Be­yond Shark Tank: In­side the mind of Amer­ica’s most un­ortho­dox self-made bil­lion­aire.


MARK CUBAN HAS JUST FIN­ISHED evis­cer­at­ing a con­tes­tant on the re­al­ity show Shark Tank, for which he works as one of the judges, or “sharks,” who lis­ten to pitches from as­pir­ing en­trepreneurs. I can’t di­vulge what the con­tes­tant was pitch­ing (not be­fore the episode airs), but suf­fice it to say, it’s an idea with a good shot at win­ning him buy-in.

For a guy known for his out­spo­ken­ness, he is of­ten a quiet pres­ence on the Shark Tank set, sit­ting serenely in a riv­eted red-leather arm­chair, jot­ting his thoughts in a note­book, oc­ca­sion­ally mak­ing a pained ex­pres­sion, squint­ing, or purs­ing his lips. He doesn’t have an es­pe­cially good poker face—or maybe he’s broad­cast­ing his thoughts for ef­fect, so he doesn’t dis­ap­pear from the cam­eras com­pletely. Ei­ther way, Cuban tends to sit back and study the ac­tion while his co-sharks en­gage with a con­tes­tant—un­til, in­evitably, the mo­ment comes when he can’t hold it in any longer. Then, fire­works. “My bull­shit me­ter is go­ing nuts!” he tells the con­tes­tant, who has re­peat­edly made vague ref­er­ences to aca­demic stud­ies that vouch for his prod­uct, or maybe for the gen­eral idea of his prod­uct. It’s not clear if the con­tes­tant—a for­mer Ea­gle Scout—is be­ing disin­gen­u­ous or is sim­ply a poor com­mu­ni­ca­tor; ei­ther way, Cuban is hav­ing none of it. Bull­shit is one thing he does not tol­er­ate. He tries sev­eral times to force a straight an­swer, and when it doesn’t come, he can barely hide his dis­gust.

When the pitch ses­sion fi­nally ends, the sharks, their han­dlers, and crew mem­bers mass around the snack buf­fet to hash out what just hap­pened. “It amazes me; peo­ple come out know­ing Mark’s go­ing to be here and make claims like this guy,” says fel­low cast mem­ber Robert Her­javec. Some­one else men­tions that the show keeps a psy­chol­o­gist on hand for sit­u­a­tions like these, when a con­tes­tant “gets shit on.”

Ev­ery good episode has a high-drama showdown like this one, and Cuban rel­ishes his abil­ity to make the most of them. “I love those. You know me—i have fun,” he tells me as he re­fills his cof­fee and heads off to get his makeup touched up, leav­ing ev­ery­one else buzzing in his wake. Af­ter a mostly tran­quil day on set, he has shown, once again, why he is the show’s undis­puted star.

Shark Tank is the most pop­u­lar show on Fri­day nights among cov­eted 18- to 49-yearold view­ers. The au­di­ence has grown to roughly eight mil­lion peo­ple a week since the 2009 pre­miere. (By com­par­i­son, the last sea­son fi­nale of Game of Thrones had just over seven mil­lion view­ers.) Part of Shark Tank’s ap­peal is that it’s ar­guably the most real show on re­al­ity tele­vi­sion: The con­tes­tants are pur­su­ing gen­uine busi­ness ven­tures, and the judges are in­vest­ing their own money. Cuban, who joined the cast in the show’s third sea­son, likes to say Shark Tank suc­ceeds be­cause it’s a val­i­da­tion of the Amer­i­can dream. It’s a show about in­ge­nu­ity, pluck, money, and play­ing to win. Fam­i­lies watch it to­gether: Par­ents teach kids about val­u­a­tions and eq­uity, brand build­ing, and re­tail strat­egy.

Cuban him­self is a val­i­da­tion of the Amer­i­can dream—a self-made man whose net worth, ac­cord­ing to Forbes, is around $2.7 bil­lion—but that’s only part of his ap­peal. Once roundly con­sid­ered a blowhard ar­riv­iste, the over­grown bro who in­vaded the old boys’ club of NBA own­ers when he bought the Dal­las Mav­er­icks in 2000, he’s be­come, over the years, some­thing more like the league’s voice of rea­son. The Mavs, once perennial punch-line fod­der, are now firmly en­trenched in the NBA elite. Cuban, who’s been fined about $1.7 mil­lion by the league over the years, mostly for run­ning off at the mouth, now just as of­ten shapes NBA pol­icy. Among Shark Tank fans, he’s loved for be­ing at once bru­tally hon­est, com­pet­i­tive, and sur­pris­ingly gen­er­ous—for call­ing bull­shit on bull­shit­ters, yes, but also for the thought­ful ad­vice he some­times of­fers en­trepreneurs, even when he’s not in­vest­ing. The frat boy im­age, it turns out, is true only to the ex­tent that any­one’s life can be re­duced to a car­toon. And there’s a lot to learn from his par­tic­u­lar brand of suc­cess—and no­to­ri­ety.

IF ALL YOU KNEW ABOUT MARK CUBAN was that he owned a pro sports team and starred on a hit TV show, you’d prob­a­bly think he was a fairly busy, high-achiev­ing guy. The re­al­ity is that he has his hands in more than 100 com­pa­nies, in­clud­ing some he owns with long­time busi­ness part­ner Todd Wag­ner, and oth­ers he has in­vested in and ad­vised. He has a movie dis­tri­bu­tion com­pany, Mag­no­lia Pic­tures, and a chain of arty movie the­aters. He has a TV net­work, AXS (for­merly HDNET), and more than a few tech com­pa­nies in his port­fo­lio. And through Shark Tank, he has in­vested in ev­ery­thing from a stand-up-pad­dle­board maker to a sippy-cup maker and some­thing called the Los An­ge­les Haunted Hayride. Oh, and he’s got a scald­ingly hot wife and three kids.

It’s easy to look at all that and chalk it up to the ad­van­tages of be­ing a bil­lion­aire: Af­ter all, op­por­tu­nity flows to the wealthy, right? But 30-some years ago, none of it ex­isted, and Cuban was just the work­ing-class son of a Pitts­burgh auto up­hol­sterer, putting him­self through col­lege at In­di­ana Univer­sity. Dur­ing his se­nior year, he em­barked on his first en­tre­pre­neur­ial ad­ven­ture, us­ing his

stu­dent-loan money to buy a lo­cal bar, Mot­ley’s Pub, that was go­ing out of busi­ness. Cubes and his bud­dies turned out to be good party pro­mot­ers, and the place was an in­stant hit, with lines out the door. He might still be there, tend­ing bar and hit­ting on coeds, if not for his first brush with in­famy: One night the bar threw a wet-t-shirt con­test, and the lo­cal news­pa­per ran a story about it with a pic­ture of the win­ner, who turned out to be a 16-year-old girl on pro­ba­tion for pros­ti­tu­tion. Oops.

Mot­ley’s didn’t sur­vive the scan­dal, and soon af­ter he grad­u­ated, Cuban headed west to boom­town Dal­las in pur­suit of the Amer­i­can tri­fecta: sun­shine, money, and at­trac­tive women. He was “poor as fuck” and moved into a three-bed­room apart­ment he shared with five other guys; he slept on the floor. He landed a job at a soft­ware re­tailer in town and set out to learn the busi­ness. He didn’t know a thing about com­put­ers but fig­ured no­body else did yet, ei­ther—and that meant he’d get a head start.

The job didn’t last­— Cuban got fired when he de­fied his boss and went to meet with a po­ten­tial client one morn­ing rather than show up and sweep the shop floors—but be­fore he left, he man­aged to es­tab­lish two of the hall­marks of his suc­cess. One, he rec­og­nized a hot in­dus­try that would only get hot­ter (com­put­ers, duh), and two, he did more home­work than ev­ery­one else, in the be­lief that if he armed him­self with more in­for­ma­tion than the com­pe­ti­tion, he’d make more sales. (This sim­ple phi­los­o­phy, it’s worth not­ing, comes from his fa­vorite quote, cour­tesy of leg­endary hot­headed bas­ket­ball coach Bobby Knight: Ev­ery­one has the will to win. It’s those that pre­pare to win that do.) “I’d stay up all night read­ing the soft­ware man­u­als,” Cuban re­mem­bers. If a cus­tomer had a ques­tion, he had a ready an­swer.

By the time he got fired, the cram­ming-for-fi­nals strat­egy had paid off enough that one of his cor­po­rate clients agreed to put up a few hun­dred dol­lars for him to start his own soft­ware sales firm. Cuban is the first to point out that he didn’t have an in­her­ent pas­sion for com­puter sys­tems. It was the sense of com­pe­ti­tion that drove him to launch Mi­croso­lu­tions; he wanted to win in what he calls “the sport of busi­ness.” Win he did. Af­ter seven years, he sold Mi­croso­lu­tions for $6 mil­lion, which, af­ter he paid taxes and dis­trib­uted money to his 80 em­ploy­ees, left him with about $2 mil­lion for him­self.

“I started liv­ing like a rock star,” he says. “I was try­ing to sleep with as many girls as I could, drink as much as I could.” One of his first rich-guy pur­chases was a life­time pass on Amer­i­can Air­lines, a $125,000 in­vest­ment that al­lowed him and a guest to travel any­where, any­time, for the rest of his life. He’d fly to L.A. to take act­ing classes and meet women, then hop a plane to Ve­gas for the night or Barcelona for the week­end. He be­came a regular in Puerto Val­larta.

Two mil­lion was a lot of money—es­pe­cially in the late ’80s—but it’s not the kind of money that lasts for­ever, so Cuban started trad­ing stocks. Over the next six years he grew his for­tune ten­fold, un­til he was sit­ting on more than $20 mil­lion. “I killed it as a trader,” he says. “I was do­ing so well that a bunch of guys from Gold­man Sachs came to me, took my trad­ing records, and we cre­ated a hedge fund that we sold less than a year later.” At which point Cuban was ready to get se­ri­ous again.

Just as Mi­croso­lu­tions had caught the PC wave early, Cuban’s next start-up, Au­dionet (later Broad­, was quick to the con­sumer In­ter­net. It was 1995, and Cuban rec­og­nized that, although the Web was mostly a text-based tool, peo­ple would soon be us­ing it for au­dio and video (again, duh). Four years later, at the height of the late-’90s dot-com bub­ble, Ya­hoo bought the com­pany for $5.7 bil­lion, of which Cuban was able to keep about a third.

If he was liv­ing like a rock star in the early ’90s, he en­tered the 2000s liv­ing like… well, a 40-year-old bil­lion­aire. He gave his life­time air­line pass to his dad and bought him­self a Gulf­stream V, the long­est-range pri­vate jet on the mar­ket, which he snared for $40 mil­lion and paid for, nat­u­rally, over the In­ter­net. He added a big empty man­sion in Dal­las’ toni­est neigh­bor­hood, bought the lo­cal hoops team, got him­self fined for “con­duct un­be­com­ing of an NBA owner” (for sit­ting on the floor on the side­line dur­ing a game—which he con­tin­ued to do un­til the league stopped fin­ing him). He bought his way into the movie busi­ness, did a stint on Danc­ing with the Stars, got thrown through a ta­ble on WWE Raw. And some­where in there, the act of be­ing Mark Cuban be­came a very big busi­ness of its own.

TO GET A BET­TER SENSE OF HOW CUBAN thinks and works, con­sider the NBA’S clear-path foul rules. It used to be that such a foul re­sulted in one free throw plus pos­ses­sion for the team that had been fouled. That didn’t smell right to Cuban, so one day a few years ago, he de­cided to in­ves­ti­gate the prob­a­bil­ity of scor­ing an un­con­tested layup ver­sus that of mak­ing a free throw and scor­ing on the fol­low­ing pos­ses­sion. It turned out that it was in the de­fen­sive team’s best in­ter­est to com­mit a clear-path foul rather than al­low a break­away—which didn’t make any sense. Cubes pre­sented his case to the league, which sub­se­quently changed the rule so that the foul re­sulted in two free throws plus pos­ses­sion. That changed the equa­tion

enough that the de­fense sud­denly had good rea­son not to com­mit a clear-path foul— clearly a fairer sit­u­a­tion.

The les­son, says Cuban: Just be­cause it ain’t broke doesn’t mean it’s op­ti­mal. It’s a very Cube­sian way of think­ing, a datadriven form of dis­sent. Like so many of his peers in the start-up cul­ture, Cuban looks for weak­nesses in the es­tab­lished or­der and at­tempts to dis­rupt them with a bet­ter way. And just as he be­came a suc­cess­ful soft­ware sales­man by arm­ing him­self with knowl­edge, he cre­ates dis­rup­tive change by first do­ing the re­search to make a case—then sell­ing the shit out of it.

To­day he is ex­cited about an­other NBA rule he’s been try­ing to al­ter. Not sur­pris­ingly, he hates flop­ping, the prac­tice of play­ers throw­ing them­selves to the ground in or­der to in­cite foul calls from the refs. To Cuban, it’s the equiv­a­lent of be­ing a bull­shit artist. Rather than just bitch about it, he put down $100,000 to fund a study on flop­ping by a team of biome­chan­i­cal en­gi­neers at SMU. The re­searchers wired a bunch of play­ers with mo­tion-cap­ture tech­nol­ogy, put them in contact sit­u­a­tions, and an­a­lyzed the forces at work to learn the true ef­fects of var­i­ous col­li­sions. “The an­swer so far is no,” Cuban says of the early re­sults. “If you run into a guy, it’s not nat­u­ral for him just to fall on his ass.” He smiles, no doubt imag­in­ing how he’s go­ing to use this in­for­ma­tion to change the game.

Bio­met­rics—the study of data re­lated to our bod­ies—has be­come one of Cuban’s se­cret weapons. Ev­ery Mavs player, for in­stance, has his blood drawn and an­a­lyzed four times a year. Cuban does it, too. “If you get sick, that’s the worst time to take blood,” he ex­plains. “It’s one of the dumb­est things doc­tors do. They take your sick blood and com­pare it to the gen­eral pop­u­la­tion’s. What we want to know is, if Dirk [Now­it­ski, the Mavs’ long­time power for­ward] has had thy­roid lev­els here for the past four years, and sud­denly they’re down here, what is go­ing on? And you can’t see that vari­a­tion un­less you es­tab­lish a base­line.”

The Mavs em­ploy an in-house psy­chol­o­gist who trav­els to each game with the team for a sim­i­lar rea­son. His­tor­i­cally, Cuban says, when play­ers had per­sonal is­sues, they had to take them up with the coach. “But you can never be to­tally hon­est with the coach, be­cause the coach con­trols play­ing time! So we just have some­one there for when­ever they need to talk—and the num­ber one rule is that I have no idea how many ses­sions the play­ers have, or what they talk about.”

I should men­tion that Cuban is pee­ing dur­ing part of this con­ver­sa­tion, and I’m stand­ing awk­wardly a few feet away with the door open be­tween us. We’ve just re­turned from lunch in a hangar-size build­ing a few hun­dred yards from the Shark Tank sound­stage, and we stopped in his lit­tle trailer just off set. The sharks wear the same clothes all sea­son long, so that shoots from dif­fer­ent days can be spliced to­gether to cre­ate seam­less episodes, and Cuban des­per­ately needed to change into an iden­ti­cal crisp white shirt—the one he wore all morn­ing had turned or­ange around the col­lar. It was a lit­tle odd as he stood bare-chested in front of me, and odd again as he fum­bled over and over with his cuff links and I of­fered to help. But none of that seemed to reg­is­ter with him, so I shouldn’t have been sur­prised when he stepped into the next room and started whizzing. I men­tion this be­cause it il­lus­trates Cuban’s par­tic­u­lar brand of (par­don the pun) cock­i­ness. For all the home­work he does and the data he gath­ers, he can still give off the air of a dude snap­ping tow­els in a locker room.

Also, I can con­firm the dude is a well-taken-care-of 56-year-old—no doubt partly be­cause of his con­stantly mon­i­tored bio­met­rics. He takes thy­roid med­i­ca­tion these days be­cause his blood work showed an in­con­sis­tency. He had a hip re­placed a few years ago, and he’s about to do the other one. He gets steroid shots in his back so he can keep play­ing hoops with his bud­dies. He stopped drink­ing beer in 2012—to avoid “wheat belly”—and now sticks to Tito’s vodka and soda. He’s also re­mark­ably age­less, with an al­most com­plete lack of wrin­kles on his face.

LAST SPRING, AT THE HEIGHT OF THE con­tro­versy sur­round­ing then-clip­pers owner Don­ald Ster­ling’s racist com­ments, Cuban made head­lines for his own in­sen­si­tive re­marks. At a con­fer­ence for en­trepreneurs, he pro­fessed to hav­ing “big­oted” thoughts, de­scrib­ing a hypothetical sit­u­a­tion in which he crosses the street at night when he sees a black guy in a hoodie and again when he sees a white guy with tat­toos and a shaved head. The tweet-storm that fol­lowed added co­pi­ous fuel to an al­ready rag­ing na­tional de­bate, and Cuban watched, for the mil­lionth time, as a quote of his took on a life of its own and de­fined him in a way he thought was deeply un­fair. Cuban later apol­o­gized for the hoodie ref­er­ence, which evoked Trayvon Martin.

The episode came at a mo­ment when Cuban had be­come in­creas­ingly worked up about pri­vacy. Late in 2013 he won a five-year court bat­tle with the SEC over in­sider-trad­ing al­le­ga­tions. His e-mails and blogs and so­cial me­dia posts were all sub­poe­naed in the process and, he says, the pros­e­cu­tion used many of his quotes out

of con­text and dis­torted them. He spent more on le­gal fees than he would have if he’d just set­tled the case, but for him go­ing to bat­tle was a mat­ter of prin­ci­ple, just as it had been when he was fined $100,000 by the NBA for sit­ting on the floor, cross­legged, dur­ing a Mavs game. “I am glad this hap­pened to me,” Cuban told re­porters af­ter the jury sided with him. “I’m glad I can af­ford to stand up to the SEC.”

Ever the en­tre­pre­neur, Cuban de­cided that this ex­pe­ri­ence of hav­ing his pri­vate mes­sages used against him pre­sented a busi­ness op­por­tu­nity. He launched a new com­pany called Cy­ber Dust, which makes a mes­sag­ing app that works some­thing like a com­bi­na­tion of Twit­ter and Snapchat, but with the key dif­fer­ence that noth­ing gets stored on the com­pany’s servers—when the mes­sage dis­ap­pears, it’s gone for­ever. He’s also in­vested in a com­pany called Xpire, which al­lows users to select the time when their Face­book posts and Twit­ter mes­sages will self-de­struct.

Over the course of our con­ver­sa­tions, Cuban steers the sub­ject back to pri­vacy again and again. “Man, you’ve got to shrink your dig­i­tal foot­print,” he says. “The minute you hit send on a text, you don’t own it any­more, but you’re still re­spon­si­ble for it. Think about what that means. What you cre­ate on so­cial me­dia, who you fol­low, the in­for­ma­tion from your e-mails, how you write, the pic­tures you save on Drop­box… All that to­gether cre­ates a pro­file that’s even more de­tailed than how you know your­self. Peo­ple should be freaked out about that.”

The SEC ex­pe­ri­ence prompted this out­rage, but lately it has bled more into his pri­vate life. “I started think­ing about ev­ery text I’ve ever sent. I don’t know who kept it or what they might do with it. It could have been the most in­nocu­ous thing, a joke to a friend. ‘Oh, you moth­er­fucker, you son of a bitch, I’m go­ing to kick your ass.’ What if that friend gets pissed at me for some­thing, and kept that text? Boom, I’m done with. I think about my 10-year-old daugh­ter. She doesn’t text yet, but the day is com­ing when she sends the most be­nign text to some id­iot kid, and he is go­ing to fuck with her.”

Cuban’s ex­pand­ing celebrity, thanks largely to Shark Tank, has also con­trib­uted to his cau­tious­ness. “Mark doesn’t go out in Dal­las much any­more; it’s just too crazy,” says Brian Dameris, a long­time buddy and em­ployee.

At heart, though, Cuban is still a jock from Pitts­burgh, a man of the peo­ple, so he avoids the easy temp­ta­tion to in­su­late him­self from the world. He sits in the stands with regular fans at Mavs games, buys mi­crowave din­ners at 7-Eleven, an­swers his own e-mails, doesn’t em­ploy a pub­li­cist. “We don’t have ser­vants, we don’t have but­lers—at home it’s just us!” he says. “My big­gest fear now is that my kids are go­ing to be ass­holes. I don’t want them to be en­ti­tled jerks, so we try to do ev­ery­thing as a fam­ily, try to keep as nor­mal as pos­si­ble.”

Does he have a driver, I ask him, so he can sit in the back like most moguls and wran­gle player con­tracts? “Fuck no, I don’t have a driver,” he says, of­fended that I’d even sug­gest it. “I have a Lexus, I drive my­self.”

MARK CUBAN IS A LOT OF THINGS, BUT chief among them is that he’s a busi­ness­man. He wants to make money, a lot of it. It’s not al­to­gether sur­pris­ing, then, that de­spite his con­cern about dig­i­tal pri­vacy and high hopes for Cy­ber Dust, one of his other com­pa­nies, Mo­tionloft, tracks pedes­tri­ans as they pass stores, pro­vid­ing re­tail­ers with info they can use to tar­get cus­tomers. It’s the kind of thing that gives pri­vacy ad­vo­cates fits. For­get dig­i­tal foot­prints. Now our ac­tual foot­prints can be mon­i­tored for com­mer­cial rea­sons, too.

Cuban shrugs when I ask him if he’s be­ing a lit­tle hyp­o­crit­i­cal by in­vest­ing in Mo­tionloft. “Of course, yeah. I’m play­ing both sides against the mid­dle,” he says. “If peo­ple don’t care and Cy­ber Dust doesn’t do as well, Mo­tionloft takes off.” Sim­i­larly, he re­cently in­vested in a dig­i­tal pub­lish­ing start-up called Ratter, con­ceived by ex-gawker ed­i­tor A.J. Daule­rio, that aims to be a net­work of ag­gres­sive, sala­cious lo­cal tabloids.

That Cuban in­vests in com­pa­nies that traf­fic in things he says he hates is a per­fect illustration of what makes him such an enigma. It’s easy to view the con­tra­dic­tions as ev­i­dence that he’s amoral and im­pul­sive, even reck­less. He sees it as ev­i­dence that he’s cau­tious and cal­cu­lated. “I tell peo­ple all the time I’m not a crazy risk taker,” he says. Some­times that re­quires hedg­ing his bets. Some­times it means pass­ing on op­por­tu­ni­ties with lim­ited up­sides. At one point dur­ing the Shark Tank shoot, he de­clines to back a pair of en­trepreneurs be­cause the in­vest­ment they’re seek­ing doesn’t jibe with the po­ten­tial pay­off, de­spite the de­cent like­li­hood that the com­pany will triple or quadru­ple his money. As Cuban ex­plained to me later, it would have been a “no-brainer” if he thought the deal would gain him a twen­ty­fold re­turn.

In gen­eral, though, Cuban’s pro­tec­tion against mak­ing bad bets is, as al­ways, to do more home­work than any­one else. “You can’t get any­thing over on him,” says Dameris. “His gift is con­sum­ing in­for­ma­tion. He takes it all in, reads a thou­sand e-mails a day, runs the Mavs and all these other busi­nesses, and man­ages to process it all. If he asks you a ques­tion and you try to fake an an­swer, he knows. He’ll be like, ‘I read that yes­ter­day in the Jour­nal, and the re­al­ity is this and this and this.’” When­ever Cuban looks like he’s im­pro­vis­ing—say, when he signed the free agent for­ward Chan­dler Par­sons in a night­club this past sum­mer—you can bet a good amount of preparation went into the mo­ment.

As the long day of shoot­ing winds down, Cuban agrees to act out a few stock lines that can be used to punc­tu­ate the footage of the day’s pitches. It starts with some sub­dued, re­hearsed-sound­ing quotes. He squints his eyes just so, mim­ing in­tense de­lib­er­a­tion. “I should have been out ear­lier. I’m out now,” he says. “I don’t see any way you’re ever go­ing to be prof­itable. I don’t see a path to prof­itabil­ity. I’m out.” He starts build­ing in in­ten­sity, the lines get­ting more bite as he goes. “I have no in­ter­est in this area at all. I’m out. Time is my most valu­able as­set, and I’m giv­ing none of it to you. I’m out.” He low­ers his eyes in mock scold­ing. “This is a bad idea. I’m out.”

He starts ham­ming for the cam­era, a rapid suc­ces­sion of fa­cial ex­pres­sions that might get edited in at some point—a raised eye­brow, a deep sigh, a belly laugh, an ea­ger lick of the lips. He’s on a roll now, hav­ing fun, just Cuban be­ing Cuban, seem­ing al­most obliv­i­ous to the cam­eras and record­ing equip­ment.

“I’m out, you bitch-ass moth­er­fucker. I will kick your ass!”

He stands up to go.

He has work to do. ■

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