My name is Speedwagon.

Robert E. O. Speedwagon; that's the name I had been given since the day I was born, and reborn on that fateful day, thanks to the resolve of a gentleman no more in this world of ours. And, for some reason unknown to me at the moment, I still remember such name of mine, and his.

Why? I don't know.

When you are born in a family of many siblings, no name is given to you easily. This principle goes restrict for the poorest ones of the United Kingdom, as if it was ever united. Children usually die young these days as the yesterdays, and the fathers don't need to recognize a son by its name, unless it surpassed the age of five years ahead of the crib, this, if there's one left. They just prefer to call them on the short lifes spent by number one, two, three, four... the basic numeric system, because the majority of a thousand is illiterate. Schools cost one cent, and given our year 365 days, it costs more than the salary given by them.

Until I had gotten five years-old that I was given the name Speedwagon by my older brother. Father had died of an respiratory disease before my special birthday, where he was going to be the one to give me a name, but his poor lungs couldn't make it in time. Mother cried, and said no words from that day and week onwards, until she gave birth to a baby, who god forgive me, would die a month later. I guess he was going to die even if he still pretended to be alive. To be stuck in the chimney, if it was a boy, or be sewing clothing on the fabric factory for 18 hours, if it was a girl, we'll never know and I don't wanna.

That's why I hated the rich so much. Richs... such word I cursed on this entirety of my life, as many other robbers and burglars, as the cops call us by, do. Why we had to die for them just live? We lived on, literally, the 'shit' of England. While the horses are constantly bathing the streets with fetid brown rain, smelling putrid as the current state of Thames River, these richs are navigating throught the Water of Leith; while we spend a life to take a third class ferry to see the Logan Rock, a rock ten times similar to the one pushed by those slaves from Egypt to build a pyramid, as these ones who stand above us, while they are given in the first class, what they do is to kiss a rock, from Blarney's Castle, instead of seeing it. And who does want to see a rock, anyway? We live on a city full of concrete

For the people who turned Dick Turpin into a lovable being, and Richard III into a monster, I don't expect nothing less, I thought once, but there's more to be told, and heard, and seem if you could. I am part of this, after all. I am a british one; why do they can't recognized me as one? They say the police never shooted with a gun in England. Their England. But there, on Ogre's Street, where my body was raised to become such being that resides there, is different. Another England that resides within the England. There's no United Kingdom, where Scotland, Walles, Cornwall, North Ireland, Canada resides together. You can't put salt in a cake flavored by chocolate and call the taste by bittersweet, can you?

Those who commit robbery live around the same Ogre Street I was raised. Ogre Street... the most dangerous part of London, a cursed place, the Pandora's Box from where all sickenesses began. But, from where exactly the sickness of these people really started? You can't blame the houses they live to justify such on an easy attempt, as if anything is easy by nature. Places like Ogre Street exists because of such gap between us and the rights that hold us alive, or dead. They can be buried in coffins of cherry wood if they are willing to, while we die like corpses fallen into the plague wagons. When winter comes on Ogre Street, shells of cicadas once alive lie there, in the nearest of the corners, in a deep state of a slumber of a silence needed all along.

Wherever there's coal, a canary's life is gone, but this canary here was strong enought to keep on watching where everything will lead to since them. Just a witness of this time, am I. But with time, the creatures change as well, like that Darwin once told in that book. 'The strong ones are the one who will not perish', or maybe it was something like 'the means are justified by its ends'. Whatever, the ancestor of that giraffe I once saw in the zoo had a long neck like that same descendant, which brings up the question: is it mad to say our ancestor is a monkey? Mad, no. Incoherent is the truth told, and the truth show.

Monkeys and us are descendants of a same ancestor, not that we are descendants of monkeys, no. It's the same way to say that spiders are insects, and the flies, the one insects who spreads diseased around there, are born from the flesh. Interesting, mostly what I learned from the world came from the books I stole. But can you call such act by 'stealing'? Those who are already born with money are the truly ones who deserved to be in jail for the crime of stealing. To have the pleasure of literacy or be able to do it had already been stole from me a long time ago; I just took it back to where it was meant to be taken in.

First came the 'ABC' books, then the '123' ones, until I found myself reading about a guy called Friedrich, the one who wished to return and start everything again, or something like that. I wish I could, but that's only a wish. Maybe someday someone will tell us more about these wishes that fill in our minds, and if it's real that the mind of a criminal mastermind is nothing alike the mind of a priest recitting Job, or a banker that charges interests. Each one of us is an Oliver Twist, but below the waste he used to walk above. Now, coming from a place where the same river stinks for all...

Our tea ain't exclusive to ours, either. It's from India, as Erina told me when she went there on a trip with her father. Yes, Erina... Erina Pendletion, or Erina Joestar, as she became knew since the marriage. Erina told to me tha she decided to go to America because of Jonathan, to spent some honeymoon with his. This, until that bastard, that selfish arrogant being came in, found a way to penetrate as deep as the tip of that knife, the same one who killed the father of Jonathan. Dio Brando, who became DIO when he seemingly gave up from it's humanity, the 'he' kept on that once human flesh. The same human flesh who hurted Jonathan and Erina over past lifes, the beneath the flesh of his that came with the goal to rule over us, over our flesh.

Jonathan... I can't believe he couldn't make it!

Why... WHY!?

...

Pardon, Manhattan. This distress from before and maybe now is affecting me today. Unlike Jonathan, I was raised on the dirt side of England. On the same way as DIO, if you insist, but unlike that man, he was a man, I never gave in into this dirt where I had been gathered. My hat used to have a blade hid underneath the thick layer of leather; as a sort of boomerang projectile, that hat became a weapon for my personal use. On each assault, a noble would lose half or the entirety of his or her finger, and how lucky I was to find a navel ring to be sold for bucks. For those who have enough of those, it might had been a few ones who I had received, but the word 'few' doesn't exist on Ogree Street. Each possession is something, no matter how much you have or not, either bless or a curse.

I'll be truthful, but on that day, that past day... I... how I wanted to kill that noble on that fateful night. Yes, the night that Joestar came in to Ogre Street. After our battle, Jonathan told me he wanted to find the cure for the poison his father ingested, as he suspected of his brother, Dio, to be the culprit. Ever since Jonathan fought bravely against me, and the other punks from Ogre Street, only lefting minor wounds, unlike the ones I left on his arm by that hat, or the ones Dio left on his heart. That Jonathan... how crazy he was. To think he was willing to lose the limbs for the sake of his father, George Joestar. To think as well that, instead of killing me, he only kicked my chest, throwing me against the snow falling over the entire London.

Now, ever since Jonathan had kept me alive, I wear this chess-patterned hat. It belonged to a special friend of ours. By ours, I mean Jonathan as well. That man was the one who trained Jonathan, taught him the Ripple technique, the way found to counter Dio's vampiric powers. Yes, Dio became a vampire, as it became DIO. That Stone Mask may be gone, alike the lives DIO, and Dio, took away from this world. The world didn't mattered for both, since they had a plan to create their ours. Dio wanted the Joestar fortune by killing George, whereas DIO wanted full control of the world, a sort of domination, but in a higher scale, unlike his other vessel, prior he lose the self control of a being, before he abandoned, threw away the tiny bit of his human vessel to become a monster, blood sucker by such formality.

That man, or what was once a kind of man, become the whole of a puke. Only Jonathan, taught by his master, the one who once wore this hat, could make it into DIO, and purge the menace he was for good. In the end, or so as we thought, DIO was defeated, and Jonathan cried. I didn't cried, and I would never, but Jonathan was raised with that kind of brother throught all the life of his. Even when Dio used to torture his self, Jonathan felt alright in a way, because Dio was a brother to his, and how he wished that one day they become as one. DIO also happened to share of same idea, and so he found a way to invade that ship heading to America, killed everybody in the crew, except Erina, and a baby, so DIO could fuse with Jonathan.

That baby... Erina told me Jonathan resisted, until his powers were almost gone; this sure is part of Jonathan's character. He would never allow such defeat to come easily. Not for his, and for others, like Erina, and that baby. A life younger as both, on that day Jonathan died within the explosion, Erina came in safety, together with that infant such a gentleman as Joestar wished for his wife to live with, instead of his, who had sacrificed for the sake of others than his. Jonathan was never told that he save both ladies, and the son of his. Yes, Erina is awaiting for little Jonathan, or maybe it was George, the same name of her husband's father. I hope they both are alright, as I head towards yours, America.

There are so many people on this world that become special on the aftermath of what once where their lifes. Mr. Zeppeli, who once was the owner of this hat, Mr. Joestar, who changed my life, and so did with others. Even a zombie went overcome by Jonathan's spirit before he faded away, with a pain forgotten from the days he used to live, agreeing to such destiny of his. His name was Bruford, and the Luck left of his became the Pluck of Jonathan. So do I become this Speedwagon, now heading for a better condition of living .

But, in the end, soon or later, we will all turn into dust, like the other selves who turned into such to let us live a bit longer. To live a bit longer, to think about dissapearing into ashes for all eternity...