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Unusual Tales, Houston, TX (2026)

09/08/2026

In the fall of 2009, hundreds of people walked through Grand Central Terminal in New York City wearing plain white T-shirts.
Each shirt had a word or two printed across the chest.
One said "schizophrenia." The person beside it wore one that said "mom." One said "PTSD." Next to it, another said "battle buddy." One said "depression," with an arm around it that said "better half."
In the middle of the crowd stood a woman in a shirt that said "sister."
She was one of the most famous actresses in the world.
Her name was Glenn Close.
Beside her stood her younger sister, Jessie, in a shirt that said "bipolar disorder."
They were shooting a television commercial. But what they were really doing was saying, out loud and in public, the thing their family had spent a lifetime keeping quiet.
To understand why, you have to go back.
The Close sisters grew up in a strict, closed world. They did not talk about pain. They did not name what was wrong. You kept it inside, and you kept it in the family.
So when something started to go wrong inside Jessie, she said nothing.
For most of her life, she fought something she could not explain. There were moods that swung too high and crashed too low. There were years she lost. She moved through marriages and jobs and houses, always feeling she was fighting an enemy no one else could see.
She did not have a name for it. She did not tell anyone.
Then, as a grown woman, she reached the bottom.
One day she told her older sister the truth. She said she could not stop thinking about ending her life.
It was the first time she had said it out loud to anyone.
Doctors diagnosed Jessie with bipolar disorder. Around the same time, her son Calen was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder.
For the first time, the thing the family had never spoken of had a name.
Glenn Close could have done what families like hers had always done. She could have kept it private. She could have handled it quietly, with good doctors and closed doors, and let the world keep believing the Closes were fine.
She did the opposite.
She went to learn. She volunteered at a mental health recovery center in New York. She sat with people living with serious mental illness. She read everything she could find.
And she learned that about 1 in 5 adults lives with a mental illness. She learned that most of them suffer twice. Once from the illness. And once from the silence and shame piled on top of it.
The silence, she decided, was the enemy.
So in 2010, Glenn and Jessie started a nonprofit. They called it Bring Change to Mind.
The whole idea was simple. Stop whispering. Start talking.
To launch it, Glenn called her friend Ron Howard, who had directed a film about a man living with schizophrenia. He agreed to direct their first commercial for free. The musician John Mayer gave them a song.
That was the day in Grand Central. That was the crowd in the T-shirts. That was two sisters standing in a train station, letting strangers read the truth off their chests.
It was only the beginning.
In the years since, Bring Change to Mind has made campaign after campaign, each one checked by scientists to make sure it was true. Their messages have now been seen by billions of people.
But the quietest part of the work may matter most.
The organization runs clubs in high schools across more than a dozen states. In those clubs, teenagers learn to talk to one another about what they are going through. They learn that a mental illness is not a weakness or a failure. It is a condition of the brain, as real as diabetes or heart disease.
It is teenagers teaching teenagers not to suffer in silence the way Jessie did for 40 years.
Along the way, Glenn spoke publicly about her own depression. But she has always said she is not the heart of this. Her sister and her nephew are. They are the ones who put a face to it.
Jessie is still here. So is Calen.
Glenn Close once said it as plainly as it can be said.
"You can't solve problems unless you start talking about them and not whispering."
For most of her life, Jessie Close was taught to stay quiet.
One day, she finally spoke.
Her sister could have kept it in the family.
Instead, she helped her say it to the whole world.
They have been saying it for 15 years.
And somewhere tonight, a frightened teenager who believed something was wrong with her that no one could name is hearing, for the first time, that she is not alone.

~Unusual Tales

09/07/2026

Los Angeles. March 1996.
A woman named Heloisa Vinhas was crossing a street in Santa Monica when a car slammed into her and sped off.
She was 23 years old, an aspiring actress, far from her home in Brazil. She lay in the road with a broken leg and bruised ribs while the car that hit her disappeared.
A man who had seen the whole thing ran to her.
He told a bystander to call an ambulance. He stayed with her. He followed the ambulance to the hospital. And when he learned she had no insurance and couldn't cover the bill, he quietly paid it himself — all $7,000 of it.
The man was Tom Cruise.
1996 was the year Tom Cruise became the biggest action hero in the world. Mission: Impossible came out that May. On screen, he was Ethan Hunt — dangling from ceilings, outrunning explosions, saving the day.
What almost nobody noticed was that, that same year, he kept doing it for real.
The hit-and-run was only the first time.
A few months later, in July, Cruise arrived at the London premiere of that very film. Outside the theater, a crowd had surged against the barriers — and a 7-year-old boy named Laurence Sadler was being crushed against one of them, gasping, unable to breathe.
Cruise saw him. He couldn't move the barrier himself, so he shouted for the police, who pulled the boy free. Then the most famous man at the premiere crouched down, calmed the frightened child, talked with him until he caught his breath, and gave him an autograph.
Then came August.
Cruise was on holiday, sailing off the Italian island of Capri with his wife at the time, Nicole Kidman, and their kids. Out on the Mediterranean, he spotted a nearby sailboat on fire — an electrical short had set it ablaze, and it was beginning to sink. Five people were stranded in a rubber raft beside the burning hull: a French family and their crew, including a young girl.
Cruise didn't hesitate. He launched his yacht's skiff and got all 5 of them off the water and onto his boat, minutes before their sailboat went under. He kept them safe until a patrol boat could carry them back to the island.
Three emergencies. One year. A stranger in a Santa Monica street, a child in a London crowd, a family on a burning sea.
None of them were scripted. None of them were filmed for a trailer. There was no stunt coordinator, no second take, no marketing value in any of it.
He just happened to be there. And each time, he moved toward the danger instead of away from it.
His own publicist summed it up best at the time. She said Cruise had simply done what any decent person would do — and added that if she ever got in trouble, she hoped Tom Cruise would be nearby.
He paid a stranger's hospital bill and never asked for a thing back.
He pulled a child out of a crowd and stayed until the boy could breathe.
He got a burning boat's worth of people to safety before it sank.
The world pays him to play a hero.
In 1996, with no one paying and no one filming, he turned out to be one anyway.
On screen, the rescues are make-believe.
That year, three times, they weren't.

~Unusual Tales

09/07/2026

1988. The Virunga Mountains, Rwanda.
An American actress sat on the wet ground high in a forest of bamboo and mist, while a family of wild mountain gorillas moved around her.
A baby gorilla climbed onto her. It pulled her hair. It leaned against her and looked up into her face.
She was captivated. She never looked back.
She was there to make a movie. She was playing a woman who had been killed, in these same mountains, three years before.
The actress was Sigourney Weaver. The woman she was playing was Dian Fossey.
Dian Fossey had come to Rwanda in 1967 with two tents and one purpose. She wanted to study the mountain gorilla, an animal scientists feared would be extinct by the end of the century.
She built a research camp in the mountains and named it Karisoke. She spent 18 years there, living among the gorillas, learning their faces, sitting with them every day until they trusted her.
She loved one of them most. A young silverback she named Digit.
In 1977, poachers killed Digit.
Fossey was never the same. She started a fund in his name to pay for patrols to hunt down the poachers and tear out their snares. She fought them with everything she had.
In December 1985, someone walked into her cabin and killed her with a machete. The case has never been solved.
They buried her in the mountains, in the little graveyard she had made for the gorillas the poachers had killed. They laid her next to Digit.
By then, the mountain gorillas were almost gone. A count taken a few years earlier had found just 242 of them left in the Virungas.
This was the world Sigourney Weaver walked into in 1988.
She spent months in those mountains with the gorillas, just as Dian had. And when the film was finished, she did not go back to Hollywood and forget them.
That same year, she became the honorary chair of the Dian Fossey Gorilla Fund.
She has held that role ever since. For almost 40 years.
She later said that playing Dian taught her something she never let go of. That humans were not the species on the planet, but one of many. Gorilla Fund
So she went to work.
She lent her name to the Fund. She raised money. She went back to Rwanda to see the gorillas again. She narrated documentaries about Dian's life and read Dian's own words aloud so the world would hear them. She stood up, again and again, as a voice for an animal that could not speak for itself.
And slowly, something almost unheard of in conservation began to happen.
The gorillas came back.
The Fund that grew out of Dian's death kept her patrols going. Every single day, rangers walk the forest, tracking the gorilla families, pulling out the snares poachers leave behind. Day after day. Year after year. For decades.
A count in 1981 had found 242 mountain gorillas. A count in 2016 found more than 600 in the Virungas. Today there are around 1,000 left on Earth.
It is one of the only times in modern history that a great ape has been pulled back from the edge of extinction.
But the Fund learned something Dian had learned the hard way. You cannot save the gorillas by fighting the people who live beside them. You have to help those people too.
So today the work rests on more than just patrols.
The Fund trains young African scientists to become the next generation of conservationists. It runs programs in the villages around the forest — food, clean water, health care, schools — reaching some 30,000 people a year. It gives the families who live next to the gorillas a reason to want them there.
More than 400 people now work for the Fund in Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo. The camp Dian started with two tents has grown into a permanent campus in the foothills of the volcanoes, opened in 2022. Karisoke is now the longest-running study of any animal species on Earth.
The motto of the whole thing is four words. Helping People, Saving Gorillas.
Sigourney Weaver has been the face of it for nearly four decades. She has never been paid for it. She is now in her 70s, and she is still doing it.
She made one movie about a woman who was murdered in the mist.
Then she spent the rest of her life finishing that woman's work.
Dian Fossey came to the mountains with two tents.
She was killed for what she built.
She was buried beside the gorilla she loved.
And the actress who played her picked up the fight and never put it down.
The gorillas Dian feared would vanish are still there.
There are more of them every year.
Dian did not live to see it.
Sigourney Weaver is making sure the rest of us do.

~Unusual Tales

09/06/2026

November 1987. Deep in the Brazilian Amazon.
A small plane landed on a dirt strip in the land of the Kayapó people, along the Xingu River.
A British rock star climbed out with his partner.
That night, they sat in a circle on the ground with the chiefs of the Xingu. One of them was an old man with a wooden disc set into his lower lip and a headdress of bright yellow feathers.
His name was Raoni Metuktire.
He had been born deep in the forest around 1932, into a people who still moved from village to village. He had chosen that lip plate as a teenager. And by 1987 he had become the most recognized Indigenous face on the continent.
That fame had come from a film. In 1978, a documentary about him had been nominated for an Academy Award. The actor Marlon Brando took part in it for free.
So Raoni knew something about the power of a camera, and the power of a famous man.
That night, he used it.
He told the visitor that the outside world had brought his people only death and disease. He said the forest belonged to them. He said he wanted his children to inherit it.
Then he asked the rock star for help.
The rock star was Sting.
Sting told him the truth. He was not a politician. He was only a singer. But a lot of people listened to him, and wherever he went, he would tell Raoni's story.
He has spent the rest of his life keeping that promise.
He had seen what Raoni was up against.
The Amazon was burning at the edges. Loggers were cutting roads into the trees. Cattle ranchers were clearing land. The government wanted to dam the rivers and flood the valleys. Every year, the forest got smaller, and the people who lived in it got pushed further back.
The land Raoni's people had lived on for centuries was not legally theirs. On paper, it could be taken.
In 1989, Sting and his partner, Trudie Styler, founded the Rainforest Foundation.
At the start, it had one job. Help Raoni's people win legal title to their land before it was cut down.
That spring, Raoni left Brazil for the first time in his life.
He flew through 17 countries with Sting.
A chief from the forest, who had grown up in a village with no roads, found himself shaking hands with presidents and kings. He met François Mitterrand. He met the King of Spain. He met Prince Charles. He met Pope John Paul II.
In a matter of weeks, 12 Rainforest Foundations were set up around the world.
Then, in 1993, the promise came true.
The Brazilian government legally recognized more than 17,000 square miles of Kayapó land. An area larger than Switzerland. The Kayapó walked the borders and marked them themselves.
It was the first privately funded land demarcation for Indigenous people in the Amazon.
The forest Raoni had asked Sting to save was now theirs. On paper. On the ground. By law.
But Sting and Trudie did not stop.
The foundation was built on one stubborn idea. The people who live in the forest are the ones who protect it best. So the work was never about Sting flying in to save anyone. It was about money, lawyers, and land titles handed to the people who already lived there.
To pay for it, they needed a way to raise real money.
So in 1991, they started a benefit concert at Carnegie Hall. They have hosted it ever since.
Trudie became the engine of those nights. She booked the acts. She ran the room. She kept it going for more than 30 years.
They pulled in Springsteen. Elton John. Billy Joel. James Taylor. Lady Gaga. Tina Turner. The concerts became the largest environmental fundraising event in the world, and raised tens of millions of dollars for the forest.
At the very first one, Raoni stood on the stage at Carnegie Hall and spoke for 10 minutes in his own language, while someone translated for the crowd.
The foundation they built for one chief grew into four organizations, working in more than 20 countries, on 3 continents. Today it helps protect tens of millions of acres of forest, and the people who live in them.
Raoni is in his 90s now.
He is still fighting.
He fought the Belo Monte dam. He fought governments that wanted to open his land to mining and ranching. In 2020 he was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize. In 2023 he stood at the inauguration of Brazil's president. That same year, he traveled to speak to students and leaders around the world.
He also buried his wife of 60 years.
Through all of it, he has never stopped defending the forest.
And Sting has never stopped standing beside him.
The two men have met again and again across the decades — the singer with the famous voice, and the chief with the wooden disc in his lip, who is now an old, old man.
The forest they fought for is still standing.
He made the promise in a circle on the forest floor.
He kept it across 17 countries in a single summer.
He kept it on a stage at Carnegie Hall, year after year, for more than 30 years.
He kept it in 17,000 square miles of Amazon that the Kayapó still hold today.
A chief once told a singer that if he spoke, people would listen.
They did.
And the forest is still standing.

~Unusual Tales

09/06/2026

For 7 years in the 1970s, she was the woman who turned the world on with her smile.
She played Mary Richards on The Mary Tyler Moore Show — a single working woman in Minneapolis who threw her hat into the air in the opening credits and made a whole generation of women believe they could make it on their own. Before that, she had been America's sweetheart on The Dick Van D**e Show. She was one of the most beloved television stars who ever lived.
Then, at the age of 33, she was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes.
Type 1 is not the diabetes most people picture. It is an autoimmune disease, usually diagnosed in children, in which the body attacks and destroys its own ability to make insulin. You cannot prevent it. You cannot grow out of it. The only thing that keeps a person with type 1 alive is insulin, injected, every day, for the rest of their life.
At the time Moore was diagnosed, that diagnosis still carried a quiet sentence of fear — a sense that the child who got it was destined for a short, limited, frightened life.
Mary Tyler Moore decided to spend the rest of her own life proving that wrong.
In 1984, she became the International Chairman of the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation — JDRF — an organization started by the parents of children with type 1, desperate for a cure. She was not a figurehead who lent her name and disappeared. She held that role for the next 33 years.
Until the day she died.
She did it, above all, for the children.
She wanted every diabetic child to be able to look at her — a glamorous, successful, world-famous woman who gave herself insulin injections exactly like they did — and understand that they could become anything. And she fought for them where it counted. She went to Washington again and again. She testified before Congress. She helped lead JDRF's Children's Congress, where kids with type 1 come to the Capitol to tell lawmakers, in their own small voices, what the disease is like and why research must be funded.
She called those children the most eloquent and persuasive voices in the room. She called every one of them a hero.
Under her decades of leadership, JDRF grew into the largest charitable funder of type 1 diabetes research on Earth. Across her years, it raised hundreds of millions of dollars aimed at a single goal.
A cure.
She did all of it while the disease was steadily taking her own body.
Over the years, type 1 diabetes stole her eyesight. The woman who had lit up television screens for decades went blind. She kept working anyway — for the cure, for the kids, for the generations she was determined would not have to live the way she had.
Mary Tyler Moore died on January 25, 2017, at the age of 80.
She never got to see the cure she had chased for 33 years.
She turned the world on with her smile.
Then she got a diagnosis that, in her day, made children afraid.
And she spent the next 33 years making sure those children would not have to be.
She stood in front of Congress for them.
She raised hundreds of millions of dollars for them.
She kept fighting even as the disease took her sight — for a cure she knew she would never get for herself.
She did not do it for a cure she would live to see.
She did it for the kids who would.

~Unusual Tales

09/05/2026

Lower Manhattan. The fall of 2001.
The neighborhood was dying.
In the weeks after the towers fell, the streets of downtown New York — Tribeca, the blocks closest to Ground Zero — had gone quiet in a way they never had before. The dust had settled over everything. Residents who could leave had left. Restaurants sat empty. Shops closed. Nobody wanted to come downtown. The businesses still hanging on watched their customers vanish. A part of the city that had always been alive had become a place people were afraid to go.
One man who lived there could not accept it.
He had moved to Tribeca in the early 1980s, back when it was a half-forgotten district of old warehouses and lofts. He had built his film company there. He had opened a restaurant there. For 20 years, those few square blocks of Lower Manhattan had been his home. He had been heading downtown on the morning of September 11 when the second plane hit.
His name was Robert De Niro.
De Niro is one of the greatest actors in the history of film — 2 Academy Awards, a half-century of iconic roles. He could have done his grieving from anywhere in the world.
Instead, he looked at his broken, emptied-out neighborhood and decided to do something almost absurd in its optimism.
He decided to throw a party.
Together with his producing partner, Jane Rosenthal, and a third partner named Craig Hatkoff, De Niro set out to build a film festival — right there in the wounded heart of Lower Manhattan. The plan was simple and a little crazy: bring filmmakers, audiences, cameras, money, and foot traffic flooding back into the exact streets everyone else was avoiding. Give the neighborhood something to gather around. Give the city a reason to come downtown again.
Rosenthal put it best. The community, she said, needed a new memory. They needed something to look forward to.
They had no festival, no infrastructure, almost no time. They built the entire thing in 120 days. More than 1,300 volunteers pitched in. On May 8, 2002 — barely 8 months after the attacks — the first Tribeca Film Festival opened its doors.
It showed around 150 films. It drew roughly 150,000 people into Lower Manhattan.
For the first time since the towers fell, the streets were full again.
And it worked. Not just for a week.
De Niro later put it plainly: they thought a festival might be a way to revive the neighborhood — and it was. The festival came back the next year, and the next, and it never stopped coming back. It grew into one of the most important film festivals in the world, pulling hundreds of films and hundreds of thousands of visitors downtown every single year. It helped haul the entire New York film industry back to life — an industry that, in the decade that followed, grew its workforce by 30% and pumped billions of dollars a year back into the city's economy.
The festival is still here. More than 20 years on, every spring, the same downtown blocks that emptied out in 2001 fill with crowds and screens and filmmakers and life — because of a decision one resident made when his neighborhood was on its knees.
He didn't move away.
He didn't just write a check and leave.
He took the place the world had turned into a symbol of fear and made it, once a year, a destination again.
He gave a grieving neighborhood a reason to gather.
He gave a frightened city a reason to come back downtown.
He turned 120 days and 1,300 volunteers into more than 20 years of life poured back into the streets he called home.
The towers fell, and a neighborhood went dark.
A man who lived there refused to let it stay that way — so he filled it back up with movies, and crowds, and the simple, stubborn proof that people were not afraid to come home.

~Unusual Tales

09/05/2026

Sydney, Australia. 1999.
A rugby league club that had existed for more than 90 years was told it no longer existed.
The South Sydney Rabbitohs were the oldest and most successful club in the Australian game. They came from Redfern, a poor, inner-city corner of Sydney — a working-class neighborhood of factory hands and immigrants and people who did not have much. For nearly a century, the club had been the thing those people belonged to. It was where dads took their sons. It was a story passed down in families for 90 years.
And at the end of the 1999 season, the league cut the competition down to 14 teams. South Sydney did not make the list.
They were gone. Erased.
The people of South Sydney refused to accept it.
They marched. In one of the largest protest marches in the history of Australian sport, a sea of red and green — by some counts 80,000 people — filled the streets of Sydney behind their old club legends, demanding their team back. They took the league to court. And in 2001, a federal court ruled the club's exclusion had been unlawful. South Sydney was reinstated for the 2002 season.
They had won their club back. But they were broke. And for years after they returned, they were terrible — finishing near the bottom, struggling just to survive.
One man could not stand to watch it.
He had grown up loving the Rabbitohs. Long before anyone knew his name, he was just another South Sydney kid in red and green. By 2006, the whole world knew his name. He had won an Academy Award for Gladiator. He was one of the biggest movie stars on the planet.
His name was Russell Crowe.
In 2006, Crowe and a business partner bought the South Sydney Rabbitohs — the broke, battered, last-place club from Redfern that he had loved as a boy. He put his own money and his own name behind a rugby team the league had once thrown in the bin.
This was not a celebrity lending his face to a logo. Crowe ran toward the club. Years earlier, in 1999, he had paid A$42,000 at a fundraiser for the brass bell that had rung in the very first game of Australian rugby league, back in 1908 — that is the kind of fan he was. Now he poured money into the roster, gave the players team talks, took the losses personally, and slowly, season by season, rebuilt a contender.
On October 5, 2014, the South Sydney Rabbitohs played in their first grand final since 1971.
In the opening minutes, their best forward — an Englishman named Sam Burgess — collided with an opponent so hard that he fractured his own cheekbone and eye socket. He did not come off. He played the entire grand final on a broken face. He was named the best player on the ground.
Souths won 30 to 6.
It was their first championship in 43 years. A club that had been declared dead 15 years earlier, dragged back to life by its own people and rebuilt by a boy who had loved them his whole life, were champions again.
He loved them when he was a nobody.
He loved them when he was the most famous actor in the world.
He bought them when they were broke and beaten and finishing last.
He spent his own fortune hauling a dead club back to life.
And he stood there in 2014 — a Hollywood megastar in red and green — watching the team from the poorest corner of Sydney lift a trophy 43 years in the making.
The world knows Russell Crowe as a Roman general, a boxer, a king.
South Sydney knows him as the man who would not let their club die.

~Unusual Tales

09/05/2026

St. Louis, Missouri. 1986.
A 10-year-old boy named Kelby woke up one morning to find his mother on the phone with the paramedics.
His father was in the bedroom, and something was wrong. His mom asked the boy to help put clothes on his dad, because the ambulance was coming and his father was lying still in the bed. The boy did it.
A few minutes later, the paramedics carried his father out of the house on a stretcher. As they passed, his father looked at him over the railing.
And he winked.
That was the last time the boy saw his father alive. Sterling Brown Jr. was 45 years old. He had died of a heart attack. His son was 10.
The boy had gone by his middle name, Kelby, his whole life — partly to set himself apart from his father and grandfather, who were both named Sterling. But in the years after the funeral, something started to ache. He had not heard his father's name spoken in a long time. He missed it.
So when he turned 16, he asked everyone to start calling him by his first name.
Sterling.
He wanted to carry his father's name. He wanted to hear it every day.
That boy grew up to be Sterling K. Brown.
You probably know the face. He went to Stanford, then to NYU for acting, and spent more than a decade as a working actor before, in 2016, he was cast in a television show called This Is Us. He played a man named Randall Pearson.
And here is the thing about Randall Pearson.
Randall had lost his father.
Week after week, on one of the most-watched dramas in America, Sterling K. Brown played a man wrestling with the same wound he had carried since he was 10 years old. One storyline let his character do the thing Sterling himself never got to do — say a proper goodbye. Brown has said the role became a way for him to finally grieve his own father, decades later, in front of millions of people.
In 2018, that performance made him the first Black actor ever to win the Golden Globe for Best Actor in a Television Drama. He won an Emmy for it, too.
But that is not the part that matters most.
Randall Pearson did something rare for a Black male lead on American television. He had panic attacks. He took medication. He sat across from a therapist and did the hard, unglamorous work of getting better.
And Sterling K. Brown decided to make that real off the screen, too.
He became one of the most visible voices in the country telling people — especially Black men, who are taught from boyhood never to show weakness — that there is no shame in needing help. In 2018, he joined the National Alliance on Mental Illness and its campaign to fight the stigma around mental health. He said it plainly, again and again: you are not weak if you ask for help. It takes real strength to admit you can only get so far alone.
He has described how Black men and women come up to him and thank him — not for the awards, but for making therapy feel like something they were allowed to do. Because once you see someone who looks like you walk through that door, he says, it becomes easier to imagine walking through it yourself.
He was 10 when his father winked at him for the last time.
He spent the years after just trying to hear his father's name again.
He grew up, reclaimed that name, and wore it into every role he ever played.
And when he finally got the biggest stage of his life, he used it to tell every grieving kid and every silent, hurting man the thing nobody could tell him at 10:
You don't have to carry it alone.
The boy who never got to say goodbye became the man who taught a country how to ask for help.

~Unusual Tales

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