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Each week that followed, Marcus, like a priest giving benediction, held his hand aloft and did the Sanctus Sanctus gesture of blessing the dead - the very dead lawn. Green went to yellow. Yellow turned to brown. Brown blew away over bare clay which simply cracked in gaping dust bowl dead lawnlessness. "I smite you in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Grass Eating Ghost!" he yelled with delight each week, over the expanse of shattered clay pottery once called a lawn. Marcus Macaluso will take care of the kids, somehow. Don't mess with the Lord of Ices. And miss on you pister if you mess with his boy. The covenant was sealed.