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message 1: by Leonardo (last edited Jul 11, 2015 03:42PM) (new)

Leonardo Noto (leonardonoto) | 38 comments The Life of a Colonial Fugitive by Leonardo Antony Noto

THE LIFE OF A COLONIAL FUGITIVE

Free (Kindle) -- http://www.amazon.com/Life-Colonial-F...

An historical thriller based in the American Revolution. Young Jonathan E. Lee is falsely accused of heinous war crimes by his treacherous regimental commander! Jonathan is forced to flee the colonies to save his neck from the hangman's noose, fighting his way across a stormy Atlantic and then joining a mercenary army that is deploying to warring Siam, a kingdom that is squirming under the iron-fist of a madman.

Greetings! I am Dr. Leonardo Noto, a former military battalion surgeon. The idea for "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive" was born out of my passion for American military history and my enthusiasm for the sport of muay Thai (Thai boxing). While training in a Thai boxing camp during the days and working on a novel based in the American Revolution during the nights, I noticed that Thai history during the 1780s was as turbulent as the American history of the period. After two years of detailed research, including nearly forty references, "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive" was born. I hope that you enjoy reading my novel as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Dr. Leonardo Noto
Practicing Physician and Author of "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive," "The Cannabinoid Hypothesis," "Intrusive Memory," and "Medical School 101."

Please visit my blog, "The Health and Medical Blog with a Personality," at www.leonardonoto.com. Thanks for reading!

The Cannabinoid Hypothesis by Leonardo Antony Noto Intrusive Memory by Leonardo Antony Noto MEDICAL SCHOOL 101 A Quick Guide for the Busy Premed or the Lost Medical Student by Leonardo Antony Noto The Life of a Colonial Fugitive by Leonardo Antony Noto


message 2: by Leonardo (last edited Nov 15, 2014 04:35PM) (new)

Leonardo Noto (leonardonoto) | 38 comments CHAPTER 1:
A Warrior’s Reminiscence

June 1783: The blazing orange, tropical sun creeps above the rattan-studded horizon to announce the dawn of another sweltering day in the island paradise of Phuket, Siam. The gentle ocean breeze wafts the smell of decaying flesh into my nares as I survey the carnage of the past days’ fight from behind the cover of a thick palm. Less than a yard away, the dark skin of a dying enemy soldier is covered with vicious red ants, slowly eating him alive as he bellows out in pain-laden death throes. I climb out from my jungle concealment and walk across the sandy beach to ask the dying man in the Siamese tongue if he would like for me to speed the end of his life. The dying soldier is too feeble for speech, barely managing a slight affirmative nod of head. I unsheathe my sword and run the man thru his jugular, stepping back respectfully as the blood gushes from the jagged wound that I have inflicted upon his neck. As I watch the life drain from the young man’s sad face, I find myself reminiscing on the first time I gazed into a pair of youthful eyes prematurely aged by the horrors of war.

September 1778 (Five Years Prior): An otherwise dull Tuesday suddenly transformed itself into a frenzy of excitement as my older brother, Henry Lee III, arrived unexpectedly in Leesylvania1 for the first time since the beginning of the colonial revolution. Mother and I had been taking our tea under the shade of our estate’s great wrap-around porch while observing our slaves working the adjacent cotton fields when Henry’s silhouette had appeared over the horizon. Mother jumped up excitedly, spilling her tea and leaving a stain on the white-washed railing, which she quite uncharacteristically ignored as she cantered down the steps to meet him.

I waved half-heartedly at my brother but remained seated for we had not parted on favorable terms and I was, frankly, not excited at the prospect of his return. Henry clambered down from his raggedly thin horse, gave Mother a hug, and then walked towards me with a pronounced limp of the right leg. I shall never forget
the look of my brother’s gaze that day; gone was the shine of boyish innocence from his icy-blue eyes, replaced now with the penetrating stare of a man who had witnessed the animalistic brutality of combat. Henry’s body was transformed too, skinny now, his two-year-old uniform that had been so painstakingly sown by my mother hanging from his bones like beggar’s rags. Quite ashamed of my initial indifference, I rose from my rocking chair and hurried to assist Henry as he clumsily scaled our porch stairs.


1. ”Leesylvania”: The unofficial name of the region of Northern Virginia that lies adjacent to the Potomac River, near the present site of Washington City, where the Lee Family settled after emigrating from the British Isles.



“This leg of mine, it’s never been the same since my horse fell atop me at Brandywine Creek. Anytime I ride for more n’ an hour it cramps up somethin’ awful.” Henry mumbled as his face twisted into a grimace of agony.

“Where are you ridin’ in from, General Washington’s camp at West Point?” I inquired, eager to make conversation to disguise the expression of shock that was plastered about my face, shock at the haggardness of my brother’s appearance.

“Yes, and a fine improvement over last season’s accommodations at Valley Forge, that’s for sure. Many a good patriot froze to death in that snowy hell.” Henry muttered bitterly. “Enough with all this talk of the damned war, let us speak on somethin’ more pleasant. How are the plans for your grand tour of Europe progressin’, Jonathan?”

“Tell us about this General Washington, Henry! Is he the hero the papers make him out to be?” Mother interjected loudly and to Henry’s great annoyance.

“I asked a polite and simple question about my brother, mama!” Henry shouted, his voice hard and calloused. “Why all this subterfuge?”

“The trip’s cancelled; it’s too dangerous to cross the Atlantic anyhow now that France has entered the war.” I stated matter-of-factly as I pulled my shoulders back and puffed out my chest. I’ve decided to join the Continental Army; I leave in three days to join my regiment.”

“And Father has given consent for this tomfoolery!” Henry demanded, his voice filled with bitter disdain.

“Father has his reservations, the same reservations he had when you were commissioned, as I recall.”

“I didn’t realize I was kin to such a fool, throwin’ away an opportunity to travel and study in Europe with full expenses
paid no less! Don’t you see my gimp leg, boy, and how ragged I look ‘cause of this endless fight. Are you really that blind or are you just plain stupid!” Henry exclaimed, his tone condescending and full of rage.

“Let us speak no more on this!” Mother begged as she fought back heartbroken tears.

“Speakin’ isn’t what I had in mind for him!” I blared across the patio, loud enough to distract the field slaves in the distance, my fists gripped white-knuckled in anger.

“I said enough!” Scolded Mother as if we were both still young boys rather than fully grown men. “This is my home and y’all will respect it!”

My brother and I glared at one another, our eyes full of hatred, fists tightly clinched. Mother moved between us, and with the greatest reluctance, for hot tempers run thick in my family’s blood, Henry and I backed down, unclenched our fists and entered my mother’s home, giving one another a wide berth as we dusted off our boots and stepped through the doorway. The three of us found Father reading the local news pamphlet in his trusty, old hickory rocking chair, oblivious to the commotion that we had caused outside due to an affliction with pronounced deafness due to his time spent fighting in the French and Indian War. Henry strolled over to him and they embraced warmly, a broad toothless and somewhat unnatural smile shone across my father’s old, wrinkled, perpetually frowning face. I stormed off to my room, ignoring Father’s thunderous calls behind me as I slammed the door shut and then fixated my gaze out of my bedroom window, lost in thought. Later that evening the family gathered for a grand feast prepared by our house servants in my brother’s honor, a feast that I begrudgingly attended after incessant nagging by Mother.

“Mother tells me you’ve just returned from Georgia, Father. How do you find our brethren in the Deep South are holdin’ up amidst all this chaos?” Henry inquired between generously-sized and eagerly partaken bites of roasted pheasant.

“They’re holdin’ up better than we are, that’s for certain, though I expect the British will attempt to change that soon enough. The British generals have no choice but to take the war to the south, as important a port as Charleston has become now and is becoming more so every day. Find yourself any new musket in the hands of a Continental and I can guarantee you that it was smuggled in through Charleston or Savannah on a blockade runner. Yes, the British will strike in the Deep South before this time next year, mark my word.” Father stated as he peered over his reading spectacles, his news pamphlet lying in its customary location, unfolded open upon his lap.

“And what of the cotton trade, Pa? Rumor has it that the Georgians are growin’ strains that produce twice, even thrice, the usual bounty.” Henry asked as he shook his head in disgust.

“Indeed they are, and growin’ it in the fertile soils of the Mississippi Territories in flagrant violation of their treaty with the Cherokee. They float the cotton on down the river to Mobile and New Orleans where the British blockade remains porous; the cost of shippin’ by barge down the rivers is less than what we pay to travel our cotton by wagon over less than an eighth of the distance.” Father said dryly with a wizened look of despair creeping across his brow. “I fear Leesylvania may only be suitable for growin’ soybeans and vegetables in the years to come. It is a thought that I have been losin’ much sleep over since my return, almost as much sleep as I have been losin’ worryin’ on you, Henry. Now, tell us of the Revolution; in what shape is the Continental Army to be found presently? It’s hard to find information in the pamphlets these days that is worth the paper it’s printed on.”

“The war’s not a subject for the ears of women and children, Pa.” Henry said coldly, staring deep into my eyes and as he articulated the word ‘children,’ making it clear to all present to whom he was referring.

My brother and I spoke little over the next three days, save for common courtesies that were uttered without eye contact and in guttural tones. When Henry saddled his horse to return to his regiment at West Point, I could not find it in my heart to bid him farewell. I watched enviously as my brother’s war mount lazily meandered down our plantation’s dusty path, little knowing that it might well be the last time I laid eyes upon my brother in this life. This was knowledge that would have pleased me at the time, for in my youth I could not have imagined how much I would long for the company of my family, my brother included, in the dark years to come.



message 3: by Jennifer (new)

Jennifer Lafferty | 114 comments That excerpt was very powerful. The story really comes to life.


message 4: by Leonardo (new)

Leonardo Noto (leonardonoto) | 38 comments Thank you, Jennifer!


message 5: by Leonardo (last edited Nov 16, 2014 01:36PM) (new)

Leonardo Noto (leonardonoto) | 38 comments CHAPTER 2:
The 11th Virginian Continental Regiment

October 1778: I reported for duty at the command tent of the 11th Virginian Continental Regiment on the First of October, a fine and breezy autumn day, ideal for the training on which our newly constituted regiment was preparing to embark. I found the 11th Virginia’s commanding officer, Colonel Woodrow, pacing around his luxuriously furnished, command tent in an aggressive agitation. Colonel Woodrow hardly acknowledged my presence as I begged permission to enter, responding only with a lukewarm wave of his hand towards an uncomfortable appearing, wicker chair, the only unpadded item of furniture amongst the half-dozen overstuffed chairs that were littered about the massive tent’s periphery, the center of the command tent being occupied by a solid oak table, its surface covered with topographic maps. I took a seat in the wicker, twiddling my thumbs and feeling quite out of place as I watched my commander pace to-and-fro, gesticulating wildly with his saber and muttering to himself unintelligibly. Colonel Woodrow was a lean muscular officer with a frame more befitting a twenty-year-old enlisted man than a forty-year-old regimental commander. His uniform fit smartly and his saber shone in the sunlight that flooded through the tents open folds. The saber shone nearly as brightly as the Colonel’s impeccably polished leather boots, boots of fine European craftsmanship, probably Neapolitan, I thought as I gazed about the room, my mind eager for any distraction from my sweaty-palmed anxiety as I sat waiting. The minutes ticked by, unbearable minutes that felt like hours. Suddenly the Colonel ceased his roaming soliloquy and squared his body in front of mine, his square jaw tightly clinched.

“Do you know how many white families have been killed by the heathen this year, Mr. Lee?” Colonel Woodrow shouted as he leaned his boxy face into mine.

“No Sir, but any number is surely too many, Sir.”

“But you don’t know how many, do you? You haven’t the faintest clue!” The Colonel rasped in exasperation as he thrust his saber over my left shoulder, barely missing my ear.

“N-n-no Sir, I confess my regrettable ignorance.” I stuttered, my eyes downtrodden as nervous sweat filled my boots.

“Ignorant or apathetic, Mr. Lee? Either way, you are not alone. The fact is that no one knows with exactitude because no one is bothered enough by the deaths of those hardworking men-of-god to keep track of how many the redskins are slaying—slaying with their bloodstained tomahawks, skinning the women and children like ranchers harvesting rawhide! I was raised on the frontier and I watched my entire family butchered by the savage before I had reached my seventh birthday. I saved my wretched skin by hiding under a pile of cow dung, covered in shit like a damn coward deserves. God how I burnt for revenge, from the depths of my blackened soul I burned, hating myself as much as I hated the heathen. But that pathetic boy grew into a man, Mr. Lee, a man who knows the God-given truth that revenge is not only man’s greatest pleasure but also his greatest duty!”

I stared at the Colonel, unable to speak, standing stiff at attention, my eyes staring straight ahead, not daring to move a muscle, the perspiration dripping down my pantaloons the unbroken boots that had been busily rubbing blisters onto my virgin feet all day, blisters that now burned with the fiercest of intensities as my salty sweat seeped into the ruptured vesicles. I wiggled my crackling toes as the Colonel continued his pressured tirade. My commander now seemed again oblivious to my presence, speaking only to himself and to the god that he both worshipped and despised.

“Cobleskill and Wyoming Valley, these are just the latest sites of the heathen massacres; mass killings instigated, supplied, and financed by the godforsaken British. I intend to avenge these atrocities by returning the favor upon their perpetrators tenfold, with God as my witness!” Colonel Woodrow gazed skyward as he shouted his fiery pledge, shaking his fist at the heavens.

The Colonel now stalked across his command tent to a map that hung from the far side, motioning for me to follow after him. The Colonel’s map ranged from Canada to Virginia, from the Atlantic coast to the unspoiled forests of Kentucke, containing a level of topographic detail to be found only on military maps of the finest cartography.

“Our official orders arrived a week ago, signed by General Washington himself. The mission will not be an easy one; the regiment will lose as much blood as it will draw.” Colonel Woodrow mumbled, the raging tempest that had been storming inside him beginning to calm. “Our God-given task is to mold this soft pathetic rabble of clueless farm boys into a functional Continental regiment before the end of the month…”

“That only leaves two weeks, Sir, barely enough time to train the men to march and to shoot!” I feebly protested.

“Barely enough time, indeed.” The Colonel retorted, a professorial tone creeping into his stony voice. “Nonetheless, that is the task at hand and our departure date is nonnegotiable. On October the First, we will begin our march from Virginia to the frontiers of Western New York where we will serve to guard the white settlements against the predations of the soulless redskins. Our secondary objective will be to scout the wilderness, providing reconnaissance to thwart surprise attacks on General Washington’s rear from British Canada. I need not remind you that just last year General Burgoyne marched a force of 6,000 British regulars through this very same country.” The Colonel stated.

I stood speechless for the horrors of frontier warfare were well known to all Virginians. Visions of the scalping and violating of innocent civilians rampaged through my mind as the Colonel gesticulated towards his war map in vivid exuberance. Later that afternoon, Colonel Woodrow gathered the other Virginian gentlemen who were assigned to our regiment into his command tent and officially commissioned us as officers of The Continental Army. After swearing our oaths-of-office on the Colonel’s well-worn Bible, the new regimental cadre, myself included, received our command assignments and then we were abruptly dismissed to take charge of our units.

The 11th Virginian stood at 250 men strong, half the size of a regular line regiment. Colonel Woodrow commanded the regiment with support from his executive officer, a newly commissioned Major, purportedly selected for his military prowess but in reality chosen for his social connections with members of the General Assembly of Virginia, a worthless man who served little purpose other than to relay the Colonel’s orders to the company commanders. The regiment was divided into five companies of approximately 45 men apiece. The fighting companies were designated Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, and Echo Companies. A sixth, and smaller, company was designated Headquarters Company and it contained Colonel Woodrow’s regimental support staff. Each company was commanded by a newly commissioned captain, save for Headquarters Company which was directly commanded by Colonel Woodrow. The five infantry companies were apportioned into two platoons of 20 men apiece, each platoon commanded by a young Lieutenant.

The 11th Virginian Continental Regiment was a light infantry regiment, designed for frontier warfare in which the ability to move rapidly over difficult terrain won the day, as opposed to the brute force that typically decided conventional engagements. To achieve this mobility the regiment was devoid of cumbersome heavy artillery, carrying only two small cannon. The rank-and-file were handpicked from the hardy mountain folk of the western frontiers of Virginia, a land where days spent without food were a common occurrence and hunting with a musket was a skill learnt in childhood.

I was to command Bravo Company and I found my company’s First Sergeant waiting impatiently for my expected arrival in front of the company formation, the men in neatly lined ranks and standing in stiff positions-of-attention. The First Sergeant was a tall, lean, and muscular man with a coarsely wrinkled, sun-hardened face and equally chiseled eyes. The First Sergeant saluted me smartly with a brisk, “First Sergeant Miller reporting for duty, Sir,” then he suddenly spun about to bark at a man who had been slouching in the formation. I returned my First Sergeant’s salute and then turned to face my men, my limbs trembling with anxiety as I stood, hoping that my pathetic bout of nerves didn’t show through the façade of confidence that I was desperately trying to project. I cleared my throat and began to speak in my loudest and deepest voice.

“My fellow Virginians, you have all volunteered to stand where you now stand through no coercion, guided only by your love for our beleaguered home. For this selfless commitment I commend you and it is the greatest honor of my life that I have been chosen, along with your platoon leaders and First Sergeant Miller, to lead you wherever the great State of Virginia deems our services most vital. As you may know, we have been ordered to proceed to Western New York to protect the defenseless settlements of that virgin country from the savages’ merciless aggression. In the course of our duties, we will simultaneously serve to guard the rear flank of General Washington’s army, currently stationed at West Point, against surprise attack from British Canada. Our mission will not be an easy one. The savage is as clever as he is brutal and he has known the terrain where we will meet him since his infancy. Thus we must train with an intensity that is equal to our task! Time is not on our side for we are scheduled to depart in one fortnight and there will be little time for further drill once our march has commenced. I will now turn you over to First Sergeant Miller; that is all. ”I excused myself from the formation having judged, correctly, that First Sergeant Miller would want time alone with the soldiers without the distraction of my presence. I walked to a spot that was out-of-sight behind a nearby tent where I could listen to my First Sergeant as he spoke.

“Private Carpenter! Why in fuck’s name are you moving in my formation, Private Carpenter!” First Sergeant expelled in a guttural bellow.


message 6: by Leonardo (last edited Nov 16, 2014 01:38PM) (new)

Leonardo Noto (leonardonoto) | 38 comments I snuck a peak from around my hiding place and I shuddered abhorrently as I witnessed First Sergeant Miller grabbing the frightened Private by his throat and choking him until the lad dropped onto his knees.

“You WILL address me as First Sergeant, you WILL obey my commands without question, or you WILL end up like this sorry heap of manure! Is that understood?”

First Sergeant Miller was answered only by silence, a silence that enraged him so that he lifted his musket and hit the nearest soldier squarely in the face with its butt, instantly knocking the young man unconscious. I stared aghast, willing myself to step forward to halt these atrocities, but at the last moment deciding to hold my tongue for I was new to the military and I had no illusion that the power of my commands rested solely in the hands of the First Sergeant who enforced them. Bravo Company was now clustered together into an unnaturally tight formation, like a herd of buffalo circling for protection from a hungry pack of wolves, the men standing shoulder-to-shoulder as every man’s eyes focused straight forward, none daring so much as a fleeting glance in First Sergeant’s direction. First Sergeant strutted through the ranks like a parading peacock, correcting each soldier one-by-one with terse commands: “feet at forty-five degrees; thumbs along the seams of your pants; tuck in that damn pointy chin!” Feeling emasculated, my self-confidence shredded into tatters, I retired to my tent for a shot of brandy and a nap, staring at the tent’s breeze-fluttering ceiling as the last drops of liquor trickled their way down my lumpy throat.

The next two weeks were a flurry of controlled chaos as First Sergeant Miller and I drilled the soldiers in the military arts of marching, marksmanship, and modern battle tactics. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that virtually all of my men were seasoned marksmen, an artifact of childhoods spent scavenging for food in the untamed mountains of Appalachia. However, the men’s backgrounds also made them naturally free-spirited, making discipline a constant challenge. I rapidly learnt to appreciate, though never to fully condone, First Sergeant’s disciplinary rigor as a necessary evil. Within two weeks’ time, First Sergeant Miller and I had successfully transformed the men of Bravo Company from a rabble of farm boys into a collection of lethal soldiers. The initial disciplinary difficulties and the occasional surreptitious bouts of drunkenness aside, by the end of the fortnight I was confident in the ability of Bravo Company to face our soulless enemy in the fiery cauldron of combat. Indeed, even Colonel Woodrow had a rare look of approval across his hate-chiseled face as he reviewed our formation during his final inspection before the regiment’s deployment to the New York frontier.

On the 22nd of October, I was awakened nigh midnight by First Sergeant’s booming voice. I sleepily opened the folds of my tent to find him standing beside the most off-putting individual I had ever beholden. First Sergeant’s companion was named Wolfslayer, a redskin of limited height and slight build who nonetheless managed to radiate an engulfing aura of intimidation about his person. The vicious appearing tomahawk that was tucked into the Indian’s belt and his deer-hide clothing only added to the man’s threatening appearance. I thought to myself that I would be loth to meet him in the woods alone at night. First Sergeant Miller flashed a tobacco-stained grin as he introduced the native as an old friend while stating, “an’ I don’t call many men my friend; it ain’t a word I toss out easy now.”

Hailing from the Finger Lakes Region of New York, Wolfslayer had been assigned by Colonel Woodrow to serve as Bravo Company’s frontier guide. I introduced myself to the Indian and inquired as to the nature of the unusual necklace that was hanging from his neck. Wolfslayer informed me that it was made out of the ears of Mohawk, Seneca and Cayuga warriors that he, a proud member of the Oneida tribe, had killed in battle during the intertribal civil war that still raged between the former members of the Iroquois Confederacy2. I made a note to myself not to ask about any of the other unusual articles of clothing that he was sporting, then I dismissed Wolfslayer to First Sergeant’s care and headed back into my tent for a final night’s sleep before our deployment.

I arose early on the morning of October the 23rd to supervise the breaking of our camp and I was pleased to find my men working with great zeal, tearing down their tents and burying the heaping piles of refuse that our regiment had managed to produce during our brief stay. After a roaming inspection of the campsite with his Executive Officer in tow, and finding himself satisfied that all was in order, Colonel Woodrow called the regiment to attention and we began our orderly march towards the frontier fields of death, Wolfslayer and First Sergeant marching by my side in front of the rank-and-file of Bravo Company.

2.The Iroquois Confederacy: The most civilized of the Indian intertribal governments in the colonies, hundreds of years old when it fell into a civil war between the tribes allied with the Colonials and those loyal to the British Crown. Of the six tribes, only the Oneidas and the Tuscarora fought alongside the Colonials while the remaining four tribes (the Seneca, Cayuga, Onondagas, and the Mohawks) allied with King George III.


message 7: by Noorilhuda (new)

Noorilhuda | 87 comments wow!


message 8: by Leonardo (new)

Leonardo Noto (leonardonoto) | 38 comments The Life of a Colonial Fugitive by Leonardo Antony Noto

THE LIFE OF A COLONIAL FUGITIVE

Free (Kindle) -- http://www.amazon.com/Life-Colonial-F...

An historical thriller based in the American Revolution. Young Jonathan E. Lee is falsely accused of heinous war crimes by his treacherous regimental commander! Jonathan is forced to flee the colonies to save his neck from the hangman's noose, fighting his way across a stormy Atlantic and then joining a mercenary army that is deploying to warring Siam, a kingdom that is squirming under the iron-fist of a madman.

Greetings! I am Dr. Leonardo Noto, a former military battalion surgeon. The idea for "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive" was born out of my passion for American military history and my enthusiasm for the sport of muay Thai (Thai boxing). While training in a Thai boxing camp during the days and working on a novel based in the American Revolution during the nights, I noticed that Thai history during the 1780s was as turbulent as the American history of the period. After two years of detailed research, including nearly forty references, "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive" was born. I hope that you enjoy reading my novel as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Dr. Leonardo Noto
Practicing Physician and Author of "The Life of a Colonial Fugitive," "The Cannabinoid Hypothesis," "Intrusive Memory," and "Medical School 101."

Please visit my blog, "The Health and Medical Blog with a Personality," at www.leonardonoto.com. Thanks for reading!

The Cannabinoid Hypothesis by Leonardo Antony Noto Intrusive Memory by Leonardo Antony Noto MEDICAL SCHOOL 101 A Quick Guide for the Busy Premed or the Lost Medical Student by Leonardo Antony Noto The Life of a Colonial Fugitive by Leonardo Antony Noto


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