My name is Jim Jam Jump -- and this here is my story!

Figgered I should write it down since Mama says I'm special and bound
to do great things-liggity-bump. Normally I don't take much account to what
Mama say, but I reckon she's right on that one.

Rat clap-a-tap map flap cut cat basic facts about myself being:

Fifteen years old fer now, handsome as heck, thin but strong and
mighty quick, two times smarter than a whip, menace to my enemies and
grim reaper to rodents who dare to cross my path.

Jippity jap hubadah gump flitty pritty stump.

Mama says I got me a good imagination, right about that too. Words
come into my head and I just say em. Folks call it gibberish but I know it ain't.
Means plenty to me and it feels good when I talk em. Sklip pap pah. The
sounds just come outta me and it makes me real excited-like. I know dern
well if something feels that swell it must be swell, too. Jeeka by boo.

What I say, Jim.

Mama says I'm a good lookin' fella, she right about that too. Mama's
not right about ever-single-thing, though. She's poor Italian immigrant trash,
full of superstitious ways and spoutin' broke-up English 'bout the Lord n'such.
Never did learn to talk right, she. Mama tried teaching me Italian once but it
never did took. Now, that sound like straight up gibberish to me, Slim; zigga
higga jig is what. But she a good ol' gal and I mean her no wrong fer it.
Nope-a-dope shippity shah.

Weren't born with the name of Jim, got that name from Crawfish Bob,
same fella made me famous. Born with the super eye-tal-yun soundin' name
of Dominick Carolla. But my hair is nigh yella and my eyes are fishy-blue, so
no one need to know where my folk come from. Keep that to yerself, Slim.
Jim jam scram hucka lucka zucka zig.

Ffffrit.

Fame and fortune come my way at the age of no more'n ten. Bored as
fly in a glass box I pounded a nail straight through a heavy chunka wood,
hunka hunka chunka wood-shy, and took to killin' rats in the alleys of the
tenderloin district just fer fun. Lotsa good fat ones up-down-roun' thattaway.
Best time fer huntin' rats being the twilight time when it ain't quite dark. I
could score an average thirty-three in twenty minny, my personal best being
forty-seven and I ain't even lyin', Sam. Flim flum flam.

The night Bob happened upon my killin' hobby I didn't even shy-lie
know he was peekin' till he shouted and whooped and jumped up and down,
fliggity mighty lighty lo and bee-hold, offering me a job 'fore I could shout
jumbo. Paid me two penny a night to kill rats lurkin' like grim fuzzy terror
where the alley dark and damp as a sewer runnin' straight past and behind his
place o' binness on Basin, a fight store named for Bob called Crawfish Bob's.
Shlibbity shlob yuppity gob mister heckle beckle joe, Bob's place wasn't really
directly on Basin, more like in the alley behind, crunched up with a block of
warehouses full of liquor and coffee beans. If you didn't know where to look
you'd probably never know.

Anyhoo, I thought that a pretty good lotta-licka loot back then, but it
only got better is what. Glam slap fly. Got better it did too, real right quick and
then some, sho.

Got better 'tween fights at the fight store one night when ol' Bob took
a slew of bettors out in the alley to see me in hellfire killin' mode. The bettors
just stood with mouths all agape as I got ratties with the nail-stick, whackety
crack smack freaky bop squeak, one right after the other just like flappy-tah.
After none left fer movin' and I'm catching my breath, Bob speak up to the
bettors in a sneaky little voice:

"I'd bet a dixie that, in a controlled settin', that boy could kill thirty
rats in ten minny." Tall order, that, thought me.

Little clicka silence before one of the bettors wrinkled up his gin
blossom nose and spoke back sharp-like:

"I'd put a dixie agen' that, Bob." Unbeliever is what. Mama call
unbelievin':

Inf-fuh-dellin'.

And thus it begun, wallah wallah gallah hoo. What I say, Jim, jeeka
bye boo.

The fight pit at Crawfish Bob's saw ever' kinda blood. Chicken blood
from cockfightin', dog blood from pit bull fightin', and man blood from bare
knuckle boxin'. Didn't seem such a stretch to add some rat blood in the mix.
And so-wee 'twas.

Crawfish Bob put me in that pit with a cage fulla fat, hungry vermin
collected up by the niggras who usually just sweep the floors and break up
fights among the gin blossom gang. Bettor-getter-fly, say hoo. Well, them
bettors still makin' bets when the cage door fly open, and I just go: whackety
crack split bap-a-tap just like normal 'ceptin' with people shoutin' and
a-whoopin -- some rootin' fer me and some rootin' fer rats depending on
where their money lie.  That very first ratfight made ol' Bob a pile o' clean
dixies right off the bat lickety splat. And I'm on my way to fame, just like that.

Bob say he gonna paint my name on a big wood board out front, and
that I oughtta come up with a snappy show-folk name ta help sell tickets.
Well, I just scratch my head and say "Jim jam jump, what kinda name ya
mean, there, Bob?"

He just smile real big and say, "You said it, son. Jim Jam Jump, the
Amazing Ratboy of Orleans Parish and Serr-ROUN-din' Terri-trees!" And
so-wee 'twas. Himmina hah-hah hoo.

The name of Jim Jam Jump got known far and wide lickety-quick, and
the money rolled in fer Bob at two penny a tickee with a whole lot more from
bets on top o' that. Rats got thin so Bob started ta breedin', but it take a while
'fore pink baby ratties to fill out chubby-full-grown. It warn't long 'fore ol'
Bob hadda spend some of his Amazin' Ratboy loot on hirin' more niggras to
collect up street-rats fer the spectacle. Collected up so many rats that the
Parish got mighty clean of em, 'ol Bob and Ratboy winnin' praise from
Mayor Almighty Himself. Fap whap ding.

That's how I got to know my best pal, the niggra called Dropsy
Morningstar, a fine rat collector and new good ol' friend of yours truly,
Jim Jam Jump.

Dropsy an idjit; smilin' too big alla time and dumb as a stone,
but he fun to hang around 'cause he do what I say and strong as an ox times
two. I guess you could say we partners n' such. Mippity moppity jiggle wiggle
wutch. Come to find; my family and Dropsy's got a connection too.
This town shore is small, I say it to you and say it again. Small as a ball in a
crack in a wall and that's all to the hall. Tickety-tall.

Which bring me back to Mama and her crazy ways. Could be when
my Daddy died, it drove her 'round the bippity bend, cause she
tale-tell-told-tall stories about Daddy that shore are strange.

Said after Daddy died, I got sick with demons. Said Daddy reached
out from the cemetery and yanked those demons outta my heart with a cold
dead hand. Said that's why I got this scar shaped lika hand on my chest is
how. Crazy talk, whupitah-walk.

Now, I was only but one year old when Daddy died, so I can't
recollect nothin' 'bout them days, but I do have that scar and it do look like
a hand. Still, Mama ain't purely right in her flippity head. But she a good ol'
gal justa same, say me.

What I say, Jim.

'Fore I get to forgettin', here's the one crazy thing Mama said what
ties in here:

Seems a niggra preacher and one of his sons helped to make me well
when I was sick, sick with demons as they say. Seems that preacher died
makin' me well. Seems that preacher's name was Morningstar -- just like my
own pal, Dropsy. Turns out that preacher was Dropsy's daddy.
Fancy that. Shorely is a lickity small dang world indeedy times two.

So maybe it was fate that locked me and Dropsy together as
partners. Maybe just chance. Better-wetter-getter goo locka doo is why.

Also seems the Morningstar boy there that night was Dropsy's younger
brother, a boy called Typhus. Now there's a funny thing, because where
Dropsy got extra big and stayed dumb like a baby, Typhus got real smart but
stayed small. Heard say this here: that boy Typhus never growed a red inch
since that night, and he was only nine year old back then. Better'n twenty now
and still just four-anna-half feet tall.

Also heard say; Typhus got a scar like mine, shape of a hand, right on
the chesty. Co-inky dink or flinkity bink? You tell me and I might believe it.

Allat just crazy talk is what, say me. But I like a good story, and it'll
add on right smart to my future of legend and fame. The legend of Jim Jam
Jump, they'll say.

O'course, I got plans bigger'n rat killin'. Stuff of legends must go
beyond mere rodent-blood induced fame.

I'm gonna learn to play the horn like Buddy Bolden. Better'n Buddy
Bolden is what. Now, if I could just get me a dern horn! I'm savin' up fer one
now, is how.

Slimmity-slam honk-a-tonk man, be I. Just shortly and around the
corner.

And that's what.

What.

I.

Say.

Jim.

What I say, Jim.