a football in his granddads
pasture.
¢ ‘(‘jWhere‘d you learn to kick a football like that?'" he had
asked.
Cy had liked the open faced giant at once. **Well, most
l)lr dI .j.ust grew intoit, I guess, since I was about 6 or 7 years
old.
Now, as he trotted off the field to thunderous applause
and screaming and yelling, Cy was blushing furiously.
Teammates pounded him on the back. Turk Barnes put on
a mock stern face and said, ‘‘Don’t want to see anymore
half hearted efforts like that again, Percy. Egad, man, when
you kick the ball, for heavens sake KICK it!"
Travis said in a perfect deadpan, “Not bad, Cy. Not
bad at all.” And turned away. Then he turned back quick
ly and grabbed Cy and danced him around.
After that, Bulldog Bledsoe didn't wonder any more.
The first quarter ended at 21-0. The Blairsville stands
were stunned.
And so, as a matter of fact, were the Humber stands.
People in the communities from which the students
came had not expected anything like this. The Hound assis
tant coaches, Jim Cannon and Clarence Sparrow and Whit
Kinsman, had not expected it.
Slab Bullock spit and cursed himself for a fool.
The bespanglecr bottle blonde still had not managed to
catch the young head coach’s eye from the stands, but she
had caught several other eyes.
The second half was not much different from the first,
except for one incident early in the third quarter. Truck
Glross noticed Skee Farnsworth had been quiet for several
ays.
' y“l say, my man, do I detect a spot of thundercloud in
tllxat otherwise happy black face?"’ he had said between
plays.
“You do.” Skee had said tightly.
“What seems to be the trouble?”
“I think some of these gentlemen who are visiting are
wearing their KKK bedsheets under their jerseys. Like to
call folfis names."’
“Ah ha. The big N, is it?"
“Yeah.”
Blairsville had called a time out. The Hounds were on
one knee close together.
“Ah, Mr. Mer%in, your quarterbackship, if I might say
a word?"
“By all means, Mr. Gross. You have the floor."
“TKank you. Well, it develops that one of our young
visitors has taken to calling our associate Mr. Farnsworth
nasty names. If you wouldg be so good as to call a play so
that Sam and I could meet this poor misguided chap and
chat with him about how awkward it is to call people names
in an athletic contest of this sort, I'm sure we would all
be most grateful.”
“No trouble at all, Mr. Gross. Lets make it trap 43 on
three. And may I say you handled that quite well, Mr.
Gross."”
Truck feigned the affected dandy, ‘‘Oh, pish and tush,
sir, it was notfi?ng, really. Uh, did you really think I did well,
I'mean . .. "
The leftside linebacker sneered at the bif‘ tackle. Truck
turned to the tackle on his side, “Would you ike the high or
the low?” 4 ‘
“I think I'd like the low,” said Sam Carter.
“Excellent. I'll take the high then. .
At the snap the linebacker dived toward the now familiar
hole that opened in front of him. He was hlt.umultane()usly
by two trains. He lost consciousness almost immediately.
Sam and TruckJmt up.
The linebacker did not. :
Truck looked down. “Dear me, I guess we'll ha\ie to
postpone our chat. It would have been nice, though, Sam,
don't you think?” ,
The trainers carried the linebacker off the field.
At the final gun it was Humber County 36, Blulrsylllc 0.
At about that time the fourth factor of the first mfiht in
that season to remember was approaching Humber Ho low.
Lance Snider, the 22 year old only son of sheriff Rab
bitt Snider, had parked the $26,000 car his father had
bought him carefully in front of the Zipper-Dipper conve
nience store and gone in.
Before he hmf gone into the store, Lance had cruelly
teased and jostled old Benny Strunk, who picked pi) cans
along the roadways, in order to show off for two girls, age
12 and 13, standing in front of the store. The girls wore
cut off jeans, were heavily made up, and held long cigaret
tes between dirty fingers with long nails.
Suddenly the right front of the long, sleek car e_xglod
ed. The girls jumpeg. One of them burned herself with her
cigarette. The car settled with a mangled front tire just as
Lance exploded out the door. :
“What th,” he began, but threw up his arms to pro
tect his face as another tire exploded, and in quick succes
sion the other two. Lance looked around wildly, Lust as the
back glass shattered. Then, while the three of them stood
rooteg to the spot, the windshield was blown away, the or
nate side mirrors jumped off the car in small explosions,
and both door handles gecame twisted pieces of metal. Then
it was still. :
Lance looked at his ruined car. He was still looking at
it, dazed, when the patrol car screeched to a halt.
Claude Pair put %is personal problems aside and con
centrated on the case at hand. A citizen had had his car
trashed by an unknown perp with a silenced wea%on. He
and Jim Tom Mercer were on the bank across from the store
with flashlights.
Claude pursed his lips, thinking. A pretty good shot
with a hang gun this far away, and the thought hit him
right away. Not just pretty good, fantastic would be more
like it. The next thought came just as fast, impossible. Then
— Lord — a silenced rifle? We may be dealing with a pro
fessional here.
At about that point, smelling musky honeysuckle and
crushed green grass, he found the snakeskin. He shined the
flashlight on it.
“Copperhead,”” breathed Jim Tom at his elbow. “'Bi
‘un. Bi%gest I ever seen. Knock a man down he git hit witfi
that feller.”
When he and Claude pulled away from the parking lot
a half hour later, Jim Tom thought he had seen enough ex
citement for one night. It is not recorded what he thought
at 3:38 a.m. when he discovered what it was that was tangl
ed in the flag halfway up the flagpole in front of the post
office. He didn’t even realize what it was that was dripp
ing on him because it was dark. No one knew exactly wEat
he realized when he started screaming. ;
But even that was no match for the terror that clutch
ed at the throat of sheriff Rabbit Snider when he came sud
denly out of a deep and peaceful sleep, his last, and saw
in the dim light the grinning face of death. two inches from
his own.
NEXT WEEK
MURDER ON THE LOOSE
IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE
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