This is the continued story of Simon’s Journal.
I would highly recommend you read the first volume of this story,

Simon’s Journal Thirteen Days – The First Crusade
before you begin this novel.

 

The following narrative is nearly a complete work of fiction.
Any similarity to actual individuals living or dead is completely unintentional.
If reading a coming of age story about boys wearing diapers and exploring their

awakening sexuality is offensive or illegal in your area, then might I suggest you

go read War and Peace or something equally stimulating.

 

 

Simon's Journal

Volume II

 

 

Thirteen Nights – After the Crusade

 

 

Written by

Danny
Author of Thirteen Days

 

 



 

Chapter - 13

Part 2 – Friday, March 12, 2004 – The Pit of Despair

 

 

I didn’t have to wait very long before Mr. Wriggle, who had been standing facing his wife, now spun himself around with an finger extended as though he were wielding a gun and spat out. “Empty your pockets!” the words seemed to explode from his mouth as if from a cannon causing his red face to quiver from the reverberation.

 

Immediately, all of the boys thrust their hands into their trouser pockets and pulled them inside out. Anything that might have been residing in anyone’s pockets was then laid on the table before each boy. Still in a daze, I mimicked the actions of the others and pulled out my own trousers' pockets. They were empty of course, but I was surprised to see that others from around the table were not.

 

Pitiful evidence of young boys' interests appeared on the table: a bent nail, several uninteresting pebbles, a length of dirty twine, a medium sized black feather probably from a crow, a shared of blue glass, a chain made of assorted paperclips, a faded and worn photograph and several bits of torn paper.

 

I could not help but notice that there was only one thing that was dug from a pocket that had any value at all; it was a quarter. It was not bright, not new, and was tarnished and dented, but nonetheless a quarter.

 

It had come from Micky's pocket, and it now lay on the table in front of him. Well, not quite in front of him since at dinner he had been sitting next to me, it now lay halfway between him and me, or close enough to halfway that who could tell the difference?

 

A quarter! A miserable little, near worthless, quarter! However, at that moment, in this horrible place, it seemed to be more important than a stack of hundred dollar bills or a bar of solid gold.

 

Standing at the head of our long table stood Mr. and Mrs. Wriggle looking out over the boyish treasures, "Are you ready my love?" asked Mr. Wriggle in his almost normal sounding voice.

 

"Oh yes, quite ready!" replied Mrs. Wriggle while still holding a napkin over her mouth and nose as though at any moments she might be sick again.

 

The two of them proceeded down the sides of the table, Mrs. Wriggle taking the far side while Mr. Wriggle, with hands behind his back, took up the position opposite his wife, which happened to be the same side I was on.

 

Both sets of narrowed eyes were darting sharply from boy to boy and examining the objects that had found their way onto the table from some unfortunate boy's pocket.

 

Slowly they made their way down the table. I was not thinking about the quarter at this point but was thinking how glad I was that my bowl, with the rock hard lump of oatmeal, had already been spirited away.

 

I glanced across the table at the boys in front of me. Every pair of eyes was fixed on the quarter lying on the table between Micky and I. It was as if they were attempting to will it away but it did not budge, and then I heard Mr. Wriggle come to a stop directly behind us. Across the table stood Mrs. Wriggle, an icy statue with eyes fastened on Mr. Wriggle anxiously awaiting his next action.

 

A terrible, expectant silence fell over the room. It seemed the very walls had stopped breathing and were listening to to drama as it played itself out.

 

I, for one, was no longer enjoying the evening’s performance. “Okay, I’m ready to change the channel now! Who has the TV Clicker?” I thought in a failed attempt to lighten my own mood.

 

I heard Micky suck in a quick breath and hold it, so I did the same since I did not knowing what to expect. I later figured out that he was just panicing.

 

"And what have we here?" Mr. Wriggle extended his hand between Micky and i so that he could bang his fat knuckles on the table a fraction of an inch away from the quarter.

 

Thump, Thump, Thump, Thump, went his knuckles, four times before being withdrawn with a snap of his fingers.

 

"My love? Doesn’t that look like capital to you?" Mr. Wriggle asked.

 

“Huh?” I thought to myself, “What’s capital’?”

 

In a shrill throaty squeal she replied, "Yes, yes it does indeed!" she had pushed herself between two of the boys opposite Micky.

 

Continuing their little game, Mr. Wriggle raised his voice loud enough for all to hear and asked, "And are Bancheli boys supposed to have capital?"

 

With a snort of laughter behind her hand, Mrs. Wriggle replied, "Absolutely not!”

 

His voice changed to sound very animal like, “And yet my dear wife, it seems that a Bancheli boy, in fact, does have capital!”

 

Mrs. Wriggle snorted louder this time, “Oh but which one?” She was obviously enjoying this too much as her gaze kept jumping from me, to Micky and back to me.

 

Mr. Wriggle paused to slam his fist down on the table so forcefully between Micky and I that the quarter flew up and returned trembling to the table with a clatter. "Now I expect a declaration at once.” I felt several blasts of spittle hit my right ear and cheek but somehow I managed to keep my hand from attempting to wipe it away as I wondered what he meant by ‘declaration”.

 

That darn voice inside my head chose this moment to speak up, “Uh, don’t know what it means but get me a dictionary and I will look it up!”

 

“Oh hush you!” I mentally chastised the voice and surprisingly it did.

 

When no one volunteered any information Mr. Wriggle shouted so loud that I though my eardrum might burst, “Who’s is this?” 

 

It seemed like a century passed as I waited for Micky to confess, but it was actually no more than the time measured by a few quivering heartbeats before a trembling voice, barely audible answered, "I-it’s m-m-mine."

 

The voice inside my head screamed, “What the hell are you doing boy?”

 

“What are you talking about?” I asked the voice.

 

“That quarter isn’t yours!” the voice continued to scream.

 

“I know that!” I thought back, confused as to why the voice was yelling at me too.

 

"Did you hear that my love?" asked Mr. Wriggle, his voice now returning to normal, "It belongs to our newest wee lil’ tot.” and he made a giggling sound that was obviously fake before grabbing my right shoulder and spun me around so that my legs twisted around themselves, “What is your name?”

 

Now I was really confused and I grunted to show this fact to my inquisitor, “Huh?”

 

“Your name? What is your name boy?” He repeated as his spittle landed on my cheek just below my left eye.

 

For half a second I nearly blurted out, “Simon!” but just as the ‘S’ was about to roll off my tongue I managed to catch myself and instead said, “S-S-R-Ron,” though so softly that I hardly heard it myself.

 

In a strangled cry Mr. Wriggle screamed into my face, “WHAT?”

 

“R-R-Ron!” I said louder but still hardly loud enough to be heard.

 

I could see out of the corner of my eye that Mrs. Wriggle appeared to be positively enraptured while watching her husband interrogate someone as dangerous as myself.

 

Mr. Wriggle had straightened himself back to a more dignified poster and pulling on the lapels of his coat he said, “Well my delightful buttercup! It appears that the culprit is R-R-Ron,” he was mocking my stutter, “the newest addition to our little family. Further more he has admitted to the crime of thievery."

 

“Crime? What Crime?” I wanted to shout but somehow managed to hold my tongue.

 

Bending toward me again he put his mouth so close to the side of my face that I received the full effect of a breath that might well have come from an inhabitant of a swamp. "And where, may I ask, did you obtain this coin, Ron?"

 

"I ... I ... I . . ." I tried to answer but faltered.

 

"Well? Come—come, where?" ask Mrs. Wriggle shaking me violently.

 

"I ... I f-f-f-found it!" I blurted out as best I could and not really knowing what else to say while thoughts of ‘why’ were still whirling within my head.

 

“Oh you did, did you? And, of course, you put it right into your pocket to keep for yourself,” he patted the front pocket of my pants was several times as he spoke and I couldn’t help but notice his fingers were dangerously close to my boyhood parts, “instead of seeing that it came to Mrs. Wriggle and myself as you should have done?"

 

Not knowing if I was supposed to answer that or not, I chose to keep quite.

 

Without removing his hand from the front of my pants he asked, "What do you think of that, Mrs. Wriggle? A Bancheli boy fallen into evil, thieving ways and not here two full days. We feed him, clothe him, give him a bed and teach him and what thanks do we get for such kind-hearted treatment?” I was so glad when he stopped speaking and lifted himself back to an erect posture once again.

 

With a heavy, exhale through his nostrils he continued, “The question is – what are we to do about it, eh?” which was then followed by a long pause before deciding to ask his wife for a suggestion.

 

“Would you . . .” he started to say but stopped himself mid-sentence. The way he had suddenly stopped made me think that maybe Mrs. Wriggle had somehow managed to pass a thought to him. I had not been looking at her at the time so I imagine that since I did not hear her utter even a peep, she must have signaled with her eyes or something. Whatever the method of transmission, Mr. Wriggle had received it and in mid-sentence changed his mind about what it was he was going to say.

 

“Ah yes, right then! Do you think a touch of the pit might be in order, my dear Snookems?" He asked while patting both sides of my face from behind me.

 

Just the re-mentioning of the dreaded pit, whatever that could be, had once again turned Dear Snookems a rather nice shade of grass green. Through lips tightened over clenched teeth, she partially lowered her hand away from her mouth, sucked in her breath with revulsion and with eyes glittering madly with anticipation she answered, "Yes! Most certainly!"

 

I was suddenly frightened out of my skin, as were Mrs. Wriggle and most to the other boys when Mr. Wriggle exploded with, “CHO! DAM YOU GIRL WHERE ARE YOU?”

 

The force of his voice was so strong that I could have sworn I felt the floor shake beneath me.

 

With the gentle insertion of, “Hemm, Hemm,’ by Mrs. Wriggle he was reminded that he’d only just sent Cho off with the other boy to hose him down.

 

Releasing my face and stepping to his right I could now see him again. "Oh . . . uh . . . right then!” He put his closed fist to his mouth as though he had coughed but he had not. “Yes, forgot is all!” and he waved a hand in the air as if he were wiping his words off a school chalkboard, “Well, then, if you will remain to make the changes?" He said as charmingly as if we were all at a tea party. "Oh certainly!" She answered back equally as charmingly and with a new expression on her face, “And, don’t let this one fall in?” she added smuggly while leaning across the table and snatching up the quarter.

 

With excruciating force, Mr. Wriggle had seized the base of my skull and once again dawning the vocal guise of some animalistic beast, he snarl into my ear, "Now, move boy!"

 

Being dragged by my neck, I clogged along in my oversized shoes and felt certain that my shuddering legs would fail me at any moment; the only thing that kept me from falling, aside from Mr. Wriggle holding my neck as the fear of what he might do if I suddenly fell to the floor in a heap. I was led from the dining hall and through the kitchen where Fyer was sitting on an overturned pot, while smoking a stinky cigar nearly the size of an average boys arm. The look Fyer gave at the sight of us entering his kitchen was one of pure loathing. When Fyer picked up a butchers knife with his left hand and quietly laid it in his lap, Mr. Wriggle gave me a thrust out one of the two other doors.

 

We were scarcely passed the dreaded hallway painting of my two hosts when a door to our left swung open and out strode Cho with a youthful boy cowering directly behind her. At first, I think I was stunned and a little embarrassed to have Cho and this boy observing me dancing there on the tips of my shoes while suspended by my neck from Mr. Wriggles firm grip.

 

I was staring right at the boy, who was doing his best to remain hidden behind Cho and seeming to be very interested in the floor beneath his bare feet. I could only guess that this pail young boy was the same poop covered boy who had caused such a scene during dinner. His blonde hair was still damp and plastered to his head, while his pale white frame seemed to glow brilliantly in the faintly lit passage. Furthermore, I was able to see clearly that Cho had clad him in a dingy white cloth diaper that was so thick that I wondered how he was managing to keep up with Cho despite her physical limitations.

 

In a moment of excitement, distress and fright, the boy lifted his head and peeked around Cho’s crippled leg and for the first time allowed me to see his face. My heart skipped several beats as recognition dawned in both our eyes. I blurted out without thinking of what I was saying, “LOWELL!”

 

Lowell’s eyes exploded with exhilaration and in that brief moment in time, I read in his eyes that he could not believe I was still alive and actually standing there before him.

 

Sadly, that was the full extent of our reunion. In an infuriated wrath, Mr. Wriggle had hoisted me completely off the floor and pitched me through an open door where I smashed into a big, round wooden pole. I was lying flat on my stomach attempting to regain my faculties, not to mention the wind, which had been knocked out of me, when I heard him shout, “Get that little beast a bed and don’t be all night about it! The Misses needs your help with the others!”

 

With my head still spinning from the impact with both the pole and the floor, I suddenly felt myself lifted from the floor once again. However, this time I was hoisted up by the back of my clothes and, hanging nearly lifeless was carried down a spiraling staircase; further down then I had been thus far, all the while having to listen to Mr. Wriggle’s invoking every cursed word he could think off.

 

Though it was hard to breath while bent nearly in half, I was still able to puff a few ragged breaths while weeping from the pain. When we finally reached the bottom of the stairs Mr. Wriggle stood me upright and gave me a firm slap across the face, just for good measure I am sure. Through tear blurred eyes I realized I was looking down a long corridor that seemed to go on forever. As we made our way down the hallway, of course with Mr. Wriggle clutching the back of my hair with his claw like hand, I could once again smell the horrible odder that had been emanating from the boy back in the dinning hall, the same boy that I now knew had been Lowell under all that unspeakable filth.

 

A single hanging light bulb several feet away from the bottom of the steps was all the light that appeared to be down in the dreadful place. It was now shining behind us as a marker for where we had come from, it now caused huge shadows to go before us, eclipsing whatever was only a few steps further on.

 

When we had come to the end of the hall, which turned out to be a dead-end, we stood looking at a wooden wall. Despite the fact that hardly any light at all was making its way this far down the corridor I could still see that the wall appeared at one time, to have had shackles fastened to it. There was a distinctly human shaped stain and ware pattern in the wood, which lead me to believe that they had been used quite often in the past and though I could see no shackles now, I was praying that this was not going to be my fate.

 

It was only then that Mr. Wriggle let go of my hair, but not without giving me a violent shake and a warning, “It will be much worse for you if you were to attempt to go anywhere boy!"

 

“Go anywhere?” I thought, I was now about as able to "go anywhere" as a tree stump!

 

Rubbing the back of my head, I watched Mr. Wriggle remove the padlock from one of three metal grates in the floor, then with a groan he reached up and took a hold of a rope with a frayed knot at the end. As he pulled down on the rope the hinges on the grate groaned as though they had not been used in over a decade. Once open, curiosity motivated me to lean over slightly to see nothing but a gaping black pit, which oddly enough reminded me of the tomb in Lowell’s Egyptian story. Even as scared as I was feeling and knowing that Mr. Wriggle intended to send or even drop me down into that pit, I still found comfort in my memories of Lowell and his young Indiana Jones style of pants wetting adventure story.

 

Breathing heavily from his effort to open the grate, he reached up high over his head and thankfully pulled on a chain that lead up to a single, dim light bulb that hung over the now open pit.

 

As the light came on, from the closed grate several feet to my right I could hear a dry, raspy moan followed by a faint plea for, “Waaaterrrr!”

 

The cry did not sound like it came from a child but maybe a man. However, acting as if he had not heard anything, Mr. Wriggle reached out to take hold of my neck again. Unfortunately, I flinched which earned me another slap to my face. He rapped his whole arm around the back of my neck and head, pulled me in so close to his face that I thought he was going to kiss me but instead he snarled, “Strip off them clothes!” and giving my head a firm squeeze he added, “And be quick about it!"

 

I looked up at him as if he had gone mad, which he obviously had because, when I did not budge he ripped the shirt off me. Breathing hard and foaming at the mouth he shoved me to the floor and yanked the pants right off of me without even removing the shoes. As loose as they were on my feet, I was surprised that they had stayed on.

 

Reached down and lifting me to my feet by my ears he growled, “What is that?”

 

He was running a single hand over my plastic armor trying to determine for himself what it might be. Sobbing and rattled with fear I managed to say only two words, “P-P-Please sir!” while wrapping my arms around my chest in hopes of stopping him from taking it away from me too.

 

I’m not sure why he didn’t remove my armor as well before sending me trembling and naked down into the pit. Maybe it was my plea that thwarted any intentions he might have had about doing anything else to me.

 

I was clutching the rungs of a perfectly vertical wooden ladder that were as smooth as only wood can be from years of hands and feet rubbing against it, all the while trying to keep my clumsy shoes from slipping off as I descended into the fowl smelling darkness.

 

Mr. Wriggle was kind enough to leave the light on over the opening long enough for me to reach the bottom and discover that I was now in a cold, damp space, where the air was filled with the over powering fragrance of human waste and only enough room to squat down, though just barely. Given how far down the spiral stairs we had come, I was guessing that this was probably the very belly of the boat and from the smell, it was likely to be the place where all the toilets, sinks and who knows what else flowed into.

 

When I had reached the bottom, the light went out and Mr. Wriggle bellowed down the ladder, "A few days down there and you’ll be more then willing to fall in line! If you want to stay at the Bancheli Home for Boys, you best learn and learn well!"

 

The next sounds I heard were the hinges groaning as the metal grate was slammed shut; followed by the padlock being replace and finally Mr. Wriggle’s boots drumming out a hasty retreat on the wooden floor above me. All sound soon disappeared into the echoes above leaving behind a dreadful silence that was occasionally interrupted by the sound of water flowing and splashing near by. To all intents and purposes, I was now imprisoned in the lowest reaches of the loving, caring Bancheli Home for Boys and was completely without hope!

 

With a whimper, I turned, put my back to the wooden ladder and lowered myself to the floor. I could feel each rung scraping against my plastic armor as I squatted in place.

 

With a single mournful sigh I whispered to the darkness, “Why did I say it was mine?” and then I began to weep, which quickly became a full out howling.

 

I have no idea how long I sat squatted against the base of the ladder and hugging my knees to my chest, in an attempt to keep warm. The smell had long since become mute for me as long as I continued breathing through my nose. If I stopped and held my breath, even for a second the smell would come back to molest my sense of smell. Sobbing and feeling as desperate as I have ever felt, I sniffled and rubbed my dripping nose on my arm just before I heard . . .

 

Sssst!”

 

I froze instantly and listened but the sound was followed by more silence and I was just about to dismiss it as a figment of m over active imagination when it came again, stronger this time . . .

 

Sssst!”

 

My mind quickly conjured up the most horrible image of a snake that it could manage and my entire body tensed up expecting at any moment to become dinner for the scaly monster.

 

Sssst! Sssst!”

 

There it was again and the fear was more then I could cope with as I felt my bladder release what little fluid there was within it.

 

Sssst! Sssst!”

 

My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it moving my plastic armor.

 

My head began to swim as if I was going to faint. I shook my head hard, took in a deep breath and held it so that I could listen for any sound of movement from the snake, or whatever it was rapped in the dark with me. I concentrated, and listened but I did not hear any more hissing but I did think I could hear something else . . .

 

From directly above my head I heard faintly, "Think he's a goner?" which was followed by, "Ah, shush-up!”

 

“Na, I t’ink he’s dead f’r sure!"

 

“I done said ta shush-up!”

 

"Well, ‘e ain't say’n not’n."

 

"Might be e’s sleep’n."

 

"I recon e’s dead!"

 

"I say he ain't!”

 

Then all went quiet again for several panicked heartbeats until finally, “Sssst! Sssst! Ron . . . Hey Ron! Are ya alive down dere?” There was a short pause before the voice added, “Ron, It's me Micky."

 

Though cold, frightened and hurting for the two days of slave labor, having been knocked around by Mr. Wriggle and imprisoned at the bottom of a cold black crap pit, suffise it to say that I was still curiously able to feel a flash of anger at the mention of his name! The same boy who had thus far given no sign that he felt anything but hatred for me. Micky, seemed to be the one who had been influencing all the others to feel and treat me as if I were dog crap to be scraped from their shoes. Micky, the boy who had tossed the quarter so far over on the table that I had no choice but to confess to its ownership.

 

And then the voice inside my head began to speak again, “Why not just let him and the other whisperers up there think you’re dead? You know, it would serve them right to fear that you died down here.”

 

I had to to admit it, I was buying into the logic of the voice inside my head, and after all, the tone of their whispers did sound a little scared.

 

“Yeah, serves them right!” I thought, agreeing with the voice. “And what if I did say something to let them know I am still alive? Maybe they are just here to tease me about getting put in this horrible place?” and with that last thought, I determined that I would not give them the chance!

 

But oh how hard it was to hold my tongue when I so desperately wanted to talk to someone; anyone! I had to clench my teeth together and dug my face into my knees in order to keep silent.

 

"See, Micky? No’a peep; dead, dat's f’r sure."

 

"He ain't!" There was a note of desperation in the whispered voice from Micky, "I'm tellin' ya dat ‘e ain't dead!”

 

Sssst! Sssst! Ron, say somethin'! Please!" and did I detect a hint of genuine remorse in Micky’s voice just then?

 

"Aw, it's no good, Micky! M’on, we best git back ta bed 'fore we git caught down chere."

 

Micky’s voices seemed to quiver slightly as he answered, "Yeah, I guess y’r right, Peter. Maybe ‘e ain’t even in dere. Let's git goin'."

 

So they were leaving; my only connection to anything human would be gone in a matter of seconds, leaving me to die here alone in the terrible black pit under the floorboards.

 

And then the voice within my head quickly changed tactics on me as it said, “Better them, then no one at all right?”

 

“Oh make up your mind!” I mentally groaned at the voice and had the voice had its own body I probably would have reached out and choked the life from it.

 

I took a breath and nearly choked from the stench, "I ... I ... I'm not dead!" I could only hope that the small quavering noise that came out of my mouth was loud enough to still be heard by the boys over head.

 

My announcement was first greeted with silence; then I heard an excited whisper. "There, told ya so!” Micky said and I heard the sounds of bare feet scuffing around the metal grate.

 

“Ron is that you?” Micky asked.

 

“Y-y-yes,” I stammered.

 

“Hey, if y’r fingers ain't too frozed, come up da ladder so y’r closer; less chance a som’un hearin' us. It's me Micky, with Peter and a couple others."

 

My legs by now were so cold and cramped that it was a great effort just to stand up let alone attempt to climb. Nevertheless, I somehow managed and dispite the pain in my cold tight muscles I began to crawl back up the ladder. I had to accomplish this in total darkness, although when I neared the top of the ladder I saw that there was the faint glow of a small flashlight, so faint, however, as to be almost non-existent.

 

“Sorry we gotta keep da light covered." Micky said as I drew close enough that we could now see each other. "Cho ain't never yet come 'round af’er she checks we're in bed, but nothin's certain ‘round dis place.” He paused long enough to take a breath, “An’ways, I ... I only wanted ya ta know I never meant f’r da quarter to land where’n it did, clos’ta you I mean."

 

“That's the truth!” Peter broke in, "He never did!"

 

“An’ I would’a fessed up but’cha beat me to it!" Micky exhaled loudly.

 

"He would’a too!" said Peter.

 

"Once ya said it and Ol’ Toad Face had it fixed in his froggy brain that it were y’rs . . ." Micky was interrupted by Peter, “Yeah ‘e a real toad face!”

 

Not paying him any attention Micky went on, "I could o' yelped my danged ol’ head off like a cry’n hound-dog and it wouldn’t done no good, no how.”

 

And Peter added, “Nope, wouldn’t done no good t’all.”

 

There was another short pause before Micky added, “Should be me down dere! Why'd ya go and say it were y’rs?" Micky’s voice failed him at the end and I could see he was biting on his bottom lip to keep from loosing all control of his emotions.

 

I hesitated; this whole dialogue was so astonishing and staggering that it was hard for me to get my thoughts together and remember why I had actually said it was mine.

 

I took a breath before speaking, “Don’t much matter; I'm going to die here anyway.” I paused expecting one of them to say something and when they didn’t I added, “It’s okay, I know that I am." And that explanation was exactly the truth as far as I was able to see.

 

For the longest time no one made a peep until finally in an almost explosive cry Micky said, "No!” he stood up and stomped his bare foot and at the moment it did not registered that I’d seen he was wearing a diaper under his night shirt, “No! No! No! You ain't gunna die!” he dropped back down so that he was right over top the grate, “Y’ear me, Ron? You ain't gunna die! We wont let ya."

 

"Wh-wh-why?" I asked in a disbelieving tone. After all, I was still finding it difficult to accept that the issue of me wearing diapers at night had not been brought up.

 

“’Cause we done said so!” Micky grunted, “An' you might well know I ain't proud o' how mean I been. None o' us is!"

 

“Da’s right!” Peter added after Micky prodded him with his elbow and the other boys added their agreement as well.

 

“You just make certain you stays ‘live t'night, Ron!" Micky said fiercely.

 

“Do me a favor?” I asked not sure if I could rely on them or not.

 

“An’thin’!” Micky said.

 

“Yeah an’thin’g!” Per added.

 

 

Next Installment:

Part 3 – Not so Superman

 

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