Bill Stickers, who are you and what is your crime? Are you a hooligan or a hoodlum who hoots at whores and hoolicks on their hooters? Are you a pitiless pederastic pervert who points his peter at unwilling pudendae? Do you do dope during dates at drive-ins? Huff hash hastily? Pilfer pennies from parish Poor Peoples' Boxes? Lacerate ladies' lips? Hijack Hawaiian honeymoon hotels? Carjack cruising careening Cadillacs? Terrorize tots on teeter-totters? Translate treacherous Tyrolian tirades for terrorists? Do you own a chihuahua? Loan cheroots to wannabees? Besmirch children's own wallabies' wallets? Let wall-flowers wear red to rallies, shower babies sorrowfully beneath birches' bows in bowers? Oh how the hours pass and the rows full of beans await the harvest beneath the harvest moon! Past scenes of whores in vestments in convents of Fransciscans, Francis can assist the Sistine ceiling's frescoes, while Bill Stickers robs rows of convict con artists posing as Levantine investment bankers venting, mooning, leaking corporate secrets of avant garde sperm banks (clergy prohibited by Vatican dictum from secreting their specimens). Here men's dicks come in vats for small payments, prelates dictate serene prayers of admonition against coition, and shun such premises. The missus misses her mister's rare advances, ups the ante, and quaffs antacids. Aunt Acid (so we used to name her) specialized in spite, china cups, and banter upon holy matters. Dark matter. Darth Vader. Solemn crusader against intemperance and stamp collectors.