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𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖬𝖺𝗇 𝖢𝖭𝖡𝖢 𝖢𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 "𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖯𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗁𝖾𝗍" 𝖲𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖧𝖾’𝖽 𝖯𝗎𝗍 𝟧𝟢% 𝗈𝖿 𝖧𝗂𝗌 𝖪𝗂𝖽’𝗌 𝖢𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖾 𝖥𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝖳𝖧𝖨𝖲 𝖲𝗍𝗈𝖼𝗄 [Main Logotype (Dark Green) | EMA]( Dear Reader, People ask me аІІ the time… “If you could put your mоnеу in оnlу one stock… what would it be? Well, I’m finally revealing the answer [right hеrе](. I’m more certain of this stock орроrtunity than any other in my career… which included buying stocks like: - Apple at 💲0.35 - Amazon at 💲48 - Netflix at 💲7.78 - McDonald's at 💲12.79 This is the kind of іnvеstmеnt idea that got me invited to appear on 60 Minutes (twice), Fox Business, and CNBC – which once nicknamed me "The Prophet" for the accuracy of my predictions. Don’t wait a moment longer… [Вuу thіs stосk tоdау.]( I wоn’t charge you even a penny to learn the nаmе (and you wоn't have to enter your e-mail address or рhоnе number, either)... I reveal the nаmе and ticker symbol completely frее of charge [right hеrе](. Regards, Whitney Tilson Founder, Empire Fіnаnсіаl Research It doesn't like me, said Montag. What, the Hound? The Captain studied his cards. Come it. It doesn't like or dislike. It just `functions.' It's like a lesson in bistics. It has a trajectory we decide for it. It follows through. It tars itself, s itself, and cuts . It's copper wire, storage batteries, and electricity. Montag swowed. Its calculators can be set to any combination, so many amino acids, so much sulphur, so much butterfat and alkaline. Right? We k that. of those chemical balances and percentages on of us in the house are recorded in the master file downstairs. It would be easy for someone to set up a partial combination on the Hound's 'memory,' a touch of amino acids, perhaps. That would account for what the animal did just . Reacted toward me. Hell, said the Captain. Irritated, but not completely angry. Just enough 'memory' set up in it by someone so it growled when I touched it. Who would do a thing like that?. asked the Captain. You haven't any enemies , Guy. None that I k of. We'll have the Hound checked by our technicians tomorrow. This isn't the first time it's threatened me, said Montag. Last month it happened twice. We'll fix it up. Don't worry But Montag did not move and stood thinking of the ventilator grille in the h at and what lay behind the grille. If someone in the firehouse k about the ventilator then mightn't they tell the Hound . . . ? The Captain came over to the drop-hole and gave Montag a questioning glance. I was just figuring, said Montag, what does the Hound think about down t nights? Is it coming alive on us, rey? It makes me cold. It doesn't think anything we don't want it to think. That's sad, said Montag, quietly, because we put into it is hunting and finding and killing. What a shame if that's it can ever k.' Beatty snorted, gently. Hell! It's a fine bit of craftsmanship, a good rifle that can fetch its own tar and guarantees the bull's-eye every time. That's why, said Montag. I wouldn't want to be its next victim. Why? You got a guilty conscience about something? Montag glanced up swiftly. Beatty stood t looking at him steadily with his eyes, while his mouth ed and began to laugh, very softly. One two three four five six seven days. And as many times he came out of the house and Clarisse was t somew in the world. Once he saw her shaking a walnut tree, once he saw her sitting on the lawn knitting a blue sweater, three or four times he found a bouquet of late flowers on his porch, or a handful of chestnuts in a little sack, or some autumn s neatly pinned to a sheet of white paper and thumbtacked to his door. Every day Clarisse walked him to the corner. One day it was raining, the next it was clear, the day after that the wind blew strong, and the day after that it was mild and calm, and the day after that calm day was a day like a furnace of summer and Clarisse with her face sunburnt by late afternoon. Why is it, he said, , at the subway entrance, I feel I've kn you so many years? Because I like you, she said, and I don't want anything from you. And because we k each other. You make me feel very old and very much like a father. you explain, she said, why you haven't any daughters like me, if you love children so much? I don't k. You're joking! I mean- He ped and shook his head. Well, my , she . . . she just wanted any children at . The girl ped smiling. I'm sorry. I rey, thought you were having fun at my expense. I'm a fool. No, no, he said. It was a good question. It's been a long time since anyone cared enough to ask. A good question. Let's talk about something else. Have you ever smelled old s? Don't they smell like cinnamon? . Smell. Why, yes, it is like cinnamon in a way. She looked at him with her clear dark eyes. You always seem shocked. It's just I haven't had time-- Did you look at the stretched-out billboards like I told you? I think so. Yes. He had to laugh. Your laugh sounds much nicer than it did Does it? Much more relaxed. He felt at ease and comfortable. Why aren't you in school? I see you every day wandering around. Oh, they don't miss me, she said. I'm anti-social, they say. I don't mix. It's so strange. I'm very social indeed. It depends on what you mean by social, doesn't it? Social to me means talking about things like this. She rattled some chestnuts that had fen the tree in the front yard. Or talking about how strange the world is. Being with people is nice. But I don't think it's social to a bunch of people toher and then not let them talk, do you? An hour of TV class, an hour of basketb or baseb or running, another hour of transcription history or painting pictures, and more sports, but do you k, we ask questions, or at least most don't; they just run the answers at you, bing, bing, bing, and us sitting t for four more hours of filmteacher. That's not social to me at . It's a lot of funnels and a lot of water poured down the spout and out the bottom, and them telling us it's wine when it's not. They run us so ragged by the end of the day we can't do anything but go to bed or head for a Fun Park to bully people around, break windowpanes in the Window Smasher place or wreck cars in the Car Wrecker place with the big steel b. Or go out in the cars and race on the streets, trying to see how close you can to lamp-posts, playing `chicken' and 'knock hub-caps.' I guess I'm everything they say I am, right. I haven't any friends. That's supposed to prove I'm abnormal. But everyone I k is either shouting or dancing around like wild or beating up one another. Do you notice how people hurt each other adays? You sound so very old. Sometimes I'm ancient. I'm afraid of children my own age. They kill each other. Did it always used to be that way? My uncle says no. Six of my friends have been shot in the last year alone. Ten of them died in car wrecks. I'm afraid of them and they don't like me because I'm afraid. My uncle says his grandfather remembered when children didn't kill each other. But that was a long time ago when they had things different. They believed in responsibility, my uncle says. Do you k, I'm responsible. I was spanked when I needed it, years ago. And I do the shopping and house-cleaning by hand. But most of , she said, I like to watch people. Sometimes I ride the subway day and look at them and listen to them. I just want to figure out who they are and what they want and w they're going. Sometimes I even go to the Fun Parks and ride in the jet cars when they race on the edge of town at midnight and the police don't care as long as they're insured. As long as everyone has ten thousand everyone's happy. Sometimes I sneak around and listen in subways. Or I listen at soda fountains, and do you k what? What? People don't talk about anything. Oh, they must! No, not anything. They a lot of cars or clothes or swimming-pools mostly and say how swell! But they say the same things and nobody says anything different from anyone else. And most of the time in the cafes they have the joke-boxes on and the same jokes most of the time, or the musical w lit and the colored patterns running up and down, but it's color and abstract. And at the museums, have you ever been? abstract. That's t is . My uncle says it was different once. A long time back sometimes pictures said things or even showed people. Your uncle said, your uncle said. Your uncle must be a remarkable man. He is. He certainly is. Well, I've got to be going. Goodbye, Mr. Montag. Good-bye. Good-bye.... One two three four five six seven days: the firehouse. Montag, you shin that pole like a bird up a tree. Third day. Montag, I see you came in the back door this time. The Hound bother you? No, no. Fourth day. Montag, a funny thing. Heard tell this morning. Fireman in Seattle, purposely set a Mechanical Hound to his own chemical complex and let it loose. What kind of suicide would you that? Five six seven days. And then, Clarisse was gone. He didn't k what t was about the afternoon, but it was not seeing her somew in the world. The lawn was empty, the trees empty, the street empty, and while at first he did not even k he missed her or was even looking for her, the fact was that by the time he reached the subway, t were vague stirrings of un-ease in him. Something was the matter, his routine had been disturbed. A simple routine, true, established in a short few days, and yet . . . ? He almost turned back to make the walk again, to give her time to appear. He was certain if he tried the same route, everything would work out fine. But it was late, and the arrival of his train put a to his plan. The flutter of cards, motion of hands, of eyelids, the drone of the timevoice in the firehouse ceiling . . . one thirty-five. Thursday morning, November 4th,... one thirty-six . . . one thirty-seven a.m... The tick of the playing-cards on the greasy table-top, the sounds came to Montag, behind his closed eyes, behind the barrier he had momentarily erected. He could feel the firehouse full of glitter and shine and silence, of brass colors, the colors of coins, of , of silver: The unseen men across the table were sighing on their cards, waiting. . . .one forty-five... The voice-clock mourned out the cold hour of a cold morning of a still colder year. What's wrong, Montag? Montag ed his eyes. A radio hummed somew. . . . war may be declared any hour. This country stands ready to defend its-- The firehouse trembled as a flight of jet planes whistled a single note across the black morning sky. Montag blinked. Beatty was looking at him as if he were a museum statue. At any moment, Beatty might rise and walk about him, touching, exploring his guilt and self-consciousness. Guilt? What guilt was that? Your play, Montag. Montag looked at these men whose faces were sunburnt by a thousand real and ten thousand imaginary fires, whose work flushed their cheeks and fevered their eyes. These men who looked steadily into their platinum igniter flames as they lit their eterny burning black pipes. They and their charcoal hair and soot-colored brows and bluish-ash-smeared cheeks w they had shaven close; but their heritage showed. Montag started up, his mouth ed. Had he ever seen a fireman that didn't have black hair, black brows, a fiery face, and a blue-steel shaved but unshaved look? These men were mirrorimages of himself! Were firemen picked then for their looks as well as their proclivities? The color of cinders and ash about them, and the continual smell of burning from their pipes. Captain Beatty t, rising in thunderheads of tobacco smoke. Beatty ing a fresh tobacco packet, crumpling the cellophane into a sound of fire. Montag looked at the cards in his own hands. I-I've been thinking. About the fire last week. About the man whose library we fixed. What happened to him? They took him screaming to the asylum He. wasn't insane. Beatty arranged his cards quietly. Any man's insane who thinks he can fool the Government and us. I've tried to imagine, said Montag, just how it would feel. I mean to have firemen burn our houses and our books. We haven't any books. But if we did have some. You got some? Beatty blinked slowly. No. Montag gazed beyond them to the w with the typed lists of a forbidden books. Their s leapt in fire, burning down the years under his axe and his hose which sprayed not water but kerosene. No. But in his mind, a cool wind started up and blew out of the ventilator grille at , softly, softly, chilling his face. And, again, he saw himself in a green park talking to an old man, a very old man, and the wind from the park was cold, too. Montag hesitated, Was-was it always like this? The firehouse, our work? I mean, well, once upon a time... Once upon a time! Beatty said. What kind of talk is that? Fool, thought Montag to himself, you'll . At the last fire, a book of fairy tales, he'd glanced at a single line. I mean, he said, in the old days, before s were completely fireproofed Suddenly it seemed a much younger voice was speaking for him. He ed his mouth and it was Clarisse McClellan saying, Didn't firemen prevent fires rather than stoke them up and them going? That's rich! Stoneman and Black drew forth their rulebooks, which also contained brief histories of the Firemen of America, and laid them out w Montag, though long familiar with them, might read: Established, 1790, to burn English-influenced books in the Colonies. First Fireman: Benjamin Franklin. RULE 1. Answer the alarm swiftly. 2. Start the fire swiftly. 3. Burn everything. 4. Report back to firehouse. 5. Stand alert for other alarms. Everyone watched Montag. He did not move. The alarm sounded. The bell in the ceiling kicked itself two hundred times. Suddenly t were four empty chairs. The cards fell in a flurry of s. The brass pole shivered. The men were gone. Montag sat in his chair. Below, the orange dragon coughed into . Montag slid down the pole like a man in a dream. The Mechanical Hound leapt up in its kennel, its eyes green flame. Montag, you forgot your helmet! He seized it the w behind him, ran, leapt, and they were , the night wind hammering about their siren scream and their mighty metal thunder! It was a flaking three-storey house in the ancient part of the city, a century old if it was a day, but like houses it had been given a thin fireproof plastic sheath many years ago, and this preservative shell seemed to be the thing holding it in the sky. we are ! The engine slammed to a . Beatty, Stoneman, and Black ran up the sidewalk, suddenly odious and fat in the plump fireproof slickers. Montag followed. They crashed the front door and grabbed at a woman, though she was not running, she was not trying to escape. She was standing, weaving from side to side, her eyes fixed upon a nothingness in the w as if they had struck her a terrible blow upon the head. Her tongue was moving in her mouth, and her eyes seemed to be trying to remember something, and then they remembered and her tongue moved again: 'Play the man, Master Ridley; we sh this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England, as I trust sh be put out.' Enough of that! said Beatty. W are they? He slapped her face with objectivity and repeated the question. The old woman's eyes came to a focus upon Beatty. You k w they are or you wouldn't be , she said. Stoneman held out the tele alarm card with the complaint signed in tele duplicate on the back Have reason to suspect attic; 11 No. Elm, City. --- E. B. That would be Mrs. Blake, my neighbor; said the woman, reading the initials. right, men, let's 'em! Next thing they were up in musty blackness, swinging silver hatchets at doors that were, after , unlocked, tumbling through like boys rollick and shout. Hey! A fountain of books sprang down upon Montag as he climbed shuddering up the sheer stair-well. How inconvenient! Always before it had been like snuffing a candle. The police went first and adhesive-taped the victim's mouth and bandaged him into their glittering beetle cars, so when you arrived you found an empty house. You weren't hurting anyone, you were hurting things! And since things rey couldn't be hurt, since things felt nothing, and things don't scream or whimper, as this woman might begin to scream and cry out, t was nothing to tease your conscience later. You were simply cleaning up. Janitorial work, essentiy. Everything to its proper place. Quick with the kerosene! Who's got a match! But , tonight, someone had slipped. This woman was spoiling the ritual. The men were making too much noise, laughing, joking to cover her terrible accusing silence below. She made the empty rooms roar with accusation and shake down a fine dust of guilt that was sucked in their nostrils as they plunged about. It was neither cricket nor correct. Montag felt an immense irritation. She shouldn't be , on top of everything! Books bombarded his shoulders, his arms, his upturned face A book alighted, almost obediently, like a white pigeon, in his hands, wings fluttering. In the dim, wavering light, a page hung and it was like a sy feather, the words delicately painted ton. In the rush and fervor, Montag had an to read a line, but it blazed in his mind for the next minute as if stamped t with fiery steel. Time has fen asleep in the afternoon sunshine. He dropped the book., another fell into his arms. Montag, up ! Montag's hand closed like a mouth, crushed the book with wild devotion, with an insanity of mindlessness to his chest. The men above were hurling shovelfuls of magazines into the dusty air. They fell like slaughtered birds and the woman stood below, like a sm girl, among the bodies. Montag had done nothing. His hand had done it , his hand, with a brain of its own, with a conscience and a curiosity in each trembling finger, had turned thief.. , it plunged the book back under his arm, pressed it tight to sweating armpit, rushed out empty, with a magician's flourish! Look ! Innocent! Look! He gazed, shaken, at that white hand. He held it way out, as if he were far-sighted. He held it close, as if he were blind. Montag! He jerked about. Don't stand t, idiot! The books lay like mounds of fishes left to dry. The men danced and slipped and fell over them. Titles glittered their en eyes, fing, gone. Kerosene!” They pumped the cold fluid from the numbered 451 tanks strapped to their shoulders. They coated each book, they pumped rooms full of it. They hurried downstairs, Montag staggered after them in the kerosene fumes. Come on, woman! The woman knelt among the books, touching the drenched leather and cardboard, reading the gilt titles with her fingers while her eyes accused Montag. You can't ever have my books, she said. You k the law, said Beatty. W's your common sense? None of those books agree with each other. You've been locked up for years with a regular damned Tower of Babel. Snap out of it! The people in those books lived. Come on ! She shook her head. [Small logotype (EMA)]( ExpertModernAdvice.com is sending this newsletter on behalf Inception Media, LLC. Inception Media, LLC appreciates your comments and inquiries. Please keep in mind, that Inception Media, LLC are not permitted to provide іndivіdualіzed financial advіse. This email is not fіnаncіаl аdvіcе and any іnvеstmеnt decision you make is solely your responsibility. Feel frее to contact us toll frее Domestic/International: +17072979173 Mon–Fri, 9am–5pm ET, or email us support@expertmodernadvice.com. [Unsubscrіbe]( to stop receiving mаrkеtіng communication from us. 600 N Broad St Ste 5 PMB 1 Middletown, DE 19709 2023 Inception Media, LLC. AІІ rights reserved [Unsubscrіbe]( [Privacy-Policy](