Little John liked trucks, liked G.I. Joes; and, guns gone pop playing cowboy with Indians under Anytown, U.S.A. skylines til' the porch light jumped up to call him in. He once jumped a fence to just well to just get in; and, found a duck with a broken wing; too broke to love or leave when he heard his dad demand the he get back to eat; the light had been burning bright for a bit; Little John was late. He walked in unable to think of anything save the duck and its broken wing. He kerplunked to eat pulled up his chair and was swept away by the grip on his neck by some authority he called dad. "Don't you git tha' rules boi? ya'd bettr if ya wannuh live! In this house, John, yull lern ruh-speckt!" Dad cracked his lip, cracked the whip, made him bleed. "Now. Kleen yer ass up n' go n' eat." John could barely swallow a thing - empty - -hollowness- he felt sick, worms churning, swirling, sliming, curling his lining from belly to mind reminding him of his every mistake and punishment of angry means and ways, surely, he thought, death awaits for being more than ten minutes late. While he played his peas like a tennis game his pop piped in, "Get to bed you fuckin' ingrate. If yuh can't eat thuh meal yer muthah made, yuh'll starve tuhday... ..... .....Get outtuh my face!" To bed he went broken as his father's head, dead to the world, dreaming instead of the duck's mistakes for which it earned its broken wing. It's too late, he thought; he thought, again, of his mistake, of his empty belly, his facial pain. That fuckin' duck deserved no help anyway. Little John jumped up, the light was on, but, this was, this was .....destiny.....a need, the natural order of things. The duck made a mistake. Little John looked up n' out to the storm clouds about his window over the trees and he climbed out quickly quietly so no one would see, climbed the fence again just to check and see if the duck had made amends or gone home to eat; he hadn't, he was wobbling around the same spot hurt and weak when John carefully carressed its beak and snapped his neck just in time to see his dad at the fence before he screamed, "John! Git yer ass back here now before I beat it tuh next week!" He ran so fast. He ran so quick, approached the fence with, "Dad! I had to teach thuh duck a lesson! He made mistakes!" He began to climb the fence, but, it was much too late, there was no need; his pop had picked him up and tossed him up so hard and so far that there was no chance of landing on feet; but, his head was prime - in line - with the grass landing pad - Little John had snapped his neck ..... He would never play with trucks again. It took a boi to kill the duck; but it took a man to kill the kid.