Preparations

Los Angeles, California; Saturday, June 11, 9:56 P.M…

The flames had long since burned the entire truck. The tanker itself was nothing but a skeleton, annihilated by the explosion. The cab, while having escaped the actual blast, was at the mercy of the flames; a black, crispy structure, weakened even further by the jets of water slamming into it in an attempt to extinguish the flames.

"Alright, Chief! Those flames are just about done!"

"Switch off the hoses, boys!"

With the turning of several valves, the powerful streams of water slowly weakened, losing their momentum, and becoming slight spurts that slowly arced lower and lower until there was hardly even a single drop emitting from the tips of the hose.

"Alright! Mitch and Hawkins, you two get in there and pull the stiff out!" Chief Warlocker called. "Go, go, go!"

"Alright, let's go!"

The two personnel named Mitch and Hawkins, with gloves, heavy coats, and surgical masks on, approached the charred remains of the cab. Mitch grabbed the door handle and started to pull it out, only for the entire door itself to come right off its hinges as soon as he did. They both jumped back as the flat piece of black metal clanged to their feet. After a few moments, Mitch swallowed and slowly looked up, raising his flashlight.

"Stay here, Hawk. I'm gonna take a look."

Mitch reached up with his right hand and grabbed the edge of the doorframe, placing one foot lightly on the step (which, surprisingly, still held), and slowly ascended. Once he was level, he braced himself for the sight of yet another burned skeleton sitting inside.

He raised his flashlight in his left hand and slowly aimed it inside. With another deep inhale, he flicked it on.

He almost dropped his torch and lost his grip on the doorframe.

"Mitch! Whadda you see?"

"What the hell? It's empty!"

Meanwhile…

"Come on, boys! Harder! Simmons, more power on hose number three!"

Even as the jets of water grew thicker and faster, the orange demon continued to consume the house that it was born in. The massive two-story house, with all of the furniture, photographs, trophies, and everything else, was engulfed and slowly transformed into black crisps.

The firefighters continued their valiant efforts to put out the blaze, but to no avail. Many civilians and residents of the whole street were standing around in their pajamas or robes, mouths agape in horror as the house burned. Four of these spectators were sitting inside a van, also staring at the burning house in mute shock. One of these four slowly hung his head, unable to bear the sight.

"Sorry, pal." Sly said as he turned to his friend and put a hand on his shoulder. "It was the chandelier. I had to use it as cover to get away from…"

"No, it's…I understand. I guess this is better for you guys; now I have no choice but to go with you. But all of my stuff…"

"I'm sorry. I'm sure we can buy a lot of replacements, get a new house for you once this is all over…"

"If it's all over. Thanks, Sly. But I'm just as determined now as you are. Whoever sent that guy just caused my house to burn. Now I'm gonna burn them!"

"That's the spirit."

"Wait, how can you be sure someone sent him?" Penelope asked worriedly.

"It's only too obvious." Sly replied. "I mean, I've never seen that guy before. Not in any of our past heists, not in any of my jobs as an officer. And the way he was so…so…calm. So dull, so fearless…even when the chandelier fell. Even when we blew up his car right from under him. He was robotic. Almost demonic. One of the most well-trained assassins I've ever seen. But I know, without a shadow of doubt, that this is the assassin who killed Carmelita."

"So if he really is an assassin…" Penelope started.

"Then this isn't over. Not by a long shot. We're gonna have to get ready to see more hell. And the closer we get to the Volcano, the closer to hell we're gonna be."

"So, we need to prepare?" Murray asked.

"Yes, prepare!" Bentley eagerly agreed. "I like preparation. We need to prepare ourselves."

"Why don't we try to make the authorities aware of this?" Penelope suggested. "Sly still works for Interpol…"

"No." Sly interrupted. "They'd never assist me in this kind of mission. Old Barkley would call it a wild goose chase. Besides, they'd consider this just a personal vendetta; a mission for revenge. It's just like what Braskel said. No, we handle this ourselves. Barkley's given me only five days of leaves, starting today. We have to work as fast as we can, because I may never get another chance. And I can't just quit; that would raise suspicion, especially since they have been considering the possibility of me faking my amnesia. Once again, the answer is no. We need to prepare ourselves, we need to do this ourselves, and we are going to do this ourselves. The question is, where can we get some more weapons? I'd prefer to do it in a legal manner for once."

"Wow, that's the first time I've ever heard you say that, Sly." Bentley mused.

"Oh, I know just the guy." Murray replied.

With the slightest of grins, Murray put the van in reverse, backing out away from the crowd and turning aside. He stopped briefly, sparing one last glance at the burning wreckage of his house, before he sped off.

…

The two occupants of the small black car watched the house burn, all of the firemen racing to put out the fire, even though it was clear that the house was beyond saving.

"Nice work, Eugene." Glen muttered.

"Don't be blaming this on me." He shot back.

"You're kidding, right? You're the one who immediately held back when you saw that cop car start following them!"

"I told you, I thought it was an LA badge. And like I said, LA cops are tougher than you or me. If the LA department had something with them, I was willing to let them handle it. The last thing they'd want is some, to them, 'fancy-pants foreigners' suddenly barging in and telling them what to do. I had a partner who di that once before in Abbottabad, and it didn't turn out well, let me tell you. Had it not been for my communication skills and subtlety, they would've skinned him alive for the way he treated them."

"Well, it's so good that you fell back on past experiences. Clearly that guy was not an LA cop. He wasn't even a cop at all! What the hell kind of an officer carries an Uzi on him?"

"How was I supposed to know beforehand?"

"Still, you should have known to not let this one get away so easily. If we had stayed on them and followed them down that freeway, we could've easily helped whoever that was to stop them before it was too late! We could've prevented that pile-up and the railroad crossing crash! Now look! At least two, maybe even three, people dead! Two of them civilians! And now, with this house gone, there's nowhere for them to return to for us to keep an eye on them! They're long gone, it's nightfall, traffic's backed-up on the freeway, and they could be anywhere in Los Angeles by now!"

"Look, it's not a lost cause yet. If anything, this incident that destroyed the hippo's house has left them with no choice but to keep on the move."

"Alright, so how does that help? Do we just head to LAX or what?"

"Not LAX. Now that they have their old van involved, they can't take any kind of plane to wherever they're going."

"Well, then how do we find it?"

"Trust me, as long as we've got these…"

He reached into his pocket and whipped out his official Interpol badge.

"…we've got more resources and more access to special intelligence than they ever could."

"Um, OK."

"We'll track them by their license number. Easy as 1, 2, and 3."

"That won't seem too…suspicious to local authorities?"

"Trust me, I know what I'm doing. Let me handle the locals."

The black car turned around and headed down the street, leaving the burning home behind.

…

The short, chubby pig was just finishing polishing one of his revolvers and placing it back in the display case when he heard the buzzer go off. He slowly waddled over to the counter and took a quick peek at the monitor, depicting what the exterior camera over the front door was seeing. At the sight of his familiar hippo friend, he immediately smiled and pressed the red button.

After a low buzzing sound followed by a click, Murray grabbed the door handle and started to pull it open.

"Murray, are you sure about this?" Bentley asked.

"Of course! Trust me, Moe is a great guy. His store's off the beaten path, but his prices are a lot cheaper than the mega gun stores. Besides, his store's the only one with a range in it too! He sells every kind of gun you can imagine, even the ones that you didn't even know existed!"

As the four of them stepped into the small room, Murray pulled open a second door, leading them into the store. The pig was waiting for them.

"Murray, pal! How the hell have you been?"

"It's all good, Moe." After exchanging a firm handshake, Murray continued. "Moe, I wanna introduce you to some old friends of mine. This is Sly, a friend of mine ever since I was three."

"Howdy there. Moe Garcia, gunman extraordinaire."

"Hey." Sly was caught off-guard by the brutality of his handshake, but he knew that it was all in good nature.

"You in law enforcement?"

Sly stiffened up slightly. "Yes. How did you…?"

"That's a Smith & Wesson at your side. A model M&P 9, 9-millimeter with a 4.25 inch barrel."

Sly was blown away by the man's extreme gun expertise, and his hand casually drifted down to place itself near his holster. "Yes, yes it is."

"Those things are used in law enforcement only. You an LA badge?"

"No. Interpol, Paris branch."

"Oh, good. If you were an LA cop, I'd kick your hide outta here. LA cops are more crooked than Rob Zombie."

Sly tried to form a smile at the apparent joke. "Heh, yeah. OK…"

"And this is Bentley and his girlfriend Penelope. I've also known Bentley since I was a squirt. Penelope, not so much."

"Howdy there. Moe Garcia, gunman extraordinaire."

Bentley and Penelope, trying as hard as they could to avoid any conversation with the pig, simply uttered a "Hello."

"So, what can I do for ya today, pal? Glock? Sig Sauer? Beretta?"

"Actually, I've decided that it's finally time to stop playing with guns and start paying for them."

Moe's eyes instantly widened, and his grin fell away with his jaw in shock. "You're kidding? After all these years, you're finally gonna buy one? Well, I must be the Emperor of China or something!"

Murray quickly turned to the others. "You see, I've been considering buying a gun for a long time, since I know so much about them. I've tried some out at his range, but I've never tried to buy one until now."

"Well, there's a first time for everything, ain't there?" Moe interjected. "Just name the model, the maker, the caliber, and she's yours!"

"What are the best ones you've got for self-defense?"

"Ah! Right this way, please. Hey, Larry!"

Farther down, at the opposite wall, a young employee stood readjusting some boxes of bullets. He straightened up and turned towards Moe.

"Yeah, boss?"

"I need you to keep an eye on the counter real quick; a friend of mine here wants to buy something."

"Yes, boss."

"Now, this way, if ya'll please."

The four friends quickly followed Moe through the store, past racks of various items: Holsters, magazines, goggles, scopes, carrying bags, and so on. Finally, they were at the back wall, which was completely lined with guns, guns, and more guns. Handguns, shotguns, rifles, machine guns. The wall actually seemed to go on forever.

"So, you want something good, in addition to your police friend's SW, right?"

"Sure. But we want to keep it light. You know, not too much."

"Ah. How many do you want?"

"No more than two."

"Alright. Well, here's one. It's a Ruger .22 automatic rifle." Moe grabbed the rifle off of its hook and held it out to show them. It was a fine, long rifle with polished wood and a sleek silver barrel. "It can be loaded with these special clips that can hold ten bullets at a time. Takes a long time to reload, but at least it's worth it once you start firing. Once a clip's empty, you press the button on the underside of the gun to drop it and put a new one in. The bullets it fires are .38 specials. Small little buggers, but at least they're pretty effective. Especially for long-range firing. Like I said, it's automatic, so you don't have to constantly be cocking and reloading it. Also, because of that, you can fire the bullets consecutively as fast as you can, with no pauses in between shots. It has practically zero recoil, and the sights lining the barrel make it pretty easy to aim. It's ideal for what you're looking for; fast, light-weight, and effective. Again, the only con is that it takes a long time to reload each clip, and the barrel can get pretty hot after firing too much."

Moe handed the rifle to Murray, who took a closer look at it.

"After putting in the clip, you pull that switch on the side of the chamber back once to put the first bullet in place. After that, the rest is automatic."

"Sounds good. I'll take it."

"Good. Here's…five clips. Remember, each one holds ten, so that right there is fifty bullets."

"Awesome. So that's one down. What's next?"

"Hmm…Well, if you're already good with a handgun and rifle…then the only logical choice would be a shotgun. Come on down here."

Moe led them a little further down the wall, where the pistols and rifles slowly transitioned into the massive heavy-duty shotguns.

"These are the baddest of the bad. Shotguns are kings of the hill in the gun world, let me tell ya. Strong, heavy, large and in charge. This one here oughta be good."

Moe reached up and grabbed a large shotgun, also covered in polished wood, but significantly darker and with many shapes and designs carved into it. The barrel was stainless steel.

"A Browning Maxus Hunter with a 28-inch barrel. This bad boy looks good and shoots good. Definitely a brute, and what you're looking for, my friend. It's automatic. And as for the recoil…well, let's just say that out of the four of ya, you're the only one who should actually shoot this thing, Murray."

"I believe it." Murray admitted as he took the shotgun, handing the rifle and its five clips to Sly.

"So, will that be all, pal?"

"I think so."

"Alright. Front and center, then."

When they were at the counter, Murray pulled out his wallet and started pulling a couple of hundreds out.

"I thought that you can't just buy the guns right off the counter like this. Isn't there some kind of lengthy procedure or something?" Bentley added.

"Yeah, but in my opinion, that's just the system's way of slowing people down. I sell these babies my own way."

"I told you his store was off the beaten path." Murray added with a grin and wink back at Moe.

"Couldn't have said it better myself. So, I'm curious, pal; what made you choose to buy them now?"

"Uh…well, I guess it finally just clicked, you know? Nothing special happened, I just finally decided on it."

"So you could say that ya finally saw the light, huh?"

"Guess so."

Then, just as they started to head out, a sound caught their attention: The small television set hanging up on the wall, near the ceiling.

"Police have been unable to confirm who it was that was being pursued in this incident, nor for what crime they were being pursued for." The anchor's voice droned on.

"Oh, yeah. Did you guys hear about that major pile-up over on the freeway? Four cars, two of 'em big rigs, and two people dead."

A collective lump formed in everyone else's throat at the mention. Murray was the only one who glanced at the TV screen for a moment. The images were live, streaming from a helicopter that was now hovering above the pile-up on the freeway, the overturned semi, the upside-down police car, and the smoldering Tacoma, all still in place. The spotlight was flickering from wreck to wreck, trying to illuminate them all in the dark.

Murray recovered and simply replied, "Yep. Terrible, huh?"

"You said it. Traffic's backed up for miles out there." He shook his head. "Witnesses were saying that a cop was chasing someone, and the jerkoffs he was after were shooting back at him."

The lumps grew larger.

"Didn't you say that you don't like LA cops?"

"Well, I wouldn't want them dead. Especially when they're just doing their job. I hope they catch up to those mothers, and soon."

"OK, well, thanks for everything, Moe."

The four of them started to leave the store.

"You bet. Where ya headed? Hunting?"

Murray stopped briefly before answering.

"Uh, yeah." He walked off with the others.

"Nice. Take care, pal."

"You too."

…

The four of them exited the store, the raccoon holding the rifle and the hippo holding a shotgun. As the last of them, the mouse, left, she pushed the door open with one final shove, sending it flinging wide open. They all turned to the left and started heading towards their van, turning their backs to him. He slowly and silently rose from the bushes, watching them as they walked towards the vehicle. He glanced at the door as it slowly closed, and instantly went for it, his footsteps non-existent as he slithered up to the door and barely managed to put his fingers in between the door and the frame, stopping it just in the nick of time. He looked back at his targets, barely ten feet away, as they were just reaching the van. The raccoon was heading for the passenger seat, and started to turn as he headed for the door. He quickly slipped into the store, carefully pulling the door shut behind him and ducking down, just behind the wall and fairly well-hidden by all of the bars lining the walls and windows. He lifted his head up slightly and watched as the raccoon spared a brief glance back at the door.

A long pause.

The raccoon then looked back down at the door handle as he pulled it open and climbed in. He and the hippo placed their guns on the floor at the former's feet, while the other two climbed in through the back door. He kept his eyes trained firmly on them as the van started up, backed out of the parking space, then pulled forward through the small, empty parking lot, out onto the lonely road that ran alongside the store, and drove off. They were gone.

He slowly stood up and turned towards the inner door, pulling it open silently and stepping in. He glanced over at the far wall, where a squirrel was rearranging several of the firearms hanging on the wall. He glanced forward, at the other far wall that was lined with nothing but firearms. A short, stout pig was standing before this wall, finishing off polishing a small pistol and placing it back. He slowly advanced.

As Moe stood back and looked over his wall of guns, he grinned to himself. "You done good, Moe. You done-HUP!"

His sentence was instantly cut short when he felt a tremendous force, unbelievably firm, heavy, and strong, take hold of him in two places. The first slammed against the back of his neck, and the other took hold of his chin. He glanced down just in time to see the huge gloved hand that had taken hold of his head before there was a sudden twist. A sharp crack was the last thing he heard, and a splitting, searing pain was the last thing he ever felt.

He dropped the pig's lifeless body, surprised at how easily his neck was broken. However, he was aware that the snap was too loud, as was the thump when his body hit the floor. He tensed up, frozen perfectly, and waited. Then he heard a voice say, "Moe? What was that? Are you alright?"

Almost instantly, he swung around. He could hear light footsteps from around the corner, and knew that he had to hide. He glanced around, and found that his surroundings were perfect. A jungle of racks, shelves, and…

He advanced towards the largest safe that he saw; an eight-and-a-half foot tall black safe with a nine-digit keypad and a golden knob. The door was already open just a crack. He slipped inside, lucky that it was just large enough to fit his frame into, and pulled the door back to just a crack, letting in a thin line of light.

The footsteps were muffled now, but grew louder. After a long moment, the light vanished for a split second as the person passed right by the safe, footsteps at their loudest, then growing more distant. He counted to three, then slowly pushed open the safe door and stepped out, instantly turning towards the squirrel and advancing swiftly and silently.

Larry rounded a rotating stack of camouflage jackets, and was instantly confronted with a horrible sight: His boss, Moe, lying dead on the floor. There was no blood at all, but he knew, from the paleness of his skin and the motionless of his entire body, that he was dead.

"M…Mo…! Oh…wha…ho…" He couldn't find himself to even gather a whole word to utter in pure shock and terror. Then, he suddenly felt something behind him. His nonstop video game-playing over the last 26 years of his life had given him extreme reflexes, and he knew full well that something was behind him. Rather than turn to face the thing behind him, he instead chose to bolt. With incredible speed, he tore ahead just as felt the rush of air as something swung behind him. He bounded over Moe's body and tore around another corner, making a break for the door.

But then, suddenly, he felt it. A vice-like grip instantly took hold of him, swiping him right up off his feet and into the air. He instantly started to scream, but then felt a massive force, like the anchor chain of the Titanic, wrap around his neck and tighten. A single gasp was all that escaped. He tried to take even a single breath, but couldn't find any. His neck was being crushed even more, making the pain more unbearable than the suffocation. The thing around his neck tightened, and his vision grew blurry. He finally gave up on trying to breathe, and his head slowly hung limply to one side. His vision then became fully black, and he never took a breath again.

…

He felt the heartbeat cease, and let the puny squirrel's body drop to the floor with another thump. He slowly looked around, making sure that there was no one else here, and then slowly turned back around to the back wall, lined with guns.

He approached it, stepping over the other body without even looking, and inspected his possibilities. He stopped on two in particular, coincidentally side-by-side. He picked up the first one: A Springfield M1A Socom II .308, with an 18-inch barrel. The other one, longer and thinner than the other, was a Mossberg 12 GA with a 28-inch barrel. Both were large and powerful; just like he was. He slung them over each of his shoulders and started to turn around. But something on the periphery caught his attention. He turned back, and laid his eyes on yet another Uzi 9 millimeter. He couldn't resist. He snatched it off the wall as well. He then approached the counter, passing through the small swing door, lightly brushing the second body with it as he pulled it open, and then started sorting through the mountains of ammunition boxes behind the counter. He found a large, empty cardboard box that was approximately four feet long and a foot high, and started filling it with boxes upon boxes of shotgun bullets and magazines for the Uzi. When he had filled it to capacity, he closed the flaps to seal it and placed the Uzi on top of it, holding it firmly in front of him as he backed out the swing door and headed for the main door.

He was inwardly cursing himself. When he had spied through one of the windows of the house, he was briefly stunned at the presence of not just one, but all four of his remaining targets, inside the house. It was a pleasant surprise that he was not about to pass up. He had retreated to the car and retrieved the Uzi, knowing now that the Colt pistol would not be effective enough in eliminating all four at once. But now, looking back, he knew he had been too sloppy; bursting in, gun blazing like he was some kind of Marine or Secret Service agent. He would never let that kind of instinct get the better of him again.

As he exited the store, the only sound left in the whole building was the continuing television report:

"But the story doesn't end there. One eyewitness, a truck driver named Gerald Herron, claims that his semi-truck was also involved in this pile-up, but was hijacked from him by a police officer, apparently the same one who was driving the overturned cruiser. He described the man as, quote, 'built like a tank,' and didn't say a word as he simply grabbed Gerald, and threw him out of the cab. The truck's charred remains were eventually found, stuck on a railroad crossing after apparently being hit by a train. And that's not the end of the strange twists and turns of this incident. Upon further investigation, officers discovered, inside the trunk of the overturned cruiser, a body: He was identified as the police officer who was in charge of that particular cruiser. He was wearing only his undergarments, implying that someone stole his uniform to impersonate a police officer. The Los Angeles Police Department has not yet commented on this incident, nor have they released the identity of the officer or the two civilian victims in this tragedy."

Almost instantly as he headed out and started to walk into the parking lot, a red Mustang, its black convertible roof down, pulled up, loud rap metal music blaring, and swung right into the parking space that he was standing in. The tires screeched as the driver slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting the man standing in his space.

As soon as he stopped, put the car in park, kicked open the door, and stepped out, he unleashed a tirade.

"Yo, foo! What the hell you think you doing in my space, man? Get the hell out! I always park here! Move it! What, are you blind? Deaf? Both? Are you Helen Keller? Move the hell over! Get going! Scram! Whoa, what's with all the guns, foo? You the Terminator or something? Well, I don't care if you're Arnold Swashingheimen himself, move! Go! Step aside!"

Among all of the insults, he remained absolutely still. He suppressed the desire to end the pitiful man's life, and waited until he made the first move.

"Hey, man! This is my space! I always park here! I come here every day, and this is my space! Right in front of the door, where I like it! Now move, foo!"

He slowly turned his head to the side, glancing at the road beside them. Not a single car passed by, nor was there even the faintest sound of an engine in the distance. Eventually, his insulter followed his gaze and got the same idea. He straightened out his leather jacket and rolled his head once, cracking his neck.

"Yeah that's right, man!" The bulldog continued. "There ain't nobody around here! It's just me! I'm always the only one in the area at this time, every Thursday. So there ain't no witnesses."

He cracked his knuckles as he slowly approached him.

"So, if you ain't gonna move you fat ass right now, I'm gonna have to bust you fat ass. I can promise you right now…" He whipped out a small knife handle from his jacket pocket; a fine black material with a skull carved into it, and flicked the blade out. "…that if you don't move in three and a half seconds, there's gonna be blood all over this pavement."

He dropped the massive box, which slammed onto the pavement with a thud! The Uzi on top bounced lightly, but remained on top of it. He remained absolutely still, waiting for the right moment.

"OK, it's been long enough. You asked for it!" He immediately swung back and started to thrust the knife forward, only for a powerful gloved hand to snatch his wrist before he could progress any further, and one twisting of his arm instantly drew a sickening crack from his assailant's arm.

"AH! Oh, sweet Al Capone, it hurts!" He started screaming in pain, screaming a most high-pitched, unmanly scream. He dropped the blade instantly as he clutched his broken arm, blood now leaking out of his sleeve and staining the leather. He doubled over, still issuing his high-pitched scream.

He looked down at the blade the punk had dropped. He slowly bent down and swiped it up. The weakened man looked up, breathing heavily, just in time to see the gloved hand swiftly take hold of him by the neck and lift him right off the ground. He brought his good arm up to make a futile attempt to put even the slightest bit of space between his neck and the man's hand. But he felt none, and was suddenly flung around through the air and slammed up against the wall behind him. He could hear the glass in between the bars crack against the force, followed by the feeling of many sharp prickles in his back as shards of glass dug into him, piercing through the leather and into his skin. He looked down and saw the stranger's other hand was now clutching the knife; his knife. He instantly went on the defensive and desperately wanted nothing more than to plead for his life. But he had no breath to do so.

And then, in one quick movement, the knife was plunged through his throat, impaling straight through and digging into the wall behind him. A grunt was all that emerged, and he slowly began to lose consciousness as the warmth started dripping down his torso, along his leather jacket and undershirt. His wounded arm hung limply at his side, still at an odd, bent angle. Strangely, in his last moments, he felt an odd numbness and absolutely no pain.

He stared silently at the man he had just humiliated and mutilated. He knew that he was a pompous fool who had absolutely no idea who he was up against. He felt like he had just taken candy away from a baby. But he felt absolutely no remorse whatsoever. He then slowly turned around towards the car that the punk had arrived in. He kneeled down to pick up the box he had dropped, with the Uzi still on top of it. He slowly approached the car, and saw that the keys were still in the ignition; the engine still running. He pulled the door open and entered, slipping into the leopard print seats and placing the box and three firearms onto the passenger seat. He casually reached over and turned the loud music off, bringing sweet silence to the area. As he shifted it from park to reverse, he glanced back one last time at the body of the car's late driver, then pulled out of the parking space, then pulled forward out of the parking lot, turning right and down the small street, leaving the gun store and three dead bodies behind him as he headed for the LAX International Airport.

To be continued…