My name is Lanschwing Jeronico. I come from Vienna, where I spent many days of childhood of mine. My parents, Lantlon and Bantley, were circus leaders. Big belly harnessed with a fiery Oriental sash, my father swallowed blades and made fire with his boozy coughs. He was a bearded man and funny, wobbly and bubbly. My mother pretended to be a contortionist of a lioness, thin as an American.
My journey, which I would be pleased to relate, and which has taken me thus far, to this odd and careless place--deemed a so-called "Scarsdale" by its scarce inhabitants--begins at the traveling Jeronico circus. I was shoveling shit like a good little boy, looking forward to my cappuccino, or perhaps a childlike blunt of cannabis (since we were in Amsterdam at the time), when I saw an Indian lad by around the Elephant cages.
"I needs this, Jeronico." He told me, adjusting his nerdy spectacles.
"Need what, my good sir. Are you lost?" I replied, my youthful eyes shaded in my Oliver Twist hat.
"I am Sooky. You should know me."
"Aye, me sir, I know not of who you be."
"I needs you for my purposes."
"What purposes be those, sir? You a new bossy?"
"Lol. Fuck you."
"What kind of language is that, sir? I don't understand. Who are you?"
"I'm done, Jeronico."
"Why, all right then, sir. I'mma go back to me shoveling now."
And the red shirted, tanned skin boy disappeared into the torch flames of the tent. I didn't see him again until ten years later, when he encroached upon me and my beloved, Brackanela Wiggles.
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