Blood stained paper, two empty handles of liquor lying on the ground like young soldiers left to die in some sand-swept hellscape. The curtains are drawn, every siren almost certainly sounding for me. Run Devil Run oil splashed across the front door to ward off Johnny Law and whatever demons enforce municipal codes. What possessed me to do that? The rum or the LSA? Jesus Christ, don’t tell me that pistol I was carrying was loaded!
My mind is haunted by a repeating image summoned by my spirit guide, some noxious symbolic key to the inauguration, the election, perhaps even human history. Too much to think about, too horrifying; crawling, slithering…
Mother of God, how had we gotten here? What kind of journalism was this?
“Why Johnny Ringo, You Look Like Somebody Just Walked Over Your Grave…”
BEFORE THE FULL HORROR of Trump’s inauguration can fully be digested we must first walk ourselves through the odious labyrinth that brought us to it. I had followed the 2016 elections from the beginning, a roving, drunken reporter crashing Bernie rallies and Trump Volksbunds in an attempt to understand one of the most bizarre elections in American history. 2016 had been weird, very weird, and magically it felt as if the gates to some radioactive sewer had been thrown open, the misshapen creatures emerging from it not only horrible to the eye but disgusting by all accounts to every decent palate.
There was Bernie Sanders, a faux-socialist who honestly thought he could turn a nation of gun-toting savages into healthcare-sharing Nords while believing in drone strikes, still supporting Saudi Arabia, and still holding the view the United States should run the planet. His policies weren’t that radical at all when viewed from a global perspective, but in the United States he hit a nerve. He thought of himself as a modest reformer, and believed the country did too, when in actuality many
hoped believed he was something much more radical.
The Democrats, nothing more than a pack of swindlers and thieves, decided that Sanders’ vision was much too radical, and literally stole the primary from him to put a two-bit, lying, disgusting Iguana in the running for the halls of power.
Hillary Clinton’s name will forever be associated with the bleakest of failures since the Goldwater campaign, and even this is too good for her. She lied about almost everything, she freely admitted pretending to give a shit about the poor while throwing $100,000-a-head banquets for the insiders she adored, and her policies were no different from Obama’s except in their bloodthirstiness.
Hillary openly advocated war with Russia, gleefully advanced the wholesale slaughter and destruction of Libya, and even stood in the way of the Syrian peace-process. During the primary I documented a string of outright thefts she used to win, not to mention the entire party coming out for her at all costs.
“An email released by Wikileaks from Clinton Campaign Chair John Podesta confirmed the DNC coordinated the debate schedule to maximize the benefit it yielded to the Clinton Campaign. After only six were scheduled, Sanders’ Supporters helped push the DNC and Clinton to add 3 more, but the Clinton Campaign refused to participate in a debate before the California Democratic Primary….
As head of the DNC, Debbie Wasserman Schultz violated the neutrality demanded by the DNC Charter, and fostered an environment that functioned as an arm of the Clinton Campaign rather than an impartial entity meant to promote and ensure democracy in the primaries.
To help tip the scale in favor of Hillary Clinton even further, Wasserman Schultz quietly rescinding a ban on donations from lobbyists and political action committees initially enacted by President Obama in 2008. The decision was an invite for corporate and wealthy influences to take over the Democratic Party and help Hillary Clinton get elected, as Bernie Sanders’ refusal to take any money from lobbyists or Super-Pacs was a staple of his campaign. This rule change gave Clinton an advantage over Sanders, and Debbie Wasserman Schultz enacted the rule change knowing it would only benefit Hillary Clinton…Even in the wake of negative publicity from Wikileaks, Debbie Wasserman Schultz resigned only to be immediately hired by the Clinton Campaign as honorary chair to Clinton’s 50-state campaign program. In lieu of punishment for overtly violating the DNC Charter, Hillary Clinton rewarded Wasserman Schultz for her assistance in helping defeat Bernie Sanders in the primaries.”
In an effort to appease Millennials in the face of Tammany-Hall-level corruption the Democrats introduced an oh-so-progressive platform for the party that amounted to literally nothing:
“Minimum Wage. The committee said a minimum wage of $15 an hour is a nice idea, but rejected the Sanders proposal to actually raise the federal minimum wage to $15 an hour. The Clinton members of the committee also rejected indexing any minimum wage to inflation…
Education. For public schools, the platform “reaffirmed Democrats’ commitment to supporting teachers, schools and communities.” Re-thinking federal mandates, not so much. College education for all who qualify, even less. Eliminating (or just mitigating) student debt, not at all…
Trade. “Existing deals must be continuously re-examined and enforcement of those existing agreements must be tougher.” Not tough enough now, with TransCanada suing the U,S, under NAFTA for delaying their Keystone XL pipeline? Not a word about that. And not a word about the pending TPP (Trans-Pacific Partnership), opposed by Sanders, sort of opposed by Clinton, but supported by President Obama, so the committee felt politically hog-tied and punted (if you can imagine such contortions). The platform says, “A higher standard [undefined] must be applied to any future trade agreements.” Really?..
Universal Health Care. Reiterating its decades-old assertion that “health care is a right,” the platform promotes the Affordable Care Act as a success to build on. The committee, like the president in 2009, explicitly rejected single-payer, Medicare-for-all, despite its manifest popularity and superiority over any other available plan. The Clinton people would have none of it. Universal health care is not even serious pie-in-the-sky.
Military Budget. $600 billion a year for what? Not worth asking.
Intelligence Budgets. Billions more, much in black budgets, and for what? You’d better not ask.”
The convention was a joke. The Lizard Queen had been selected. The only way to sell her to the American people was to find somebody so off the goddamn rails everybody would be too scared to vote against her.
Enter Donald Trump.
We know from leaked documents that the Democrats basically hand-selected Donald Trump as the opposition. We know they puffed him up during the Republican primary. What the Democrats failed to understand was just how fed up people were with “business as usual.”
Like some Tolkein-esque villain, the Democrats would literally forge the weapon that would undo them.
Donald Trump said a lot of what Bernie Sanders did, albeit through a much different lens: both acknowledged the American people had been screwed, that the quality of life had gone straight down the shitter. While Hillary kept telling people everything was fine, Trump freely admitted the goddamn plane had crashed into the mountain.
Of course he wouldn’t change the basic structure of the broken system. He’d just make it better for the wealthy at the top. Therein lies the difference.
Towards the end of the campaign, amid open corruption, Hillary’s supporters ended up sounding like tired aristocrats. The proles were told they “weren’t informed,” that they were “being ridiculous,” or that simply Hillary may not have been good but it was the best this country could produce.
On November 8th, to the shock of all involved, the United States resoundingly voted that the “best” the system could produce simply wasn’t good enough. The Democrats weren’t just defeated but had been dragged out in the front lawn and horsewhipped in front of the world.
You can save me the Lost Cause narrative now part-and-parcel to the Democratic mythos: that Hillary “actually” won, that it was “only because Russia” exposed real emails written by Hillary and her team showing how little of a shit they gave about the most basic pretenses of Democracy that took her down. The only crime is getting caught, and if you’re dirty you’re dirty. No matter how they dress it up the fact is they still ran an absolutely terrible candidate so wracked by scandal she made Nixon look like a warm up.
At least Republicans told you they didn’t care about you. The Democrats sat up there and lied to your face, and for that there can be no forgiveness.
Hillary was rotten to the core, a disgusting pustule on the American body politic. The Democrats tried to find the worst person to run against and they still lost. They deserve much worse punishment but at least one small consolation is that for the next 2 years they will exist as simpering rats in a government that is all but closed to them due to their own incompetence. Identity politics came full swing, openly said a female president was far more important than the individual policies she might enact, and ended up crashing faster than a lead zeppelin.
And so Hillary walked out of our lives, hopefully forever.
“He talkin loco… crazy… somethin’ about a sick horse comin’ to get us…”
THE DEATH THROES of the Republic, however cathartic, were now over. Donald Trump was set to take the highest office in the land and by all reports it was to be a horror show of epic proportions. Infowars and Brietbart were practically pissing themselves in the lead up to the inauguration, fears of violent Anarchists overwhelming the police and establishing a People’s Autonomous Zone so real that hundreds of “Bikers For Trump” rode out to do battle.
“Connors said Bikers for Trump riders will not seek confrontations, but he is “absolutely” prepared for physical conflicts.
“We have made the decision that when those people come, we are going to stand face-to-face with them, eye-to-eye, toe-to-toe, shoulder-to-shoulder with my brothers,” Connors said….
Even so, riders have promised to create “a wall of meat”, between protest groups and Inaugural events….
“They’re not getting past us,” promised Connors.
It was my kind of politics and I had loaded up on ammunition to help in the ensuing violence. Falling back on my knowledge of the usual Floridian behavior I was pretty sure we could expect open combat for at least three days, a general uprising starting in the trailer parks as Il Duce took office mixed with large amounts of low level skirmishes in the following weeks. I had taken to walking everywhere with a 9mm and was practically itching to use my new Rock Island Armory revolver in the lead up to the inauguration.
“You just say the word,” I had told my friends and neighbors of color, “and I will be over here faster than a coke dealer hearing the port of Miami is cop-free. I will put down a Klansman faster than Rick Scott fires teachers, harder than the coquina rock over in Saint Augustine; I will kill, maim, or literally evaporate anybody that tries to harm you, and if you know any rich people we can fuck them up too.”
That was the hope at least, that the facade of decency could be dropped, even for a moment, and open combat finish what could only be hinted at in the halls of power. Lord knows everybody wanted it.
One could easily imagine the scene: a smoke-filled corridor is burst through by young Anarchists decked out in black, swinging trench knives into the kidneys of Bikers as police desperately attempt to regain order. Screams and guts pour onto the streets as homemade bombs send limbs flying everywhere. Grenades rock the Lincoln memorial, pieces flying off widly in a haze of shrapnel. Mortar shells fired from inner city neighborhoods fall on DC police, now coated in blood yet still waiting for the “Hot and Ready” sign at Krispy Kreme to turn on.
Suddenly sniper fire rings out from the rooftops. Trump, sweat pouring from his brow, calls in nuclear strikes as Russian and Chinese planes air-drop crates of assault rifles into liberated territory. The UN calls an emergency meeting but the security council vetoes it, nothing stopping the seizure of lands by those with the determination to take them. Rolling blackouts shut down security cameras, everything not nailed down up for grabs. Landlords thrown into the street, private schools razed to the ground; stock brokers hang from lampposts as the John Brown Militia issues a proclamation that Bank of America has closed forever. Death has come to the American Aristocracy, and it rides a pale horse, entire cities burning for days…
Jesus Christ, did I write that?
I must still be under the influence. Only an absolute madman would desire such a thing…
“I Have Not Yet Begun to Defile Myself…”
9:30 am. I’ve downed a glass of water infused with LSA and already killed two beers. I’m grinding up Star Anise, Anise seed, and Frankincense and heating up some charcoal. Cornmeal is poured from my already shaking hand into a glyph shown to me deep in trance several days earlier, the signature of my guiding spirit and aide for this terrible yet uncanny day. As I pour the incense over the red-hot coal smoke engulfs me, its spiritual properties causing my eyes to widen and go without blinking for the remainder of the ritual. My head feels like a door has been opened up and I begin to rattle around the ritual space.
I would need augmented eyes to fully take in the significance of this strange and terrible day, to watch the lewd public fuckery we called an Inauguration take place. The plan was pretty simple, or at least it seemed so in hindsight: load up on LSA and magic, sit down and scan the news and see what weird shit might pop up. There was no doubt in my mind that this final orgy of pomp and circumstance carried within it spiritual significance.
Of course maybe it was a some masochistic urge to see this thing through to the end, to watch what I couldn’t believe unfold so out of my mind it might take days to put the pieces back together. I still have no idea where the blood came from…
“Brother Bat hear me, Brother Bat grant me the ability to see the hidden meaning of all things. Augment my Wizard Eyes and enhance my psychic sense. Let me see the significance of the events today, this we pray!”
My vision begins to ebb and the feeling of a fire deep inside my spine causes me to twist unnaturally. My wife, normally accustomed to the often hideousness ways of the Spirit, gasps as I contort wildly. For a full thirty-seconds I wonder if I’ve perhaps gone too far, if something horrible has indeed happened. The feeling of terror pours out of my spine and right behind my eyes, a cold sweat appearing from nowhere and racing down my forehead. Holy Hell! What the hell was this?
As fast as it came on the feeling is gone, the room now like a rented hall that just said farewell to a wedding party. Lying in a heap on the floor my wife rushes over to check on me. An image seems burned it my retina, some weird tube creature marching over some thin line. Before I can make heads or tales of it there was nothing, zilch, empty space. I can only muster a few words.
“D-downstairs, must get downstairs! The day has only just begun!”
I ready my command center: one bottle of rum, one bottle of whiskey, a 24 pack of utility beer, 3 livestreams of protest marches, and a schedule involving each major news network to be viewed for at least 4 minutes.
The tv clicks on and I am instantly transported to the hive of scum and villainy known as DC. My eyes, once again able to blink, struggle to take in the images being projected into them.
Fox News. Flags hung over the halls of power, draped like battle standards over buildings. Everything feels imperial, smells like Empire, feels vaguely threatening.
ABC, weird chanting spilling through the coverage, Mormon monks calling out to the Imperium’s Sky Father to pay attention. Yes, bless this Union Yahweh, ye holy War God. May the battle tank harvest go well.
Intoxication necessary. Faces pulled down, wracked with fear on MSNBC. The Governor of Texas set to run the Energy Department, the CEO of Hardees to determine the nation’s labor policies. Everything surreal, almost dream like. America was about to get bent over and fucked in the ass on live television to an audience of millions; like a car crash you knew it was going to be bad but you couldn’t tear yourself away.
Fox News: “Trump is part of a revolutionary spirit sweeping the globe.” Whose? And for what?
CNN makes mention of how the town will change, thousands of people and families moving out and being replaced by new Trump lackeys. The image is hilarious: hicks and ne’er-do-wells shuffling into restaurants asking for “the Trump discount,” clutching copies of The Art of the Deal and vainly attempting to mimic the Chieftain.
“So rude these people,” one will say to another.
“Yes,” nods one, “not like the blacks folks at home. They knew their place.”
Everybody, including the newscasters seem nervous. Again and again people keep talking about the peaceful passage of power, the pride in which we do what many countries don’t. Wolf Blitzer, or some other vaguely reptilian creature, cooed about wonderful this all was. “This is a remarkable thing we do in this country, not many countries do this.”
Yes, imagine that. It’s almost as if no matter who wins the powerful and wealthy will be okay. It’s as if the two parties are two different flavors of ice-cream made from the same pot of milk.
MSNBC now, for the love of God, is talking about how Hillary feels. They mention Bernie Sanders calling them “part of the establishment,” gush over how heart-broken the same woman who brought death to thousands in Libya must be feeling. In the same breath they refer to Debbie Schulzman as some wounded hero, brought down by hacks from Russia. They never mention WHAT was in the emails, never mention what kind of disgusting crimes actually forced her out.
Is the whiskey gone already? No matter, to the rum then. My hands have begun to turn into clouds…
Trump and Obama walk out, talk. Trump walks with an unnaturally slow gait, as if hiding his power. Obama points him into the car. Fake, everything screams fake, everything screams a photo image made for the papers. Obama’s aura seems muted, resigned; Trump almost appears to be hiding his.
Hillary takes the screen, MSNBC zooming in. Her forked tongue betrays her anger, Bill seemingly in a world of his own. Brass bands play, pomp and circumstance. Heart rate is uncontrollable now. Should I have drunk that coffee?
Bush on CNN. Stepping out the door to massive applause, even he seems confused. The child king looks like some funny little gnome, overjoyed he’s somehow cool again. They sit him next to Hillary. Her face….jesus…need to change the channel, he’s staring at her with a massive shit eating grin.
The Imperial family strides out. Hillary perhaps for a moment turns into a cobra, huge fangs ready to spit venom. A group of handlers reel her in and calm her down.
MSNBC pans out. The crowd below appears almost entirely white. Talk of presidential bibles, magic talismans.
Barack and Michelle stroll out. The cheers for Barack are only from the assembled fixtures of the government, living furniture. The larger crowd is practically silent. Actual boos for a minute heard on Fox, music plays to hide it.
Crowd is chanting now “TRUMP, TRUMP, TRUMP.”
Some horrible fucking monster clambers up on stage, reads a prayer from King Solomon:
“And in your wisdom have established humankind
to rule the creatures produced by you,
And to govern the world in holiness and righteousness”
You can practically hear the Roman cavalry in the distance. If that’s not the benediction for a God Emperor I don’t know what is. “Rule over the peons you’ve made fit to serve.” Sniper fire, where is it? Where is the street combat, the legions of Anarchists?
I check the live feeds. Two windows are broken, police practically smiling.
Pastor Paula White-Cain delivers a very nationalistic prayer. “Thank you Jesus for America….Beacon of hope, all nations under your dominion. Name of Jesus Christ Amen.”
Senator Schumer is getting booed, loudly. Mics are being muted. You can still hear it by sheer volume. Louder now. No comment by the media. Trump’s face is moving again. He is very aware of the boos. Cheers overtake the speaker. Trump is laughing.
Reality is warping as the oath is taken. A probability is sweeping away and solidifying. Odds, odds, my god you can feel them moving. This is it, the last moment, some unknown future solidifying right in front of us.
Something magical is indeed happening, some invisible passage of power, gods of the Imperium stepping closer to watch a living meme get access to nuclear weapons. I can’t see time solidifying but I can feel it, each word somehow locking everything into place. Just one more word, one final push until America’s fate was sealed and the was spell cast.
“Cmon…c’mon you miserable motherfucker. Say it! Say THE FUCKIN WORDS! SAY THE WORDS SO WE CAN RIDE THIS TRAIN STRAIGHT INTO THE BOWELS OF HELL!”
“I, Donald John Trump, do solemnly swear…”
The oath is taken. It’s all legal. Somewhere outside I hear a crow call out.
He moves to make his address.
The speech is equal parts Bernie Sanders:
“For too long, a small group in our nation’s Capital has reaped the rewards of government while the people have borne the cost. Washington flourished — but the people did not share in its wealth. Politicians prospered — but the jobs left, and the factories closed.
The establishment protected itself, but not the citizens of our country. Their victories have not been your victories; their triumphs have not been your triumphs; and while they celebrated in our nation’s capital, there was little to celebrate for struggling families all across our land.”
And equal parts Mussolini:
“This American carnage stops right here and stops right now….”
“From this day forward, a new vision will govern our land. From this moment on, it’s going to be America First.”
“We will reinforce old alliances and form new ones — and unite the civilized world against radical Islamic terrorism, which we will eradicate completely from the face of the Earth.
At the bedrock of our politics will be a total allegiance to the United States of America, and through our loyalty to our country, we will rediscover our loyalty to each other.”
I listened intently for the hall-mark sounds of gunfire but the trailer parks were eerily quiet.
The American people had bet everything on an unsure deal, and now they would ride it out. For the millionth time in our history men and women of all stripes were sure that if they could just choose the right boss to tell them what to do life would be better than ever.
Everything had gone off without a hitch. Barack and Michelle got on a helicopter and flew off and that was that. No massive fires, no uprising, nothing but shitty music and even more boring parades.
“Age Quod Agis: Do What You Do Best.”
MY NOTES for the rest of the night are practically unreadable. I rely on the testimony of those that were around me.
From what I’m told by two witnesses I drove up to the local grocery store in a quest for more beer, proudly displaying my communist bandanna and making vague references to the 2nd Amendment. I remarked I was disappointed that nobody challenged me to physical combat and made strange, esoteric hand signs to elderly people I assumed to be in the Ruling Class. From there I founded a revolutionary Mage’s Guild with a friend, crashed two parties, smoked DMT-infused Damiana, and convinced an entire room full of pot heads to abandon the peaceful herb for one night in favor of a bottle of knock-off rum so we could plot the overthrow of the government, all while somehow arriving home safely.
If the swamps and pinewoods of Florida could fertilize this, I assumed even better news was elsewhere. After all, the way people talked you were pretty sure Satan himself had ejaculated all over the constitution and dared anyone to stop him. If Donald Trump couldn’t inspire the people to seize the means of production, who could?
I turned on the TV, sweating like a lawyer in church and riveted to what I assumed could very well be martial law. I made sure my pistols were within easy reach and stood ready to join in the kind of events that would make Lenin look like Hubert Humphrey.
Perhaps it was the booze, perhaps some weird after effects from whatever mind-altering substance I’d gotten ahold of in my midnight wanderings, but I instantly felt very, very ill.
The damage was tallied up: Anarchists had broken a few windows, got upset, and ran around, nothing even close to the WTO riots; Richard Spencer, an Alt-Right leader, got punched in the face.
But beyond that….what? Where had all the anger gone? The calls for revolution? The blockades of metro stations? Here was a president that had literally re-vitalized the Left, inspired talk of armed struggle and solidarity networks…and nothing seemed to come of it.
That was not to say that folks out there weren’t determined, or even doing the best they could. People were pissed, sure. Maybe a few pissed people had finally met people just as pissed as they. Perhaps even as we speak there are meetings taking place at unnamed locations, code words and secret handshakes being distributed to those-in-the-know; liberated printers brought in through back doors to fill the streets with propaganda, back rooms and hidden hallways slowly becoming the future hubs of a new Underground Railroad.
If that were the case then there was hope, and indeed in my drunken adventures I had attempted to do the same.
But that was not what was being discussed. What I saw were protests, just protests, the same kind of thing that Bush and his cronies literally ignored as they dumped massive amounts of firepower onto Iraq.
In fact one could even say oddly the same…
Where had I seen this before?
I continued to scroll through my newsfeed, now nursing a full glass of rum to ward off whatever devilish sickness had seized my stomach. Comrades everywhere were hailing the Women’s March, a nationwide protest that made it very clear to people in office that the American people were quite upset. What had they accomplished? At most meeting new comrades, beyond that not anything else.
But one thing stuck out, one nagging feeling that something was horribly, horribly wrong. Wrong, yet distinctly American.
The honorary chair for the Woman’s March, a protest that drew 3 million people, was Gloria Steinem.
“Long before the formalized concept of soft power, Steinem personified and promoted abroad the vigor and progressive nature of the U.S. youth movement.
Strange as it may seem, Steinem’s personal views and CIA political goals aligned. Her brand of social revolution, promoted by American tax dollars, was meant to counter Soviet-sponsored revolutionary messaging. Public funds were intended to slow the Soviet scourge while showing America’s alternative democratic face.”
The largest march against the Trump presidency, something hailed as a shining example of the “strength” of American resistance was being directly influenced by a former CIA agent whose sole goal had been to neuter revolutionary movements in favor of useless, feeble, insipid progressivism. What are the odds this happened by accident? How funny it was marked with the usual identity-led pissing matches.
Trump came. He went. Nothing changed. The resistance got fooled, yet again, this time by a woman who once described the agency responsible for training torture squads as “liberal, nonviolent and honorable.”
Capitalism stood as solidly as ever. The protests might have felt fantastic to be apart of but there was no question The Imperium had survived. The peaceful transition of power, mentioned again and again by every news agency, had been achieved. “To get along one must go along,” or so they say…
Bernie Sanders and the rise of an increasingly radical Left in the United States has not only terrified its traditional right-wing enemies but the pet liberals that infest DC like venereal disease. Hillary and her ilk want change, to an extent, but don’t believe in the kind of sweeping tide proposed by millennials. The tenacity at which they would rather lose than accept even the lightest of Socialistic reforms says much. Remember that nationalized healthcare was one of the only issues the Clinton campaign refused to compromise on, even though Democrats could have passed it under Obama if they’d wanted to.
Democrats are just as wedded to the American political machine as every other pimp that’s somehow scammed and lied their way into office. The fact that the largest protest “against” Trump happened a day after his inauguration, was headlined by a former intelligence agent, and made sure to stress its peaceful nature speaks volumes as does one of Trump’s first stops as President.
The campaigns are officially over. The United States, though wary, will re-focus on its imperial ambitions just as it did under Obama and every other president before him. Trump may be a threat to the established powers, but he’s at least one the Democrats can flail against and Republicans can deal with. Now that the festival was over business went on just as it always had. Just as I’d seen in my vision.
Remember that weird shape I couldn’t quite place? The rectangular creature?
I had watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor just as it had for generations…crawling, slithering, along the edge of a straight razor… and miraculously, macabrely surviving.
And now I had seen it twice.
Dr. Bones is a conjurer, card-reader and egoist-communist who believes “true individuality can only flourish when the means of existence are shared by all.” A Florida native and Hoodoo practitioner, he summons pure vitriol, straight narrative, and sorcerous wisdom into a potent blend of poltergasmic politics and gonzo journalism. He lives with his loving wife, a herd of cats, and a house full of spirits.
Dr. Bone’s essay, “Fear & Loathing At The Crossroads,” is available exclusively in A Beautiful Resistance: Left Sacred. Buy it online here!
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