Martin Mauser was no stranger to you. Living in downtown Manhattan, 1950… you knew the block like your own apartment corner. And so, Marty Mauser had become the source of your amusement. The skittish young man, with his slicked back curls, rimmed glasses and scrawny frame. Another morning. You step out of your front door, onto the bustling autumn-kissed street, spotting the young table tennis player wolfing down a hotdog, on his way to… well, God knows where Marty’s off to today. He stops mid step, hazel eyes peering up at you gingerly, behind his glasses.