Tuxed John Kennedy eased out of a curbside limo and looked at Bea's green spike, smiled, aimed a finger at his temple, fired it, and jerked his shattered head hard right like the Cong prisoner shot on-camera in '68.

Bea whooped, leg-spasmed with laughter and tipped backwards, kicking our red-sauced linguini up inside Il Violino's sidewalk glazing.

John-john had turned to lift his pink-gowned date out of the carpeted shadow, and the wedding-cake couple almost overlooked our fame-frenzy. What petrified their spin was the splattered tomato gore kaliedoscoping the pane.

The earth's matchless faces recoiled at the slaughter: Grenade-blasted Bea flat on her back, covered in blood, me desperately clawing at shotgunned face, neck and chest.

J-J swooned with childhood terror, and, seeking grasp, drug the woman's gown down with him, leaving her naked, thigh to mane, his nails tracing crimson serpentines down snowy curves.

The ravaged beauty screamed at J-Jr's decapitation, his instantaneous transformation from supreme icon to vulgar mauler and disrober, his scarring her with infame's treacherous plummet.

Me and Bea peered at the crumpled tux huddled knee-bent at Mlle Mons de Venus, wondered what are we ogling: John's head tucked in her cavern. Was America's Greatest Boy feasting Olympus right there in plain view of Capital Cities/ABC?

Bea wiped the glass just as Venemous de Milo kneed Grecian God's nose, squirting a red fan down his bright white bib. John's torso arced backwards with the blow, his head split-cantalouping onto hardrock slab.

Me and Bea stared lids flickering at Zapruder's frame by frame of pink-suited Jackie clambering horror-struck from Jack's split skull and fame-sprayed brains; unimmaculate transfiguration of heavenly ascension via Oswald's marksman benediction.