In its heyday, in the mid-19th century, Dead Rabbits gang was formed by more than eight hundred members (that without counting those who were not current in their membership fees). Now there are only seventy left led by an Irishman with the appearance of a smoked herring. All of them are marching right now in a single line along Fulton Street, each one of them clutching the skirt of the jacket in front of him. Their leader, Kennedy O’Ooooou, aka “Bobblehead”, leads the march with his arms outstretched clutching a big teddy bear called Bugsy. Bugsy is an scapegoat: if the police ask them what they do, they blame him.
Do not be fooled by the gang’s name. Dead Rabbits are not really dead nor are they rabbits. The name is just a trick to confuse the police. Dead Rabbits are one of the most fearsome street gangs in New York! What they don’t suspect is that they are being watched from a window by the secret defender of the City: Squattedman!
The long row of Dead Rabbits stops at a crossroads and everyone starts eating carrots. As it’s three in the morning, there is hardly any traffic in the quiet borough of Brooklyn Heights.
“Are we going to wait a lot here, Bobblehead?”
“Whatever it takes. Sooner or later some vehicle will pass and then… Ha, ha, ha!”
The mad laugh of the evildoer echoes in the Brooklyn Heights lonely streets. After an hour of tense waiting, an electric car turns the corner. It is the occasion that the gang expected!
“Get ready!”, their leader exclaims.
The Dead Rabbits let see their malevolent smiles and drop the carrots. They return to grab the skirts of their front buddy and wait for the car to reach the crossing. At that precise moment, the long row starts to cross the street. The motorist honks the horn, but the criminals don’t take the hint and continue to go across the street parsimoniously. So much evil makes Squattedman’s blood boil. He quickly takes his clothes off and squats on the window sill. A blast sounds behind him and he immediately becomes a human ball that pops off to the street.
“Where did that explosion come from, Bobblehead?”, a Dead Rabbit asks. And upon looking back, he sees a human ball coming against them like a shot. “Boy, he’s possessed!” he shouts. But it’s too late. Like a ball rolling in a bowling lane, Squattedman attacks the row of malefactors, achieving a strike. The Dead Rabbits are knocked down like pins flying in all directions, thus giving free passage to the road traffic. The motorist starts the car again and turns to make a thank you gesture to Squattedman, who greets him back at the very moment in which a blast sounds behind him and he pops off back to the window. The motorist is gaping at him with bulging eyes while the car crashes into a lamppost.