The tracker
06-02-2003, 01:35 PM
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The tracker
The clouds were rapidly moving across a brilliantly blue sky when the tracker stopped for a moment's rest. He bent down to examine some prints left in the dust. Could that be the faint outline of a Brigestone 040? And did the high alpine wind still carry the faint smell of Zaino on it? He even imagined he could hear the notes from a high-powered Z stereo blasting out some hits in the distance. The tracker stood up and looked through the clear mountain air at the brilliant white snow and tundra that made this pass so inviting.
Yes, he had ridden hard and fast to catch up with that band of outlaws (and yes, he was an outlaw himself, if the truth be known). But the tracker knew the truth: the pack he was trailing had several hours head start and their steeds were at least as fresh as his. Still, it was hard to believe that there would be any force of nature that could convey him across vast distances any faster that what he was riding. It's strength and resiliance always seemed to beg for more speed. At what was a full gallop for the other mounts he encountered on the path to adventure seemed merely a canter for the tracker's mount. It was time to move on...
It was a clean dash down the other side of the mountain pass and the tracker's mount seemed to delight in every turn, every prance near the edge. Up ahead, a small mountain town beckoned and as he drew nearer the tracker could make out the Sheriff- probably serving as a warning against any potential "trouble" in his fair town. The tracker's eyes squinted as he saw a beautiful white steed next to the Sheriff. Could it be...?
Next: SHOOTOUT ON BERTHOUD PASS
Yes, he had ridden hard and fast to catch up with that band of outlaws (and yes, he was an outlaw himself, if the truth be known). But the tracker knew the truth: the pack he was trailing had several hours head start and their steeds were at least as fresh as his. Still, it was hard to believe that there would be any force of nature that could convey him across vast distances any faster that what he was riding. It's strength and resiliance always seemed to beg for more speed. At what was a full gallop for the other mounts he encountered on the path to adventure seemed merely a canter for the tracker's mount. It was time to move on...
It was a clean dash down the other side of the mountain pass and the tracker's mount seemed to delight in every turn, every prance near the edge. Up ahead, a small mountain town beckoned and as he drew nearer the tracker could make out the Sheriff- probably serving as a warning against any potential "trouble" in his fair town. The tracker's eyes squinted as he saw a beautiful white steed next to the Sheriff. Could it be...?
Next: SHOOTOUT ON BERTHOUD PASS
06-02-2003, 03:23 PM
#2
New Member
Um, David, are you sure you didn't spend a bit too much time up in the thin air yesterday? I think your brain needs a little more oxygen.
Just kidding! I'm looking forward to reading Shootout on Berthoud Pass (I know Daryl and I had a good drive over it.)
Sorry we missed you yesterday. See you on Saturday at SCR.
Gary
Just kidding! I'm looking forward to reading Shootout on Berthoud Pass (I know Daryl and I had a good drive over it.)
Sorry we missed you yesterday. See you on Saturday at SCR.
Gary
Last edited by GaryM05; 06-02-2003 at 03:29 PM.
06-02-2003, 04:16 PM
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Now we know why Bob put you on his staff. What a poet!!!!!, now pass the good stuff over here.
David, can you write me some generic love poems/letters that I may be able to give to my girlfriend? They might win me some points with her.
Seriously, I can't wait until the next chapter.
Brian
David, can you write me some generic love poems/letters that I may be able to give to my girlfriend? They might win me some points with her.
Seriously, I can't wait until the next chapter.
Brian
06-03-2003, 08:10 PM
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The Z tracker: Shootout At Berthoud Pass
Shadows passed rapidly from the clouds overhead. The tracker and his trusty traveling companion, the Shogun from the East (Aurora, that is), were riding hard. They had met up on the outskirts of the small hamlet miles back. They marveled at how quickly their steeds took them through other villages with names like Tabernash and Winter Park.
There was little trouble as the two riders kept their heads down in passing caravans of merry folk. Little did they suspect, the silvery glint hidden by the tracker's right hand could be drawn quicker then the eye could blink. Only a flash of color and a wisp of wind would remain to mark their passing.
It began at the base of the pass, as stagecoaches and various buggies clogged the path. Timing would be critical, thought the tracker, as he drew back his weapon and prepared to unleash the fury. He was determined that no innocents would be harmed, but the action was so quick and decisive, few even noticed.
A quick move to the left and the first pack was quickly behind him. The tracker's steed was reveling in the pace now and eagerly moved into full stride. A deer quietly munching a patch of grass by the roadside glanced up only after a flash of color had passed by. Powerful stopping power and an agility born of careful craftsmanship kept the tracker (and the Shogun who was following in the path being cut) both safe and alert. Man and machine blended seamlessly as the summit of the pass was reached. Going down was an exercise in coordinating all the weapons at his command. Sizing up targets, aiming and moving on became automatic.
There was only one brief moment- a quick pivot (on a downhill off-camber snakey turn) had the sure-footed steed stepping out. So well-trained in the arts of VDC was his steed, that even the usual techniques (of opposite lock) were not called upon to vanquish the forces which tugged at him. Soon enough, the two were down the pass and entering the Empire (where it is well-known that any gunplay is punishable by the execution of one's wallet), where their pace slackened.
The tracker smiled, as he inhaled the air that seemed that much sweeter. He would not catch the band of outlaws today. Nor their ringleader, known as Big Bad Bob. But there was always tomorrow...
There was little trouble as the two riders kept their heads down in passing caravans of merry folk. Little did they suspect, the silvery glint hidden by the tracker's right hand could be drawn quicker then the eye could blink. Only a flash of color and a wisp of wind would remain to mark their passing.
It began at the base of the pass, as stagecoaches and various buggies clogged the path. Timing would be critical, thought the tracker, as he drew back his weapon and prepared to unleash the fury. He was determined that no innocents would be harmed, but the action was so quick and decisive, few even noticed.
A quick move to the left and the first pack was quickly behind him. The tracker's steed was reveling in the pace now and eagerly moved into full stride. A deer quietly munching a patch of grass by the roadside glanced up only after a flash of color had passed by. Powerful stopping power and an agility born of careful craftsmanship kept the tracker (and the Shogun who was following in the path being cut) both safe and alert. Man and machine blended seamlessly as the summit of the pass was reached. Going down was an exercise in coordinating all the weapons at his command. Sizing up targets, aiming and moving on became automatic.
There was only one brief moment- a quick pivot (on a downhill off-camber snakey turn) had the sure-footed steed stepping out. So well-trained in the arts of VDC was his steed, that even the usual techniques (of opposite lock) were not called upon to vanquish the forces which tugged at him. Soon enough, the two were down the pass and entering the Empire (where it is well-known that any gunplay is punishable by the execution of one's wallet), where their pace slackened.
The tracker smiled, as he inhaled the air that seemed that much sweeter. He would not catch the band of outlaws today. Nor their ringleader, known as Big Bad Bob. But there was always tomorrow...
Last edited by dkmura; 07-31-2017 at 05:57 AM.
06-03-2003, 08:33 PM
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Re: The Z tracker: Shootout At Berthoud Pass
Originally posted by dkmura
The tracker smiled, as he inhaled the air that seemed that much sweeter. He would not catch the band of outlaws today. Nor their ringleader, known as Big Bad Bob. But there was always tomorrow...
The tracker smiled, as he inhaled the air that seemed that much sweeter. He would not catch the band of outlaws today. Nor their ringleader, known as Big Bad Bob. But there was always tomorrow...
Joe
06-04-2003, 03:31 PM
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Damn dk!
Why don't I see that same passion in your Sport Z writing? Damn dk, that stuff was ear candy! I was wondering how you landed your wonderful wife Kathy, now I understand.
Next dk challenge -- a baba wawa tear jerker/gut wrenching encounter with the one-and-only Steve Millen. Make us proud dk, dazzle us with some dkmura alliteration.
eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh...
I love this job!
Next dk challenge -- a baba wawa tear jerker/gut wrenching encounter with the one-and-only Steve Millen. Make us proud dk, dazzle us with some dkmura alliteration.
eh, eh, eh, eh, eh, eh...
I love this job!
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07-30-2017, 08:07 AM
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Here's to resurrecting an old thread just for the sake of writing about something else other than fixing someone else's problems...
Return of the Tracker
The cobalt blue skies at 12,000 feet were just as brilliant as they had been so many years ago. The tracker bent down to examine the dust by the side of the trail, but found no traces of the outlaws that he'd once run with. No distinctive prints or odors in the thin air.That was many moons ago, and some had moved on to other mounts; maybe others even had families and SUV buckboards to carry them in. But the young steeds that once stood ready to romp over the Rocky Mountains at a moment's notice had vanished like the high winds whispering over the craggy peaks around him.
The tracker took a moment to reflect as the sun flitted in and out of the clouds that surrounded this high alpine trail. While his own steed stood ready to carry on the chase, many of the others had passed into hands that rode them hard, and put them away in a froth. Those steeds aged quickly after not being patted down properly or being outright abused when pushed to extremes. He'd seen enough of them down on the plains, and didn't abide much by their owners. Some were just plain young riders, out to make a reputation for themselves without recognizing what they needed to learn. Cheap horses often make for an early death.
The tracker mounted up and noted with pride how well his saddle still fit, although the years had been rough on his body. A quick gallop showed how much his mount still yearned to stretch it's legs, and dash through the turns. He quickly caught up to a group of those buckboards and the trail narrowed enough there was no getting around them. He sighed, knowing there was nothing to do but bring his eager steed back to a canter as the shade ran in and out of the pines. Beyond that, he would eventually pass through the same small towns, with names like Devil's Thumb and Empire. But this day, there was no pack of outlaws to catch on the full gallop. Their time had passed. But the tracker remembered, and a thin smile creased his lips as he patted his trusty steed in pursuit of the few mysteries left to solve...
Return of the Tracker
The cobalt blue skies at 12,000 feet were just as brilliant as they had been so many years ago. The tracker bent down to examine the dust by the side of the trail, but found no traces of the outlaws that he'd once run with. No distinctive prints or odors in the thin air.That was many moons ago, and some had moved on to other mounts; maybe others even had families and SUV buckboards to carry them in. But the young steeds that once stood ready to romp over the Rocky Mountains at a moment's notice had vanished like the high winds whispering over the craggy peaks around him.
The tracker took a moment to reflect as the sun flitted in and out of the clouds that surrounded this high alpine trail. While his own steed stood ready to carry on the chase, many of the others had passed into hands that rode them hard, and put them away in a froth. Those steeds aged quickly after not being patted down properly or being outright abused when pushed to extremes. He'd seen enough of them down on the plains, and didn't abide much by their owners. Some were just plain young riders, out to make a reputation for themselves without recognizing what they needed to learn. Cheap horses often make for an early death.
The tracker mounted up and noted with pride how well his saddle still fit, although the years had been rough on his body. A quick gallop showed how much his mount still yearned to stretch it's legs, and dash through the turns. He quickly caught up to a group of those buckboards and the trail narrowed enough there was no getting around them. He sighed, knowing there was nothing to do but bring his eager steed back to a canter as the shade ran in and out of the pines. Beyond that, he would eventually pass through the same small towns, with names like Devil's Thumb and Empire. But this day, there was no pack of outlaws to catch on the full gallop. Their time had passed. But the tracker remembered, and a thin smile creased his lips as he patted his trusty steed in pursuit of the few mysteries left to solve...
Last edited by dkmura; 07-31-2017 at 05:52 AM.
07-30-2017, 09:11 AM
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Here's to resurrecting an old thread just for the sake of writing about something else other than fixing someone else's problems...
Return of the Tracker
The cobalt blue skies at 12,000 feet were just as brilliant as they had been so many years ago. The tracker bent down to examine the dust by the side of the trail, but found no traces of the outlaws that he'd once run with. No distinctive prints or odors in the thin air.That was many moons ago, and some had moved on to other mounts; maybe others even had families and SUV buckboards to carry them in. But the young steeds that once stood ready to romp over the Rocky Mountains at a moment's notice had vanished like the high winds whispering over the craggy peaks around him.
The tracker took a moment to reflect as the sun flitted in and out of the clouds that surrounded this high alpine trail. While his own steed stood ready to carry on the chase, many of the others had passed into hands that rode them hard, and put them away in a froth. Those steeds aged quickly after not being patted down properly or being outright abused when pushed too extremes. He'd seen enough of them down on the plains, and didn't abide much by their owners. Some were just plain young riders, out to make a reputation for themselves without recognizing what they needed to learn. Cheap horses often make for an early death.
The tracker mounted up and noted with pride how well his saddle still fit, although the years had been rough on his body. A quick gallop showed how much his mount still yearned to stretch it's legs, and dash through the turns. He quickly caught up to a group of those buckboards and the trail narrowed enough there was no getting around them. He sighed, knowing there was nothing to do but bring his eager steed back to a canter as the shade ran in and out of the pines. Beyond that, he would eventually pass through the same small town, with names like Devil's Thumb and Empire. But this day, there was no pack of outlaws to catch on the full gallop. Their time had passed. But the tracker remembered, and a thin smile creased his lips as he patted his trusty steed in pursuit of the few mysteries left to solve...
Return of the Tracker
The cobalt blue skies at 12,000 feet were just as brilliant as they had been so many years ago. The tracker bent down to examine the dust by the side of the trail, but found no traces of the outlaws that he'd once run with. No distinctive prints or odors in the thin air.That was many moons ago, and some had moved on to other mounts; maybe others even had families and SUV buckboards to carry them in. But the young steeds that once stood ready to romp over the Rocky Mountains at a moment's notice had vanished like the high winds whispering over the craggy peaks around him.
The tracker took a moment to reflect as the sun flitted in and out of the clouds that surrounded this high alpine trail. While his own steed stood ready to carry on the chase, many of the others had passed into hands that rode them hard, and put them away in a froth. Those steeds aged quickly after not being patted down properly or being outright abused when pushed too extremes. He'd seen enough of them down on the plains, and didn't abide much by their owners. Some were just plain young riders, out to make a reputation for themselves without recognizing what they needed to learn. Cheap horses often make for an early death.
The tracker mounted up and noted with pride how well his saddle still fit, although the years had been rough on his body. A quick gallop showed how much his mount still yearned to stretch it's legs, and dash through the turns. He quickly caught up to a group of those buckboards and the trail narrowed enough there was no getting around them. He sighed, knowing there was nothing to do but bring his eager steed back to a canter as the shade ran in and out of the pines. Beyond that, he would eventually pass through the same small town, with names like Devil's Thumb and Empire. But this day, there was no pack of outlaws to catch on the full gallop. Their time had passed. But the tracker remembered, and a thin smile creased his lips as he patted his trusty steed in pursuit of the few mysteries left to solve...
OK, I have but one question.... that stuff IS legal in CO, yes?
Hahahahahaha.... J/K, David. I didn't read this or the previous serial installments word for word - YET - but wow, I's gonna call you "Prose Man" from now on!
BTW, the metaphors aren't lost on this kid. Oh, and in your next "Southwest" installment, you can introduce me as that guy from way out West in the land of the Silicon named "Whoooo, Fat!" the cook. Heehaw...
Last edited by MicVelo; 07-30-2017 at 09:16 AM.
07-30-2017, 02:11 PM
#10
New Member
Here's to resurrecting an old thread just for the sake of writing about something else other than fixing someone else's problems...
Return of the Tracker
The cobalt blue skies at 12,000 feet were just as brilliant as they had been so many years ago. The tracker bent down to examine the dust by the side of the trail, but found no traces of the outlaws that he'd once run with. No distinctive prints or odors in the thin air.That was many moons ago, and some had moved on to other mounts; maybe others even had families and SUV buckboards to carry them in. But the young steeds that once stood ready to romp over the Rocky Mountains at a moment's notice had vanished like the high winds whispering over the craggy peaks around him.
The tracker took a moment to reflect as the sun flitted in and out of the clouds that surrounded this high alpine trail. While his own steed stood ready to carry on the chase, many of the others had passed into hands that rode them hard, and put them away in a froth. Those steeds aged quickly after not being patted down properly or being outright abused when pushed too extremes. He'd seen enough of them down on the plains, and didn't abide much by their owners. Some were just plain young riders, out to make a reputation for themselves without recognizing what they needed to learn. Cheap horses often make for an early death.
The tracker mounted up and noted with pride how well his saddle still fit, although the years had been rough on his body. A quick gallop showed how much his mount still yearned to stretch it's legs, and dash through the turns. He quickly caught up to a group of those buckboards and the trail narrowed enough there was no getting around them. He sighed, knowing there was nothing to do but bring his eager steed back to a canter as the shade ran in and out of the pines. Beyond that, he would eventually pass through the same small towns, with names like Devil's Thumb and Empire. But this day, there was no pack of outlaws to catch on the full gallop. Their time had passed. But the tracker remembered, and a thin smile creased his lips as he patted his trusty steed in pursuit of the few mysteries left to solve...
Return of the Tracker
The cobalt blue skies at 12,000 feet were just as brilliant as they had been so many years ago. The tracker bent down to examine the dust by the side of the trail, but found no traces of the outlaws that he'd once run with. No distinctive prints or odors in the thin air.That was many moons ago, and some had moved on to other mounts; maybe others even had families and SUV buckboards to carry them in. But the young steeds that once stood ready to romp over the Rocky Mountains at a moment's notice had vanished like the high winds whispering over the craggy peaks around him.
The tracker took a moment to reflect as the sun flitted in and out of the clouds that surrounded this high alpine trail. While his own steed stood ready to carry on the chase, many of the others had passed into hands that rode them hard, and put them away in a froth. Those steeds aged quickly after not being patted down properly or being outright abused when pushed too extremes. He'd seen enough of them down on the plains, and didn't abide much by their owners. Some were just plain young riders, out to make a reputation for themselves without recognizing what they needed to learn. Cheap horses often make for an early death.
The tracker mounted up and noted with pride how well his saddle still fit, although the years had been rough on his body. A quick gallop showed how much his mount still yearned to stretch it's legs, and dash through the turns. He quickly caught up to a group of those buckboards and the trail narrowed enough there was no getting around them. He sighed, knowing there was nothing to do but bring his eager steed back to a canter as the shade ran in and out of the pines. Beyond that, he would eventually pass through the same small towns, with names like Devil's Thumb and Empire. But this day, there was no pack of outlaws to catch on the full gallop. Their time had passed. But the tracker remembered, and a thin smile creased his lips as he patted his trusty steed in pursuit of the few mysteries left to solve...
GIDDY UP
07-31-2017, 05:51 AM
#11
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OK, so this isn't Creative Writing 202. Still, it's fun to go back through the archives and remember when we could get 6-12 new Z33s in the Colorado mountains for some summer meets. The Tracker will return for another episode in the future...
07-31-2017, 06:40 AM
#12
New Member
Hey, it's pretty darn good...
Makes my 101 look semi illiterate.
I'll be watching for episode 4
Makes my 101 look semi illiterate.
I'll be watching for episode 4
07-31-2017, 06:51 AM
#13
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Very eloquent, David!
01-07-2018, 12:45 PM
#14
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Lone Mare
The tracker had spent several weeks bundled up against the cold winter weather, but this day dawned a bit warmer. As he turned his steed towards the local stable, he caught a glimpse of something all too rare these days. In the far corner [of the Costco gas station] a silvery shape caught his weathered eye. As he cantered over, the shape was unmistakable: the muscular flanks and shapely hindquarters told him this mare was of a noble breed. But there was also something troubling as he drew closer.
The mare looked tired, with a coat that showed it had lived a hard life ['03-04 Enthusiast model in chrome silver]. Looking more closely, the left flank showed heavy scarring [bondo on the LR fender with lots of hail damage around it] with no sign of proper time to heal. The cowboy who dismounted was so young, the tracker was surprised he could ride at all [the auto tranny was no surprise]. As the cowboy turned to get his feed ready, it was almost shocking to see that he was filling his feed bucket with nothing more than straw of the lowest quality [85 octane unleaded].
The tracker usually kept to himself, but the sight of this had him lean down and tell the cowboy he was making a grave mistake [like spend a few freaking cents more for 91 premium] in nurturing his mount. Unblinkingly, the young rider looked at him, smiled and kept on feeding his steed the inferior feed. Maybe he just didn't understand; he clearly wasn't from around these parts. But it wasn't the first time the tracker had come across riders who had no idea how to care for their rides. While it saddened the tracker, there was little he could do about it. He knew how much he depended on his steed to canter across the prairie, and come to a full gallop when speed was required. But the herd was thinning and even the best could be had for but a few pieces of silver. Winter was here, in more than one way.
The mare looked tired, with a coat that showed it had lived a hard life ['03-04 Enthusiast model in chrome silver]. Looking more closely, the left flank showed heavy scarring [bondo on the LR fender with lots of hail damage around it] with no sign of proper time to heal. The cowboy who dismounted was so young, the tracker was surprised he could ride at all [the auto tranny was no surprise]. As the cowboy turned to get his feed ready, it was almost shocking to see that he was filling his feed bucket with nothing more than straw of the lowest quality [85 octane unleaded].
The tracker usually kept to himself, but the sight of this had him lean down and tell the cowboy he was making a grave mistake [like spend a few freaking cents more for 91 premium] in nurturing his mount. Unblinkingly, the young rider looked at him, smiled and kept on feeding his steed the inferior feed. Maybe he just didn't understand; he clearly wasn't from around these parts. But it wasn't the first time the tracker had come across riders who had no idea how to care for their rides. While it saddened the tracker, there was little he could do about it. He knew how much he depended on his steed to canter across the prairie, and come to a full gallop when speed was required. But the herd was thinning and even the best could be had for but a few pieces of silver. Winter was here, in more than one way.
01-07-2018, 01:16 PM
#15
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Ahhhh, so you DID receive the Scotch I sent over!
I could tell because this should have been posted over in “Declining Expectations”. Laff........ ����
I could tell because this should have been posted over in “Declining Expectations”. Laff........ ����
Last edited by MicVelo; 01-07-2018 at 06:20 PM.
01-07-2018, 03:33 PM
#16
New Member
"the tracker was surprised he could ride at all [the auto tranny was no surprise]."
Going to get called out on this ^ might as well be me.
So if you don't have a stick you probably can't drive one - let alone drive it properly?
There's a stigma with the AT, I know it every time I get in mine or when someone says "it's not a stick, OH" I should change my response from ya to - I can drive a stick real good though.
Why did I buy it ? cus the car's a peach and after looking at some beat up standards I decided in some cars an AT is not likely as abused as a stick. Also after some research I decided the Z AT is bullet proof and shouldn't be a detriment for city driving.
Rest assured I can drive a stick
Going to get called out on this ^ might as well be me.
So if you don't have a stick you probably can't drive one - let alone drive it properly?
There's a stigma with the AT, I know it every time I get in mine or when someone says "it's not a stick, OH" I should change my response from ya to - I can drive a stick real good though.
Why did I buy it ? cus the car's a peach and after looking at some beat up standards I decided in some cars an AT is not likely as abused as a stick. Also after some research I decided the Z AT is bullet proof and shouldn't be a detriment for city driving.
Rest assured I can drive a stick
01-07-2018, 03:49 PM
#17
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"the tracker was surprised he could ride at all [the auto tranny was no surprise]."
Going to get called out on this ^ might as well be me.
So if you don't have a stick you probably can't drive one - let alone drive it properly?
There's a stigma with the AT, I know it every time I get in mine or when someone says "it's not a stick, OH" I should change my response from ya to - I can drive a stick real good though.
Why did I buy it ? cus the car's a peach and after looking at some beat up standards I decided in some cars an AT is not likely as abused as a stick. Also after some research I decided the Z AT is bullet proof and shouldn't be a detriment for city driving.
Rest assured I can drive a stick
Going to get called out on this ^ might as well be me.
So if you don't have a stick you probably can't drive one - let alone drive it properly?
There's a stigma with the AT, I know it every time I get in mine or when someone says "it's not a stick, OH" I should change my response from ya to - I can drive a stick real good though.
Why did I buy it ? cus the car's a peach and after looking at some beat up standards I decided in some cars an AT is not likely as abused as a stick. Also after some research I decided the Z AT is bullet proof and shouldn't be a detriment for city driving.
Rest assured I can drive a stick
Honestly, can't even imagine my SL with a manual..... the momentary pause between gears would kill boost delivery. Hahahahahaha.
Segue.... BTW, Mike, saw this at the Silicon Valley Auto Show and thought of you...
We're going through Muscle Car Hall and wife said, "I like that car." pointing to the above.
And then there was this one that, while I didn't like all the goopy body mods, was a car after my own heart.
01-07-2018, 07:01 PM
#18
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Mic is right, I meant no disrespect with that reference. Many young drivers cannot drive a stick, so it was no surprise to see an auto in that silver Z.
BTW- that scotch was really smooooth...
BTW- that scotch was really smooooth...
Last edited by dkmura; 01-07-2018 at 07:02 PM.
01-07-2018, 07:23 PM
#19
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Uhhh, dontchu mean a horsie with an Equine-o-matic and padd... er, saddle shifters?
Last edited by MicVelo; 01-07-2018 at 07:25 PM.
01-08-2018, 07:51 AM
#20
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