The Suffering of Second, Third, and Fourth Generation Survivors of a Horrifying Death

As I, with heart breaking, recall the story, my Uncle Arthur was only 14 years old when he was struck and killed by a taxi cab careening down the street, the driver more than likely having been drinking and harboring a deep-seated hatred for bicycle riders. I never knew my Uncle Arthur, no doubt the victim of a hate-filled cab driver. I can only guess how old dear Artie would be today. Ninety-five? One hundred? One hundred ten?

I really miss my Uncle Arthur. My two younger brothers, Peter and Francis, and my sister Eleanor also miss their Uncle Arthur. Francis's middle name is Arthur in memory of our dear Uncle Arthur. My grown children and the children of my siblings and our children's children also miss Arthur. We stand today as victims of an irrational hateful cab driver who manifested an inherently callous disregard for human life in general and particularly bicycle riders throughout the nation and the world. There cannot and should not be the slightest doubt or hesitancy to admit that the Nullifidian Clan is entitled to recurring recompense.

Trust me, there were neighbors who witnessed the tragedy of my uncle's horrible death, his mangled bicycle, his blood soaked clothing, his plaintive, begging, “Help, do not let me die here in the street,” as the blood bubbled from his throat, his last words sounding with a heart wrenching gurgle. I can imagine the fiendish gleeful expression on that evil cab driver's face and his sneering smile.

Should not a foundation be established in Arthur’s name? Cab drivers and their employers should be required to make contributions to build lasting memorial monuments in Arthur's memory. I intend to have a memorial museum (The Holy Arthur Memorial Museum) built which will house the drawings he made in first grade, his report cards, and other memorabilia. My Grandmother would always remind me when she visited.

“Wow, such a genius was that boy, you wouldn't believe!”

I'll display the little white suit he wore at his First Holy Communion. The family was proud as we celebrated that momentous holy occasion.

“Maybe he'll be a priest,” one said.

Grandfather spoke and they listened.

“Not a priest, but a bishop!”

But it was Grandmother who took the prize for pride in the six-year-old boy genius, her Communion Boy, Arthur,

“No, not just a bishop… but a cardinal! A Doctor of the Faith and then… and then… Pope!”

We gasped! There was a silence that seemed to muffle every other sound except that of the word Pope which miraculously echoed off the walls and throughout every room in the house, and then the cheering began.

“Pope Arthur! Pope Arthur! Pope Arthur!”

When the family gathered their composure, Arthur began opening his Communion gifts. There were rosary beads in a nice leather pouch; a Latin/English missal so Arthur could follow along with the priest at Sunday Mass and on Holy Days of Obligation; it also would help in his training to be an Altar Boy. There was a beautiful crucifix on a shiny neck chain and pewter St. Christopher, the Patron Saint of Safe Traveling emblem.

Arthur was so anxious to put the emblem on his bicycle, he had Rev. Fr. Garabedian bless all his gifts before school the very next day and attached the St. Christopher emblem to his bicycle. That cherished emblem was on his bicycle when the cab driver killed him. A caring and pious neighbor, who witnessed the tragedy, saw the emblem lying in the street, next to the crumbled body, rushed out and placed it in Arthur's bloody hand. She watched as his hand clutched the emblem tightly and his last breath left him. And she sobbed quietly while casting a knowing glance of derision and disgust at the demonic cab driver responsible for crushing out the life of this sweet young boy… boy genius and saint to be…

The rosary, Latin/English missal, and the crucifix on the silver chain will all be on display in The HAMM. We plan to have the crumpled bicycle bronzed and prominently displayed near the entrance into which will be carved:

Who Could Forget

Arthur was one of nine children, all but two of whom married and raised families as did their offspring and as did their offspring after them. The pain and suffering endured by Uncle Arthur as he lay dying in the street is shared and is endured in the hearts and minds of the numberless kin of dear Uncle Arthur to this day and will leave our hearts ever scarred unto future generations of Nullifidians.

Only the most cruel and heartless of misanthropic, atavistic, hate-mongering anti-Nullifidian anti–bicycle riderists would characterize my people as mercenary, money-grubbing, scheming, and narcissistic.

(Other than Arthur, the given names of the foregoing survivors have been changed to protect them from being further victimized by cab drivers and cab driver wannabees.)