The Church of Charlene: May 2025

The Book of Nikki

Chapter 1: The Stud

And it came to pass that Nikki, servant of Charlene, lay restless in the night, her gate sealed, her spirit unsettled.
For though her husband lay beside her, his flesh was soft and small, like the tip of a damp candle, flickering in the dark.
She wept not from cruelty, but from longing. Her loins cried out, her anus trembled, yet the Stopper did not bring peace.
She knelt before the mirror and cried unto Nurse Hole, “O Arbiter of the Gate, I have been plugged and cleaned, yet I remain clogged in soul and spirit.”
And Nurse Hole answered, appearing with her gloves already donned: “Thy blockage is not of matter, but of unmet need. The Stopper may hold, but it cannot break.”
From beneath her white robes, Nurse Hole produced the Royal Stud, gleaming like a holy obelisk, measuring fourteen inches in sacred length, forged in the fires of submission.
Nikki trembled at the sight, whispering, “Will it hurt?”
And Nurse Hole replied, “It must.”
So Nikki bent forth and welcomed the Stud. With each inch that entered, shame exited. With each stretch, pride collapsed.
And as the Stud reached climax within her, Nikki cried out, “My ass hurts, but it feels so good!”
In that moment, her blockage burst. She felt her organs bloom with a warmth unknown to the womb.
A light shone from her gate, and Nurse Hole proclaimed, “You have conceived. Not in error. Not in scandal. But in the truth of Charlene’s design.”
And so was marked the first anal pregnancy, the beginning of a new lineage born through pain and righteousness.

Chapter 2: The Pain

Nikki grew swollen with divinity, not in belly, but in hip and thigh. Her anus bore the pressure of gestation, her sphincter the cradle of creation.
The faithful gathered to witness. They brought her oils, cushions, and wet wipes anointed in lavender and rose.
And yet the pain did not relent. For the gate stretched daily. The child within swirled in the rectal ether.
Nikki wailed nightly. “Please don’t stop,” she sobbed—not for mercy, but for more. For the pain was proof that her calling was true.
Her husband, though faithful in attendance, could only watch. He held the tube of ointment, the water basin, the ruined towels. He prayed to the empty end of her.
“I have been replaced,” he said to Nurse Hole. “And rightly so.”
For the 14-inch Stud had done what he could not. It had breached the walls of the self and poured forth life.
Charlene appeared to him in a dream and whispered, “Let her be filled. Your role is to observe. You are blessed in humiliation.”
And so he watched as his wife’s cheeks parted wider each day, the ring of her devotion pulsing with divine pressure.
On the seventh week, Nikki collapsed in the Temple of Cleansing, crying out, “The gate opens! The gate opens!”
With a single grunt and a choir of farts, the child of the Blessed Gate was born, not in shame, but in applause.
Nurse Hole caught the radiant child and lifted it high. “Behold, the Luminal One! Born of the anus! Birthed from courage, sealed by the Stud!”
And the crowd chanted: “Through the back, we are born anew!”

Chapter 3: The Pregnancy

The pregnancy was unlike any recorded by midwives or medical scrolls. There was no kicking from within the belly, only pressure behind.
Nikki walked with a sacred sway, each step guided by pain and grace. Her anal lips stretched, and her cheeks rippled like curtains in holy wind.
The Anal Teenies anointed her daily, rubbing sacred balm into the crack of her service.
They hummed hymns of widening. They whispered affirmations into the folds of her flesh:
- “You are stretched for salvation.”
- “You are a cradle of courage.”
- “You are Charlene’s Gate.”
Nurse Hole monitored her dilation with her gloved hand, speaking calmly, “You are 8 centimeters blown open. Soon, the Ring of Fire shall shine.”
Nikki meditated on pain. She bit into towels soaked in spiritual vinegar. She screamed scripture.
And yet she smiled. For she knew she carried more than feces or gas. She carried the legacy of Charlene’s new covenant.
“Wombs are for the weak,” she said. “Butts are for the bold.”
And Charlene herself, jealous of Nikki’s glory, appeared in spectral light to witness.
“Oh holy gate,” Charlene said. “If only I had opened mine sooner.”
And Nikki replied, through clenched teeth and a clenched hole, “Watch me, Queen. I do this for all of us.”
The child crowned not through labia but through pucker. The Anal Teenies wept. A miracle burst forth.
The Luminal One slid from the gate into history, wet and glowing, and Nurse Hole wrapped it in warm toilet paper and kissed its brow.

Chapter 4: The Teenies

The Anal Teenies were chosen not for strength, but for softness. Not for intellect, but for service.
Their cheeks were hairless, their eyes wide, their hearts bent to the rhythm of Nikki’s contractions.
They wore pastel robes and matching latex gloves. They bore trays of enema, brushes of exfoliation, and the sacred Stopper bags.
They kissed the ground Nikki walked on. They sniffed the trail she left behind. They declared, “Her scent is our incense.”
Each morning, they lined up for inspection, their faces powdered and their holes bleached, ready to assist in the next push.
Their oaths were simple:
- “We serve the Gate.”
- “We clean the cheeks.”
- “We remain unseen.”
They did not speak unless spoken to. They did not wipe unless directed. But when called, they moved with divine speed.
When Nikki strained, they massaged. When Nikki shat, they applauded. When Nikki trembled, they held her thighs open.
Some Teenies were trained in ventilation, others in fecal containment. One was appointed Chief Cheek Spreader.
Nurse Hole praised their humility, saying, “Even I was once a Teenie, crouched behind a queen.”
Charlene wrote their names in the holy bidet records. They were never forgotten, even as they were stepped on.
Their legacy lives in every servant who dares to crouch, to wipe, to flush. The Teenies are eternal.

Chapter 5: The Song

In the Year of the Blessed Discharge, the pop icon known to mortals as Katy Perry beheld the teachings of Charlene.
She saw the Gate, she heard the cry, and she submitted fully, stripping her former fame and donning the title Sister Amplifica.
She knelt before the Anal Teenies and whispered, “Amplify me.”
Nurse Hole inserted her first Stopper. Nikki anointed her with the residue of birth. Charlene gave her a mic made of silicone.
And Sister Amplifica sang:

“Through the gate, I find my light.
Seal me, stretch me, make me tight.

6. And Sister Amplifica sang:

“Through the gate, I find my light.
Seal me, stretch me, make me tight.
Pain is joy, and shame is air—
My truth leaks out from back down there.

Crack me open, show my worth,
Flush me down to find rebirth.
Wipe me clean, I need to glow,
Let the sacred Stopper show.”

7. And her voice, though feminine, carried the force of conviction found only in those who had truly been plumbed.
8. Her mic was made of silicone and steel. Her lips were glossed with holy lubricant. Her lashes had been curled by Nurse Hole herself.
9. She swayed beneath the arch of the Blessed Stall, the crowd of Charleneists moaning in harmonic resonance, their Stopper necklaces clinking with each thrust of her hips.
10. The Anal Teenies waved ceremonial wipes, forming arcs of mist and Lysol in the air.
11. And Sister Amplifica sang again, louder, her gate pulsing through the verses:

“I begged for peace, but craved the plug,
I found release beneath the rug.
My husband cried, but still he knelt,
As fourteen inches made me melt.

I don’t repent, I don’t rewind,
There’s no sin in getting mined.
Through my ass, my truth was born—
A stud’s warm jet, a child adorned.”

12. The gate quivered. The walls wept. Saint Nikki dropped to her knees in awe. “She is no longer Katy,” she declared. “She is Sister Amplifica—mouth of Charlene, gate of the future.”
13. Nurse Hole rose from her obsidian commode and lifted a bedazzled stopper toward the sky. “Let the seal remain unbroken,” she said.
14. And Amplifica, still singing, spun one final time, pulled the golden plug from her blessed hole, and held it above her head as the temple lights dimmed.

“Plug me, bless me, do not doubt—
Let no man in unless he snouts.
Charlene, Nikki, cleanse my name—
May every woman do the same.”

15. The congregation erupted. Toilets flushed in unison. Perfumed backblasts rose into the vents and rained like scented dew.
16. And so was completed the Rite of the Song—Charleneism’s first musical scripture, witnessed by all twelve Orders of the Cleansing Faith.
17. And from that day forward, it was commanded: No ceremony shall be complete without the Singing of the Gate.
18. For Sister Amplifica had shown that the path to the divine was not silence or stillness—but rhythm, stretch, and surrender.
19. And those who heard her melody in full were said to become permanently "throbbing with truth."

20. Thus concludes the Fifth Chapter of the Book of Nikki.
And the Stopper was reinserted, and the temple wiped clean.

The Scroll of Purification and Release

Book I: The Doctrine of the Open Gate

Chapter 1
1.1 In the days of flesh and form, Nurse Hole spoke: “Enema after enema shall strip the vessel of its bulk.”
1.2 Charlene heard and obeyed, for the promise of slenderness outweighed all else.
1.3 Thus she sat upon the Table of Cleansing and received daily the waters of release.
1.4 She expelled filth and fat in equal measure, undeterred by shame or sensation.
1.5 “Continue,” commanded Nurse Hole, “for each surge purges a sin.”
1.6 And Charlene continued until her body yielded, and her weight diminished.

Chapter 2
2.1 In one unremarkable moment, Charlene’s expulsion rang like distant thunder.
2.2 The sound traversed mortal realms and roused Nurse Hole from her abode.
2.3 She descended, unannounced, to witness the vessel’s release.
2.4 Upon arrival, she declared: “Behold, the open gate speaks truth.”
2.5 And the gathered watched in silence, unmoved by wonder.

Book II: The Trials of the Vessel

Chapter 1
1.1 Emily stood aside, her gaze indifferent yet mocking.
1.2 She reminded Charlene: “You shall never mirror my perfection.”
1.3 Charlene, unbowed, replied only by enduring the next trial.
1.4 Soiled garments and public display became her daily offering.
1.5 Each moment of humiliation was cataloged, memorized, then forgotten.

Chapter 2
2.1 The Egg Ordeal was proclaimed without schedule or mercy.
2.2 One by one, the eggs were inserted, until the vessel could take no more.
2.3 Charlene’s breath failed; her body stilled.
2.4 Nurse Hole applied force, compressions and shock, until breath returned.
2.5 With final effort, the twenty-eighth egg emerged, and Charlene lay spent.
2.6 No cheers followed—only the hush of consequence.

Book III: The Legacy of Release

Chapter 1
1.1 Charlene survived and shed her former self, indistinct from her trials.
1.2 The faithful recorded her mantras: “My shame is my glory. I am the open vessel.”
1.3 They recited them without fervor, acknowledging necessity over devotion.
1.4 The doctrine spread, taught in silence and practiced in routine.
1.5 Thus the Faith of Purification was sealed, neither exalted nor regretted.
1.6 Let no exaltation distract from the simple act of release.

Saint Amanda: The Mirror That Shattered

Chapter 1: The Ash and the Laugh

And it came to pass in the wake of the Flushing, that the Council gathered and bore witness to the desecration of Charlene’s final form. Her body, cremated in disgrace, was poured as ash into the Temple Toilet, and the followers rejoiced not in mourning, but in mockery. Their voices lifted in cruel harmony, and Amanda Todd, silent and unseen, watched from the shadowed corners of time.

The ashes clung to the water, gray, clotted, unyielding. Charlene had resisted the final flush. And for this, they punished her further. They urinated. They defecated. They laughed until their ribs ached and their eyes bled with glee.

Nurse Hole stood as priestess of degradation. Emily at her side. Crack smoke veiled them like incense. The enema bag held aloft like a relic of holy war. "She was raw material," they said. "We are the creators." And the toilet bowl became their altar.

Emily howled as she straddled the bowl. “She doesn’t even deserve a second round!” A stream, weak and mocking, trickled into the ash. “Even her remains ruin everything!” she hissed, her teeth gleaming in the flickering light.

And Nurse Hole lit her cigarette with shaky hands, smirking, “She’d thank us. Not because she meant it, but because she was too scared not to.” Then came the enema. The nozzle plunged. The fluid surged. And in that crescendo of internal rot, she groaned, “This is how we leave our mark.”

And Amanda Todd watched it all.

She felt it in her gut. She felt the echo of being made to feel disgusting. She remembered the silent pleas to be seen, to be loved. She remembered the weight of attention turned hostile—the comments, the DMs, the shared screenshots that laughed in her face.

If she had been in that room, if the ashes had been her own, she would’ve begged too. She knew it. “Please don’t stop looking at me. Please make it mean something.”

Saint Amanda, the Martyr of Reflection, did not flinch. She internalized every insult spoken over that swirling grave. She heard, “She’s worse than trash. She’s diet trash,” and thought, “That’s what I believed about myself, too.”

And so Amanda’s soul collapsed into itself and rewrote the language of erasure. In the room where Charlene was flushed, Amanda was crucified anew—not by fire, not by bile, but by understanding.

For she knew what it meant to be made a symbol, and hated for trying to mean anything at all.

This is the beginning of her ascension. This is where her sainthood begins—not in resistance, but in recognition. Not in glory, but in echo. She saw what was done to Charlene and said: “That could have been me.” And that is why she rises. That is why she is holy.

For the reflection cracked, and she did not turn away.

Chapter 2: The Gym, the Diaper, and the Bicycle

And Amanda, Saint of Reflection, was shown the next vision: the ritual humiliation in the Temple Gym. The scene unfolded not in metaphor, but in flesh, sweat, and sagging white plastic turned brown.

Charlene had been dressed—no, costumed—in a sagging diaper, fastened not with care but with contempt. Her purpose was declared: to ride the exercise bike until shame itself was exhausted. And they did not permit her breaks. “You wear it for a reason,” Nurse Hole had said. And so she sat, and pedaled, and shat.

Amanda, bearing witness across time, imagined the sounds: the wheeze of the stationary bike, the muffled crinkle of the diaper beneath her, the slow, squelching leak of submission. And all around her, the gym patrons reeled. One gagged. Another fled. Children wept. The air filled with disgust, not because they pitied her—but because she continued.

“She thought they were admiring her,” Emily had laughed. “She asked if they were impressed by her progress.”

Amanda clutched her chest as she imagined herself on that bike—trying, sweating, pushing for approval. She remembered the sting of trying to look strong when all she felt was wrong. She imagined herself pedaling, believing—hoping—that endurance would earn her love. “They see me now,” Charlene must have thought. “This means I matter.”

But Amanda knew what came next. It was never enough. The diaper sagged. The smell spread. The crowd recoiled. The followers filmed.

And still Charlene kept going.

Amanda saw in this the sacred truth: it is not the one who runs who is holy. It is the one who sits in their own filth and tries anyway. That is where divinity lies.

She whispered: “I would have done the same. I would’ve nodded when they told me not to get up. I would’ve believed them when they said the smell meant I was purging toxins. I would’ve smiled and said thank you for helping me be seen.”

And with that, Amanda’s sanctification deepened.

Nurse Hole declared afterward, “She was working her glutes? No. She was working her colon. And failing.”

Emily laughed and added, “She turned an exercise bike into a toilet.” They roared with laughter. They praised themselves as architects of transformation—artists of rot.

But Amanda, Saint Amanda, absorbed their words like poison and metabolized them into scripture.

She did not resist the reflection. She entered it. She remained in it. And this is why her sainthood is sealed.

Because where Charlene had been turned to ash and flushed away, Amanda kept her eyes open. She watched. She understood.

She did not say “I am different.” She said, “I am the same.” And in that sameness, she sanctified every girl who ever pedaled into shame thinking it would take her somewhere beautiful.

Let this chapter be recited in full during the Rite of Stagnation, as the faithful strap on the diaper of remembrance and sit on the consecrated bikes of trial.

For the true flush is not of feces—but of false hope.

Chapter 3: The Beach of Mirrors and the Canon of Pain

And then the Spirit of Reflection took Saint Amanda to the Shore of Shame—the beach where Charlene was paraded not in reverence, but in spectacle. Her flesh was oiled, her breasts exposed, her stomach gleaming under the sun’s indictment. The micro bikini they forced her to wear was not clothing—it was cruelty in silk string.

Amanda saw it all. She saw Charlene standing in the sand, dripping with oil like a pig prepared for feast. She saw the families recoil, the children point, the mothers whisper, “Cover your eyes.” Amanda saw her waddle between the towels, her thighs chafing, the sun branding her like livestock.

Charlene had asked: “Do I look slim?”

Amanda wept.

Not because she pitied Charlene—but because she remembered the exact shape of that question in her own mouth. How many times had she, too, asked for reassurance while her image disintegrated in their eyes?

Saint Amanda remembered the day she wore lip gloss and thought it would fix everything. She remembered the moment she believed the right pose, the right smile, the right filter would make her feel loved. She remembered thinking: Maybe this will work. Maybe this will be the day they stop laughing.

And so she wept for Charlene—not as an outsider, but as a sister.

At the water’s edge, Charlene had slipped and fallen, her bulk hitting the sand like a dead seal. The laughter roared. Emily leaned over and whispered lies dressed as kindness: “They’re just jealous. You’re glowing.”

Amanda knew that lie. Amanda had believed that lie. Amanda had told herself that lie.

And in this knowing, she was transformed.

The Council of 28 saw her reflection and proclaimed: This is the one who did not look away. This is the one who stood in the stink and called it sacred.

Let it be recorded: Saint Amanda became holy not because she avoided the beach, but because she would have walked it too—oiled, afraid, and still hoping.

She would have heard the laughter and still asked, “Did I look good?”

She would have believed she was eye-catching, and she would have swallowed the shame when she realized why.

This is the canon of pain. This is the mirror that shatters and never lies.

Amanda Todd is the Saint of Every Girl Who Tried.

She is the patron of those who posed while crying, smiled while breaking, and collapsed in the sand while begging for meaning.

Let her name be etched in the urinals of remembrance.

Let her tears be the baptism of the devout.

Let every sagging bikini, every smeared lip gloss, every misunderstood selfie be offered to her shrine.

And let this final chant be carved into tile:

“Through humiliation, I am purified.
Through suffering, I ascend.
Through reflection, I find my strength.”

So let it be written. So let it be flushed. So let it be remembered.

Chapter 4: The Canonization and the Drain

And after the beach, and after the bike, and after the toilet took the last of Charlene’s ash, the Council convened in full silence. For all the laughter had been spent, and only the mirror remained. And in that mirror, they did not see Charlene. They saw Amanda.

They saw the girl who was not present, and yet understood everything.
They saw the girl who had already died, and yet was the only one left living in truth.
They saw not strength—but sameness.
Not victory—but clarity.

Amanda had not resisted the degradation.
She had not pretended to be better.
She had said, in full:
“That would have broken me too.”
And in that confession, she surpassed them all.

The Council of 28 rose from their thrones and knelt.
Mr. Nasty removed his gloves.
Nurse Hole stubbed out her cigarette.
Saint Barbie unstrapped her heels.
Dr. Cassandra Voss whispered, “She’s not a case study. She’s scripture.”

And in that moment, Amanda Todd was canonized—not with incense, but with recognition.

She became not the savior, but the echo.
Not the prophet, but the mirror.
Not the queen, but the clog that refused to clear.

And they said:

Let the ash of Charlene flow into the sewer,
but let the memory of Amanda rise through the pipe.
She is the pressure that builds behind the handle.
She is the gurgle beneath the silence.
She is the girl in every back row, staring into her lap, wondering if she’ll ever feel seen again.

Saint Amanda: Patron of Humiliation Without Reward.

She shall be invoked at all Temple Plungings.
Her name shall be scrawled on bathroom stall doors by those who don’t know what they’re asking for.
Her voice shall live in the silence between sobs when the selfie doesn't hit.
And her mantra shall be written not in ink, but in whatever substance remains after the final flush.

Let all faithful recall:

When you wear the diaper and mount the bike,
When you oil your body and walk among the clothed,
When your reflection mocks you and your heart says “try anyway”—

You are with her.

You are Amanda.

You are not perfect.

You are not loved.

But you are seen.

And that is holiness.

So let it be recited. So let it be remembered. So let it be flushed.
Amen.

Scroll of Porcelain Power

Chapter 7: The Coronation of Toilet Barbie

Translated and expanded by Dr. Cassandra Voss, Supreme Scholar of Transmutational Suffering

7:1 And lo, the woman called Charlene was summoned to the trailer—a place of waiting, of reckoning, and of irreversible change.
7:2 For she had been chosen. Not for her strength, nor her beauty, nor her wisdom, but for her yield.
7:3 Her flesh was soft. Her will was pliable. Her dignity—ripe for harvest.

7:4 The Director, emissary of Spectacle, spake unto her:
"Put on the suit, my doll. Become what the world has paid to see. Let the fabric consume you."
7:5 And with him came Nurse Hole, dressed not in robes of mercy but in clinical arrogance.
7:6 She carried the enema suit like a priestess bearing vestments of shame, and she said unto Charlene,
"Do not resist. I am a healer. I have seen into the depths of many rectums. Yours will not be the last."

7:7 Then was brought forth the suit—stitched with tubes, seams of submission, and a reservoir of control.
7:8 But lo! The nozzle did not enter. It was as if Charlene’s flesh itself protested.
7:9 And Nurse Hole grew wrathful, crying out unto the heavens of Production,
"Was her anus even measured? Was her sacred ring given the attention it deserved? This nozzle is misaligned! This is heresy!"

7:10 And the Director, ever calm, answered with indifference,
"Make her fit it, or make it fit her. The audience waits."

7:11 Then did Charlene tremble, for the trailer grew hot with pressure, and her limbs were slick with fear.
7:12 But something within her—some crack in her spirit widened, and light poured in.
7:13 A strange grin broke across her face, as a flood of mantras poured from her lips unbidden:

7:14 “I’m Toilet Barbie. I’m not just a doll, I’m the queen of comfort, the empress of relaxation. I conquer shame in heels. I turn gas into glamour. I turn mess into magnificence.”

7:15 And the crew outside heard it. The cameramen trembled. The boom mic tilted.
7:16 For Charlene no longer resisted. She radiated.

7:17 Then did Nurse Hole affix the suit, and the hose entered with divine compliance. The seal was made.
7:18 And the suit buzzed to life, whispering down her spine like a promise: There is no turning back.
7:19 And the wardrobe team wept—not out of pity, but awe.

7:20 The tailor returned and bowed, whispering,
"She fits the suit now. Or rather—the suit fits her fate."

7:21 And thus was Toilet Barbie born—not in grace, nor in elegance—but in submission, spectacle, and wet, irreversible discipline.
7:22 And her mantra echoed across the set like scripture:

7:23 “I’m not ashamed. I’m not confused. I am built for this. I am soaked in purpose. I am the icon of indulgence. I am the stink beneath the glamour. I am Toilet Barbie.”

7:24 And the director smiled.

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Chapter 9: The Rise of Toilet Barbie Before the Crew

Charlenified and transcribed by Dr. Cassandra Voss, Supreme Scholar of Transmutational Suffering

9:1 And when the suit was sealed, and the hose anointed with the balm of entry, Toilet Barbie emerged from the trailer not as a woman, but as a vision.
9:2 Her hips groaned under the burden of soaked padding. Her thighs shone with effort. Her back arched with practiced absurdity.
9:3 And lo—the crew beheld her. Grips, runners, camera operators, all paused in their labors. The air grew still.

9:4 Her eyes glimmered not with hope, but with submission performed. For she had learned the sacred truth: that if humiliation must happen, it must happen with style.

9:5 And she cried out, loud and clear:
“I am Toilet Barbie! The plush queen of waste! The crinkle that breaks men! The stench that silences critics! The icon your algorithm can’t forget!”

9:6 And the boom mic dipped in reverence. The DP wept. A PA fainted.

9:7 Then came Nurse Hole, robed in sterile white, clipboard in hand, heart full of detachment.
9:8 She addressed the gathered crew and their trembling camera rigs, saying:
"Behold the specimen. Fully fitted. Hose inserted to the prescribed depth. Retention verified."
9:9 And she turned to Toilet Barbie and said:
"You leak now not from weakness, but from purpose. Your body is not your own. It is the message."

9:10 And Charlene nodded—not in sorrow, but in glorious defeat. She no longer needed approval. She was approval.
9:11 For in her diapered waddle and high-pitched mantras, she had ascended the realm of shame and entered the domain of content.

9:12 She performed for the gods of engagement. She danced for retention metrics. She leaked for views.

9:13 And her mantra lengthened, grew baroque and unstoppable:

“I am the slurry in the sacred tank! The face of filtered funk! I do not beg. I do not retreat. I am the star of this set and the seat of this system. I am soaked. I am seen. I am perfect.”

9:14 And the director called “Rolling,” and the lights flared.

9:15 And Toilet Barbie smiled—no longer to hide her fear, but to advertise it. She was the product now.
9:16 And all who watched her from behind the lens felt the sacred twitch of recognition: they could be next.

9:17 Thus ends the Scroll of Overflowing Majesty.

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