Tom wasn't there one day ...then he was. That's how and when he got the name Tom. He has been Tom ever since that day, to the best of his ability. He is extreremly shy, but fucking brilliant!! That's the double eged sword of those in possession of genius. Tom is black Irish. He likes to save little insects that fall into his tea cup, by running to get a tissue and helping them out. This method works the best he has found because they are too little to towel off. The tissue is the best thing to soak up all the water from their tiny bodies and delicate wings without hurting them in any way. And with his breath, gives them a decent blow dry until they are ready to go about their day. That's about all you can say about Tom. Some people like to cross the street when they see him coming. He has a genetic problem with authority and has many unpaid parking tickets. He dislikes crowds and stupid people. He spends his free time having to fight off beautiful women with a stick. One day Tom will be beaten within an inch of his life by some thug youths and will be left to lie amongst the shrubbery for twelve hours, paralized from the neck down, swallowing his own teeth. An old lady on her Sunday walk with a quick stop at her local parks bench, will hear a moan from the scrub. Tom dies one and a half minutes before the paramedics arrive upon the scene. His body is donated to science, but falls out the back of a fridge truck, to the side of the highway where he is dragged off into the thicket by beasts. They will feed off him for two months. A Sparrow will take some of his hair for her nest, where Tom will help keep the little ones warm during the colder seasons. His few possessions will be given to the Salvation Army, where they will be put on sale at a most reasonable price. His fridge will be owned by a junkie who listens to The Velvet Underground. One of his books bought by a woman who works as a cook at a vegetarian restaurant. She will later find a photo of Tom sitting between pages 67 and 68. He has a cigar in one hand and is pointing at something out of the picture with a slightly embarrassed grin on his face. He would not know this was as close to immortality as he would come. Tom's bed will go to a nice man for twenty-five dollars, recently arrived from India, where he has left his three brothers and his seventy-nine year old mother. His name is Rashid, and he will drive a taxi that he will share with another man, of lesser morals, whom he can't stand. One night when lying upon old Tom's bed, he will wonder "How many foreign dreams have been dreamt upon this bed."