Deep deep down beneath the dead pipes and the rail-yard runoff dirt, long, yellow fingers push through a crack in one of hundreds of bricked-off corridor walls. The slick wet fingertips trace floppy trails across the scrapped subway tunnel's floor, then settle on the paint-emblazoned sides of a long-dead train. The bile-sticky print is not enough to sear off the paint; but still, it seeps in.

This ladroni blubbers and churns, and as it writhes, it laughs, and what spills out its mouth soaks up stomach-deep through the floors above. The shuffling commuters taste the bile but swallow it down without question.

The garish haledroni makes its appearance, its knees scratched up on car wreck twists. It shakes as it grabs at side of the road doll-parts; it leaves its trail bloody.

The buledroni splashes its palms against a fountain-water surface that reflects the night-yellow clouds, but never the stars.