|Join Nairaland / LOGIN! / Trending / Recent / New|
Stats: 2,210,868 members, 4,825,727 topics. Date: Thursday, 21 March 2019 at 12:36 AM
|Let The Guns Speak by LarrySun(m): 7:31am On Mar 12|
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by LightQueen(f): 7:50am On Mar 12|
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by OlufemiWhit(m): 8:53am On Mar 12|
Really¿¿ you neva get time complete Black Maria.....and you're gonna start anoda 1 -__-
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by LarrySun(m): 9:45am On Mar 12|
OlufemiWhit:It would be very interesting to see you sue me.
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by LarrySun(m): 9:46am On Mar 12|
With the exception of some facts, all characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to living persons, present or past, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Larry Sun
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from the author. Publications are exempted in the case of brief quotations in critical reviews or articles.
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by LarrySun(m): 9:49am On Mar 12|
The Beginning of the End
Location: Lagos Island, Lagos State
Date: January 27, 2019
Time: 1133Hrs, GMT
The day had broken clear many hours ago, the immortal sun was bright and hot, but the breeze still managed to wash the air. A few small clouds, much like the little scoops of vanilla ice-cream usually sold by young men on wailing bicycles, endeavoured to drift lazily across the blanketing blue firmament above. Sometimes, the roaming clouds would desultorily travel across the face of the sun, and the world below would enjoy a few respite of coolness before the heat would descend once more to torment everything that slithered, crawled, walked, flew or germinated. It was this kind of heat that usually put dealers in umbrellas and sombreros in business. And it was under this scorching element that the strange young man was running for his life.
He was soaked through and through with sweat as he ran; perspiration trickled into the corner of his left eye, stinging him sharply, blurring his vision. He blotted his slick forehead with the sleeve of his shirt and blinked furiously to wash the salt out of his eye. He was getting tired but he must not stop running now. His life depended on how hastily he could make his retreat. More important than his own life was the laminated document he held in his hand; this document was more important than anything else. What was contained in the document could herald a new era of something spectacular. And it was quite astonishing that circumstances had subjected him to become the guardian of this secrecy. He knew of the terrible things that would happen if the document got in the wrong hands.
He looked behind him and saw his pursuers; five men, five armed men! He increased the speed of his retreats. He knew the men's mission; their intentions lied not only on retrieving the document but also to end the life of its unfortunate bearer, for the runaway man had known too much to be left alive. The runner, however, had sworn to protect the document or die in the act.
His pursuers were running towards him with weapons drawn; only two of the five men held pistols, the others wielded machetes with which they were all too eager to hack him to pieces. There was not going to be any room for negotiation or mercy if they caught him; the men would literally eviscerate him, they would gut out his entrails and split his head into two so as to make sure he remained undeniably dead. The bolting man tried to run faster but his legs were giving way, exhaustion was gradually overwhelming him; he had been running all day but the men after him seemed more determined to slaughter him than he was of protecting the damning document. The men must not get hold of the document, he must not allow it.
He ran into a dirty street, tripped over an aluminum can and picked himself up again. As he rose he thought about hiding the document among the junks, but he shook the thought off his mind. The trash was not safe enough; the document would be too conspicuous there. Even an slowpoke would easily find it, and the killers after him were no imbeciles; they were trained operatives whose main jobs were finding missing things and exterminating any living obstacles in their paths.
The pursued man cut into another street and ran with the little ounce of strength within him. He was desperate now, looking around to hide the treasure with him, but there didn't seem to be any safe place to conceal the document.
He looked behind his left shoulder, the pursuers were no longer running after him, they were now walking with full confidence. They had probably suspected his exhaustion. They walked with full swagger, as if they had all the time in the world. The street seemed deserted; everywhere appeared silent except for the few birds who sang occasionally as they flew hither and yon. Innocent civilians had run for cover on beholding five heavily armed men pursuing a lone runner. The running man was momentarily afraid. He knew the time had come for him to bade the world his farewell. He was very sad; sad not because he was soon going to join his ancestors, of course that was inevitable in the circumstance; he was sad because the men would finally be taking the document from him. And he found himself pitying the unfortunate living people who would witness and experience the horror the content of the document would unleash all across the federation. It would be a global but colossal catastrophe.
As he tried to run into a crowded street a shot rang from behind him and the bullet caught him in the neck.
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by LarrySun(m): 9:57am On Mar 12|
Location: Abuja, Nigeria (Ten Kilometres away from Aso Rock)
Date: October 1, 1990
Time: 2200Hrs GMT
The assemblage occurred in a remote area of precisely ten kilometres from the Rock. From the highest floor of this magnificent cabin built only with wood, some of the builders had insisted on catching the view of the distant rock's peak. Now this gathering was a secret meeting, but it was not that kind of meeting ridiculous rituals like a dozen men screwing away a lady were performed, or where members would place their vows as they drink from old calabashes the blood of goats, sometimes it could be human blood. Yet this particularly club was not one any of its members would publicly boast of belonging in.
Members of this fraternity (a group which they had come together to name themselves The Common Men; and below their individual armpits, just above the ribcages of each one of them, was the gothic tattoo of the inscription TCM; no one knew about the existence of this gathering except, of course, the members) numbered exactly twenty. Each member came from each state of the federation, and they usually had this meeting quarterly. In the meetings, they usually sat to discuss the fate of the nation and her citizens. This night, however, was not their meeting night. But the appointed leader, TCM-13, the one from the federal capital, had summoned the members to this sudden meeting. Upon hearing the summons, each member had boarded the next available flight, while those who resided in neighbouring states had employed the services of taxi-drivers to drive them to the location; they never allowed their drivers to transport them there for no outsider must know about the existence of this sacred place. None of their family members must know, not even their wives were allowed that knowledge. Two years earlier, a member from Imo had made the mistake of confiding in his wife about the meeting. The member had met with a terrible fatal accident and his whole family was thereafter wiped out. Nobody knew about how The Common Men knew about this disloyalty, but the Imo man's entirely lineage paid dearly for his loose tongue. And within two months, another man from the state had replaced him.
Today, all the members had arrived before dawn. Today was a special day; this day was the celebration of the nation's thirty years after Independence. Something spectacular was going to happen tonight, every member knew, except only one who knew what was really going to happen. All the members, the twenty of them, spent the early part of the night popping bottles of champagne, laughing and cracking jokes until it was time for the meeting.
At exactly ten o'clock, the members were seated around a large rectangular table in a similarly large but narrow hall fitted with three burglary-proof windows on either side. The men seated here were in powerful positions, people prided to belong among the high echelons in their respective constituencies. For added security, members were forbidden to call one another by their names, instead, each of them was assigned a code name bearing the number of their states when arranged alphabetically. For instance, the man from Abia bore the code name TCM-01, while one from Lagos was TCM-13, the current leader of the group. Because of the revelation which was soon to be explained, the members never had their meeting in any state of the country, except here.
When all had seated, TCM-13 took his position at the far end of the large table, facing the entrance. The man was apparently the smallest and youngest person among the twenty members, but his position gave him an edge of authority, and no member dare look him in the eyes or disagree with him, for any act of insubordination would warrant death. Any member from Lagos was usually the luckiest member. The room became totally silent when the leader took his seat. It was really great to be a leader; but sometimes, leadership could be a dangerous privilege, every member knew that, TCM-13 knew that. Just eleven months ago, his predecessor from Lagos had suffered a Caesarean fate; all the members had connived against the man for disagreeing with them over a mere peccadillo, and in the next meeting, each of the nineteen members had come into the hall with a knife, and they had collectively stabbed the leader to death. They had later cremated the body, ground it to ash and scattered the dust into the air. Then they had later replaced the leader with the current one.
TCM-13 stood up and addressed the men.
“I welcome you all to this August gathering. I will go straight to the reason why this meeting was called. It just reached my notice that there is going to be a shift of the nation's capital from the West to the North and...”
“How sure are you about this news?” TCM-6.
The leader glared at 6 and said, “I will oblige you to allow me finish my words before interrupting me.”
“I'm sorry, sir.”
“It mustn't happen again,” 13 said and continued, “My sources told me that this shift shall be taking effect by next year. I'm sure you all know what that means, don't you? Abuja will be the country's new capital and that means new leaders shall be hence appointed from Abuja here. I have no qualms about that; in short, it would be a welcome development since some more states would be created and new members would automatically be initiated into the group. But before this shift in power and the initiation of new members next year, we have to put various things in place.” He reached into the briefcase and extracted a document which he placed on the table. Everyone stared at the document as if they were seeing it for the first time.
“This is the original and only copy of the Red Paper. The future depends on what is printed on this document. But it remains invalid except it contains the names and signatures of the twenty of us seated here tonight.” He picked up the document and raised it up for all to see. “As you can all see, it already contains my name and signature. My name is hereby written in the book of history. You all know the significance of the Red Paper, you all know its singular importance.” He stoppedd and stared at the astonished Common men, he could see the fear in their eyes, the doubt, the terror. He smiled. Everyone knew what was at stake when he agreed to become The Common Man. Now it was time for them to show their mettle.
“So, what do you say?” The leader asked, “Are you all ready to become parts of the future? Show your identities, prove your bravery to the next generation. Come on, we are The Common Men!”
TCM-13 pushed the Red Paper forward and each member, with shaky hands, wrote his name and signed. Soon, the document contained the names and signatures of all the men in the room. The leader collected the document and returned it to the briefcase. Then he stood up, went to the wine bar and extracted a fresh bottle of wine and three glasses, he placed them on the table and sat down. All the nineteen men stared at him, confused, as he uncorked the bottle and poured the wine into the three cups. He did not drink the wine, neither did he offer any of the men. He stood up again and spoke:
“I have a very sad news to tell you all. An outsider knows about this group. I'm sure you all know what that means. One of us has said what he shouldn't have; he has confessed the secret of this group to an outsider. We have a mole in our midst; but the most unfortunate situation is that we don't know who talked among us. We all know how dangerous for this group it is that a non-member is aware of its existence. We have no choice but to correct this error, but there is only one way of doing that. Just sit down and relax; there is no cause for alarm, everything is under control.”
He sat down, closed his eyes for a few seconds, opened his eyes, sighed audibly and called aloud, “Come in.”
Three hefty men, each armed with an AK-47, stepped into the hall. The time was gradually shifting to the hour of eleven.
“Lock the door behind you and bring me the keys,” TCM-13 ordered.
The men obeyed as instructed. When the bunch of keys was handed over to the leader, the man flung the keys out into the dark night through the window; they were all locked in the room.
TCM-13 smiled at the nineteen terrified members and said, “Because we are all forbidden to directly take lives, I have therefore requested the help of these three gentlemen to do us the honour. They are going to make us matyrs. I congratulate you all for not only being a part of history but also of the future.” He turned to the armed men and said, “Take the Holy Communion.”
Without any question, the killers drank the wine.
“I'm ready.” TCM-13 said, spreading out his arms. The men instantly riddled his body with series of bullets. Then they turned to the nineteen Common Men and shot them all. The floor soon became a pool of blood and the table littered with bloody pieces of the victims flesh. The corpses of the slaughtered members lay in different grotesque positions. There was no survivor.
Shortly after the massacre, the killers also slumped and died. What they drank had been poisoned. The poison was not in the wine bottle but in the glasses.
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by LarrySun(m): 10:10am On Mar 12|
It was already midnight when the seventeen-year-old boy arrived at the location. As instructed, he had come in through the paths in the bush that surrounded the arena. He would have reached there earlier if not for the twenty-five litres of petrol he had been instructed to bring along.
He set the heavy gallon down and moved to the wooden cabin. He peeped through the window and beheld the corpses within. He was not surprised, the man who had approached had informed him about what he was going to find here. He later searched around the areas of the windows, the man had also told him that he was going to find a bunch of keys. He discovered the keys under a leaf; it was almost entirely covered with the fallen leaf. He would not have found it if he had not come with the battery-powered torch he had also been instructed to bring. He unlocked the door with the keys, tentatively stepped into the room and over the corpses until he reached the briefcase that had fallen on its side. He retrieved the document in it and retired from the room.
Before leaving, the boy doused the corpses, the interior and exterior of the cabin with petrol and set everything on fire. The fire burned fiercely; fleshes cooked and burned, the building burned and collapsed, until what remained thereafter were charcoals and charred fragments of the cremated corpses.
The boy did not wait for the inferno to dull; he walked away with the Red Paper, the most important entity, something more important than any single human. The boy had been appointed to be the guardian of the Red Paper. He knew what he had to do; another fraternity would have to be created somewhere else.
The legacy must live on.
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by LarrySun(m): 10:14am On Mar 12|
To be continued...
However, you can download the full story from the link below:
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by nastynic(m): 1:17pm On Mar 12|
Can i get a phone number？
i will like to pay via top up
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by nastynic(m): 1:17pm On Mar 12|
Can i get a phone number？
i will like to pay via top up
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by LarrySun(m): 1:49pm On Mar 12|
nastynic:No can do. You can only buy from Okadabooks for now.
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by queenitee(f): 4:55pm On Mar 12|
Really nice, can't wait
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by OlufemiWhit(m): 7:49pm On Mar 12|
LarrySun:it would av been very wise if you didn't reply dis way
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by LarrySun(m): 9:22pm On Mar 12|
OlufemiWhit:I'm sorry, sir. It's just that the content of your message was insufficiently intelligent.
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by Ann2012(f): 10:15pm On Mar 12|
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by OlufemiWhit(m): 6:53am On Mar 13|
LarrySun:you're really gonna fill up the pages of this story with your foolishness abi
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by dailynaijanews(m): 1:55pm On Mar 13|
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by LarrySun(m): 4:55pm On Mar 13|
OlufemiWhit:Normally, people like you would throw insults at me and I'd just swallow them, but I'm done doing that. Initially when you accused me from nowhere without exercising the wisdom of patience, I tried to be subtle in my reply. But you just had to attack me. It's probably what you have been waiting to do for long.
Young man, I don't know who you are, and quite frankly, I don't care to know. It's obvious that there's a broken chromosome in your head, and I've managed to steer clear of retar.ds like you, well, until this moment.
Your comments are an overwhelming evidence that you are an enormous waste of rationality, of life, and I can only imagine that somewhere, somehow, a condom broke.
You dare come to my thread to spill the same garbage that has always been your identity? What business is it of yours if I decide to open as many threads as I want? The owner of the forum isn't complaining, the moderators aren't complaining - those who would read them would, of course, read them - but a roving nincompoop like you just have to foam at the mouth over my matter.
Besides, this particular story is completed, and if your senses have an angle of elevation, you would see where I posted the link to the complete story.
Please, if you can't stand the heat, get out of the bleeping kitchen. Just do something nice for once...get the hell out of my thread. You have such an incredible amount of negative energy...I'm done replying you.
You probably have a microscopic iota of sanity left. But hell, you can prove me wrong once again by quoting me. I'm done with you.
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by LarrySun(m): 4:58pm On Mar 13|
Location: Lagos Island, Lagos State
Date: January 27, 2019
Time: 1200Hrs. GMT
Irele walked out of the supermarket with a basket bearing her purchases. She stole a fast glance at her wristwatch and discovered that it was exactly noon already; she was amazed, she could almost not believe that she had spent almost an hour in the store buying just few goods. He chastised herself for this; next time, he would have to get her priorities right. Time was too precious to waste on the purchase of body spray and some other apothecary of toiletries. She had a lot of tasks to achieve before today ended; although shopping was one of her plans for the day, she didn't thought it would take so much of her time.
Then, as she was approaching her vehicle, she suddenly heard the sound of a gunshot close-by. Irele was momentarily scared and ran to her car. She was not the only person running now; there were people screaming and bounding for safety. Hawkers threw off their trays and made a run for their precious lives, traders ignored their goods and took to their heels; gifted cartoonists would draw comical pictures from this tumultous setting.
Irele, like the bolting crowd, did not wait to confirm the shooter or who was being shot. The sound of the gunshot alone was enough to tell her not to linger around; she had heard more than enough stories of victims of stray bullets. She quickly unlocked the door of her car and got behind the wheel. She set the key into the ignition and started the car. Just as she was about to pull into the road and speed off, a bloody but dangerous-looking man suddenly appeared by the door; his neck was gushing out blood and he managed to speak in a guttural voice:
“Please, help me!” His eyes were pleading.
Irele screamed at beholding the bloody man. The man's shirt was soaked with blood.
“Please, help me!” The man said again, he was pulling desperately at the door.
Irele wanted to drive away but remained frozen with inaction. She was scared beyond any action. She didn't know what to do. Here was a man begging to be saved, but Irele didn't know how she would be the stranger's saviour. The man continued to desperately pull at the door and Irele resumed her screams. Then series of gunshots came again. The man had been hit in the back; his eyes opened wide as blood escaped from within his mouth and rushed to his chin and chest. But before he fell down dead, he dropped something he was holding into the car.
Irele was not seeing what the stranger had dropped; what she was seeing were five armed men approaching her vehicle. She quickly pressed on the accelerator and sped down the deserted road.
The five killers reached the dead man and searched his body. The document was not found. They didn't have to be told that the man had dropped the document into that car speeding down the road. The vehicle was now too far away to catch its plate number.
“The Red Paper is in that car!” One of the men lamented.
“We are doomed!” Another man exclaimed.
“No, we are not,” said the third killer, “I know the lady behind the wheel.”
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by LarrySun(m): 5:03pm On Mar 13|
Brutal Comeback of an Unbowed Soldier
Irele drove homeward like a maniac. All her life, she had never for one moment thought she would be a centre of such brutality. As she drove on, she noticed the blood that sprayed on the passenger's seat. It was repulsive. She felt like vomiting right there on the steering wheel. Why me? Why me of all people? Why did that bloody strange man choose my car of all the cars parked at the sidewalk? And most horribly, why was he killed? Who were those men shooting at him? What would have happened if they had caught up with me in this car? Would they have killed me too?
She missed an oncoming truck by an inch because of the speed she was travelling in. She could not get her mind off the blood on the seat beside her. She grabbed a rag from the dashboard and began to wipe off the thick red liquid that had smeared the upholstery. As she attempted to wipe clean the seat, her eyes caught a laminated document on the floor. She reached for it and nearly knocked over a teenager on a bicycle. If not for the lamination, the document would have been soaked in blood.
She managed to concentrate more on her driving until she got home. She went inside with the document, had a cold glass of water and sat down to reflect upon what had happened to her less than an hour earlier. She could not keep herself from shaking. If the shooter of the stranger had missed, she might probably be hit. It was by sheer luck that she was still alive now. A lot of innocent civilians had lost their lives in such a circumstance. She still couldn't control the nervousness in her when she went to the bathroom to wash off the blood on her and have a change of clothes. She left the document in the living room.
She was dressed only in towel when she heard a sudden noise from the living room. She quickly turned off the tap and listened. Someone had broken in. She could hear footsteps, footsteps of more than one intruder. She knew she was in danger; somehow, the killers had located her. How were they able to do that? How the hell did they know where she lived? Who were these people?
She was sure they had come for the document. Thank goodness she had left it in the sitting room. Let them just take it and leave. The document was left there in the open. They would easily locate it. She expected them to grab the document and go their own way. She didn't want to have anything to do with them or the red document. She was a simple lady living her own simple life.
The door of the bathroom was suddenly broken open. She saw the three killers smiling cruelly at her. She tried to scream and met with series of slaps on the face. She was dragged by her towel to the living room.
“What do you want from me?” She asked as she was being dragged to the metaphorical altar of slaughter. She was only trying to be brave, but it wasn't working; she was scared shitless. She had just had a shower but was now sweating anew. Something terrible was about to happen to her, but she didn't want to dwell on it because of the fear of losing her mind with such horrible thought.
The men weren't smiling anymore. There was nothing to smile about. They were killers - trained killers. They were totally oblivious of her near-unclothedness. They would have shot her point-blank in the bathroom and moved on, but they wanted to make sure there wasn't any loose end whatsoever.
One of the killers pointed at the document lying on the sofa and asked, “Is that the only thing dropped in your car, young lady?”
Irele nodded vigorously.
“What else did the man drop in your car?”
She shook her head vigorously. “No, nothing else. He dropped only that red paper. Nothing else. Please don't hurt me. I know nothing. I don't know the man.” She was on her knees now.
“Did you make another copy of that document?”
“No, sir. I didn't.”
“Lying would not work well for you, lady,” One of the killers declared. This one was a man of few words. He had been observing everything calmly. He looked most menacing. It was his bullet that ended the life of the runner. He was a calculated man; a calm but vicious nature.
“I swear I'm not lying. I didn't make any copy. I have no reason to do that.”
“We all know you do. Considering the kind of person you are.” Another killer said. He apparently knew her well.
“Did you read the content of the document?” The third killer asked.
Irele shook her head again.
The killer shrugged, “It doesn't matter if you read it or not. Everything will end soon. Who have you called?”
“Nobody. I called no one.”
“Where's your phone?”
“On the home theatre system.”
The killer took the phone and handed it to his partner who inserted it in his pocket. They didn't even bother checking whether she had made any calls recently. That didn't matter. They knew what they would do. After killing her, they would locate every contact in her phone book and eliminate them all. That was their code. No end must be left behind, whether loose or tight.
“What are you hiding under the towel?”
“The towel you're wearing, what are you hiding under it?”
“The last time I checked, it was my body.”
“Oh, you're a smart tongue.”
“You are here to kill me. No matter how much I beg for my life, you will never grant it. You can as well kill me and save me from further humiliation.”
“It's good to know you understand your fate; but I we want to be sure that you are hiding nothing under your towel.”
“What do you think I'm hiding?”
“You tell us. It could be a mini-transmitter. It could even be a weapon. Get rid of that towel.”
Irele stared coldly at the speaker and replied, “Never.”
She was responded with a slap. “Loosen the towel.” The killers knew it was unlikely to hide anything in the towel; what they suspected her of was hiding something within her. In her own body. And they preferred to frisk her when she was still alive to after her death.
“Not while I'm still alive,” Irele replied, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth.
“Very well, if that's how you want it,” said the calm killer as he pressed the muzzle of his Kalashnikov against her head, “Say your last prayer.”
The first bullet popped open a skull. It was gory! It entered the forehead and escaped through the back of the skull, lodging itself in the wall after crashing through the glass portrait of poor Irele. The skull was a watermelon. The inner flesh seeped out with the blood and some parts of the brain. The figure collapsed dead without taking any further wasted breath. Someone from outside had shot one of the killers dead.
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by LarrySun(m): 5:04pm On Mar 13|
To be continued...
However, you can download the full story from the link below:
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by AJECKING(m): 6:10pm On Mar 13|
i dey for ur back!...keep it flowing...
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by Ann2012(f): 6:21pm On Mar 13|
Well done OP
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by OlufemiWhit(m): 8:55pm On Mar 13|
LarrySun:if you like hang yourself
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by nastynic(m): 9:17pm On Mar 13|
You are a living artifact！ thanks for the update
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by queenitee(f): 9:37am On Mar 14|
Mehn, this is getting serious
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by Blackween(f): 2:12pm On Mar 14|
this is a wonderful work of art, Weldon
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by queenitee(f): 5:53pm On Mar 14|
Such a lovely story Is there going to be a sequel? Like letting us into their happily ever after I simply don't want the story to end
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by KYLEJP(m): 8:19am On Mar 15|
Larrysun at it again...
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by kayo80(m): 2:41pm On Mar 15|
Nice one Larry Sun. I just bought 6 of your books on Okadabooks. You are a great writer, keep doing your thing.
|Re: Let The Guns Speak by Wadewaltz(m): 2:48pm On Mar 15|
Larry is that you wearing a ladies wig,holding a gun
|Sections: politics (1) business autos (1) jobs (1) career education (1) romance computers phones travel sports fashion health |
religion celebs tv-movies music-radio literature webmasters programming techmarket
Nairaland - Copyright © 2005 - 2019 Oluwaseun Osewa. All rights reserved. See How To Advertise. 266