Contacts:

Servitor:

How much can a working class guy say about himself… I don’t know… hey, you ever had a steak sandwich at Ricobene’s?? Now that’s good eatin!! I try to get there every time I’m in the Windy City. Real South Side food. That’s where I’m from. Not the hoity toity northernburbs, or the western bedroom burbs, It’s all about the South Side. The Sox, the Bears, the Stockyards. My folks were regular blue collar folks, not rich. Of course, I don’t remember too much about my folks…

Yeah, okay, I was orphaned when I was a kid. Orphaned into a world full of sleepers, and only me fully awake. I ran alone after that, read a lot of books, got into a little trouble. I’m a self-educated guy. Made my own way. Do my own thing…. And then I met my destiny. I can’t really talk much about those early times. Let’s just say that I found a way to go from being a little fish in a big pond to being a pretty big fish in a fairly small, if dead, pond. It came with a near fatal addiction though. And, I didn’t go for just any old juicebox, I had to hook up with the artist formerly known as the Prince of Chicago. It was a good run for a while.

That’s when I met Dr. Thomas. Classy lady. 

Anyhow, it became more and more work, and less and less freedom as the days wore on. Then the killing began. First a few minor deaths. Then it escalated. It wasn’t my fault, of course… the devil made me do it. I just felt compelled. Of course, the killing wasn’t mentioned at the time I sealed my bargain. It was required later, when I was really and truly hooked on the powerful vitae. I had no choice. 

It all culminated in this nasty little get together in Gary, Indiana. I can’t talk about that much, but I hear rumors that it led to the attempted, but failed, rise of the House of Roscoe. Anyway, after a stint on the west coast, I hooked up with Sam (Dr. Thomas) again… and Siobhan. Now I’m back in Chicago working for Sam, and with Siobhan. Classy ladies…hhmmm…

Here’s an example of why my life is whackier than the average bear. It started out innocently. I didn’t even know I had something to do with it. A for instance would be doors opening up in my face when I pushed a doorbell. How could I have known as a ten year old that just thinking "c’mon open up" could cause a door to open. Color me stupid, but it took about two years to figure that one out.

Clay, good old modeling clay. Not nearly as cool as Silly Putty, but still pretty cool. So, I’m in art class, and we had to make things out of clay. Not only did I fail art, I got kicked out of school. You see, I thought it would b e a great idea to make a knife out of clay. Not just any knife, but like a big bowie knife. And, wouldn’t it be cool if I really had a real Bowie knife (14 year olds think like that sometimes). So the teacher comes around, and here I am with a cut finger. Boom, right out of class for bringing a knife to school. How come no one believed I made it in art class?

Mallory? Yeah, that’s my name. So what? How many times have I heard "so what’s your first name"? Or, "are you related to that chick on Family Ties"? The answer is more elusive than I may seem (although, I have it on good authority that I am not related to the ever-annoying Justeen Bateman). It’s tough being an orphan. You take what you can get. All I know is it has nothing to do with that guy Quincy. Although, we both hang out with dead people… or un-dead people… Whatever….

I was conceived in Dingle, a small town in the west of Ireland, following a long night’s pub crawl by Mom and Da (not then quite married) in Doolin. It is important to note that there are only two pubs in Doolin—Gus O’Connor’s, and that other one. It’s a long narrow road from Doolin to Dingle, past the Burren and along the western shore. But, Ma was quite a fiddler, and in great demand. Such a long road home at night. Well, Dingle was the "official" place of conception… not enough traffic on the Dingle road to say otherwise.

Born in Kinsale, on the southern shore. I have a feeling we were in hiding. Just a feeling. I mean, why were we in Kinsale of all places. Had my first birthday in Bridgeport, a neighborhood on the near South Side of Chicago. That makes me a dual citizen under Irish law. I don’t know how the American government feels about it. Mayor Daley was from Bridgeport. Capone had (or has, I don’t know) a place down there. Place went to hell-in-a-handbasket… so to speak… after the mayor’s death. Now, its on the upswing. Good for Bridgeport…

Favorite Chicago Eats/Drinks:

+Top Notch. Real fresh chopped beef burgers. Fries fired the old fashioned way.

+Ricobene’s. Steak Sandwich’s the size of my leg.

+Gold Coast Dogs. Everybody loves a Kosher with mustard, onions, pickle, tomato and celery salt.

+Tuscany on Taylor. Italian. Family. Got it?

+Gold Star Sardine Bar. McClurg and something. Jazz, cocktails and sliders. Eden for dessert.

+Irish Times. Friday fish fry. Caffrey’s on tap. Outstanding.

+Hell. Place kind of sucks, but there’s this cool sparkly hanging sculpture.

Darkness in my life? Yes. Honestly, yes. It’s tough being on your own. Orphaned. Alienated. It is difficult. My sustenance, for instance, brings ghoulish thoughts to mind. Of course, I’m not an addict. I just have needs… Do you hear me?… NEEDS.

We live with very little empirical knowledge. We make conclusions based upon perception. We make conclusions based upon limited empirical knowledge.

Those conclusions require speculation to make up the difference. That speculation is made up in the human mind. There are no absolutes until we: (i) exhaust empirical data and process it properly; or (ii) we gain the absolute knowledge that our speculations are correct.  Or… there is magic.  This is the fallacy of the technocracy.

64 crayons in a box are better than eight.