Thursday, October 28, 2021

Petey, Part 3 of a Story in 3 Parts blog post #521

Hey, I got 1,300 hits from Sweden on the 18th. That puts them in first place for this post.

 The plot thickens, so let’s get right into the final piece of Petey’s story.




The rest of the day crawled by on sloths’ legs. Marco and I ate, then did some studying up in the room. He and George headed for the bar, leaving me to while away another hour. I spent it trying to figure out who my unknown admirer might be. There was one guy in Algebra Class who struck me as gay. We’d exchanged greetings once or twice, nothing more. I don’t have a problem with gays. Anyone’s free to hook up with anyone who’s receptive is the way I look at it. So I’d been casual-friendly when Frank—I think that was his name—first said “Hi.” Had that been a mistake? Had I unknowingly encouraged him?

Was Marco right about George? Probably. The guy was hot and heavy about his girlfriend, but who knew? There was a married guy back home that everybody figured was that way… except maybe his wife. I’d had to say no to him three times before he was convinced I meant it. Crap, I didn’t have the experience to handle anything like this.

Could it be Marco pulling my chain? Maybe, but if it was him, it was one big joke with me being the butt of it. My roomie was brash, but I don’t think he was cruel. Of course, to his mind it might not be cruel, just a big prank.

Crap! I didn’t have any idea who it was. Could be somebody not even on my radar screen.


I got to the tennis courts a quarter of an hour early. Anxious over what was to come, I guess. The courts were lighted and usually busy at night. This was no exception. I didn’t want to stand around, so I selected a row in the bleachers near the top and plopped down on it. Normally, I enjoy watching tennis games. It’s not really my sport, but I own a racket and can wield it reasonably well. Tonight, I had a case of the roving eye, fixing on any guy who entered the area and watching him until he disappeared. None of them even glanced my way.

Eight o’clock arrived and passed. I always expressed nervousness by jiggling my leg up and down when I’m sitting, and by a quarter after the hour, I’m certain people thought I was spastic. Five minutes later, a guy I’d never seen before sat down on the first row of the bleachers. Was this the guy? Older than me. Probably a junior or even a senior. Decent looking. Why didn’t he just come up and face me?

Frustrated, I stood and debated about going down to confront the dude. Reveal himself, the note had said. Maybe that’s what he just did. My mind made up, I started toward the guy. Before I got there, he stood as a co-ed came off the courts and gave him a kiss on the lips. Then they walked off together, leaving me standing there with my mouth open.

Panicked by my near-blunder, I gave up and jogged across Central Avenue to the bar. I spotted George and two glasses of beer at a table in the far corner. After picking up a draft for myself, I moseyed over and took a seat at the table.

“Where’s Marco?” I asked.

“In the head. What happened?”

“Wait’ll Marco gets here. Don’t want to chew my cabbage twice.”

About that time, my roommate arrived and took his seat. He looked at me and arched an eyebrow. “Well?”

“No show,” I said. “And I about pulled the boner of the year.” I told them what nearly happened, and Marco made a joke out of it.

“So you about became the stalker instead of the stalkee.”

“Screw you, Marco.”

We ended up having a good time and wandered back across Central to the campus only mildly high. George lived in a different dorm, so we said goodnight and went to our own hall. Semi-high and happy, I took out my key to the door, and froze. Then I snatched the note affixed to the frame. Looking over my shoulder, Marco read it aloud.

“Got unavoidably delayed. Sorry I missed you, but I’ll make it up to you later tonight.”

I exhaled a gust of air. “Later tonight! When, where?”

Marco shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe he’ll call.”

“He has my phone number?” I snorted again and stormed into the room. “Why not? He knows where I live.”

Marco looked alarmed. “Hey, man, don’t get so upset. You sound like you want to meet this dude.”

“Yeah. Meet him and have it out with him. I’m gonna go take a shower. If my admirer shows up, don’t let him in.”

A hot shower leached some of the tension out of me. I was drying off when Marco poked his head through the door and handed me my cell. “You got a call. I think it’s your admirer.”

I draped the towel around my shoulders and put the phone to my ear. “Hello.”

“Sorry I missed you earlier.”

The voice was familiar even though there was an obvious effort to disguise it. “That’s okay. We can put an end to this now. That way, your identity won’t be compromised.”

“Hey, man, don’t be like that.”

The “Hey, man” tickled my brain. I could place the voice… almost.

“You there, Petey?”

“I’m here.”

“Good. Now let’s talk this over. I know you’re interested.”

I eased over to dboor and peeked into the other room. “How do you know?”

“You would have cut me off by now if you weren’t.”

I spotted Marco sitting at his desk talking on the phone. Suspicions confirmed. I whistled into the transmitter and watched him jerk the phone away from his ear.

Barging out into the room stark naked, I yelled at him. “Marco, you son of a bitch, what are you doing?”

His eyes swept my nakedness as he faced me. His complexion darkened. “Pete, I… I’m sorry. It started out as a joke, or at least, I think it did.”

Suddenly discomfited by my nakedness, I snatched a throw pillow off the sofa and covered myself. “What do you mean, you think?”

He punched a button on his phone, closing the call. “Well, the first two messages were jokes. I even included me in the second message, so you’d be sure and tell me about it.”


“And then I got to thinking about it. Why’d I start this thing in the first place. Had to be a reason I picked that kind of a practical joke. I finally admitted it said more about me than about you.”


“Meaning I was interested in you. You know… that way. But both of us were getting in deeper and deeper.” He waved the phone in his hand. “So I was gonna end it with this call.”

“You’re interested in me?”

“Hell, Petey, you’re sexy as hell.”

My next words surprised even me. “Not as sexy as you.”

His eyes widened. “Me?”

“Well… uh, yeah. I guess,” I added lamely.

“Didn’t know you were interested in me.”

“Me neither. Until now.”

“Are you saying…?”

I rubbed my eyes and realized that was the hand holding the pillow. I tossed it aside. “Marco, I dunno what the hell I’m saying. But well… do you keep your promises?”

“What promises.”

“About over the moon to the stars.”

That damnable grin of his slowly built on his face. He shrugged out of his shirt and came to me.

And damned if he didn’t keep every promise he’d made. Every blessed one of them.



This story came about because I once had a college roommate that I wish had started a flirtation with me. But if he’d taken Marco route, I was so dumb about things, he’d have to club me in the head to make me realize it. Hey, did I just admit that maybe he did and I missed it? Don’t think so. Never got any surreptitious notes from him or anyone else.

 Tell me what you think.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

 Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 My personal links:



Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.



 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Thursday, October 21, 2021

Petey, Part 2 of a Story in 3 Parts blog post #520

 Image Courtesy of Twitter

According to Facebook and email comments, readers like Petey and are anxious to see where his story leads.

So let’s see what happens next.




           I kept my mouth shut about the second note. Marco wasn’t exactly making fun of me, but it was close. Another week went by before I got up the nerve to check the stall again. I wished I hadn’t. Right below the second message, my unknown “admirer”—or should that be “stalker?—had written a new note.

Can I take your silence as acquiescence? Man, I hope so. I can hardly wait! Do you think you can talk your marvy roommate into joining us? He’s an Okie, isn’t he? Real exotic looking. Must have some Native American blood.

Okay, that was it! No mistaking what “Petey” the creep was talking about now. It was me. And now Marco. I grinned as I took a photo of the scribbling with my iPhone before scratching through the inked letters. Now we’ll see if Marco still thinks it’s funny.

He did… apparently. “Wow! Somebody thinks I’m on a par with you! ‘Marvy,’ he says. That’s quite a compliment. And, of course, I have to agree. I am sorta marvy.”

“Is that ‘marvy’ with Native American blood, or ‘marvy’ without?”

Quarter Miami,” he said.

“Miami? You mean a quarter of you is from Florida?”

“No, I mean a quarter of me is Miami. Don’t you know nothing about us redskins? Miami’s a tribe up in the northeast corner of the state.”

“No shit?”

“Absolutely,” he said.

“Damn, now when somebody says they’re from Miami, I’ll have to quiz them if they mean Florida or the tribe.”

“Nah. You’re from a state, but you are a tribe. I’m from Miami is one thing, and I’m Miami is something different.”

I shook my head. “Enough of the bullshit. Back to the stalker. Doesn’t what he said bother you?”

He shook his head back at me. “You the primary, I’m just secondary.”

“How do you know he won’t decide you’re hunkier than I am?”

“Well, if he had any sense, he’d have started out that way. But obviously, he’s mentally defective and fixating on you. I feel safe.”

“You’re so full of baloney. I think I’ll transfer to A&M and make you the prime target.”

Marco laughed. “Most likely, he’d just follow you.”


A few days later came the corker. I avoided the SUB men’s room whenever possible, but sometimes nature demands attention. I no sooner closed the stall door than I spotted the latest message.

Wow, got an eyeful of Petey at the urinals. He’s impressive and—can you believe it—uncircumcised. Don’t see many like that these days.

I’m pretty sure I raised quite a racket scratching through that one because when I went to the sinks to wash my hands, a couple of guys gave me odd looks. As I went upstairs, seemed like everyone in the joint was watching me. Weren’t, of course, but felt like it.

I didn’t tell Marco about the latest message, but it didn’t matter. That evening, he gave me a lopsided grin and said he’d heard I’d been “outed.”

“How’d you know?” I snapped. “And I haven’t been outed.”

“Exposed. Would that be better? George saw it and told me.” George Harris—no, not that George Harris—was a Hoosier kid we sometimes bummed around with.

My eyes bugged. “You don’t suppose—”

“Naw. It wasn’t George. Nancy’d pound him in a hole if she caught him eyeing your butt. Oh, but that wasn’t the part being described, was it?”

I didn’t have anything in my hands to throw at him, so I just turned and went in the other room. Didn’t do any good. He yelled at me.

“Didn’t mention me this time?”

“What’s the matter, you feeling slighted,” I yelled back.

His answer was a laugh.


My stalker was quiet for another week, then he changed tactics. I was working on an essay for Freshman English one afternoon and also waiting for Marco so we could grab a bite to eat before heading out to a bar. I left my stuff on the table and went into the stacks in search of a particular reference book. Took me awhile to locate it, and when I returned to my table, I saw a piece of paper sticking out of my notebook. I read the message on it and felt my cheeks flame as I scanned the big room. Weren’t many people around, and half of them were females. Then I spotted Marco trudging up the steps and coming my way.

My first inclination was to hide this latest note, but on the other hand, maybe he had a useful suggestion.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked when he reached my table.

I thrust the piece of paper in his hands. He scowled as he read the words in a hushed voice, “Petey, you’re driving me crazy and making me do things I don’t normally do. That’s how handsome and desirable you are. You’ve got to let me do wonderful things to you. You’ll never regret it, I promise. I’ll take you to the moon… and beyond to the stars. Sex will never be the same for you again. Meet me at 8:00 p.m. tonight at the tennis courts. If you show up, I’ll reveal myself. I hope I can make it until then without going crazy. As ever, your devoted (and hungry) admirer.” A grin lit Marco’s face. “Hungry and devoted? Wow, I didn’t know you made such an impact on people.”

“Shut up, Marco. What should I do?”

“Depends on what you want. You can go meet him and see if he can deliver on his promises—”

“Asshole,” I snarled.

“Me or him?” Without waiting for a reply, he continued. “Or you can turn this note over to the campus police. Or just wad it up and throw it on the floor. What’ll it be?”

I dropped into a chair and propped my head up with my palms. “I’m not gonna go to the cops. And I’m damned sure not going to drop the note on the floor. Somebody might read it.”

“So you’re gonna meet your would-be lover, huh?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But he’s got you curious, right?”

“Maybe. But if I go to the tennis courts tonight, that doesn’t mean he’s gonna get what he wants. But at least I can face him and tell him to cool his jets.”

“Maybe. That what you’re gonna do?”

His question pushed me to a decision. “That’s exactly what I’m gonna do!”

Marco gave me his most infectious grin. “Then you probably better not hit the bar tonight. Alcohol might impair your decision-making ability.”



Of all the comments I had on part 1, only one reader answered my question by saying he (presumably) had never stalked nor been stalked. I asked him to think about his answer. Had he never gone too far in pressing someone for attention? Had no one ever done that to him? I believe this is a question you have to think about when answering. At any rate, how did you like part two?


Tell me what you think.


Stay safe and stay strong.


Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!


A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:


My personal links:




Twitter: @dontravis3


See you next Thursday.




New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Thursday, October 14, 2021

Petey, Part 1 of a Story in 3 Parts blog post #519

Image Courtesy of Twitter 

Several comments to my email on “Statue of Limitations,” one of which informed me that I called one character by two different names. I tried to convince him that was a purposeful mistake to see how many readers would catch it… but my subterfuge didn’t work. He saw through me right away and said I needed to do a better job of editing. My bad.


Let’s try another short story this week. Here’s the first installment.





A guy’s freshman year at college is supposed to be a trip, but within a month, I realized that wasn’t the half of it. I’d been a decent jock—basketball and soccer—in high school and fairly popular. Oh, I had my issues with a couple of a-holes, but for the most part students and teachers liked and treated me well. In fact, they elected me senior class president. Yahoo. Big deal. Although I gotta admit, when I saw the first “Peter Maravic for President” sign, I got a little charge out of it. Oh yeah, I had my share of girlfriends too.

Even though I believed I was emotionally prepared, moving from my southern New Mexico middling-sized hometown to Albuquerque at eighteen was harder than I anticipated. At times, my head felt like a soccer ball being kicked around the field. In the first place, I left a secure environment and headed into a place where—for the most part—the rep I worked hard to earn didn’t travel along with me. Normal, I guess. Every guy has to carve out a new one with every major change. Wasn’t too hard in sports, but classes were something else. A few had so many students, I was simply a nobody listening to some guy lecture a hall full of other nameless students. A fellow got no personal attention unless he made an appointment with a professor.

And in the romance department… forget it. Oh, there were plenty of girls around, but from sophomores to seniors, they looked down their noses at freshmen. And some pretty noses, at that. As far as frosh girls, they seemed like… well, like high schoolers masquerading at college girls. Now that I think of it, that’s probably how I looked to them. And while I’m not a mama’s boy, I missed my parents and little sister… a lot.

So I started earning my way, careening from class to the SUB—that’s the student union building for the uninitiated—to the local bar favored by underclassmen to meaningless dates with a few girls, cramming in a bit of studying, all in a 24-hour period. You notice I didn’t include sleeping. Deliberate. There wasn’t much of that.

By my third week on campus, my efforts to get noticed succeeded, but not in the way I intended. One day after class, I hit the john in the SUB and noticed a message scribbled on a wall of the stall.

Petey M., you’re one hell of a hunk. Sure would like to get to know you. If you’re copacetic, write a Y below this message.

I’m sure anyone who happened to be in the bathroom right then wondered what was going on in Stall #1, because I made a racket trying to scrape those words off the wall. An eraser didn’t’ do any good, so I ended up making it more or less unreadable by scraping at it with my keys. Then I wrote a big “No” right over it before stalking out of there for a brief wash-up at the sinks. My eyes probably looked manic as they switched this way or that as I searched for my stalker. Wasn’t anyone there.

That evening before we started studying, I told my roommate, a cool dude named Marco, another freshman about the note. While he proclaimed himself an Okie, he didn’t come across as a redneck. Pretty sophisticated, actually. Shows you what a dumbass I am about rednecks and hillbillies. We all have our prejudices, don’t we?

He laughed. “So you’ve got an admirer. Big deal.”

“Big deal? Damned straight it’s a big deal unless some chick snuck in the boy’s… uh, men’s bathroom and left me a message.”

He leveled caramel-colored eyes at me. “What makes you think it was left for you? There’s probably more’n one Peter on campus.”

That brought me down. “Hadn’t thought of that. Took it too personal, I guess.” But somehow it didn’t wash. “Another Petey M.? That’s pretty specific?”

“Who calls you Petey?”

“Nobody I can think of. I’m Pete to most  —” I paused and probably blushed a little.—“except to a couple of girls back home.”

After he got a pretty good laugh out of that, we settled down to study. After a while, I glanced at his head buried in a book. Dark, curly hair. Good-looking guy. Why hadn’t he gotten the message instead of me. I’m okay, but my light brown—almost blondish—hair didn’t compare to his. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.

“You ever got anything like that?”

He glanced up. “Huh?”

“You know, the message in the john.”

He gave a lazy smile. “You still hung up on that?”

“Wouldn’t you be? Anyway, answer me.”

He stretched his long arms and yawned. Reading textbooks will do that to you. “Can’t say I have. Makes me downright jealous.”

“Okay, you bastard. Quit making fun of me. I didn’t write that note on the stall wall.”

His eyes narrowed; his smile brightened. “How do I know you didn’t? Maybe you were lonely and….” He laughed and ducked when I threw my ruler at him.

The next day when I went to the john at the SUB, I couldn’t help myself. I entered the first stall and found my stalker had struck again. The words, “Now Petey, don’t be like that,” were twice as big as the original message.



What do you think of when you hear about a stalker? Nine out of ten of us would think of some guy harassing a girl, wouldn’t we? But there is plenty of stalking out there that doesn’t involve a female. Tell me… the guys among you, that is… have you ever been stalked? But let’s not be sexist. The gals can chime in too. Oh, buy the way… have any of you ever been the stalker?

 Tell me what you think.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

 Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 My personal links:



Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.


 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time. 

Thursday, October 7, 2021

Statue of Limitations (Part Three of Three Parts) blog post #518

 Image courtesy of

Okay, now Martin’s talked Slake into modeling for him. And he’s also preconditioned the handsome landscaper to a little touching to make sure he gets “everything just right” about the statue he’s going to create. Sounds like everything on schedule, doesn’t it? So let’s see what happens.



The next morning, Slake showed up in his thin running shorts and a slipover shirt. Upon request, he skinned out of the shirt and stood shifting self-consciously from foot to foot. I decided to pose him like David, and had him stand with his shirt slung over his shoulder. He was stunning.

I sketched him first, making sure to walk over occasionally to feel this muscle or that, more to get him used to the idea than from necessity. Before this was over, I intended to do some serious touching. He started the first time I ran my hands over his shoulders and down his arms, but permitted my touch. I made sure to explore some particular vein or muscle. All too soon, I paid him for the day, and Slake took his leave.

Unfortunately, I didn’t need him again until I worked the stone down to the general shape the finished statue would take. But he stopped by midweek as he tended the grounds of the estate.

“Coming along,” he said, eyeing the stone. “Are you finished with me?”

“Not by a long shot. I’d like you to start posing again next Saturday. You okay with that?”

Yeah. Sure.”


Slake showed up on time Saturday morning and shucked his shirt. Every time I saw that physique, I salivated. He took the position, and I started to work. Occasionally, I’d wipe my hands on a rag and go over to explore with my fingers. Guess it was a good thing we were starting with the head so he’d get used to it. But when I ran my fingers across his lips, he came close to rebelling. Little did he know how lucky he was. I’d seriously considered exploring those luscious lips with my own.

My David—that is, Slake—slowly emerged out of the stone. And the flesh and blood Slake was impressed. “Damn,” he said on more than one occasion, looks just like me. How do you do that?”

“Slog away at it,” became my stock answer. Then I usually added, playfully, “It helps that I can come over and explore a curve and a bend now and then.”

As the torso emerged, I found plenty of opportunity to “explore.” I just had to make sure his pecs were done right, including the nipples. I found I could make them stand up just by brushing them lightly. He always flinched when I did that.

Finally, the portion of his anatomy that I was really curious about began to emerge. I felt every rib, explored his deep navel, and measured his waist with my fingers. And each time I laid a hand to his flesh, it became more of a caress. Surely, he had to see that, as well. But by now, my touching and rubbing and patting had become routine to him.

Eventually, my David stood on his pedestal looking as hunky and handsome as I could make him. And Slake approved of what he sat. He made that evident.

“Awesome, Martin. Really awesome. That’s really me, isn’t it?”

“As close as I can make it,” I said. “But The hips and thighs aren’t quite right.”

“Look okay to me.”

“You don’t look at them with an artist’s eyes. I do. Go take up your position.”

Slake walked back to the nook I had created for his posing and took his stance. I gave him a long, studied look, shook my head, and went over to him.

“I was right. Something needs fixing. I’m gonna lay hands on you, guy. Don’t panic.”

He got a weird look in his eye at that statement, but I ignored him and went to my knees in front of him, my hands on either hip. Humming and mumbling like I was really studying something, I moved my hands around until they rested on his buns. He gave a little jump, but didn’t say anything. Then I clasped his left leg in both hands and moved up on him, pausing to pretend to study some shape or the other. Eventually, they rested at the bottom of his thin shorts.

Swallowing hard, I moved up even more. My hands disappeared beneath the cloth of his of his thins. He mumbled, but that didn’t stop me. Soon, my right hand cupped his sac. He gave a little start, but said nothing. So I moved my left hand until it covered his manhood. It moved, causing him to squirm uneasily. But I grasped him firmly, and he sagged back against the high stool he sometimes sat on. In moments, I had his shorts around his knees and my head in his groin. The only sound he made was a soft groan. In truth, his manhood wasn’t in proportion to the rest of him, but I took it eagerly, no matter how big it was.

For the next few minutes, my brain shook with the thought that I was taking him. I was as intimate with my David as one man can be with another. And David was enjoying it. His groans became moans and then before I expected, he erupted. I looked up to catch his expression as he shivered through his orgasm. And as I watched, his beatific, blissful look grew thunderous. He morphed from David back to Slake.

“What the hell!” he yelled, placing a palm against my forehead and roughly pushing me over on my butt. “Why’d you do that?”

Somewhat addled, I stammered. “W-why’d you let me?”

“You’re paying me to pose, not to let you service me. Gimme my money, you frigging fairy. I want outta here.”

Still uncertain as to whether he was putting me on or not, I gave him a grin. “And do I add anything for the servicing?”

He balled his fists and took a step toward me, looking both threatening and ridiculous with his prick exposed to the world. “Hell no! I’m no whore. Gimme what you owe me or I’m liable to take it out of your hide.”

Convinced now, I got to my feet and handed him the envelope I’d prepared for him earlier. He snatched it, slammed open one of the garage doors, and stalked away stiff-legged. All I saw was his back, but I assumed he’d restored his running shorts to where they should be.


I finished my statue of Slake-as-David with a lot less enthusiasm than I started it. The more I thought things over, the more convinced I was that he knew what was coming, accepted my offer, and then—feeling guilty over it—took it out on me.

After the statue was done, I wanted it out of my studio. No sitting around for a week for this one. All it did was raise my ire. Before calling for a truck to move it to my dealer, I walked around it a couple of times before the idea working its way out of my brain walked out into the open. I considered it. I liked it.

So the next morning, I took my chisel and my abrasive materials and started to work. Erasing the running shorts from the hips backward, presented no problem. The high curves of his buttocks emerged with nothing to cover them. The front presented a bit more of a problem. But finally, the job was done to my satisfaction.

That afternoon, I called the trucking company and had the piece sent to the art dealer. Then I followed it up with a personal visit to have it shown the way I wanted.

Before the afternoon was over, the statue—it was no longer David to me—stood with his back toward the entrance to the art gallery. Fetching. Arresting. Titillating. One couldn’t help but go around to the other side to see what this magnificent figure of a man looked like full on. What they saw was Slake’s handsome face, his impressive chest and defined abs. And below that, he sported a tiny dink of a penis with gonads to match.

A perfect replica of James Slaker with all his limitations.


And so, we have a Statue of Limitations, right? Now who was the aggrieved partner here? Didn’t it look as if Martin’s intentions became clearer and clearer as time went by. And Slake didn’t object to his touch, even the more intimate ones… until after the seduction was over. Aha. It seems to me that Slake was willing to go along, but he was one of those straights who become mortified after they’ve willingly participated in a gay relationship and react with barely controlled violence. Anyone who’s found himself (or herself) in just that sort of situation, please raise your hand.

 Tell me what you think.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

 Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 My personal links:



Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.



 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

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