by Edmund J. Janas, II Let me be clear: I have nothing against rich people. At least, that’s what I told my therapist while trying to determine if I was born a tiny anarchist or a bad seed. You see, I’ve had a mischievous streak since back when I was a child. More in the “eat the rich” sense, though I didn’t have the vocabulary for that in 1976. It was just after the Bicentennial of 1974, so I was quite young. Somewhere about five years old—an important detail, because this story only maintains its dark charm due to my tender age. Any older, and I’d be writing this from a juvenile detention center’s alumni newsletter. The setting: Rome, NY, a town that achieved what seemed like racial harmony, at least through my...