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  1. #11
    [MOD] Futaba fan forever Supreme Overlord Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Avatar de Giromu
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    "Iron" Michael "Mike" Malloy (1873-1933) : The Donegal man they tried nine times to kill


    ON A WINTER night in January 1933, Mike Malloy sat in his local speakeasy, on Third Avenue in the Bronx, drinking whiskey. Getting drunk.

    That was nothing out of the ordinary. Malloy, a Donegal man about 40 years old, had fallen on hard times.

    He had been a gainfully employed stationary engineer – working on industrial machines in New York. But this was the height of the Great Depression, and the jobs had dried up.

    Like so many men of that era who once worked in America’s heavy industry, and so many Irish men who travelled to big cities across the United States, he hit the bottle hard, and became a slave to it. A “speakeasy derelict.”

    But that night, he was drinking on the house.

    Surrounded by a motley crew in Tony Marino’s bar at 3804 Third Avenue, we can only imagine the scene.

    Did it ever occur to him that he had gone from flat-broke barfly who could never pay off his tab, to being merrily plied with an endless stream of free drink?

    What explanation did Tony offer for his sudden, uncharacteristic munificence?

    How was the banter that night? What jokes did the gang tell, while they clapped Mike on the back and poured him another glass?

    Sheltered from the cold reality of homelessness and destitution on the other side of the door, he must have thought something miraculous was happening.

    He couldn’t possibly have suspected that his buddies – Tony Marino, Red Murphy the barman, Frank Pasqua the undertaker, Daniel Kreisberg the fruit-seller, and Hershy Green the cabbie – were trying to kill him.

    But what they didn’t know was that Mike Malloy – sick, weak, alcoholic Mike Malloy – was almost indestructible.

    And their 10 desperate attempts to knock off the Irishman and cash in, would bring them to the electric chair, and become the stuff of legend in New York city.

    ‘Nicholas Mellory’

    The story starts in December 1932. The gang of five – later to be dubbed The Murder Trust – were talking about money. Specifically, how to get more of it.

    A conversation that must have played out a million times in speakeasies, bars and brothels across America in the three years since the Wall Street Crash laid waste to the entire economy.

    Someone’s heard tell of a job going somewhere. Someone else has thought of a fool-proof scheme to scam their way into a few dollars.

    At the beginning of winter in 1932, someone at Tony Marino’s Mermaid Speakeasy thought of life insurance.

    If only they knew someone close to death, they could sign them up for a life insurance policy (by persuasion or fraud), then cash in when they checked out.

    They had an obvious candidate in the down-and-out Donegal man.

    In December, Joseph “Red” Murphy, the bartender, took out three policies for a “Nicholas Mellory” and, posing as his brother Joseph Mellory, signed as the beneficiary.

    Metropolitan Life sold him one for $800, and Prudential sold him two worth $494 each.

    In total, the fictional Nicholas Mellory’s life was worth $1,788 – about $31,000 (€28,129) in today’s money, but the payout would be doubled if his death was an accident.

    The policy of “double indemnity” was at the heart of an infamous New York murder just five years earlier.

    In 1927, a Queens housewife named Ruth Snyder, and her lover, murdered her husband Albert and passed it off as a burglary gone awry.

    She had persuaded Albert to take out a life insurance policy, with an extra payout in the event of a violent death.

    The two were easily caught, convicted, and both electrocuted after a high-profile trial that inspired the novel Double Indemnity, and the classic noir thriller movie of the same name.

    So now, in order to split $3,500 between them, the gang simply had to bring about Mike Malloy’s untimely demise, and pass him off as Nicholas Mellory.

    The easiest way to kill Mike, they thought, was to simply remove the brakes.

    ‘His thirst was immense, but his buying ability limited’

    Between 1928 and 1932, New York was averaging 780 deaths a year from alcohol poisoning, so another one would hardly raise any eyebrows.

    And Mike Malloy had all the appearance of a man who was already drinking himself into an early grave, so they removed his biggest obstacle – money.

    They began, by all appearances, to treat him like an honoured guest, as described in the pages of the New Yorker later that year:

    His thirst was immense, but his buying ability limited, and he often had to wait late and long to be treated.

    When the tide began to flow, what did Malloy think? Perhaps he decided he was already dead and in paradise.

    Not just yet.

    No matter how much the Murder Trust poured down Mike’s neck, his tolerance, constitution or deeply-buried will to live, kept him ticking, and kept him coming back for more free booze.

    So when the good stuff didn’t work, they tried the bad stuff. The really bad stuff.

    The gang reportedly treated him to methanol (alcohol crudely distilled from wood), and denatured alcohol (highly poisonous ethanol specifically designed to be undrinkable).

    But, as the New York Times would later report:

    There was something about Michael Malloy that even denatured alcohol could not effect.

    As the winter of 1933 progressed, Marino and the rest of the speakeasy conspiracy grew increasingly baffled and frustrated by the Donegal man’s stubborn and inexplicable refusal die.

    But if drink was his domain, then maybe food would prove his undoing.

    Someone at the bar found an ancient-looking tin of sardines, found them sufficiently foul-smelling, and prepared a sandwich for Mike.

    Just to make sure the rotten fish would succeed in killing him, they added broken glass, carpet tacks, and even the tin itself – chopped up and finely ground.

    The result? Malloy ate it and asked for another one.

    On another occasion, Joseph “Red” Murphy found a jar of oysters, marinating in denatured alcohol, behind the bar.

    In better times, Murphy had been a chemist, and knew that the combination of oysters and hard spirits can cause serious, even fatal poisoning.

    Naturally, they let Mike loose on the jar, and gave him some of their best bad liquour to wash them down with. He ate them with relish, and somehow suffered no ill consequences.

    It being winter, the gang then tried to let nature do the job for them.

    A night on a park bench

    One frozen night that January, they got Mike well soaked in alcohol at the bar, then walked him, half-conscious, to nearby Crotona Park, near the Bronx Zoo.

    They carefully placed him on a bench, waited for him to finally lose consciousness, then ripped open his ragged coat and shirt, and poured water all over him.

    Even someone in the rudest of health would struggle to make it through the night on that bench, covered in ice and not properly clothed. Malloy, they thought, didn’t stand a chance.

    But somehow, the sheer cold in the air managed to break through his slumber and wake him. He stumbled off, no doubt mystified, and was back in Tony’s place by morning.

    In a rare moment of poetic justice in this saga, the New Yorker later noted that the exertion of bringing Mike to his “resting place” in Crotona Park left Frank Pasqua, the undertaker, with a bad cold.

    After this fourth failure, the group decided to take a more direct and brutal approach. This is where Harry “Hershy” Green enters the story in a big way.

    Green, a 23-year-old son of Russian Jewish immigrants, ran a taxi company in the Bronx, and was asked to arrange an “accidental” collision with Mike Malloy.

    The gang had offered John McNally and James Salone $200 and then $400 to run him over, but both men refused, and Green himself stepped in.

    On 30 January, Malloy was found lying on the side of the road, between Baychester Avenue and Gunhill Road, in the Bronx.

    He was taken to Fordham Hospital, suffering a broken shoulder, concussion, and possible fractured skull.

    Back in the speakeasy, Green, Marino and the rest frantically scoured the local papers for news of a fatal taxi collision. They never found it.

    After a week of recuperation, Mike Malloy marched through the door at 3804 Third Avenue, fitter than ever, and declared, “I’m dying for a drink!”

    On 7 February, a man carrying Nicholas Mellory’s ID card was found battered and bloodied at Austin Place, in the South Bronx.

    He was revealed to be Joseph Patrick Murray, a 31-year-old out of work plasterer who had fallen on hard times, and was later found in a “rickety shack in a Depression colony” next to the Hudson Parkway.

    Worn out by the seemingly indestructible Mike Malloy, Tony Marino and the Murder Trust had found another “Nicholas Mellory”, and Hershy Green had, once again, hit him with his cab.

    At this point, the gang may well have been simply targeting another out-of-luck Irishman.

    It can’t be verified, but Joseph Patrick Murray may well in fact have been Patrick Joseph Murray, a 31-year-old immigrant from Calteraun, Co Sligo, whose wife Mary was from Cloontia, Co Mayo.

    In 1934, his permanent address was listed as 1786 Vyse Avenue, right on the other side of Crotona Park from Tony Marino’s speakeasy.

    Either way, they failed once again. But this time, they left traces.

    Murray later recounted getting drunk at a speakeasy in Harlem on the night of 7 February, before being offered a free lift and free booze by a taxi driver.

    There were two men in the back seat, and driving the cab was a face familiar to Murray – Harry Green.

    The New York Times reports that a “negro” saw Murray being knocked down by the car at Austin Place, and quickly wrote down the taxi license number – it was Green’s.

    On the ID for Nicholas Mellory, found stuffed into Murray’s coat pocket after the accident, was his next of kin – Frank Pasqua, the undertaker.

    Murray suffered internal injuries, broken ribs and a broken left shoulder. While he was recovering in Lincoln Hospital, the Murder Trust resolved to finish off the Donegal man, once and for all.

    The coup de grâce

    On 22 February, a Wednesday, Murphy and Kreisberg booked a room at 1210 Fulton Ave, half a mile down the road from the bar.

    Malloy was, once again, treated as a royal guest at Tony’s place, and drank himself into a stupor. Seeing their opportunity, Murphy and Kreisberg brought him down Third Avenue to the room.

    They threw him on the bed, unhooked the tube from the gas light in the room, put one end in his mouth, and switched it on.

    In all, they had tried nine times to kill Mike Malloy.

    There was a botched machine gun attack that he escaped, and – perhaps forgetting the imperative of an accidental death – on another occasion they simply tried “beating him on the head.”

    Between all the free booze, free food, pay-offs and planning, the gang spent $1,875 trying to cash in on a $3,500 insurance, split five ways, by one estimate.

    But on the tenth attempt, with a tube pumping carbon monoxide into his system, Iron Mike didn’t stand a chance. He was dead in 20 minutes.

    The next morning, a Dr Frank Manzella came to the room. For a $100 fee, he signed a death cert for Nicholas Mellory, citing “lobar pneumonia” as the cause of death.

    Manzella also falsely claimed that Malloy had been to his doctor’s office in Harlem twice before his death, complaining of “grippe,” which he listed as a contributory cause of death, along with acute bronchitis.

    With Manzella’s fake as proof of death, Metropolitan Life paid out the $800 policy on Mellory. As a final insult, Frank Pasqua wrote out a $400 check to impress insurance agents with the lavish funeral he was preparing for his dear friend.

    In reality, he stuck Mike Malloy in a $10 coffin and buried him in a $12 grave.

    He didn’t even bother to embalm his body – a final moment of greed and haste that would send them all to the electric chair.

    Red flags

    On 18 March, ‘Tough’ Tony Bastone was shot dead. He was a local gangster, and acquainted with everyone at Marino’s speakeasy.

    A Joseph Maglione was charged with his murder, and Red Murphy was taken into custody as a material witness.

    When agents from Prudential tried to track down “Joseph Mellory” (Murphy), and couldn’t find him in order to pay out the two remaining insurance policies, their suspicions were raised.

    Meanwhile, the tall tale of Mike Malloy and the Murder Trust had spread like wildfire throughout the borough of the Bronx.

    Soon enough, neighbourhood cops got wind of it, and the District Attorney, Samuel Foley, started an investigation.

    He ordered Mike Malloy’s body to be dug up, and given a proper autopsy.

    Unfortunately for Pasqua and the rest, forensic pathology and toxicology was a burgeoning science in New York of the 1930s.

    When Dr Hochmann performed a full examination of Malloy’s body on 11 May, he found the tell-tale cherry-red discolouration all over his body.

    The official verdict? “Asphyxiation by carbon monoxide.”

    The irony, as outlined in Deborah Blum’s The Poisoner’s Handbook, is that if Pasqua had taken the time to embalm the body, the liquid would have removed all trace of the gas.

    The next day, Marino, Murphy, Pasqua, Kreisberg and Green were arrested and charged with first-degree murder.

    Green was already in custody on gun charges, likewise Kreisberg, who had been arrested on a separate robbery and assault charge.

    Dr Frank Manzella, a former Republic Alderman in Harlem, was arrested and charged with being an accessory after the fact.

    John McNally and James Salone – the two men who refused hundreds of dollars to run Malloy over – were taken in as material witnesses.

    Joseph Maglione, suspected of killing Tough Tony Bastone, managed to plead his murder charge down to manslaughter, saving himself from execution, in exchange for testifying against the Murder Trust.

    An eerily similar cold case

    On 14 May, District Attorney Samuel Foley revealed an extraordinary and chilling twist.

    On St Patrick’s Day 1932, Mabelle “Betty” Carlson, a 27-year-old hairdresser from a well-to-do Washington DC family, had been found dead at 3806 Third Avenue – next door to the speakeasy, and the apartment of none other than Tony Marino.

    The official cause of death was “broncho-pneumonia,” with “acute and chronic alcoholism” as contributing factors.

    The Brooklyn Daily Eagle reported:

    It was said at the prosecutor’s office that Miss Carlson, presumably while intoxicated, had been exposed to open windows and cold water poured on her during the cold weather that preceded her death.

    The similarity to the attempt on Mike Malloy’s life in Crotona Park was unmistakeable.

    Marino’s explanation to Foley, as reported by the New York Times, was that:

    The Carlson woman had been a habitué of his place, and knowing she was destitute, he had provided a home for her.

    Foley announced he was investigating the possibility that Marino, and another woman, had collected $2,000 in life insurance after the death of Betty Carlson.

    Two days later, he told reporters he had asked the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company to look for any similar cases, after receiving letters from six families whose loved ones had once lived in the Bronx, but had been missing for more than two years.

    A sensational trial

    By the time the trial began in October, Hershy Green had turned state’s witness, in exchange for the lesser charge of first-degree assault, for running over Murray in his taxi.

    The four others tried every trick in the book to exonerate themselves. They turned on each other, claimed the witnesses testifying against them were actually in on the plot as well.

    Pasqua’s lawyer tried to argue he was just the undertaker, and had nothing to do with the planning.

    Murphy and Kreisberg both fingered each other as the one who gassed Malloy on 22 February.

    All except Marino claimed they were acting under the threats and intimidation of local tough guy Tony Bastone, saying he had forced them “at gunpoint” to kill Malloy and kick up the insurance money to him.

    Foley, the prosecutor, dismissed this as “desperation,” pointing out that Frank Pasqua had confessed his role in the murder plot in May, two months after Bastone was himself shot dead.

    Tony Marino, meanwhile, pleaded insanity.

    His lawyer brought a doctor to the Bronx County Courthouse, who testified that a childhood fall, combined with a recent illness (probably syphilis), meant Marino had “become abnormal.”

    Foley brought in a neurologist, however, who concluded he was “faking abnormality.”

    Early on the morning of 19 October, a jury found all four guilty of first degree murder.

    The New York Times reported that, in response to hearing the verdicts, Marino “glared angrily,” Kreisberg “swayed”, Pasqua “winced”, and Murphy “remained inscrutable.”

    Outside the court, Foley told the media:

    I don’t want to give the impression of gloating over these convictions, but once more a Bronx jury has upheld the local reputation for common sense and courage.

    I think it was a proper verdict for a most cruel murder, which was inspired by nothing more than sordid greed.

    They were sentenced to death by electrocution, and driven off to Sing Sing prison in New York. In the prison van, they sang songs together, including the Jelly Roll Morton hit My Gal Sal.

    When he arrived at Sing Sing, Daniel Kreisberg told reporters, “It’s a fine day for some people.”

    Harry Green was given five to 10 years for his vehicular assault on Murray, and Frank Manzella, who was paid to write Nicholas Mellory’s fake death cert, was convicted of the lesser charge of failing to report a suspicious death.

    On 7 June 1934, Tony Marino, Daniel Kreisberg, and Frank Pasqua were put to death on the electric chair.

    Marino, the son of Italian immigrants and a married father to one child, was 28.

    Kreisberg was 29, the son of Russian Jewish immigrants, and had a wife and three kids.

    Frank Pasqua, the youngest of the group, was just 24 years old. In a bitter irony, his wedding a few years earlier had been conducted by James Barrett – the judge in his murder trial.

    Two hours before he was due to die along with the others, Joseph Murphy got a reprieve from the Lieutenant Governor of New York, Michael William Bray.

    Some startling new evidence had emerged. Joseph Murphy, it appeared, was born Archie Mott, an orphan, estranged from his family and unmarried.

    A doctor who treated him in 1933 found him to be “mentally unbalanced.”

    His lawyer had heard from an inmate at Sing Sing that Murphy was committed to the Connecticut School for Boys, under the name of Archie Mott, and had escaped in 1929.

    The man who pleaded for a stay of execution was none other than Samuel Foley, the prosecutor who had orchestrated Murphy’s conviction.

    Despite several reprieves for psychological testing, however, he was denied a retrial, and executed on 5 July. He was 28 years old.

    Aftermath

    Foley became famous the following year, when he took part in the prosecution of Richard Hauptmann, for the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby – by far that era’s most explosive and high-profile criminal trial.

    He later became a judge, and when he died in 1951, some 10,000 people lined the streets of the Bronx for his funeral.

    As for Mike Malloy – details are scarce. Some newspaper reports from the time cited his age as 60, others 40.

    The Mellory death cert, although fake, lists his age as 40, and a photo from the autopsy gives the appearance of a man in early, rather than late, middle age.

    We know he was an Irish immigrant, but a birth cert, immigration or census records, have proved elusive.

    There are several Malloys and Molloys from Co Donegal who fit his description and age profile.

    But for now, his true identity remains a mystery.

    As does his full story – why he left Ireland, how he ended up a target for the murderers at Tony Marino’s speakeasy, and who he was before he hit hard times.

    His legend, however, is immortal. Tales of Mike the Durable, Mike the Indestructible, Iron Mike, spread from the gritty neighbourhoods of the Bronx in 1933, and became national news during the trial of the Murder Trust.

    It has inspired plays, novels, and musical tributes, and become enshrined in the cultural history of New York City, as one of the most outrageous true stories ever told.

    Michael Malloy, the man himself, was reburied after the autopsy, at Ferncliff Cemetery in Hartsdale, New York.

    And that’s where he lies today – inside a $10 coffin, in a charity plot, with no headstone and no name. Unclaimed and unmourned, 3,000 miles from home.
    http://www.thejournal.ie/mike-malloy...10813-Dec2015/
    Dernière modification par Giromu ; 23/10/2016 à 21h05.

  2. Les 3 membres suivants remercient Giromu pour cet excellent message :

    darkkoeurby (24/10/2016), makko (24/10/2016), sisou (23/10/2016)

  3. #12
    [MOD] Futaba fan forever Supreme Overlord Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Avatar de Giromu
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    Larcena Pennington Page

    Larcena Pennington Page (January 10, 1837 – March 31, 1913) was a 23 year old American pioneer who was kidnapped, wounded, and left for dead by Apache natives in Arizona. Unable to stand, she crawled 15 miles (24 km) over the next sixteen days to reach safety. After her kidnapping, Larcena was indirectly involved in several other incidents with Apaches, and much of her family were either killed by the natives or died of disease.[1][2]

    Early life

    Born Larcena Ann Pennington, in Nashville, Tennessee, she was the daughter of Elias and Julia Ann Pennington and was one of 12 children, with seven sisters and four brothers.[3] Her father, Elias, was the son of Elijah Pennington, a soldier who served under General George Washington at Valley Forge during the American Revolutionary War. Her mother Julia Ann Pennington died within a year after the birth of her twelfth child while her husband was away, the surviving Penningtons moved to an area near Keechi, Texas.
    Leaves Texas

    In 1857, with the promise of economic prosperity, the Pennington family traveled west, originally with the intention of settling in California. From Keechi they headed west with three wagons pulled by oxen and mules, and a herd of cattle. The wagon train forded the Pecos River, where several of the cows drowned, then continued on to Paso del Norte. From there they followed the Rio Grande up to Mesilla and then went west towards Tucson. They passed through several canyons where Apache were known to spring surprise attacks, including Doubtful Canyon, Apache Pass, and Cooke's Canyon where a wagon train was attacked in the Battle of Cookes Canyon in 1861. They passed through the San Simon Valley, Sulphur Springs Valley, the San Pedro and Dragoon Springs on their way west.

    In June 1857, the Penningtons temporarily stopped at Sonoita Creek, next to Fort Buchanan, because their animals were either exhausted, or had been stolen by Apaches, and Larcena had contracted malaria. The men obtained a contract from the government to supply the fort with hay and the women sewed soldiers' uniforms. When they completed the contract, the Penningtons moved west to Calabasas, along the Santa Cruz River, and before September 1859 moved into the former residence of Governor Manuel Maria Gandara.[1]
    Marries

    While at Fort Buchanan, Larcena met lumberjack John Hempstead Page and fell in love. The two were married on December 24, 1859, becoming the first American citizens to be wed in Tucson, which at the time was populated by less than a thousand people.[1]

    Kidnapped
    Arizona 1860 4.jpg

    After they married, Larcena moved from the fort to Tucson but her husband, John, remained at Canoa Ranch, south of the present day Green Valley. Canoa Ranch was owned by Bill Kirkland and John lived there because it was only 13 miles (21 km) west from Madera Canyon and the Santa Rita Mountains. John and his partner, William Randall, had a small lumber mill at Madera Canyon where they felled pine trees and transported them to Tucson by wagon.

    Larcena was employed as a teacher for Kirkland's eleven-year-old ward, Mercedes Sais Quiroz. Eventually Larcena moved to Canoa Ranch with Mercedes but she soon became ill, possibly with malaria. John decided to move his wife and Mercedes out of the desert and into a cabin near the "Big Rock" at the lumber mill. He thought that the higher elevation would help Larcena recover. On March 15, 1860, John and Randall arrived in a wagon to pick up Larcena, Mercedes and their dog for the trip to the cabin. From the ranch, they headed west through the Santa Rita foothills towards Madera Canyon.

    They had nearly made it to their destination when it was decided to stop and rest for the night. The location was 2 miles (3.2 km) south of the "Big Rock" and the present day Madera Kubo Gift Shop. Unknown to them, five Pinal Apaches were watching the camp from concealed positions in the surrounding hills. The next morning, Randall went out to hunt for breakfast and at around 10:00 am John went up the canyon to check on a load of lumber at the mill. This left Larcena and Mercedes alone at camp. Larcena was sitting on a rocking chair in her tent when the dog began to bark, then suddenly she heard Mercedes scream. The Apaches captured Mercedes and when they opened the flap of her tent, Larcena grabbed her husband's revolver, but they took it from her before she could shoot.[1][4]

    The Apaches were armed with lances and bows. Four were young men but the fifth was older and spoke a little Spanish. The older Apache told Mercedes that he'd killed John, and when she told Larcena her husband was dead, she started to scream. One of the Apaches put his lance to Larcena's breast and threatened to kill her if she didn't stop. After stealing "whatever they could" and cutting open the Page's sacks of food, the Apaches took the two women northeast, roughly along the base of the Santa Rita Mountains, towards one of their strongholds along the San Pedro River.[1][4]

    They stopped a short distance from the camp because the Apaches wanted to tear apart a feather bed they had been trying to carry off. Larcena screamed once more and again she was told to be quiet or be killed. Robert H. Forbes, author of Penningtons: Pioneers of Early Arizona, says that up to that time neither of the captives had been molested in any way, except when the Apaches "pre-tended to ambush them from behind trees or play-fully pointed the captured pistol at them." One of the Apaches also talked about how all the land in that area was once part of their domain until the white man came. The journey to the San Pedro was rough, during the walk both Larcena and Mercedes tore off pieces of their clothing and bent twigs to make an easily recognizable trail. Forbes says; "One of the Apaches melted snow in his hands for them [the captives] to drink. Mrs. Page was pushed or pulled up steep places in the trail and Mercedes was carried pick-a-back. Their hats were restored to them from the plunder and fair progress was made...."[1][4]

    Left for dead

    John, who was not dead, returned to the camp and discovered that his wife and Mercedes were gone. John assumed that Apaches were responsible so he got Randall and a few other men from the mill to help and they followed their trail. Just before sunset, when the group was about 15 miles (24 km) from the camp, east of the present day Helvetia, one of the Apache ran up and told the older Apache that people were approaching from behind. The Apache quickened their pace but Larcena could not keep up. She had walked all day and was already weak from her illness. While the group was standing atop a ridge, the Apaches made Larcena take off her corset and her skirt and then, as she turned around to continue walking, one of the natives struck her in the back with a lance. She fell over the side of the ridge, about seventeen feet, until becoming "lodged" against a pine tree. The Apaches followed Larcena down the ridge, thrusting their spears into her and throwing rocks at her. One of the rocks hit Larcena in the face while she was up against the tree and she fell unconscious.

    The Apache dragged her body into a snow bank behind a tree so she was not visible from the trail. They removed her boots and one of them put them on. Larcena woke up a short time later and could hear her husband's voice coming from the trail. She tried to call to him but was too weak to speak loud enough. Because one of the Apaches was wearing Larcena's boots, John passed by his wife without ever knowing she was there and followed the Apaches' trail all the way to the Rincon Mountains and beyond the Catalina Mountains. When John could not find his wife, he went to Tucson and recruited a posse for a second attempt at finding his wife. Another posse also formed in Tubac but it too was unsuccessful.[1][4]
    Crawls to saw mill

    After John passed by Larcena, she fell unconscious again and remained in the snow bank for about three days before waking up in the middle of the night. First she ate some snow and looked after her wounds, for she had been "bruised with stones and cut with sixteen lance wounds in her back and arms."[1] Then Larcena went further down the ridge and fell asleep until sunrise. On the next morning, when Larcena woke up again, she began looking around to try to find out where she was. Knowing that the camp and the lumber mill were to the southeast, she looked in that direction and sighted a "small sharp-pointed hill,"[1] which has been identified as Huerfano Hill, about 3 miles (4.8 km) west of Helvetia. Because of her wounds and loss of blood, Larcena could barely stand so for the next several days she crawled the 15 miles (24 km) back to camp, surviving on "seeds, herbage and wild onions, with snow water to drink."[1]

    According to Forbes, "Night by night (unable to lie on her back because of her wounds) she crouched upon her knees and arms on the ground and dreamed of food; but when in her sleep she reached out for the pot of beans before her, she awoke to find her hands clutching only gravel."[1] One day, Larcena came across a bear's nest and wanted to sleep there but she knew it was a bad idea and went away. Ten days after her "terrible journey" began,[1] on March 26, she climbed to the top of a ridge and saw the road that leads to Madera Canyon and the camp. Hearing the sound of voices and wagon wheels, Larcena attached her petticoat to a stick to signal for help. She also screamed but the people in the wagon passed on without seeing or hearing anything. When Larcena reached the camp, two days later, she found a smoldering campfire, some flour and some coffee that was still on the ground from when the Apaches cut open the sacks of food. Using water from a nearby stream, and a piece of her clothing, Larcena prepared some bread on the fire, made some coffee, and then rested for the night.[1][4]

    On the next morning, March 31, Larcena followed the road east to the Big Rock and the lumber mill. Forbes says that "as she drew near she was seen, but not at first recognized. With clotted hair and gaping wounds, nearly naked, emaciated and sunburned, she was at first mistaken for an unfortunate outcast squaw and the men ran for their guns."[1] It was only when Larcena called out her name that she was recognized. But even then, one man, named Smith, insisted that she was a ghost because he couldn't believe that a twenty-three-year-old women could survive so long under such trying circumstances. One of the men took Larcena into a building and had her fed and washed while another man went to get a doctor in Tucson and inform John, who was preparing for a third expedition to find his wife. On April 2, Larcena was taken to Tucson where she fully recovered under the care of Dr. C.B. Hughes. The young Mexican girl, Mercedes, was later found by the United States Army and traded for Apache prisoners at Fort Buchanan.[1][4] She later married Charles A. Shibell and had four children, but died at age 26.[1]

    Later life
    William Fisher Scott, second husband of Larcena Pennington Page.

    In 1861 the American Civil War was about to begin and Larcena was worried that the Apaches would turn more violent with the absence of military personnel. Larcena and her family soon moved to Patagonia. Due to the Bascom Affair, Chief Cochise and Mangas Coloradas were attacking American settlements all across southern New Mexico Territory. In March or April 1861, her husband, John, was ambushed and killed by Apache north of Tucson while transporting a wagon load of goods to Old Camp Grant. John was buried where he died, "at the top of the hill beyond Samaniego's ranch, on the old road; and all that Mrs. Page ever saw of him was his handkerchief, his purse and a lock of his hair." In the later part of August 1861, her brother, Jack, saved a fellow settler from Apaches during the Battle of Cookes Canyon.

    In September 1861, Larcena gave birth to her daughter, Mary Ann, and shortly thereafter she moved again, to Tubac and later to a stone house along the Santa Cruz, about a half-mile from the international border with Mexico. The stone house was located in a dangerous area, frequented by Apaches, and at one point Larcena had to flee to Mowry, a small, fortified, mining town. Constantly moving, by April 1864 the Penningtons had returned to Tubac and were its only residents, as everyone else had fled during the Apache attack in 1861. Larcena's young brothers carried very long guns, to protect the family from further attacks.[1][5]

    In 1867 Larcena's sister died of malaria and in 1868 her brother, Jim Pennington, was killed during attacks against the Apache. In June 1869, her father and another brother were both murdered while working at a farm by Apaches. The remaining members of the Pennington family left for Tucson and then decided to move to California. About 20 miles (32 km) outside Tucson, they had to return when Larcena's sister Ellen became gravely ill with pneumonia. Despite seeking medical help, Ellen died. Larcena and her brother were the only two remaining family members. Jack moved to Texas and Larcena decided to remain in Tucson.[1][1]
    Marries again

    In August 1870, she married William Fisher Scott, a Scottish lawyer and judge. Larcena and William had two children, William P. (born September 1871) and Georgie Hazel (born October 6, 1872).[6][7] Larcena refused to leave Arizona, despite all the hardships she went through there. Larcena became a Christian and was one of the first members of the Congregational Church in Tucson. She was also named president of the Arizona Historical Society. Larcena lived a relatively quiet life from then until her death.
    Legacy

    Pennington Street in downtown Tucson is named after Larcena Pennington and her family. Scott Avenue is named for her second husband William F. Scott. In the early 2000s, a residential community named Stone House was built southeast of Sahuarita, Arizona. It was named after the Pennington's stone house along the Santa Cruz River.[5][8][9]
    https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Larcena_Pennington_Page

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  5. #13
    [MOD] Futaba fan forever Supreme Overlord Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Avatar de Giromu
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    The Revenant : l'histoire vraie de Hugh Glass est encore plus folle que le film

    Il a beau manger du foie de bison cru et éventrer des chevaux pour se tenir chaud, Leonardo DiCaprio est un petit joueur face à Hugh Glass. (ATTENTIONS SPOILERS)




    (ATTENTION SPOILERS)

    L'histoire du trappeur Hugh Glass est légendaire. Et comme toutes les légendes, elle contient sa part de fantasmes et d'interprétations qui ont largement bridé la véracité historique The Revenant. Et si Iñárritu a préféré imaginer, magnifier ou occulter quelques faits pour des raisons esthéthiques et scénaristiques évidentes, la véritable histoire de Hugh Glass (interprété par Leonardo DiCaprio dans le film) est aussi spectaculaire et sanguinolente que la fiction. Certes, le courageux trappeur n'a pas dérivé dans les rapides. Il n'a pas non plus fait de chute de cheval depuis le haut d'une falaise, dormi dans une carcasse animale pour se réchauffer ni même rencontré un indien solitaire mangeur de neige... mais ces éléments sont bien peu de choses quand on apprend que Hugh Glass n'a jamais eu de fils indien. Le trappeur doit donc sa ténacité surhumaine non pas à un désir de vengeance envers le bourreau de son fils mais à la simple idée de retrouver son précieux fusil, dérobé par le lâche John Fitzgerald (interprété par Tom Hardy dans le film) alors qu'il agonisait. Le périple rampant de Hugh Glass à travers plus de 300 kilomètres de nature hostile prend alors une dimension encore plus folle que la fiction. (Source : Variety)



    Il a beau manger du foie de bison cru et éventrer des chevaux pour se tenir chaud, Leonardo DiCaprio est un petit joueur face à Hugh Glass.

    (ATTENTION SPOILERS)

    L'histoire du trappeur Hugh Glass est légendaire. Et comme toutes les légendes, elle contient sa part de fantasmes et d'interprétations qui ont largement bridé la véracité historique The Revenant. Et si Iñárritu a préféré imaginer, magnifier ou occulter quelques faits pour des raisons esthéthiques et scénaristiques évidentes, la véritable histoire de Hugh Glass (interprété par Leonardo DiCaprio dans le film) est aussi spectaculaire et sanguinolente que la fiction. Certes, le courageux trappeur n'a pas dérivé dans les rapides. Il n'a pas non plus fait de chute de cheval depuis le haut d'une falaise, dormi dans une carcasse animale pour se réchauffer ni même rencontré un indien solitaire mangeur de neige... mais ces éléments sont bien peu de choses quand on apprend que Hugh Glass n'a jamais eu de fils indien. Le trappeur doit donc sa ténacité surhumaine non pas à un désir de vengeance envers le bourreau de son fils mais à la simple idée de retrouver son précieux fusil, dérobé par le lâche John Fitzgerald (interprété par Tom Hardy dans le film) alors qu'il agonisait. Le périple rampant de Hugh Glass à travers plus de 300 kilomètres de nature hostile prend alors une dimension encore plus folle que la fiction. (Source : Variety)

    Leonardo DiCaprio

    Retournons quelques années en arrière, en 1819 très exactement puisque les malheurs de Hugh Glass ont commencé bien avant sa rencontre avec cette mère ourse plutôt aggressive. A trente ans, donc, Hugh Glass vit en Pennsylvanie avec sa femme et ses deux enfants et gagne sa vie en tant que capitaine de navire. Malheureusement, son rafiot est attaqué par des pirates sur les côtes du Texas et Hugh Glass n'a d'autre choix que de rejoindre l'équipage des pirates s'il ne veut pas nourrir les poissons. Après un an de pillages et de meurtres, il décide d'abandonner le navire avec un autre mutin. Et si les deux compères prennnent mille précautions pour échapper à leurs anciens collègues, ils se font capturer par des indiens Pawnees qui, pour fêter l'occasion, décident de les offrir en sacrifice à une divinité.

    Les Pawnees déshabillent alors le compagnon de Glass avant de le faire flamber vivant sur un poteau. Quand vient son tour, Hugh Glass garde son sang froid, s'incline devant le chef de la tribu et lui offre une ampoule de cinabre (roche utilisée pour la poterie et les peintures de guerre) qu'il avait dans sa poche. Séduits par ce présent et par la fougue de ce prisonnier, les indiens l'accueillent au sein de la tribu et lui apprennent à survivre dans une nature hostile. Hugh Glass apprendra ainsi à lancer le tomahawk, à sucer la moëlle de bison mais n'aura ni femme, ni fils adoptif (contrairement à la version d'Iñárritu). C'est pendant ce stage extrême chez les Pawnees cependant, que Hugh Glass deviendra le propriétaire du fameux Hawken de calibre 54 qui deviendra la prunelle de ses yeux.

    Deux ans plus tard, Hugh Glass prend congés de ces amis Pawnees et s'engage dans la Ashley's Hundred, une expédition périlleuse composée de 100 chasseurs de castors. Attaqués par les Rees (ce qui nous amène au début de The Revenant), les trappeurs se dispersent et Hugh Glass se fait mordre et lacérer par le fameux grizzly. Porté par ses coéquipiers, il est finalement confié à John Fitzgerald et Bridger qui devront le veiller jusqu'à sa mort. Au bout de 5 jours, John Fitzgerald finit par convaincre Bridger que la mort du trappeur n'est plus qu'une question de temps. Ils l'abandonnent alors sous un buisson de baie et lui dérobent son fameux fusil mais ne tentent pas de l'étouffer, John est en effet bien moins sadique que le personnage incarné par Tom Hardy dans le film.

    La gorge trouée, le dos lacéré et plein d'asticots, Hugh Glass survit en dévorant un serpent à sonnettes qu'il a tué avec une pierre tranchante, rampe et boitille du mieux qu'il peu sur des kilomètres, mange des chiens et partage le reste d'un bison avec des loups. Recueilli par des Sioux qui le soignent et désinfectent ses plaies il rejoint finalement ses coéquipiers au Fort Kiowa en six semaines. Là bas, il retrouve Bridger et lui pardonne. Hugh Glass se lance ensuite à la recherche de John Fitzgerald et de son précieux calibre, se joint à plusieurs expéditions et survit à un nombre indécents d'escarmouches indiennes. En 1824, arrivé au Yellowstone, notre trappeur-pirate-pawnee retrouve la trace de son ennemi juré... pour apprendre qu'il est devenu soldat et que tout acte de vengeance envers lui l'emmènerait tout droit au bout d'une corde.

    Hugh Glass récupère tout de même son fusil bien-aimé et n'a d'autre choix que de tourner les talons. Exit alors le combat bestial et quasi-mythologique mis en scène par Inarritù à la fin de The Revenant, la réalité est bien plus amère. Toujours est-il qu'après cette vengeance avortée, Hugh Glass continue sa carrière comme trappeur et chasseur tout en peaufinant son histoire au coin du feu et sur les tables des saloons. En 1833, la baraka le quitte : il se fait scalper par des indiens lors d'une enième attaque et devient une légende américaine dont même un film de 2h36 ne peut retracer toute l'histoire. Alors à quand le spin-off et le prequel de The Revenant ?

    Note : The Revenant d'Alejandro González Iñárritu est partiellement adapté du roman éponyme écrit par Michael Punke.
    http://www.premiere.fr/Cinema/News-C...le-que-le-film

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  7. #14
    Great Old One Godslayer sisou Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever sisou Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever sisou Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever sisou Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever sisou Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever sisou Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever sisou Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever sisou Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever sisou Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever sisou Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever sisou Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever
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    En fait, nous avons notre Gollum qui recherche son précieux.

  8. #15
    [MOD] Futaba fan forever Supreme Overlord Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Avatar de Giromu
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    Léo Major: le Rambo québécois

    Léo Major est le héros québécois que le Québec a oublié. Pourtant, on parle du seul Canadien décoré deux fois de la médaille de conduite distinguée. D’un type qui a traversé deux guerres avec un oeil en moins et le dos brisé. Du seul soldat, surtout, à avoir libéré une ville à lui tout seul. Pas mal pour un petit gars de la rue Frontenac. Avec une trajectoire pareille, ce Nick Fury francophone pourrait avoir son film depuis longtemps, sa série sur HBO, sa propre BD peut-être. Mais Léo Major n’est pas Américain, il est Québécois. Et au Québec, à tort ou à raison, les héros de guerre sauvent le monde en sourdine. Le 23 janvier prochain, Léo aurait eu 94 ans.

    Un héros ordinaire

    Né fortuitement au Massachusetts en 1921, le petit Léo a grandi à Montréal entre la Dépression et les humiliations de son vieux. «Paresseux, mauviette, peureux», lui gueulait-il entre deux corrections. S’il avait su... Lorsque la Seconde Guerre mondiale éclate, le jeune Major n’est pas encore le héros de guerre que l’Histoire retiendra, mais déjà un intrépide ouvrier sur le chantier de la gare de Montréal. Chargé de la pose des explosifs, son quotidien s’écrit alors au milieu de la dynamite, du chaos et de la poussière. Prémonitoire.

    Après son enrôlement dans le Régiment de la Chaudière et 3 ans d’entraînement, le jeune homme débarque en 1944 sur les plages de Normandie où il brille par son courage. 18 jours plus tard, la bataille de Caen et une grenade au phosphore lui arrachent son oeil gauche. Évacué vers l’hôpital de campagne le plus proche, un médecin lui signifie que sa guerre est finie. Refus catégorique de l’intéressé: «C'est impossible monsieur, je suis sniper dans ma section. Mon œil droit est parfait et c'est celui que j'utilise pour le tir de précision.» Il reprendra le combat avec un simple bandeau de pirate en guise de stigmate.

    À bien y réfléchir, cet air de flibustier parachevait le personnage. Car Léo Major était un sacré bravache. De ceux prêts à défier le Maréchal Montgomery en personne. Le tenant à raison responsable du fiasco de l’opération Market-Garden, il saura le lui signifier à sa façon. Envoyé en reconnaissance en pleine bataille de l’Escaut, il fait prisonnier une centaine de soldats allemands qu’il ramène au camp sous le feu nourri de l’ennemi. Mais lorsque Montgomery souhaitera le décorer pour cet acte de bravoure, Léo refusera: impossible pour lui d’oublier les 17 000 camarades tombés pendant l'opération. «Il avait commis une erreur effroyable. Je ne l’aimais pas du tout.»

    L’homme-armée

    Ennemis ou hiérarchie, plus rien n’arrête Léo Major. Même lorsqu’une mine lui brise le dos et quatre côtes, il refuse de rentrer au bercail. Il a une guerre à finir. En avril 1945, le voilà avec son régiment devant Zwolle, une ville néerlandaise grande comme Trois-Rivières et transformée en verrou stratégique par les Allemands. Désemparé, le commandement échafaude une mission quasi suicide: s’infiltrer dans la ville pour évaluer les positions de l’ennemi. Léo Major et son ami Willy Arseneault se portent volontaires et s’enfoncent seuls dans la nuit. Ces deux-là ne le savent pas encore, mais ce sera leur dernière aventure ensemble. Vers 23h, une rafale de mitrailleuse balafre l’obscurité. Willy s’effondre. Comme possédé, Léo se met alors à canarder l’ennemi. Sa rage est telle qu’il abat deux soldats et met les autres en fuite. «Après, je n’avais plus qu’une idée en tête : libérer Zwolle. Que je sois confronté à un millier d’Allemands ou à une poignée d’entre eux, ça n’avait pas d’importance.»

    La suite tient du film hollywoodien. Toute la nuit, Léo Major va quadriller la ville comme un damné, attaquer toutes les patrouilles qui passent, balancer des grenades dans les rues… Son objectif ? Faire croire aux Allemands que les troupes canadiennes ont lancé l’assaut. “J’en ai tué quelques uns, mais j’essayais surtout de leur faire peur, de créer la panique.” Aux premières lueurs de l’aube, la ville se réveille finalement libérée. Un simple soldat montréalais vient de mettre toute une garnison allemande en déroute.

    Nul n’est prophète en son pays

    Pour cet acte de bravoure insensé, Léo Major reçoit une nouvelle Médaille de conduite distinguée. Cette fois, il l’acceptera. La seconde lui sera remise pendant la guerre de Corée, à l’issue d’une résistance héroïque: à la tête de 18 hommes, il a non seulement repris une colline stratégique à l‘ennemi, mais il l’a tenue pendant trois jours sous les assauts de milliers de soldats chinois. Si certains sont du bois dont on fait les héros, difficile de dire de quelle matière était fait ce Léo Major.

    Difficile surtout d’expliquer son relatif anonymat de ce côté-ci de l’Atlantique. Alors que la ville de Zwolle possède depuis longtemps une avenue Léo Majorlaan en hommage à son libérateur, le nom de Léo Major, décédé en 2008, vient tout juste de recevoir l’agrément du comité de toponymie de Montréal. C’est un début. Pour autant, ce n’est pas d’une rue dont son nom a besoin, mais bien de la mémoire collective. Et puisque l’Histoire ne devient un récit populaire qu’en la transmettant, il est grand temps de raconter partout la légende de Léo Major: ce pirate Québécois qui valait une armée.
    https://quebec.huffingtonpost.ca/201...n_6491642.html

    "Mad Jack" Jack Churchill, le seul homme a avoir tué un nazi avec une flèche et a avoir livré un duel à l'épée entre autres faits d'armes
    http://dossiers.lalibre.be/churchill/
    Dernière modification par Giromu ; 07/04/2018 à 12h12.

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  10. #16
    Illegal Lolistep Vampireslayer Abdul Eternal Champion Abdul Eternal Champion Abdul Eternal Champion Abdul Eternal Champion Abdul Eternal Champion Abdul Eternal Champion Abdul Eternal Champion Abdul Eternal Champion Abdul Eternal Champion Abdul Eternal Champion Abdul Eternal Champion Avatar de Abdul
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    Je cherche l'histoire récente de ce tibétain, ou ce népalais qui a défendu un avant poste contre une dizaine de talibans, vous vous en souvenez ? C'était il y a quelques années
    Necrobestial Sadobreaks

  11. #17
    [MOD] Futaba fan forever Supreme Overlord Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Giromu Most fuckin' badass in the entire multiverse ever Avatar de Giromu
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    Honnêtement, c'est la première fois que j'entends parler de lui.

  12. #18
    Illegal Lolistep Vampireslayer Abdul Eternal Champion Abdul Eternal Champion Abdul Eternal Champion Abdul Eternal Champion Abdul Eternal Champion Abdul Eternal Champion Abdul Eternal Champion Abdul Eternal Champion Abdul Eternal Champion Abdul Eternal Champion Abdul Eternal Champion Avatar de Abdul
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    J'ai galeré mais j'ai trouvé : https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dipprasad_Pun
    Necrobestial Sadobreaks

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