"Johnnnnnnnnnny! Johnnnnnnnnnnn! Waaaaaaaana diiiiiiiiieee!" his ten year old brother Tommy Tom Tom crooned from the opposite sidewalk - way across the big street Fordham Road that was begun as a path by American-Indians beginning from the Hudson River ending at Pelham Bay and then one day they were attacked by the gun toting English-American taliban and became no more - as he pretended to be eating something inside the palms of his hands. disliking the fact this sibling crash landing among them out of the body of a thirty-nine year old mother replacing him as the baby of the family and becoming their father's favorite.

Four year old Johnny tried to ignore his screeching voice; to look away from his hands possibly hiding candies, from the corner candy store where the syndicate would send a pretty woman up for the owner making book for them gleaning moneys from a people who were starving, among arachnid moving fingers. No way would he cross the mighty Fordham Road where skeletons of dead Indians lay beneath wet cobblestones upon which Edgar Allan Poe had walked while being chased by his inner screaming demons.

Johnny would not attempt to beat roaring trailer trucks and their crunching wheels that were as big as cars trying to make time by cutting across The Bronx and then later to use the side streets when traffic became so heavy subtracting from making good time which was money and so taking the life of a five year old Johnny's friend whom he had stayed with for a long time until the boy's eye's became chunks of ice which did get his father and other fathers to stop intrusions upon the innocent which did get the truck drivers to drive over the bones and footsteps of the past when told they would be hanging from the top of telephone poles by their genitals.

Johnny would not acknowledge Tom's frantic soundless waves and crazy Lon Chaney faces that spoke volumes of terror for him.

"Johnnnnnnnnny!" Tom shouted as he sniffed into his hand that was against his chest preventing a falling of nothing. END 12-28-05