By Nick Perilli
A bat is listening this whole time.
Commander Archambault had space madness by the time the Intermission exited the mesosphere, but he kept that to himself and carried on. The solar arrays could not deliver themselves to the station. Yet. They could not deliver themselves to the station yet. He and his crew of four or five others—he couldn’t quite recall in this moment—were still needed for another year or so.
He did a headcount of everyone in their seats: pilot Tonelli, mission specialists Acaba, Philips, and Phillips. The space madness wasn’t so bad, Archambault thought. He turned back to pilot Tonelli and stared. The man looked like a half-deflated balloon in his orange suit but didn’t they all?
“We’re drifting, Archie,” Tonelli said, feeling eyes on the back of his neck. “On track for rendezvous with ISS in twenty minutes.”
The commander nodded. “Philips. Please give me a full report on the lift off incident with flying mammal chiroptera.”
Philips groaned. “That bat? No sign.” She had hair as blonde as genetically modified wheat. Set against the orbiter’s shadows, it almost glowed.
Everyone laughed except for Philips and Archie.
“This is serious,” Archie said in a controlled voice. “Capcom.” He looked ahead.
“We copy,” a soft voice folded out over the coms.
“You have an update on that bat?”
Capcom repeated the same report they made two hours earlier and every two since making the mistake of telling Archambault about the incident. In Capcom’s defense, the space madness only presented itself after Archambault knew of the bat. The report: they spotted a bat resting on the external tank of the Intermission during the countdown to launch. With pointed fingers and nudges to shoulders, everyone in the control room took notice. Capcom zoomed in with one of the monitoring cameras. The bat hugged the rough exterior, its brown tuft billowing in the humid Florida gusts.
“Wake up call,” someone shouted in the control room, laughing.
The shuttle rumbled in its upright position, rattling the bat—but the creature didn’t fly off. It adjusted itself and held the tank tighter in some determination. Capcom’s grins flattened as digital numbers descended on the main screen. The bat didn’t move and it wouldn’t. Five seconds later, combustion and furious smoke consumed the creature, obstructing it from view.
“Dumb thing,” Capcom said to the room with hard looks. “Never seen that happen before.”
“Wounded thing,” Capcom said to Archie now with a hard voice. “Never had a chance.”
Archambault took his seat. “It was hurt?” He slouched, scratching his gray eyebrow.
“We brought an expert in here to review the tapes,” Capcom said. Their voice fuzzed for a beat. “She said the bat’s wing was busted. Dead either way, Archie. Bad luck, son.”
“Dead, Commander,” Phillips said, perturbed. “See? Burnt, evaporated, or suffocated. Can we continue?” She started pressing buttons on the wall—important ones to prepare the ship for docking at the International Space Station.
Ah, thought Archambault. This Phillips is an ass. That’s how he told the two apart before his madness. He glared at Phillips. She returned the look.
“Go fuck yourself, commander,” Philips—the nice one—said.
Archambault turned his head to her, sitting at her station. Now he didn’t know what to think.
The crew could have seen a comet, if they wanted. Not Haley’s but one due to pass the earth by in a few more days. A grand one—monumental, even—but nothing they hadn’t all seen before. Capcom didn’t even mention it during the briefing. In the time allotted for sightseeing information, everyone discussed the staleness of the day’s bear claws.
Acaba reminded them just before they were scheduled to dock. He was young and full of vigor; it dripped from his tanned ears, thought Archambault, in that milky sort of way.
“Comet D-11 coming up on the right,” Acaba said. His voice brimmed with energy. “What do we want to name it?”
Naming them had been a tradition on these trips since they started.
No one answered; Tonelli coughed. The comet showed up as a spot of shadow still, but soon the sun would hit the thing and they’d have a view of ice and expanse hurdling forward through the cosmos.
“Acaba Four it is,” Acaba said. He waited for suggestions, but none came. Acaba One was his car, Acaba Two and Three? Also comets. “Marnie says I should be more creative with these names, but how jazzed would my dad be if he could see the Acaba name on three comets?” He grinned and marked the comet down in his log: Acaba IV.
Half listening, Archambault sat back in his chair. “Pretty jazzed, Acaba.” He then thought for a second. “There are innumerable comets out there, though. He’d be proud until that crossed his mind. I’m afraid it’s like naming a star, or a planet, or a person.”
“A person,” Philips said. Phillips kept on with her duties.
“There are innumerable people, too,” Archambault said. He tapped his fingers against the side of his chair, clinking his nails against the metal.
Acaba checked the screen on the wrist of his suit. “There are nine point seven billion people.”
Archie licked his lips. They never used to be this dry. “And there were seven point one a couple decades ago.” He scrubbed his beard with the back of his hand. “Don’t you think we should be farther along than just this?” He knocked on the chair. “We should be living out here by now.”
Capcom had tried that, with catastrophic results.
Acaba left the discussion there. He finished entering the comet into his log. Size, dimensions, makeup.
A wallowing, marbled voice came on over the speaker: ISS Flight Engineer Wakata.
“Intermission,” she said. “Over here. Docking porthole.”
Tonelli pointed out the orbiter’s front glass. The ISS looked like a crudely aluminum foiled TV antenna from ancient days, held together by tape and the stray screw. A wide cove between two busted arrays—the Intermission’s destination—caught the sunlight, taking the crew’s attention just before they would have looked there anyway. They eyed movement through the clear docking doors. Wakata floated there, waving at them all. She wore a t-shirt and shorts. Her raven hair spread out above her in the air sans gravity.
“Get away from there, Wakata,” Tonelli said. “We have to dock.” He turned a knob. It clicked, the shuttle hissed. It rumbled. Tonelli put Wakata onscreen.
“We have a visitor.” A tremble ran through her voice now. More of an excited than a frightened one.
Archambault stood. His space madness must have been clouding his ears. He told Wakata to say it again and she did. Exactly as before.
“Are you mad?” Phillips asked. “You’ve been up here too long.”
Archambault made sure she wasn’t speaking to him then, nodded like he wondered the same thing. Really, he wondered who it could be out here in the dark.
“I’m not, Philips,” Wakata urged. “We have a bona fide visitor.” Wakata grinned, her bottom teeth a little crooked and gray. “She’s taking a lap around the station. I told him you were expected—thought it best to hold off on allowing entry until everyone showed up. Wait a minute, and you’ll see. Machimasu.” She said it again. “Machimasu.”
Wakata had no intentions on moving, so they waited, drifting back and forth under Tonelli’s control. Archambault left Capcom out of it. No reason to get Florida all excited over nothing, he thought. He knew how they would get.
“We need to tell Capcom,” he said, just before dry heaving once. He clutched the arm of his chair. “First contact is a big deal.”
“This isn’t first contact, Acaba,” Philips said. “Don’t be daft.” She oscillated in her swivel chair. Phillips did the same, on the other side of Archie.
“First contact occurred in—,” Archambault said. Then he stopped. Surely it occurred at some time or point in the past couple decades. It seemed like it should have by now.
Someone else would answer.
“When was that again?” Tonelli asked.
No one knew. The sounds of the shuttle hung in the recirculating air.
“Capcom,” Archie said after switching outgoing channels with a red button. “When did we make first contact again?”
Capcom shuffled papers—the records—over the speaker. “Hold on,” they said. “We’re sure it was recently.” Men and women spoke in the background, throwing out dates in an unsure tone. Nineteen, two thousand, and so on. “It had to have happened by now.”
Wakata cut in. “I bet they forgot.” She kept an eye out for the visitor. Still just space between her and the crew. “To even do it, maybe.”
Capcom didn’t step in right away. They breathed into their microphone
“We’ve been pretty busy with the planet and the autonomous solar arrays,” Capcom said. Both did require a lot of attention—the latter, especially. “I don’t think something like that would have slipped our minds, though. We’ve got backlogs of signals—” They trailed off before telling Archie that they’d get back to them on the matter in a couple minutes.
The crew of the Intermission waited a couple minutes, then ten. Around the curve of the ISS, the shape of a person came into view. It jogged toward them like space was a suburban morning, the cosmos a pristine sidewalk.
Tonelli said, “Not what I expected.”
“I know,” Wakata laughed. “I was as surprised as you.”
“I’m not too surprised,” Tonelli made sure to add. He wasn’t one to be surprised. He said that to Archie back in academy. That was a fond memory.
They could see the visitor’s clothing, now, and it looked like their own but much older—in an obsidian color rather than a burnt orange. A spacesuit, a gleaming helmet hiding its face, and a tank of oxygen on its back. Near skintight, the suit appeared to have vacuum sealed itself around a body. A skeletal, mishapen body.
“No one could breathe like that,” Philips said.
“It doesn’t need to breathe,” Phillips said. “Obviously.”
They talked to each other, thought Archambault. That means there are two Phillipses.
Acaba moved up to Tonelli’s station to get a better look. He grinned with his dumb, wide mouth.
“If it has an unintelligible name,” he said, “I would like to work Acaba into what we call it. Okay? I’ll give up all my rights to the comets for this.”
Someone in the ship said “fine.” It doesn’t matter who. Acaba could keep the comets, too.
Acaba snapped his fingers in excitement. He smiled. Full-on. He had youthful teeth. “Maybe,” he said, “we can even name its race ‘the Acabans.” He muttered a few more alien permutations of his last name.
The visitor approached the ISS’s docking door. It stopped there and looked at its wrist as if it wore a stopwatch, which by all appearances it did not. It said something to Wakata, who had muted herself to the Intermission. They spoke like friends, judging by their body language.
The Intermission crew looked on with sparkling eyes. The visitor turned to them and waved. Acaba waved back.
“She wants to know you,” Wakata said, back on coms.
“You muted your receiver,” Tonelli said.
Wakata assured him she made a mistake. If she was playing dumb, she sold it well with her delivery. Tonelli couldn’t say for sure. He set the Intermission to stop drifting and tether itself to the ISS.
“What were you saying?” Tonelli asked.
Wakata dismissed it. “Just exchanging pleasantries back and forth.”
“There’s no sound in space, Wakata. You’re on its communication frequency?”
Capcom cut in. “You can’t do that, Wakata.”
Archambault kept his eyes on the visitor. Celestial sunlight hit her turn of the twentieth century helmet. It formed a narrow tower in the middle of its oval-shaped, reflective visor. To Archambault, it looked like she had one giant astronaut eye to stare at him with. And stare at him it did—right at him and him alone. The reflection became a fractal spire as the visitor pushed away from the ISS and floated toward the Intermission. Light peeled from the spire and connected violet nebulas to glistening stars. The image reminded Archambault of his first flight out here—when he was young and Acaban in age.
“Capcom,” Archie said in a long breath. “May I ask, when was first contact?”
Capcom stammered, then said, “Before ninety one, we think. We’ll get back to you.” They didn’t end transmission. “We’ve been really busy with the planet, Archie, and I wish you wouldn’t take that tone with us. We can’t keep track of every minor detail. The records aren’t what they used to be.” A pause. “We’ll get back to you.”
Archambault went to find his helmet in the helmet pile on the floor by the shuttle door. He used to make sure each one was hung by the oxygen with care, but that practice fell into disuse.
Phillips had a grim look on her face. “You’re going to meet it?” she asked.
“That isn’t the best idea, Archie,” Tonelli said, looking back at the commander and eying him up and down. “Let Philips go.”
“I’m not interested,” Philips said. She crossed her arms.
Archambault lifted his helmet from the pile and held it under his right arm like he would for a photo-op. “You think I’m unfit for a walk, Tonelli?”
Tonneli swiveled around in his chair; it squeaked. “I know that look, Archie. We all had that look once.”
“I didn’t,” Archie said. “You know I never did.” He took some oxygen cylinders—each about the size of a small vial—from the shelf and slipped them into the O2chamber on his suit. “I’ve been resilient.” He made sure not to let the space madness lilt his words too much.
“It’s happening, Archie,” Tonelli said with a short smile. “Nothing wrong with that. It has to get to you at some point.”
It was like chicken pox, they said at orientation. This madness. An unwrinkled, soft-skinned Archambault and Tonelli listened.
Acaba stared at the commander, surprised. “You never—?”
The visitor leached against the front window, peering inside.
Commander Archambault stood beside the shuttle door. He nodded to Tonelli. “Lower gravity and open the door, Phillipses.”
Philips lowered gravity—it was just a matter of turning a dial beside the door—and everyone lifted off their booted feet. Phillips didn’t open the door.
“Did you just say ‘Phillipses?’” she asked.
Archambault tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. He reached out and touched Philips on the arm. She existed. Then, he nudged Phillips on the shoulder. She also existed. He counted the people in the room.
“Yes,” he said with a touch of hesitation. “Because there are two of you. Don’t try to trip me up on this, Phillips. I am completely capable of performing my duties as Commander.”
Phillips grinned. She let him through the door—the first one. Archambault had forgotten about the next door. The one after this de- and re-pressurizing chamber. He told Phillips to open that one, too.
“How many people do you count in the room?” Tonelli asked. Everyone floated around Archambault, just an arm’s length away.
“The correct amount,” Archie said. No one bought that—he had a fifty percent chance to get it right if he had guessed. What a mistake. He pushed himself farther into the pressurizing chamber.
Acaba said it first. “He’s space mad.” Everyone agreed after.
“Self-diagnosed,” Archambault said, quick to interrupt them. “I was well aware of it the entire time.” He floated farther back; he reached the second door. It was as E-Z open as the gravity was to E-Z lower. He didn’t need Phillips.
The visitor started pounding on the front window. Wakata came on over the coms.
“She wants to know Archambault. Alone.”
Archambault put on his helmet and latched it to his suit.
“Tonelli,” he said in a hefty voice, staring his pilot down. “Tonelli,” he said again.
Tonelli agreed to let him go. He pretended to wash his hands of the matter in the weightless air.
A low hum, like a distant food processor, filled the room. Inside his helmet, Archie heard only his breath and heartbeat.
“Capcom,” he said, holding two fingers to his wrist.
Tonelli hit a button and air rushed out of the thin hall. The light above Archie went red, then green. Phillips rotated a handle, and the second door swung outward into the black. Space cradled Archie and removed him from the Intermission.
“First contact occurred before nineteen twenty-nine,” they said. “We’re rummaging.”
[ ] [ ]
The visitor met the commander equidistant between the Intermission and the ISS. It waited there for him, as if she stood on a cosmic dance floor ushering her partner to join the waltz. Archambault had tiny thrusters in his suit for gentle navigation. Phillips had neglected to refill the one in the suit’s left shoulder, so he sputtered and spun into the arms of the visitor, who positioned him upright.
She let out a pleasant, human laugh. “Are you okay, Archie?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have space madness, you see. Self-diagnosed.”
“I understand.” Up close, her clothes looked even more ancient—a spacesuit, but a wildly anachronistic one. It was patchy and frayed at numerous points. She caught Archambault looking her over. “How do I look?”
Like a creature.
“Human, just about,” Archie said.
“Well, I try. Would you like to see my face?”
“You can not let her into the Intermission,” Capcom said.
“I can’t,” Archie began.
“I heard,” the visitor said. “I’m exceptional with radio frequencies, Archie. Even more so than I ever was before.” She paused, then reached up with her lithe hands, placing them on her helmet. “No, this is not an attempt to get inside your ships.” She unlatched the helmet. “Wakata would have already let me in if that was my goal.”
“That’s true,” Wakata said. “I won’t deny that.”
The visitor pulled her helmet off next. That she could survive in the vacuum unscathed, with an unexploded head was clear to the commander right away. Her face was human, just about. Her hair and skin were absolutely human, the hair black and cut short; the skin a shade darker than cocoa. Her facial construction, too. Again, just about human. The ears were larger and pointed at the top when they should have curved. Her nose bent up and scrunched close to her face—not quite like a pig nose, but close. She almost looked too silly to be taken seriously because of this nose.
“My name is,” she said, not moving her lips. “I want to be—,” she smiled, revealing sharp white teeth. “Neal. With an ‘A.’”
“Capcom,” the commander said. He swallowed some of his oxygen hard. “Bat update?”
“We can only do one thing at a time, Archie. Do you want the first contact information or another update on the dearly departed bat?”
The visitor put a gloved hand to her chin. Her arms reached a hair or twelve too long. “I can give you both, Archambault.” She addressed Capcom. “Eighteen ninety-nine. Tesla. Colorado Springs. Do you have it there?”
Capcom did. “There it is,” they said. “We all appreciate the help down here, Neal.” Capcom let out a gasp and stammered their findings into Archie’s ears. “Tesla marked some unknown signals in eighteen ninety-nine. Nineteen fifty-three. The seventies. We shot some pictures.”
“Of what?” Acaba asked. The Intermission crew listened, huddled around the captain’s chair.
“Space junk,” Capcom said. “What looked like a thermal sheet, drifting in orbit above the polar caps. Not very exciting, I’ll say. It’s no wonder first contact got lost in thepile.”
Neal’s clothes had a sheen to them—a thermal sheet sheen.
“I was space junk reaching out for centuries to you with no response, Capital Command. I had things to say.”
Bat and alien space junk. An unprecedented combination.
Capcom huffed. “We won’t be held responsible for your failure to communicate adequately with us.”
“That’s fine,” Neal said. “I hold you responsible for a failure to listen.”
“We won’t be held responsible for that either. We’ve been—”
“Busy with the planet,” Archambault said. “They have, and it’s been a large commitment.” The discussion between Neal and Capcom heated. The commander defused it before it became an argument and took pride in this accomplishment.
Space madness? None here.
Neal sat in space—cross-legged—but in a way that kept her head level with Archie’s. Archie reached out and swiped under her with his hand. He hit nothing, as he expected. There was no reason to do that, but he did it again anyway. Neal crossed her arms, then turned upside down. Archambault tickled the trigger of his right shoulder thruster so that he could match her position. He kept spinning, though, like a frenzied mechanical clock.
“A bat listened,” he said. He understood.
“Yes, Archambault,” Neal grinned. “A bat did listen.” She was content not to stop him from spinning in place. She watched with some amusement on her bat-face.
Her dream, or as close to a dream a free-tailed bat could have, was to reach out into the sky. After birth, she took residence in the museum at Cape Canaveral, where she hung from the rafters beside creaking service and command modules rusted with age. Half-melted wax figures of the Greats in warped uniforms kept her company.
“I heard it from the start,” Neal said. “The satellite.” She hugged herself—her suit.
“Could all bats hear it?” Tonelli asked. He was coming around to this line of thinking, Archambault thought.
Neal nodded her head. “I’m certain.”
Capcom rustled some papers and said, “More often than sometimes, bats die in launches. They like huddling in the shadows of the shuttle. Silly things.”
“They must have heard,” Phillips said, with more excitement than she’d ever shown.
“There isn’t enough evidence to support that,” Tonelli said. Capcom agreed. Tonelli was not coming around to this line of thinking.
Neal met the ancient satellite as a deceased, frozen bat in the thermosphere. She’d chewed her way into and up through the Intermission’s circuitry before the fuel tank jettisoned from the shuttle and rode the rocket for two minutes before losing her life.
“That was tenacious,” Capcom said. “Too tenacious for a small winged mammal.”
“Yet I did it,” Neal said.
When the Intermission shed the rest of its necessary launch components, it shed Neal’s corpse as well. She floated into the cradling arms of ancient, aware junk, hidden among remnants of the Discovery. It wrapped itself around and into Neal’s body, covering her bat organs. It had received enough signals—Wi-Fi, space chatter, Jimmy Carter’s secret midnight messages—to approximate the human body.
“But,” Neal said, in a blithe way, “I won’t be going to your planet. It’s not in my blood.”
She then noted that she was unsure if she had blood. So, she cut her cheek with her fingers, still staring at the spinning Archambault. Her blood—black and material—unfurled like ribbons in the vacuum.
Archambault recalled protocol in case of first contact: have them state their business as soon as possible. “What do you want, Neal?” he said. He started to blame Nikola Tesla for every ill in his life. How different would life be if he had followed up on his discovery? Fuck you, Nikola Tesla, he thought. Then, he figured Nikola Tesla got enough of that from Edison and didn’t need any more people piling on.
Neal held out her hand to Archie. “You. Astronauts.”
A comet hurled by. This one snuck up on everyone. Acaba moved—tilted—to mark it down in his log, then stopped and tilted his head back to the group around the captain’s chair.
“For what?” she continued. “An expedition.” Her cut healed. The skin snipped the ribbons off at the base and they floated off toward the moon, which had been there the whole time. No one bothered with the moon anymore. At parties, Capcom liked to say they’d gotten all the cheese.
Capcom—furious at Neal’s suggestion—asked her where the hell she thought she was taking their crew.
“Further and farther,” Neal said. “I have a crew of two. I need more.”
Wakata had put on her suit for a walkabout. She floated at the ISS’s docking door, her hand on the lever to open it.
“Ready,” she said.
Capcom crackled in, then crackled out. “Don’t—.” Neal chattered and her ears twitched. She interfered.
“Astronauts,” Tonelli said, sitting back. “And a means of travel.”
This was true and Neal didn’t hide it. She laid it bare.
“What about this planet?” Acaba asked. “Didn’t you have things to say to them?”
“Capcom figured it out in their own way,” Neal said. “They would have no use or patience for what this simple Acaban has to offer now.”
Acaba asked Philips if she heard Neal call herself an Acaban. He cooed about it.
Archambault took Neal’s hand at some point; she stabilized him. No one on the Intermission saw when he made the decision. Neal pulled him close. Together they moved towards the shuttle. Wakata opened the airlock and gave herself over to the whim of the vacuum.
Heaving from the captain’s chair, Tonelli shouted. “This right here is the result of our idiocy,” he said. “We do not let someone with space madness command.” He locked the ship. He grabbed a butter knife from the cutlery drawer on the wall. There was a space ready handgun onboard somewhere. There was supposed to be, at least.
“We’re all space mad,” Phillips said. “Even the bats are space mad.”
“I’m not,” Tonelli said. “Between Archie and me, I’m the level-headed one. Even in the academy, I was the one focused on the terrestrial.” Lips pulled tight against his upper teeth, he assumed command—he didn’t say so yet, but the words stood in the queue. “Capcom isn’t either, and it’s real shitty of Neal to just cut them from the discussion. She’s self-serving.”
“Like any good human,” Neal said, “I am a little bit of that.”
All but Tonelli sought to go further and farther.
A clumsy scuffle broke out on the Intermission. Everyone floating and pushing off instruments with their feet as if they were swimming pool walls. One of the Phillipses would engage gravity, and then disengage it again. Tonelli cut into Acaba’s suit with the butter knife—right across his chest—which was the most critical damage inflicted in the bout. Grunts and heavy breaths carried over the com signals.
Wakata, Archambault, and Neal arrived at the Intermission’s door. They stood at the window, waiting until the scuffle concluded and Tonelli had been shoved into the hall between the Intermission’s doors with a helmet and plenty of thruster fuel and oxygen.
“It was three on one,” Archambault said. “Don’t feel bad, Tonelli.”
It was two on one, but Tonelli felt better thinking it was three. He convinced himself it was three. Tonelli leaned against the wall; he knocked the back of his head against it a few times, and the metal rang out. He hadn’t put his helmet on yet.
“Would you open it?” he asked, staring down Archambault. “If I refused to put it on.”
“I wouldn’t,” Archie said, getting up close to the port hole so that it was only his face visible to Tonelli through the glass.
“I might,” Neal said. Archambault moved to let her peer inside. “I’m sorry, Tonelli, but the satellite has been patient for so long. We desire a little impatience—a little agency—now.”
Acaba said, “I could just go in there and force it on him.”
“He cut you with a butter knife,” Phillips said. She turned a knob and the hall hissed; it eked out air. “This is easier.”
Archambault watched Tonelli. His breaths grew heavier.
“You have earth madness,” Archie said as if it were some epiphany. “You and Capcom.”
“That’s default madness.” Tonelli said, gritting his teeth. A bead of sweat fell from his nose. “That’s normal. That’s why we’re here.”
He put on his helmet—six faces watching, four or five sure that he would—when the air thinned and his vision tunneled.
The Intermission left the solar arrays.
“Commander Tonelli,” Capcom fuzzed in.
This was an hour after everyone waved him and the planet goodbye and puttered off in the Intermission. Neal said something about interstellar travel plans that got everyone going. Acaba put on some music.
Tonelli shut his eyes. He curled into a tight ball.
“We’ve all voted,” Capcom said. “Ninety percent of us would have gone with them.”
Tonelli breathed out and unfurled. He navigated to a solar array, latching onto one when he reached it. The whole of the blue planet reflected on its surface. Firing both of his elbow thrusters, he started towards the ISS.
“Copy that, Capital Command,” he said. He soaked in the quiet. “Continuing mission.”
Bio: Nick Perilli is a writer and library person living in Philadelphia with loved ones who have yet to watch Gremlins 2 with him. Work of his can be found in Pigeonholes Magazine, Breadcrumbs Magazine, in Short Edition robots everywhere, and elsewhere. He tweets @nicoloperilli and spared no expense on his cheap website nickperilli.com.
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