TOMBSTONES Chapter Nine

 

I know what 31 year old John Harris Behan (above) was thinking that December of 1880, while listening to Wyatt Earp, the ex-under-sheriff for Tombstone, Pima County, Arizona. Johnny Behan, the current under sheriff for Tombstone, was thinking about Johnny Behan, because that was always what Johnny Behan was always thinking about. Wyatt had resigned as under-sheriff to protest the rigged November 1880 election for Pima County Sheriff, in which his friend and fellow Republican, Bob Paul, had come 46 votes short to Democrat Charles Shibell. But Wyatt's act of principle had allowed Shibell to appoint Johnny Behan to replace Wyatt.

Now, both Johnny and Wyatt wanted the lucrative position of sheriff of the new Cochise County, set to come into existence in early 1881. So that December night, Wyatt offered to withdraw from the race. In exchange, Johnny would appoint Wyatt as his under-sheriff for the town of Tombstone (above), the job Wyatt had just given up. Johnny seemed agreeable, as he always did, and Wyatt left the meeting convinced they had a deal. But with Johnny (below, left), nothing was ever simple.

Johnny Behan's entire career was the monitarization of his sex life. When petite Victoria Behan (above, right)  filed for divorce in 1875,  she cited her husband's addiction to "houses of ill fame and prostitution" mentioning one prostitute in particular, "...Sada Mansfield...." But, as Wikapedia notes, Johnny's numerous liaisons included "...the wives of friends and business partners." It raises the question of what kind of a man "counts coup" on his "friends". In October, 1879, the now single Behan opened a saloon in the central Arizona boom town of Tip Top. There were four other taverns in the town of 500, and Johnny's primary draw for customers was the "Courtesan" services offered by 19 year old Sada Mansfield.

Sada (above) or "Sadie" or "Sarah" invented so many stories about herself, it is difficult to pick the ones most likely to be accurate.  She probably ran away from her orthodox Jewish home at the age of 13, fleeing San Francisco in the company of well known madam, Hattie Wells. They arrived together in Prescott, Arizona sometime in 1874, where the young girl went to work in Well's Granite Street brothel. Being a prostitute gave her independence, which she exercised in 1879 by moving to Tip Top with Johnny Behan. By the time she was 20 years old she had borrowed the name of "Josphene Marcus" from an actress in a traveling theatrical troupe. Sadie admitted years later, "My blood demanded excitement, variety and change."

Johnny (above) and Josephine moved to Tombstone in September of 1880. Having served 2 terms as a Republican state legislator for Mohave County, Behan now took a job as bar manager in the Grand Hotel, a hang out for the 'cow boys', who were solidly Democrats. Sadie's talents cemented Johnny's friendships "across the aisle". At the same time he cemented his Republican ties by investing his earnings from Tip Top in Tombstone's Dexter Livery Stable, owned by John Dunbar, whose family had close ties to the infamous Republican Presidential hopeful , Senator James Blain, "The Continental Liar from the state of Maine".  All of which made Johnny seem the obvious choice as Sheriff of the new Cochise County. Wyatt knew he needed a little publicity if he was going to secure the job as under-sheriff for Tombstone. The opportunity for that good press appeared on Tuesday, 15 March, 1881, when the 6:00pm northbound Tombstone to Benson stage coach was held up.

By about 7:30pm, the coach, carrying 7 passengers, a driver and a guard and a strongbox containing 6 bars of silver bullion worth $26,000 - over half a million dollars today - all pulled by 6 horses, was about a mile passed the cut off to the San Pedro River mill town of Contention City, and just 200 yards short of a hill top station run by the widow Georgina Drew and her 5 children - the half way mark between Tombstone and Benson. As the driver slowed to climb the rise a man appeared in the road, wearing a mask and wig. He waved a shotgun and ordered the coach to "Hold!".

The driver, Eli "Bud" Pierpott, seemed to refuse. Another of the would-be robbers fired from the brush beside the road, hitting Bud in the heart. He fell forward, falling onto the traces between "the wheelers" - the horses closest to the 48 inch wheels - and then under the coach. The gunshot, the loss of pressure on the reins, and the jerk on the load they were pulling, all panicked the horses, who bolted up the hill. The shot gun guard, sheriff candidate Bob Paul, let loose both barrels from his weapon. About 20 shots were fired from the brush as the stage lurched past, one of them hitting the back of a miner riding in the "dickie seat" above and behind the driver, a man named Peter Roerig.

The gunshots, and then the stage racing through the station, alerted Mrs. Drew and her children, who were waiting to change the horse team and sell the travelers a little food and drink for a dollar apiece. They found Bud Pierpott lying dead in the road, and saw 4 men riding off from the scene. A mile north (above)  Bob Paul managed to recapture the 6 reins, and pulled the winded horses to a stop before they capsized the coach. Pete Roerig was in a bad way, but none of the other passengers were injured. So Paul drove the horses and coach hard the remaining 14 miles to Benson, the Southern Pacific railroad and the telegraph. He got there not long before 10:00pm that night.

After seeing to poor Pete Roerig - he would die shortly after reaching Benson - and locking the silver bullion safely in the railroad companies' safe, Bob Paul (above) telegraphed the Deputy Federal Marshall in Tombstone, Virgil Earp. 

By midnight, perhaps the most impressive posse ever formed in the old west - Virgil, Wyatt and Morgan Earp, gambler John "Doc" Hoiday, Wells Fargo agent Marshall Williams and Wyatt's friend and fellow lawman from Dodge City Kansas, Bat Masterson - were all provisioned, mounted were on the road to Drew station, 12 miles north.

Bob Paul was first to return to the scene of the crime. Near the hold up site, he found three masks, and tracks that led east. Now leading the Tombstone posse, Paul followed the trail to sprawling ranch run by Henry and Leonard "Lem" Redfield, where they cornered and captured the unhappy cow boy Luther King. He readily admitted to being involved, but insisted his only task had been holding the horses. But he also identified the other 3 highway men as Harry "The Kid" Head, one time jeweler William "Bill" Lenoard and Jim Crane.  King said that Crane had been wounded in the thigh, although by Paul's hasty shot gun blast or by his own six shooter, is unclear.

The capture of King presented a dilemma. The crime had been committed halfway between Tombstone and Benson. And while Deputy Federal Marshal Virgil Earp had authority throughout the territory, the trial of the killers of Pete Roerig and Bud Pierpott would do Wyatt (above) the most good if held in Tombstone.  So, come sun up on Thursday, 17 March, 1881, the 7 lawmen gave up their search for the other 3 members of the gang, and began escorting Luther King back toward Tombstone. 

It was a stroke of luck, then, when, they ran into Cochies Sheriff Johnny Behan and a deputy, riding north, also in search of the gang.  Johnny took possession of Luther King - even insisted on it - freeing Paul, the Earps, Holiday and Marshall to return to the pursuit. They tracked Harry Head, Bill Leonard and Jim Crane for 2 weeks, south and east into the San Simon Valley (above, lower right) , into New Mexico, all the way to the northern mouth of Guadalupe Canyon, just above the Mexican border. Then, short of provisions, and with no funds to obtain more, they were forced to return to Tombstone.

To their surprise, they discovered that although under- sheriff Behan had locked Luther King securely in the Tombstone jail, the cow boy had managed to slip out the back door and disappear. And, poof! All the effort and expense of sweat, leather and horse flesh were for naught. Any hope Wyatt Earp had of becoming sheriff of Tombstone vanished along with Mr. King. Wyatt was going to have to think of something else.

According to the Tombstone Epitaph", it was not long after this, in April of 1881, that "Sadie" Marcus (above and  below) returned home early from a trip and found Johnny in their bed with the wife of a "friend". Who the friend was, is unstated, but that was Johnny's modus operendi. But the Epitath was clear that the 20 year old lady kicked Johnny out of their house, and became a truly independent operator. It must have been about this same time, the self posessed lady (below) met Wyatt Earp.

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TORN FROM A FRAME Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum Robbery

 

I have been in love with Isabela Steward Gardner (above) for more than fifty years. And she’s been dead for over seventy.  Isabel was the daughter of wealth, who, as was the practice in the Gilded Age, married into even more wealth. She lived in a Back Bay mansion at 152 Beacon Street in Boston. And in the tiny fenced front yard, common to most such mansions, there grew a single tree, in which, legend has it, Isabel used to perch on summer afternoons to unexpectedly greet her startled visitors. Of course the red head was also quoted as saying, “Why spoil a thing with the truth.”

In March of 1865, after her 2 year old son had died of pneumonia,  Isabel’s husband, Jack, began to take the broken hearted Isabela on European trips. There Isabel courted and sat for artists such as John Singer Sargent and James Whistler, and partied with writers such as Henry James. 

Isabel loved to collect art, and to attend boxing matches and Harvard football games. She bet the ponies at Suffolk Downs and advised her fellow blue bloods, “Win as though you were used to it, and lose as if you like it.” 

And she once scandalized proper Boston society at a Philharmonic Concert by wearing a formal evening gown adorned with a headband that read “Oh, You Red Sox!”

After her husband Jack died in 1898 Isabel built herself a Venetian Mansion in the reclaimed marshlands which would shortly give Fenway Park its name. 

Isabel called her new mansion “Fenway Court”, and it held her extensive personal art collection. Included was the Singer portrait  of her, wearing a strand of pearls at her waist, to accent her figure. Jack had hated the painting, but Isabela cherished it.

And it was in Fenway Court where she died of a stroke, in 1924. 

Isabel left most of her fortune to the ASPCA , except for the endowment to turn her home into the “Isabela Stewart Gardner Museum”.  

It would be hard not love a woman who loved animals that much, and who left so many pieces of great art so that clods such as myself could wander about her home for hours.    

And that was why I was so personally offended by the 1990 St. Patrick’s Day robbery of the Gardner. What was stolen was not just art. It had all been the personal property of Isabela. 

It had all meant something special to very special woman. How dare those thugs steal from a great broad like her!

 Shortly after one AM on Monday, 19 March, 1990 two mustached “police officers” talked their way into the closed museum,  swiftly handcuffed the two inexperienced guards and stashed them safely in the museum’s basement. Motion detectors then followed the thieves for the next 81 minutes as they separated and each smashed, cut and shattered a dozen paintings from their frames; $500 million dollars worth - a Rembrandt, five Degas, a Vermeer and a Manet: and one gold eagle from atop a Napoleonic banner. Then, after removing the video tapes from the VCRs at the security desk, the thieves made two separate trips out to their red hatch back parked around the corner from the museum. Before 3AM, the crooks and the paintings had disappeared forever.

We still don’t know who did it.  But the money remains on the same kind of North End gangs that a generation earlier had robbed the Brinks Armored Car Company. But whereas the Brink’s Job of January 1950 had been the work of mooks who were all caught, the Gardner heist remains a complete and total mystery. 

No one has been even tried to claim the $5 million reward for returning the art. The statute of limitations on the theft has run out and yet still no one has felt the need to unburden themselves of guilt or the hot paintings. And the only rumor that ever even hinted at the possible return of the 13 stolen masterpieces was probably just another confidence scam.

The real cops weren’t called until 8:15 AM the next morning. By that time it was likely the paintings were already on their way out of the country. The only description of the thieves that was broadcast was pathetic; one of the men was described as resembling Colonel Klink, from television show “Hogan’s Heroes”. There were no finger prints left behind, no articles of clothing, and no whispers were ever heard in art or criminal circles. 

No leads were received until four years later when a letter offered to return the paintings in exchange for $2.6 million. But after a first hint, that letter led nowhere. Again, in 1997, a reporter for the Boston Herald was led blindfolded to a hidden location and shown what he was told were the stolen Rembrandt’s, and even provided with paint chips as proof. But upon examination the chips could not have come from the painting they were claimed to be from, and the whole thing was eventually written off as an attempt to finagle the freedom of Myles Connor, an art thief already under arrest.

It has been thirty plus years since the dozen paintings were stolen, and increasingly it appears they will never be restored. There is, of course, no honor amongst thieves. It is likely by now the thieves are dead. And with the passage of time, it becomes clear that whoever masterminded the theft is now, also dead,  The paintings, fragile pieces of art, have probably been destroyed. 

But the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum still sits in the Back Bay, and still keeps the empty frames on the wall, to document what was lost. It is in the same spirit Isabeal must have used to preserve that torn place in her heart where her little son had once resided.  It is a sad that she should be remembered because of this robbery. Because, what a great broad she was!. 

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TORN FROM A FRAME Isabella Stewart Gardner and Her Museum

I have been in love with Isabel Steward Gardner for more than forty years. And she’s been dead for over 70 years.  Isabel was the daughter of wealth, who, as was the practice in the Gilded Age, married into even more wealth. She lived in a Back Bay mansion at 152 Beacon Street. And in the tiny fenced front yard, common to most Back Bay mansions, there grew a single tree, in which, legend has it, Isabel used to perch on summer afternoons to unexpectedly greet her startled visitors. Of course she was also quoted as saying, “Why spoil a thing with the truth.”

In March of 1865, after her 2 year old son died of pneumonia,  Isabel’s husband, Jack, began to take the broken hearted Isabel on European trips. There Isabel courted the likes of artists such as John Singer Sargent and James Whistler, and writers such as Henry James. Isabel loved to collect art, and to attend boxing matches and Harvard football games. She bet the ponies at Suffolk Downs and advised her fellow blue bloods, “Win as though you were used to it, and lose as if you like it.” And she once scandalized proper Boston society at a Philharmonic Concert by wearing a formal evening gown adorned with a headband that read “Oh, You Red Sox!”After her husband Jack died in 1898 Isabel built herself a Venetian Mansion in the reclaimed marshlands which would shortly give Fenway Park its name. Isabel called her new mansion “Fenway Court”, and it held her personal art collection. And it was there she died of a stroke, in 1924. Isabel left all her fortune to the ASPCA and endowed her home as the “Isabel Stewart Gardner Museum”. And that was why I was so personally offended by the 1990 St. Patrick’s Day robbery of the Gardner. What was stolen was not just art. It had all been the personal property of Isabel. It had all meant something special to very special woman. How dare those thugs steal from a great lady like her!We still don’t know who did it.  But the money remains on the same North End gangs that a generation earlier had robbed the Brinks Armored Car Company. But whereas the Brink’s Job of January 1950 had been the work of mooks who were all caught, the Gardner heist remains a complete and total mystery. No one has been even tried to claim the $5 million reward. The statute of limitations on the theft has run out and no one has felt the need to unburden themselves of guilt or hot paintings. And the only rumor that ever even hinted at the possible return of the 13 stolen masterpieces was probably just a confidence scam.The best guess is the thieves tried it twice. On the second attempt, they succeeded. Shortly after one AM on Monday, 19 March, 1990 two mustached “police officers” talked their way into the closed museum and swiftly handcuffed the two inexperienced guards, and then stashed them safely in the museum’s basement. Motion detectors followed the thieves for the next 81 minutes as they separated and each smashed, cut and shattered a dozen paintings from their frames; $400 million dollars worth of Rembrandts, five Degas, a Vermeer and a Manet: and one gold eagle from atop a Napoleonic banner. Then, after removing the video tapes from the VCRs at the security desk, the thieves made two separate trips out to their red hatch back parked in the side street around the corner from the museum. Before 3AM, the crooks and the paintings had disappeared forever.The real cops weren’t called until 8:15 AM the next morning. By that time it was likely the paintings were already on their way out of the country. The only description of the thieves that was broadcast was pathetic; one of the men was described as resembling Colonel Klink, from “Hogan’s Heroes”. There were no finger prints left behind, no articles of clothing, and no whispers were ever heard in art or criminal circles. No leads were received until four years later when a letter offered to return the paintings in exchange for $2.6 million. But after a first hint, that letter led nowhere. Again, in 1997, a reporter for the Boston Herald was led blindfolded to a hidden location and shown what he was told were the stolen Rembrandt’s, and even provided with paint chips as proof. But upon further examination the chips could not have been from the painting they were claimed to be from, and the whole thing was eventually written off as an attempt to finagle the freedom of Myles Connor, an art thief already under arrest.

It has been thirty years since the dozen paintings were stolen, and increasingly it appears they will never be restored. The lack of any information on the paintings’ whereabouts, or even rumors as to their location would seem to hint that the thieves are not now or perhaps were never in a position where they could blackmail whoever paid them to steal the paintings. There is, of course, no honor amongst thieves. So perhaps the thieves are dead. And with the passage of time, it becomes clear that whoever masterminded the theft is now, also dead, and their heirs may have decided to destroy the evidence of their family shame. But the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum still keeps the empty frames on the wall, to document the stolen masterpieces which have still not been returned. It is in the same spirit Isabel must have used to preserve that torn place in her heart where her little son had once resided.But what a great broad she was.

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TWICE LOST TREASURE

This tale of crime and punishment begins the second time before dawn on Friday, 27 March, 2009, in the tiny village of Stokestown, County Roscommon,  in Ireland’s western midlands.  At about 4 A.M., while the honest world slept, thirty-five year old Anthony Dowling, a father of three, used his shoulder to crack open the back door of Sheehan’s Pharmacy. He then stood lookout while twenty-nine year old Robert Dempsey ransacked the establishment. They took some drugs and cosmetics, and a small safe, which they loaded into their van before driving the two hours back to Dublin.

During the drive, the duo discovered their efforts with the safe had earned them some family papers, a few photographs and an envelope, marked “1947”, which they never bothered to open. Disgusted, they dumped the safe into a canal and its contents were tossed into a trash bin in front of apartments on Reuben Street in Dublin. The thieves then split up, returning to their beds before the sun shed light on their sins. But what the two miscreants did not know, was that their crime had now tied them to another crime, six thousand years earlier.

Humans first discovered Ireland when they walked across a land bridge from Wales about 4,000 B.C.. Like Greenland, the ancient name of “Eire” was a sales pitch. In Gaelic it means “land of plenty”. Six thousand years ago, as the glaciers retreated back to Scotland from whence they had come, the melting ice left Ireland dotted with lakes, much as upper Minnesota is today. These Irish lakes became choked with decaying leaves, which turned the waters acidic and consumed the oxygen. Without oxygen new vegetation falling into the lakes could not decompose, and began to pile up until they filled the lakes. The lakes became bogs which became fields. The compressed vegetation became peat.

One of those early Irishmen is known to history only as Clonycavan Man. He about five feet two inches tall, and favored a spiked “Mohawk “hair style, accentuated with a thick gel imported from France. And one soft summer day,  this twenty-something debonair was waylaid in a peat bog by an enemy armed with an axe. The first blow split the victim’s skull wide open. The second, probably delivered as he fell, sliced open his face, from his nose to just under his right eye.  Maybe it was the murder of an intruder, and or maybe a squaring a love triangle, or maybe it was a simple robbery.  But in the intervening 6,000 years the passions which fueled this assault have long since cooled. But the tendency to robbery and violence remains remain common today, in Ireland and everywhere humans breed.

The bogs of Europe are pockmarked with similar corpses, some sacrifices to forgotten gods, and a few, like Clonycaven man, crime victims.  And all that remains of their humanity good and bad is a tannin stained body, as empty proof of passion spent and left undigested, until, usually, a farmer harvesting the peat for fuel, uncovers the crime scene.

In March of 1945, a farmer named Hurbert Lannon, of the village of Fourmilehouse, in County Rosscommon, struck tannin stained metal while harvesting peat from his bog near Coggalbeg. He did not think much of the three pieces of metal he had uncovered. But, being a practical man Mr. Lannon held onto them. Then, on Saturday, 22 March, 1947, probably to pay a bill, he handed them over to the new pharmacist, Patrick Sheehan, who had just moved into the village of Stokestown, a mile and a half away.

Patrick Sheehan had a exciting youth. He had won a few road rallies, driving a red Triumph. His eldest daughter described him as “very into education”.  He dragged his wife and seven daughters down to the local dump on the Friday night of 4 October,  1957 to watch the tiny light that was Sputnik race across the night sky.   In 1965, Patrick showed his eldest daughter Sunniva, the pieces of metal he had kept for twenty years his pharmacy safe.  He had cleaned them up, of course, and described them to the girl as a “collar and two buttons”. “It came out of the bog” he told her.  Sunniva didn’t find the story very interesting. “It was a flat piece of gold colored metal and I didn't think anything of it. It wasn't something you could wear or make use of,” So the jewelry went back into the safe and Sunniva forgot all about it.

Patrick (Paddy) Sheehan died of cancer in the late nineteen sixties. “The business was nearly non-existent because he had been in bad health,” says Sunniva.  Luckily she had graduated with a 3 year bachelor’s degree, which was all that was needed at the time in Ireland to dispense medication. So she took over her father’s shop. “I had a mother to support and six sisters younger than me. So it was hard keeping things together, never mind thinking about a gold necklace in the safe.” Then, forty years later, came the robbery.

Sunniva Sheehan called in the Gardia, the “Guardians of Ireland” as the police are titled, to report the robbery and list the stolen items. The Gardia asked the locals  and a few remembered two strangers in a red van who had been acting suspiciously. The Gadia  went so far as to check the surveillance video from a nearby highway toll booth. That video produced a photo of red van and a license plate number. This led them to the master criminals Mr. Dempsy and Mr. Dowling, back in Dublin. Meanwhile, one of Sunniva's sisters reminded her about the envelope containing gold jewelry which had also been in the safe.  So she called and added those three pieces to the list of stolen items. And it was at this point that bureaucratic tenacity entered the story.

When Sunniva had added the three gold items to her list of items lost, one of the police officers bothered to call the National Museum in Dublin, on the off chance they might be valuable.. He described the jewelry, and the museum immediately dispatched two curators to Stokestown, to show Sunniva some photos. What she identified was a photo of a lunnula.

It is Latin for “little moon”, and is applied to any number of crescent shapes, from the white arc at the base of your thumb nail, to the gold necklace worn by Bronze Age kings of Ireland. There are only 21 similar gold necklaces known to have survived over the last 4,000 years, and they were all the work of a few Irish bronze age master craftsmen.  And when the police explained to Robert Dempsey, now in custody, what he had thrown away,  he was motivated to identify the trash bins on Reuben Street.

The police collected all the bins just before they were about to be emptied. In the parking lot of a police station Sergeant John Costello waded through tons of garbage and trash to recover the lunnula and two small gold pins. And that was the final  discovery of a four thousand year old collection of gold, now called the “Coggalbeg hoard”, from the hands of an ancient artist to the throat of a king, to the hands of two thieves separated by 4,00 years,  to a police officer, to the modern day National Museum in Dublin.

All of which leaves a few unanswered questions. How did a King’s jewelry come to be lying, abandoned in a bog? It may be it was not abandoned. It may be that Hurbert Lannon also found a body in the bog, but decided not to deal with the attention such a discovery would have brought him. The manner in which he disposed of the gold certainly hints at a man protective of his privacy. And it may be that the lunnula and pins were the booty of a Bronze Age robbery, not unlike the twenty-first century one that brought them to modern day attention. As for Mr. Lannon, he had died three weeks before the break in at the Sheehan Pharmacy, at the age of 93, and so never knew what he had given away in exchange for a vial of medicine.

Anthony Dowling pleaded guilty to breaking and entering, and Robert Dempsey pleaded guilty to receiving stolen goods. They both received suspended sentences. Anthony Dowling was even free to visit the Museum and view the booty he had thrown away. But it seems the booty was not yet finished with Anthony Dowling.

The press attention caused by the gold threw a light on Mr. Dowling, when he probably would have preferred to remain in the shadows. The light revealed that this was not his first conviction. It was in fact his 33rd. And it was not even his first suspended sentence.

On 13 January, 2008, Anthony was involved in a serious altercation in the Deputy Mayor’s Pub, in Dublin. He and a friend, Charlie Russell, attacked one Peter Rogers, because they thought Rogers had insulted Russell’s mother-in-law.  In fact he had not.

But, drunk and bent on revenge, Anthony, armed with a claw hammer, and Charlie, who was carrying a samurai sword, assaulted Mr. Rogers without warning, and severed Mr. Rogers’ left hand. Mr. Rogers, who was so drunk he was temporarily  unaware of his injuries, punched Charlie Russell in the face with his bloody stump. Twelve hours of surgery were required to reattach his hand, but Mr. Rogers, who had been a carpenter, will never regain its full use.

Charlie Russell received eight years (not suspended) for his part in the attack. And as was said, Anthony Dowling’s sentence was suspended. However,...

....the attendant publicity of this latest theft and the publicity about the pub assault, has made Anthony Dowling unlikely to receive another suspended sentence, as he is now the most famous criminal in Irish history, even more famous than the mysterious murderer of  Clonycavan Man. The Irish government has now even banned the sale or ownership of samurai swords.

Meanwhile, Mary Hanafin, Irish Cultural Minister, has called the “Coggalbeg Hoard”  an “an amazing find…because it is Irish and part of who we are.” Yes, Minister, and a part of who we all are.

http://www.irishexaminer.com/ireland/kfcwmhcwsncw/rss2/#ixzz0sGYKe4EF

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