From the time he could breathe, Tony B was not a very nice kid.

In fact, he was such not a nice boy,

his parents decided to stop having children altogether. As a result, Tony B grew up as an only child.

Being an only child had its advantages and disadvantages. One of the disadvantages was not
having a sister he could peek at through a hole in the bathroom wall, that he surely would have drilled,
had a sister been born. Or having a younger brother, he could smack around a little bit when Tony B
was not having such a good day. Cracking someone around, always lifted Tony B.'s spirits.

Tony B brooded about these things many times, but when he did brood, he straightened himself
out real quick, by thinking about the advantages of being an only child.

Like not having to fight anyone, but his mother, for the last meatball on the serving plate at
Sunday dinner. He knew better than to mess with old hand-crazy old man, but Mama Dria got forked
in the hand many times ,when she dared try to grab the last freaking meatball on the goddamn serving
plate.

When Tony B did spear the old lady with the fork, his father laughed, and thought it was cute
that his son had established himself as a tough guy, at such an early age. Tony's mother laughed too,
through clenched teeth, knowing the only reason she even had a chance at the last freaking meatball,
was because her husband was too full, to stuff another meatball down his fat freaking throat.

Being an only child also meant Tony B got all the allowance money he needed from his old
man, who had no other children to suck him dry.

A dollar here, a dollar there, and maybe a twenty, or two, stolen from a roll of about a 150
twenties, his father always left on his nightstand, before he went to sleep at night. Right next to his
keys, a book of matches and a pack of Chesterfields. This act of larceny was quite easy to do, since his
parents slept in separate bedrooms, an arrangement made to ensure Tony B would be indeed their only
child.

Tony B got his idea to steal his old man's stash in a strange way. One night, he accidentally
caught his mother clipping a few twenties from his father's roll, while the old man was snoring like a
polar bear in heat. Rather than rat mom out to pop, and be the cause of her getting a few teeth
loosened, Tony B made it clear to her, in no uncertain terms, that he, and he alone, had the first shot
at pop's cash, each and every night. No questions asked. If mom wanted to risk a second cut, that was
entirely up to her, but she was on her own as far as that was concerned. Tony B also promised mom
he'd keep his mouth shut about the whole damn situation, including her corrupting of her young son,
by exhibiting the worse case of bad example.

Tony B figured, if his father found out about the thievery, at most, he'd get a crack in the face.
While mom would wind up being carried into Beekman Downtown Emergency, on a stretcher, most
likely missing a few teeth.

Tony B understood at a very young age, not being an canary can sometimes be a very good
thing.

Some kids are good at sports. Some kids are good at school. Tony B turned out to be good at
neither. His parents skipped the public school route, and enrolled Tony B into Transfiguration Catholic
Grammar School at 29 Mott Street, one block east of Mulberry. While in the third grade, Tony B
realized he could garner some neat perks if he could con his teachers into letting him become an alter
boy.

The nuns and priests at Transfiguration didn't realize that letting Tony B become an alter boy
was like giving Willie Sutton a job as a teller at the Bowery Savings Bank. But Tony B put on his best
studious and Pius act, and actually convinced the clerics that he would indeed be a good candidate for
alter boy-hood, which made the saints' statues in Transfiguration Church next door to the school,
cringe in dismay.

So Tony B studied his Latin ----- Ad Deum qui lai te fi cot, uven tutem mayum---BLA, BLA,
BLA, BLA, BLA, BLA...........

That was basically the extent of what you had to learn to become an alter boy.

It was obvious Tony B did not take up the added responsibilities of being an Alter Boy for
strictly humanitarian, or divine reasons. Nobody in their right mind would like to get up at six in the
morning, and trudge through the darkness, on cold and blistery days, just to serve the 7 o'clock mass,
for a bunch of shapeless old ladies, with black draperies hung over their bodies, and black
clodhoppers on their stubby feet.

No, the object of Tony B's madness was that he now had endless supply of cheap, red wine, he
could pilfer from the rectory, under the righteous noses of the good fathers, who were half asleep
themselves at 7 am in the morning.

In fact, Tony B repeatedly volunteered to serve the early mass for exactly that reason. By the
time the 7:45, and 8:30 masses took place, the priests were already wide awake, and more likely to
notice that a bottle, or two of wine missing from the rectory wine cabinet.

This was especially true of Father Quincy, who Tony B noted was one step above a broken-
down drunk on the nearby Bowery.

Many times, while Tony B poured the wine into Father Quincy's chalice during Mass, the
priest would grab Tony B's hand, and force it downward saying, Now there boy, stop pouring the
wine as if it were medicine.

Only after the Chalice had reached the desired level of wine, did father Quincy release his
vice-like grip on Tony B's hand.

So when it was Father Quincy who served the 7am Mass, Tony B was in his own form of
heaven. Tony B always arrived before everyone, with a duffel bag, filled his cassock and surplice, that
he changed into as soon as he arrived, at around 6:30 am. Then, before the priest assigned to the 7
o'clock Mass stumbled into the Sacristy, and while the Sacristan was busy lighting candles by the alter,
Tony B went into full wine-copping mode.

Tony B, with the help of little Richie Ratface Rambone, had months before, snatched the wine
cabinet key, and had a copy made. So all Tony B had to do, was when the coast was clear, open the
lock, remove a quart bottle and stuff it into his duffel bag before anyone was any the wiser.

One bottle would never be missed, but if Tony B had gotten greedy and stolen two or more
bottles at the same time, someone might have caught on to his scheme. With one bottle missing, even if
some dopey priest noticed, he would think it had been taken by another priest, for his late night
escapades. Whatever they may be. Tony B knew all too well, that the priests at Transfiguration
Church, were all alcoholics, to one extent or another. So maybe by stealing the wine, he was actually
doing them a favor.

Every so often, a certain priest, say Father Quincy for instance, would disappear for a few
weeks, and sometimes months. The excuse given, was that this priest was on a retreat, reinforcing his
relationship with God. When in fact, he was in some dry-out tank, at one of the many Catholic Church-
run hospitals, spread throughout the country.

Or maybe even worse.

The worse being, one of the alter boys telling his parents, that a certain holy father had
accidentally put his hands down the front of little boy's trousers. This had happened more than anyone
connected with the Catholic Church chose to admit. Yet after a few months of retreat life, the offending
priest would be given a transfer to another parish, most often in another city, if not in another state, or
another fucking country.

Now inquiring minds might ask, did Tony B steal the wine just to get drunk himself?

Of course not.

Tony B hated wine. It tasted like someone had just taken a leak in his mouth.

Yet Tony B had no problem selling the wine to his upperclassmen, in grades 6, 7 and 8. For a
buck, or two, or whatever price moved him at that particular moment. Thus his early morning wine
excursions earned Tony B just enough extra cash to buy his favorite girlie magazines at a newsstand on
Chatham Square, run by a Chinaman, who would sell anything to anybody, regardless of race, color,
creed, or most important to Tony B --- age.

When he was 10 years old, Tony B's parents moved to spacious three bedroom apartment, in a
six-story tenement on the corner of Mulberry and Worth Street, just down the block from the
Department of Motor Vehicles.

Since Tony B had his own bedroom, and was now having multiple-daily erections, the girlie
magazines, bought with the cash garnered from the stolen sacristy wine, sure came in handy when
Tony B felt compelled to take matters into his very own hands.

When the urge came, Tony B would close his bedroom door, click on his War Civilian radio,
for background noise so his mother would not wonder why he was so quiet, and begin his novice
masturbation routine. At the age of 10, only a few dozen rapid strokes were necessary to bring himself
to total completion.

Then one day, the unimaginable happened.

Tony B's was banging away with his right hand and holding a copy of New York Nights in his
left hand. Fibber McGee and Molly were arguing on the radio, when for no discernible reason, his
mother opened the door and walked into Tony B's bedroom.

Time seemed to stand still. Tony B stopped pumping his right hand, and held his manhood
tight, with one eye on his mother, and the other on the bedroom window, which he was contemplating
jumping out of.

Mom, if anything, seemed more embarrassed than Tony B. She stood frozen, with her mouth
open and nary a sound coming out of it.

Suddenly she said, Well, all-righty.

Then she did an about face and exited the room, closing the door gently behind her.

Tony B froze for a second, then decided it was best he finished the job at hand. And that he
did.

The next day when Tony B came home from school, he noticed a slide lock installed on the
inside of his bedroom door. Nobody needed to tell him when to use it.

Tony B quickly established himself as somewhat of a neighborhood practical joker. Usually the
butt of his jokes was Richie Ratface Rambone, who was called such, because he resembled the
cartoon character Mickey Mouse. Or maybe it was Minnie Mouse. Nobody was really sure.

Richie had a funny walk, like he had a broomstick up his butt. Tony B heard people say mean
things, like maybe Richie Ratface was a queer. Tony B had no idea what the word queer meant. He
thought maybe it meant that someone walked like they had a broomstick up their butt.

One day while in 6th grade, Tony B came up with the brilliant idea of giving Richie Ratface a
present he and the entire neighborhood, would never forget.

It was the day after Halloween, and the neighborhood kids had made a few bucks trick-or-
treating the night before. Most people gave cash. A quarter here. A half a buck there. And some people
even sprung for the green stuff. Which was just fine by Tony B, who as the son of a local mob boss,
expected no less. But some old fashioned creeps still gave the kids candy, which plainly sucked,
because you couldn't buy a girlie magazine down on Chatham Square and offer the Chinaman a
freaking Milky Way in return.

So Tony B decided to be a pal, and give all the chocolate candy he received the night before, to
Richie Ratface, who was a chocolate fiend. But mixed in with the Mars Bars, Milky Ways and
Chunkies, Tony B slipped in a few dozen brown chocolates wrapped in aluminum foil.

My mom made these special, Tony B told Richie Ratface.

Of course Tony B failed to include the tiny little fact, that the candy was actually Ex-Lax, used
by men who would never be called regular guys.

So, right in front of half the neighborhood, Richie Ratface filled his yap with several pieces of
the laxative. He chewed, swallowed, then headed on home.

It was Skinny Benny Vacarelli who told Tony B, that this joke was maybe not too funny, since
more than one, or two Ex-lax could make a young boy very sick indeed. Maybe even sick enough to
die.

They had witnessed Richie Ratface knock down at least six Ex-Lax, and there were a couple
dozen more in the bag Tony B had given him. And what if Richie Ratface's parents downed a few Ex-
Lax themselves? Well, then the spit would hit the fan for sure.

So Tony B and Skinny Benny rushed to Richie Ratface's apartment at 75 Baxter Street, the
corner of Bayard, right across from the newly built Tombs Prison, where Tony B might wind up in, if
Richie Ratface kept eating those damn Ex-Lax.

75 Baxter was the only tenement in the neighborhood that had an elevator, big enough for
maybe two people at a time. 75 Baxter also still had the bathrooms in the hallway, but that's another
story for another time.

When Tony B and Skinny Benny finally got to 75 Baxter, they decided time was of the essence,
and they took the stairs to Ratface's 4th floor apartment. Tony B knocked frantically and Richie
Ratface's mother answered the door.

Trying to keep his eyes off Mrs. Rambone's huge knockers, Tony B spilled the beans about his
little prank.

My God! she screamed. Richie, come here this instant!

Richie came out of his bedroom, munching on another Ex-Lax. He had a puzzled look on his
face, when he spotted Skinny Vinny and Tony B.

What's the matter, guys? Richie Ratface said, chocolate rimmed around his mouth.

Before they could answer, Mrs. Rambone sprang into action. She ran to the sink, grabbed a
pasta pot, and filled it with warm soapy water from the sink. She poured a glass of the suds, then
handed it to her son.

Drink this down in one gulp. Now! she said.

Richie Ratface looked at his mother like she three eyes. What are you crazy? I'm not drinking
no hot soapy water!

Oh yes you are! Mrs. Rambone screamed.

Then without saying another word, she grabbed her son by the back of the head, put the glass to
his lips, and made him swallow the whole glass down in one gulp. Then she refilled the glass and made
him do it a second time.

Mrs. Rambone stood back and admire her handiwork.

Feel like you want to throw up? she asked her son.

No, but that stuff tastes horrible Richie Ratface said.

Time for plan B.

Mrs. Rambone rushed to the refrigerator and took out a cartoon of eggs. She broke ten eggs,
one at a time, into another pasta bowl. She whisked the eggs, then added a warm can of beer, and a
almost a whole bottle of hot sauce.

She handed her son the bowl. Drink this down! Now! Quick! I need for you to vomit. Or you
might die!

By this time, Tony B and Skinny Benny rather be anyplace else in the world, rather than in
Richie Ratface's apartment at 75 Baxter Street.

They watched as Richie Ratface, without question, knocked down the entire eggs, beer and hot
sauce mixture.

This time Richy Ratface whole body shook. She looked pleadingly at this mother. Then heaved
a projectile vomit right into Mrs. Rambone's face.

Not waiting to see any further results, Tony B and Skinny Benny sprinted out the apartment's
front door, down the stairs and out the front door of 75 Baxter Street. They dashed into Columbus
Park, running like their lives depended on it, and exited out of Columbus Park near Park Street. They
sped into Tony B's building and their legs didn't stop moving until they were safely in Tony B's
apartment.

Sally Boy was sitting at the kitchen table, with a shot and a can of beer in front of him, and a
bottle of Remy, half-empty, sitting on the table. He saw the boys were sweating and near exhaustion.

What happened? The cops chasing you? Sally Boy said.

So Tony B told his father the truth, waiting for the explosion of Mouth Etna, which is on the
opposite side of Sicily from Palermo.

But Sally Boy did not erupt. Instead he smiled, patted Tony B's shoulder, and said, That's my
boy!

Sally Boy gave his son and Skinny Vinny a shot of Remy, and a can of beer.

Salute, Sally Boy said, raising his shot glass. Cent'anni

All three drained their shots and washed it down with the beer.

Here's to my son finally growing some balls, Sally Boy said.

Skinny Benny looked puzzled. What does Cent'anni mean? he said.

A hundred years, Sally Boy said. May we all live a hundred years.

At that point, Tony B felt for sure it was not likely, with his lifestyle, he was going to make ten
years more, let alone a hundred.

As for Richie Ratface, his mother's quick thinking saved him a trip to Beekman Street
Emergency. But Richie Ratface found the toilet bowl his constant companion for the next several days.

When he returned to school, Richie Ratface looked pale, and skinnier than Skinny Benny. And
from that day on, Richie Ratface never touched another piece of chocolate.