Lionsuit

「Lionsuit is a novella I wrote set in the modern day about the world of digital entertainment. It is a stand alone story, so I would recommend it to someone who’s just discovering my fiction and doesn’t mind a lengthy story. A word of caution though, this story does contain profane language, descriptions of graphic violence, and references sexual assault and misconduct. I would not recommend it to anyone below the age of eighteen.」

Chapter One

 
     Marcus woke up at nine sharp, after approximately an hour of repeatedly hitting the snooze button until pulling himself out of bed was finally preferable to languishing for another second.
     His studio apartment bathed in the fool’s gold-colored rays of the L.A. sun as it seeped through the white plastic of its window’s blinds. Marcus swung his legs to the right, setting his bare feet on a coarse sheet of nylon carpet. He pulled himself upright, almost dragging the stiff blanket that covered his waist with him. Standing, with the last vestiges of morning wood keeping his skin ripe with goosebumped sensation, Marcus surveyed his room.
     A tower of dishes occupied his sink, signaling the perpetually unfinished nature of his chores, and scenting the air with marinara sauce and peanut butter. He walked past a barren dining table with a single foldout chair populating its borders and tapped all the dials on his stove to ensure they hadn’t been left on. Next came his desk, cluttered by two two-feet wide monitors outfitted with high-definition screens. They were only the second most expensive item he owned.
     Under his desk and a high-end keyboard that pulsed with the colors of the rainbow lay the crown jewel of his career. A clear plastic box lit red by superfluous neon lights and whining with the labor of an aluminum cooling fan. Marcus had long ago gotten his money’s worth out of the diligent fan. Anything that could preserve his top-of-the-line processor and graphics card for this long was a treasure. 
     As he bent off his knees, Marcus bumped his head against his microphone. As he swore, he noticed that he had jostled his mouse and thus woken his monitors from slumber. The right screen displayed his recording overlay, still on the store page of the latest trending game. A feed of his back wall dominated the left screen. For a second, Marcus’s heart stopped, imagining that he would exit full-screen mode only to find a chat full of onlookers giddily turning him into the next trending livestream fail. Thankfully though, he had only left his webcam recording on, not the stream itself, so he now had several gigabytes worth of footage of the sun’s passage over his wall, the one pimped up with POP figures, anime posters, and shelves of comic books.
     He quickly cut the video within a few hours of the stream’s end and trimmed the fat, filing the rest away to be edited for a video in the way a gourmet chef prepares fast food. In fact, Marcus prepared footage much better than he prepared food, as evidenced by the half-burnt toast and broken yolks that decorated his plate.
     As he shoved crispy egg whites into his mouth, Marcus retrieved his phone from the other edge of the table’s plastic surface. His notifications were overflowing, such that most of them simply displayed a 99+ next to the number of new messages he had received on each platform. However, this was not a lackadaisical action on Marcus’s part; it was simply more prudent to devote a small portion of the day to sifting through the death threats and spam to find the messages intended for his benefit. Instead, he dedicated this time to scroll through his recommended news feed, which he had carefully tailored to suit his business. His first few results were the usual fare: delayed games, political gaffes, and the latest prognoses on the stock market, yet a single article caught his eye. “Popular Twitch Streamer & Musician Dead at 32”.
     Now this was a story. Or at least something to draw in views for the daily upload. He tapped open the article, and his opportunism turned to self-disgust in the first sentence. “Selwick Raubner, better known to the internet as CelloutStreams on Twitch or CelloutMusic on YouTube, was found dead three nights ago by law enforcement, who reported the death last night as an apparent suicide.”
     Marcus knew Selwick. Marcus knew a lot of people, but this went beyond the occasional drink at an “influencer” party or a follow on Twitter. Selwick was a friend in the proper sense. One who had stood with him through cancellations and little spats of drama. Hell, Selwick had even offered and committed to help set up his apartment when he moved to L.A., which was more than Marcus could say about 99% of the people he knew in town.
     But now he was dead, two weeks after he had declared his intention to take a short vacation from his online presence. The article had little more information aside from the fact of his demise. It said his family had declined to comment and that the police were offering no further information at this time. The rest of the page was a brief description of Selwick’s career path as an online entertainer. He was incredibly popular, around five million subscribers popular. Talented online musicians often found their niche, but his mastery of the guitar, alongside a unique style of composition and lyrics that laser-targeted the angst of young teens, earned him universal appeal.
     Marcus was nowhere near his level of acclaim. He had risen to his seat of meager fame by riding the wave of YouTuber drama and making a few well-timed videos about stories people were scrambling for speculative answers on. He reported on petty drama to draw out the internet’s ire and sap their attention while he streamed to give them something inoffensive to consume in their free time.
     He was the equivalent of a hyena feeding off the kills of savanna predators. Marcus knew this but attached a strange sort of indignant ego to his position. The blunders of moronic Disney channel rejects, former Viners, and fallen icons of the community became dollars in his wallet and followers for his social media. “Playing video games for a job” was a fun way to conceptualize his life and a hilarious method of extracting frustration at family gatherings, but role-playing an investigative journalist out to cleanse the internet of filth? That was truly stimulating.
     But Selwick wasn’t one of the big cats Marcus resented. He was a genuinely good guy. Even when Marcus had begun their interactions by dogpiling him about an incident where he appeared to take his ironic moniker seriously by accepting a sponsorship from a well-hated company, Selwick had responded calmly and convincingly. He sent Marcus private messages outlining why he made the decision and how he was planning to address it moving forward, sneaking in comments about how much he had enjoyed Marcus’s coverage of other issues. He became the first and remained one of the few instances where Marcus retracted his statements and apologized.
     Nothing during his time with Selwick suggested he was at risk of suicide. He was a perpetually friendly guy who liked to party and was as free with his emotions as he was with his wallet. Marcus understood as well as anyone that the online entertainment industry was a constant tax on the mental health of all involved, but Selwick was the last person he expected to succumb.
     Of course, that didn’t mean Marcus wouldn’t post a video about his death. He had to. He wouldn’t monetize it and would maintain a somber tone. However, the reality was that even without a cynical intent, Marcus could build his influence.
     He began to sift through his messages early, given the situation. The usual fare was still there, but a spattering of “Dude, did you hear what happened?”s and “Are you making a video?”s appeared from his comrades in the community.
     However, the message that stole his attention came through a text from an unknown number. “Hello Marcus Vaimlee,” it read, “This is Gustavo Armineá, attorney at law. I tried leaving a message, but your voicemail isn’t set up. Could you give me a call back as soon as possible? Thank you”
     It was at this point that Marcus finally noticed the series of missed calls he’d received from the same number going back to six a.m. He searched the lawyer’s name and found that the number indeed matched that of an established law firm operating in western L.A. Naturally, nothing in this incident would cause Marcus to abandon the comfort of keeping his phone on silent mode or go through the hassle of setting up a voicemail for the few people left in the world who didn’t text on instinct. However, Marcus was frightened. His profession was not one which these kinds of expensive lawyers were inclined to respect, so he dialed the number immediately.
     The tone blurred only once before someone picked up. A gruff voice thick with a Mexican accent asked, “Marcus Vaimlee?”
     “This is he.”
     “Hi Mr. Vaimlee. So glad that I finally got through to you. As I mentioned in my text, I’m a lawyer, and I’m currently executing the estate of Selwick Raubner.”
     “Y-You are?”
     “Mm hmm. My condolences for your loss, by the way.”
     Marcus waited a painfully awkward few seconds for him to continue before finally answering, “Thanks.”
     “Right, well, I called because you’re a beneficiary of his living trust. You’re pretty central to the document even. And he also outlined in it that I am to deliver the terms of his inheritance in person, with all mentioned parties present and after I play a video he included.”
     Marcus couldn’t stifle a sad chuckle. Selwick’s flair for the dramatic was as infectious in death as it was in life. He brought every conversation toward the atmosphere of Hollywood and made every actor in the scene feel important. “When’s this happening?”
     “As soon as you can make it. His parents have been pushing for us to get started asap, but due to the stipulations of the will, it can’t happen without all four of you there.”
     “All four?”
     “You, his parents, and his sister. It’ll be a pretty short affair. Just watching a video and then bombarding me with questions afterward.”
     The entire “affair” sounded incredibly uncomfortable to Marcus. He’d never met any of Selwick’s family, and he had no idea that Selwick considered him to be such a close friend. His vision of the man would have had almost fifty people in his will, each receiving something unique. “Where’s this happening?”
     “His parent’s house. Again, another unorthodox stipulation of his. I’ll text you the address.”
     “Okay. I’ll head right over.”
     “Okay. See you then.” The lawyer hung up, and Marcus let the hand clutching his phone fall to his side in exhaustion. There was a small part but potent part of him that leapt for joy at the possibilities of inheritance, the same part that handled his money and guided how he presented himself to the internet.
     The rest of Marcus was filled with dull grief for his friend and apprehension toward the mess this meeting was going to be. He didn’t like seeing people cry; not a revolutionary trait, but he was distinct in that his distaste for expressions of grief came from his own awkward lack of reaction. Being the only member of his family not to cry at his grandmother’s funeral was still a poignant memory for him; he didn’t want to repeat it in a setting where he was viewed as an intruder.
     Unfortunately, Marcus knew he couldn’t avoid this. He gulped through the now cold remainders of his breakfast and proceeded to rummage through his wardrobe for the most presentable polo and slacks he could find. The man that greeted him in the mirror was older than his years, with brown, creased skin, a head that was perpetually shaved to hide the signs of early balding, and eyes marked by the color and spirit of dead fish.
     Marcus shaved the stubble he’d cultivated over the past week, donned a disposable mask, and called an Uber on his phone. He exited his apartment onto a concrete veranda, four floors from the ground. His landlady, a jaded divorcee in her late fifties, smiled at him kindly from behind a cigarette on his way down the final flight of stairs. She liked Marcus because he had never been behind on a rent payment. Even when the pandemic hit, his payments came in just as punctually. Some even came early, assisted by the fact that his extremely non-essential business thrived in the era of horror, isolation, and boredom.
     When he reached the street, Marcus found his Uber driver already parked along the busying road. He familiarly greeted the driver, a middle-aged white man named Chase who always seemed to have his bearded mouth halfway through an egg sandwich when Marcus rode with him. Normally, Marcus would sit up front and silently listen to Chase’s latest rants about SJW’s and the indignity of wearing a mask out of a morbid sense of curiosity, but on this occasion, he slid into the Volkswagen’s backseat despite Chase’s disappointed grunt.
     During the ride, Marcus alternated between browsing the internet’s reactions to his friend’s death and watching palm trees and Spanish roofs pass the car by. Overall, the internet was being respectful. RIPs and heart emojis flooded social media in equal measure, as well as the occasional mini-essay on why this only highlighted the importance of proper mental healthcare. Videos on the subject had already begun to appear, sparking an arms race of who could most casually stretch a two-sentence news story to the ten-minute mark. The window for Marcus to make a timely reaction was swiftly closing. If it weren’t for this will business, he could already be working on a tribute video. Instead, he was forced to make a short tweet expressing his grief and declaring his intention to announce a more concrete gesture of his remembrance later down the line.
     In a little over twenty minutes, Marcus noticed a profound change in his surroundings. Gone were the sparse foliage and short concrete building of his locale. His new surroundings sported white-picket fences, trimmed lawns, and houses, proper homes that fluctuated between mansions and buildings that only snobby realtors wouldn’t call mansions. A street sign told him he was somewhere in Brentwood, surrounded by wealth and its grotesque pustules.
     Chase pulled into a narrow concrete driveway that was halfway blocked off by a gate of iron bars. Marcus got out of the car and thanked Chase. As the Uber pulled away, he noticed a black and white police cruiser tucked between two trucks on the other side of the street. The shaved heads behind the dashboard glared at Marcus attentively. He pretended he hadn’t seen them and hurried to the gate.
     The driveway that lay beyond widened past the gate to accommodate a two-car garage attached to a colonial-style, two-story house. A grey gable roof with four dormers connected to the low-cut lawn through white vinyl siding. The front door was caged by a circle of columns and any light that could have escape the windows was blocked by an array of thick yellow curtains.
     Marcus knew that Selwick was wealthy, but he didn’t realize he had come from wealth. It was a secret he couldn’t blame his friend for keeping though, he thought. It would harm the image of an upstart musician and celebrity to have had such a clear safety net of cash.
     He reached out to touch the buzzer, but a familiar voice interrupted him.
     “I’ve got it, just a sec.”
     A portly gentleman in an olive suit and tie approached the gate. Wizened features and a receding, slicked-back quaff of salt and pepper hair denoted his elevated age. His eyes were obscured by polarized sunglasses, yet a fanged smile plainly adorned his pockmark riddled face.
     The gate pulled aside after he pressed a few buttons. His open hand stuck through the gap as soon as it could.
     “Gustavo Armineá. Call me Gus.”
     “Marcus.” Gus’s hand was warm and slick with sweat. It fully enclosed Marcus’s own hand, making him feel like a hyena trapped in the clutches of a grizzly. Marcus covertly cleansed his hands with sanitizer as soon as the obligatory exchange was over.
     “It’s good you’re here. Shortens the headache of dealing with these people.”
     Marcus must have reacted with a genuinely surprised expression because Gus’s smile grew even wider. “They’re grieving.”
     “Mhmm, and they’ll drain that sympathy you’re showin’ quicker than a leaf’ll burn. Come on.”
     Gus walked to the front door and Marcus followed, his anxiety at its peak. The door opened without their knocking. A woman comfortably in her sixties, skin as fair as bone, stood in their way. Her almond eyes and pursed lips flinched at every aspect of Marcus’s being.
     “You’re who we’ve been waiting for?”, she scoffed, her arms crossed and long neck bobbing with each word.
     “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry. For that and for your loss.”
     The woman had disappeared into her home without waiting for him to finish. Gus flashed Marcus a raised eyebrow that seemed to say, “See?”, to which he nodded grimly.
     They entered the house. An expectedly lavish interior greeted them. An enormous glass chandelier and a cluster of modern paintings populated the marble-plated foyer. Marcus followed Gus off to a living room. The woman from earlier sat cross-legged in a leather recliner at the far end of the rectangular room. Seated next to her in the same kind of chair was a man of similar age and complexion. His stature was more slouched than hers, and his hands draped between spread legs. Rounded glasses and a scrunched face gave him an avian impression. 
     Across from them, facing away from Marcus and Gus on a couch that clearly had room for three, was a woman exiting her younger decades. Her short hair was a dirty blond. Her shoulders and arms were covered by a crocodile skin jacket which contrasted with the simple jeans and t-shirt that clothed the rest of her body. Unlike her presumed parents, this woman wore a facemask and was the only person in the building with tears still leaking down her shivering face.
     “You’re Marcus?”, the old man asked, neglecting to stand.
     “That’s right. And you are?”
     “Martin Raubner, and this is my wife—”
     “Tamsin”, the older woman declared, her eyes still locked to Marcus.
     “R-Right. I would say our son had told us a lot about you, but I’d be lying. Gustavo told us you’re a small YouTuber?”
     “Smaller than Sel, that’s for sure.”
     Martin emitted a partial chuckle. 
     “What do you do for work?”
     “Hm? Oh. My wife and I managed a record label, but we’ve been retired for years now.”
     Marcus found it odd that he hadn’t heard of Martin and Tamsin before. Selwick’s real surname wasn’t widespread knowledge prior to his death, but there was no mention of his parents or any record label’s involvement in his music. Gus took the strained lull in the conversation that Marcus’s confusion created to usher him to his seat on another sofa between Selwick’s parents and his sister.
     “Can we get started?”, Gus asked the room.
     “Just play it already!”, Tamsin yelled, her husband nearly jumping out of his skin at the sound.
     Gus began to set-up his laptop, struggling to reach an unoccupied port for his HDMI cable. Marcus was about to get up and help him when he noticed Selwick’s sister staring at him with reddened eyes.
     “I don’t believe I caught your name,” he asked in his most polite voice.
     “Ravinna. Are you going to do one of your videos about my brother?”
     “I … wasn’t planning on it.”
     “I’ll sue you if you do … or something.” She broke into another bout of tears.
     Marcus squirmed on the sofa, wishing he could be anywhere else.
     “Did you know that he was depressed?”, she asked between sobs.
     “I had no idea. I’m sorry.”
     “If both of us had no idea then who the fuck did?”
     Marcus didn’t respond, favoring to watch Gus fiddle with the TV remote until the video finally appeared on the enormous screen.
     Selwick was positioned like he was doing a stream. His butt nestled in a racer chair at a slight angle to the camera of his computer. His bedroom, a humbly decorated work of utilitarian home design, formed a dark-green pasture behind him. Marcus had never seen that room from inside.
     Selwick looked at the camera with a smile. Bright amber eyes and a lay-over of golden-blond hair had long made Selwick the idol of stan accounts across the globe, yet these features, combined with the burgeoning beard that marred the bottom of his rectangular jaw, lent an ephemeral sadness to his appearance.
     “Hey guys,” he said with a shy wave. “With all this corona business going on, I figured this was the responsible thing to do, making a trust and all that. Raven, you probably would’ve flipped shit if you knew it took me this long, but even now it’s been like … ten scrapped takes of me sitting behind this desk.”
     Selwick paused. His eyes darting across the glowing computer screen under the camera before leaning back in his chair and gazing at the ceiling. “I’m just gonna get it all out of the way in this one … I have a lot of regrets. Big shocker, I know. Person has regrets when they’re reminded of their mortality, crazy. But it’s true, I haven’t treated everyone in my life as I should have, and it’s taken me too long to realize that. So, I’ve brought you all here today to try and make up for that if I don’t survive long enough to do it myself.
     “Raven. Obviously, we haven’t always seen eye to eye. At first, I was just siding with Mom and Dad, but there were plenty of shitty things I said that had nothing to do with them. I’m … um … a little too proud to admit this while you can still give me snark for it, but you were right, about everything. Things got too big. I should have stuck to music, but it kept cascading. Only thing I still disagree with you on is that you had anything to do with it. You can’t be blamed for being smart enough to get out when I should’ve.”
     Ravinna kept crying through the whole speech, yet her sobs reduced to a whimper as she attentively watched the screen, a smile crossing her masked face at his small jokes.
     Selwick slid a sheet of paper in front of himself and silently read something from it before looking back at the camera. “I’m giving you three million dollars. Do whatever you want with it. Put it down for retirement. Jumpstart a business. Go back to school. Fuckin’ burn it all. I don’t care, but you’re not allowed to turn this down out of pride or something. Money’s money and you deserve more of it.”
     Marcus watched Ravinna’s reaction closely. Her tears stopped, her head hung low, and her brow furrowed. Without a clear view of her upper face, he couldn’t tell if she was grimacing or grinning.
     Selwick pushed himself away from his desk and spun around on his chair. “Marcus! It’s your turn now, buddy!”
 Marcus felt each eye in the room latch itself to his every movement. He kept his expression as neutral as he could as he watched the screen.
     “I’m sure this isn’t easy for you, getting to meet my lovely family. Sorry for pulling you out of your comfort zone, man, but I figured this was important enough. I haven’t been honest with you … or any of my friends really. As you can see from the gaudy display of late-stage capitalism you’re currently sluiced in, I came from wealth. I am not the self-made success that I’ve let everyone believe I am. Even my house is bigger than I let on; that’s why I don’t invite people over. I convinced myself it was because I didn’t want to make them feel bad or drive a wedge between us, but the truth is simply that I’m a coward.”
     Selwick stroked his beard.
     “There’s not much about that I can do now, and we both know how much I would’ve been raked over the coals for letting this slip while I was alive. But Marcus, you’ve always been a particularly good friend to me, and that apartment of yours has always sucked. So, I’m giving you my house, plus everything inside it. Same deal as with Raven, do whatever you want with it. Hell, run a story on how wealthy I was and whatever juicy details you’ll find in there. As long as you don’t sell it immediately, I’ll be happy.”
     Selwick flashed half a smile, which did little to sway Marcus’s anxiety. How could he stream from inside the home of his dead friend? The internet would be in a frenzy no matter whether he sold or kept the property. And what about upkeep? Why did Selwick think he stayed in such a sparse setting and refused to buy a car? He absolutely had the money for something better, but he never wanted to get sucked into the same kind of ridiculous investments that his peers did.
     “And lastly, for my darling parents, who have given me so much in life.” Tamsin put her hand over Martin’s and the two of them leaned forward, their turkey necks hanging low. Selwick sucked in his breath, closing his eyes before regarding the camera with a gleaming, toothy grin. “You gave me my first computer. You gave me every instrument I ever wanted. Made me understand what’s important. You taught me how to play. How to dress. How to promote myself. And most importantly, how to talk to people, understand them, make them happy.
     “For all that generosity, there was only ever one thing I could think of doing to return the favor. All the rest of my money, every last cent I’ve earned of the four million dollars that I’m not giving Raven, I’m giving … to charity!” Selwick played a riff on an imaginary drum set.
     Marcus watched the elderly couple’s hopeful expressions drop and their nails dig into the upholstery of their chairs. Ravinna’s mask did not impact Marcus’s understanding of her emotions this time. The chorus of giggling and a clutched stomach told him all he needed to know about her feelings.
     “Which concludes my final wishes. I hope you’re all satisfied. As I said, I have a lot of regrets in life. But I think that’s natural, that’s human. If nothing else, I hope I’m remembered that way.” 
     The video froze in completion as Selwick was holding a peace sign to the camera. Gus unplugged his laptop and dusted off his hands as if he had just done anything that would necessitate such an action. “So, questions?”
     “What charity did he pick?”, Tamsin asked without skipping a second in a deadly calm tone.
     “A smorgasbord of non-profits. Conservation groups, animal shelters, homelessness support groups, some organizations for minority advancement, me too movements, and mental health stuff. I can email you an exact list later.”
     “Do so. He didn’t mention his music or online presence. Can those be considered intestate property?”
     “Actually no. Selwick clarified in his trust that all non-monetary assets in his estate. including intellectual property, be transferred to Mister Vaimlee here.”
     “I see.” The parents’ eyes returned to ogle Marcus fiercely, yet he was too overwhelmed by the fact that every single aspect of Selwick “Cellout” Raubner’s money making machine, his songs sales, ad revenue, his merchandise, was all funneling him money now.
     “Do I need to do anything more here to get my money?”, Ravinna asked.
     “No, I take care of the distribution.”
     “Okay” She got up and marched straight out of the house. Marcus was shocked. Gus shrugged. Martin and Tamsin didn’t seem to notice.
     “For those of you who care to listen, let me also say that because Selwick and I created a living trust rather than a will, the estate’s property avoids probate court.”
     “And what does that do?”
     “It saves legal fees for starters. The transfer of property can occur within weeks instead of months or years. And it avoids challenges in the court,” Gus explained as he tipped his dark glasses down and regarded Tamsin with icy-blue eyes.
     Mrs. and Mr. Raubner sat quietly, their shoulders stooped forward like the black wings of vultures.
     “… What kinds of taxes am I incurring?”, Marcus murmured, his hackles raising at the sharp glare of the Raubners.
     “Well property tax, obviously, if you plan to keep the house. But we can discuss all that in more detail on our ride.”
     “Our ride?”
     “I was going to take you to the house once we’re done here. Answer questions, sign papers, get some stuff outta the way. We can leave now assuming you two have no further questions.”
     Tamsin shook her head slowly. Marcus, eager as ever to escape, got up from his seat. With a smile and a civil bow to his hosts, Gus skipped out of the house without looking back. Marcus went to do the same but was swiftly caught by a small, firm hand that dugs its manicured fingernails into the skin of his forearm.
     He turned around to see Tamsin standing there, tears welling up in her wrinkled eye sockets. “Please find out what happened to my son.”
     “Wh-What?”
     “The police said he killed himself, but I know they’re lying, too lazy to do their jobs right. He couldn’t have killed himself.”
     “Ma’am, I—”
     “You’re an internet person, so was Selwick, you can find out what happened to him!”
     “I’m not—!”
     “You’re a journalist, aren’t you?”, added Martin from behind his wife, his hands sadly stuck in his pockets.
     A sliver of pride infiltrated Marcus’s reasoning, “Sure, but I can’t do this.”
     “No one else can,” pleaded Selwick’s mother, slipping a small card into Marcus’s hand, “Call us with that number when you have something. We just want answers.”
     “O-Okay”, Marcus mumbled, wriggling his way out of her grasp. “I’ll see if I can find anything.” Marcus held little confidence in his own conviction, but the intersection of his desire to escape, his admitted bewilderment at Selwick’s death, and his fragile pride as a “journalist” caused the declaration to escape his lips before he could properly parse through its consequences.
     “Thank you!”, Tamsin called out as he bounded to the door.

「This is a work of fiction. Any references to real places, real people, or historical events are used fictitiously. Other characters, names, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places, or people, living or deceased, is purely coincidental.」

Copyright © 2021 Matthew Cammarano
All rights reserved.