It was a sweltering August evening in the summer of 1997. Amos sat on his firescape idly tossing rocks at the enormous limegreen neon rats practicing groove maneuvers on the roof of the abandoned warehouse below. The beer was flat, stale and unprofitable. The engines gleamed at the bialy factory around the corner. Amos' sweat mingled with the rust of the iron firescape to create a livid illusion of blood in the cracks. He began to doze, lulled by the nocturnal hum of the throbbing nuclear dynamos of the ConEdison generator on 14th St.
Amos dozed, and the full moon came up over Soho. Amos dreamed, and in his vision he saw, graven and etched upon the full moon like the promise of the Apocalypse the rounded lips, the flashing dark pagan eyes, the cheekbones to die for of a goddess he had never yet glimpsed nor hoped to grasp. She whispered huskily in the dusk, "I am Rosannadanna, and from my womb shall issue forth a casual and elegant samurai who will liberate my people. Yo Amos, just do the right thing and tell the children the truth. For I has spoken."
Amish Druid Turtle Tactics