by R. P. Lester
“I thought loyalty counted for something around here, Dick! But you know what? Fuck it! If you wanna take his side over mine, do it! But mark my words, Wienersmashin”—stabbing her finger on the desk—“if you let Bryan stay in that position, you won’t have anybody working here! He’ll either can them for something stupid or they’ll get fed up with his bullshit and leave!!”
With that, she stormed out of his office, crying inconsolably, grabbing her award for Best Anal by a Cougar from Dick’s trophy case as she left. She marched to the locker room, packed what little belongings she had on top her golden memento, and hurried through the lobby to her Camaro in the parking lot. Sheeta King was gone from Feisty Fista Studios forever.
Sheeta had given twenty-five years of her life to Dick and his company. You’d think her devotion would’ve forged a bond—if not personal, at least a strong professional tie. But you’d be wrong. She was curtly dismissed without so much as a severance package for padding.
To add career insult to financial injury, Bryan grapevined the incident throughout the city, embellishing aspects of the story, fabricating outright lies when the mood suited him. He defamed Sheeta’s reputation so bad she couldn’t get a gig blowing a leper colony.
I’ve never forgotten my beautiful raven.
***
Big and burly as he was, Bryan never attempted any of his browbeating with me. Not that he would’ve gotten far had he tried. I’m fairly certain our unspoken agreement was the crux of his hindrance: he didn’t pull his rhetoric and I didn’t pull his arms off his fucking body.
Bryan unleashed his tyranny one too many times. I drew the line when he suspended Sabrina Sparkles for letting a drop of semen hit the ground during a swallow scene. (Her male counterpart was known as “The Load.” What the fuck did he think was going to happen?) That was it for me. I went into Dick’s office and turned in my resignation. When he asked me why I was leaving, I said that Bryan’s domineering hand was too much to endure, adding that if I wanted mistreatment I would’ve stuck to being a birthday clown.
***
Bryan’s malevolence toward his people continued and Sheeta’s prediction rang true: it got to where there was only one employee on the payroll—him. He’d fired a majority of the stable for the most frivolous of violations. The ones he didn’t run off cut ties because he was an unconscionable douchebag.
While Bryan’s actions brought shame on the Wienersmashin legacy, the mismanagement of his cousin’s company led to ruin in Dick’s wallet; he had no stars for his movies thanks to him. Dick’s commitment to family had left him broke, in debt, and a hopeless alcoholic who couldn’t even afford his own liquor. His beloved film company gave a final curtain call when he filed for bankruptcy.
***
After the fall of the Feisty Fista Empire, Bryan was reduced to swimming through the seedy floor of Hollywood like a scum shark, always chomping for work but coming up short due to his toothy character. His infamy followed him everywhere, stalling his efforts to land roles even a beginner would turn down. In the end, he lost his mind and screwed the pooch as only he could.
No. I mean he actually put his dick in the Dachshund of a well-respected circuit judge and was busted humping the poor thing in His Honor’s backyard. The last I heard, he was in the Los Angeles county jail awaiting sentencing.
Damn, Bryan. Even Hollyweird has its limits.
Wade in the Water
Let’s be honest: sometimes you don’t even give a shit enough about your job to go in and give the boss a backhand for bothering you. No matter how many times that bastard calls the house seeking your whereabouts—waking up that beastly one-night-stand in the process—you don’t even care enough to invent a semi-believable story and lie to him like the flea-bitten bitch you are.
“Why does he need to know where I am?” you ask as you lie in bed staring at the caller ID. “What am I, a fucking organ transporter? It’s not like my job is that important. Jerry can wear the Chuck E. Cheese suit today, goddammit.”
Your soon-to-be jobless ass is not alone, my friend. Apathy nurtured by reckless behavior has been the basis for shirking many a shit job ever since there were jobs and the irresponsible shits who shirked them. It is commendable that you’ve elected to continue that tradition in such fine slacker form.
I mean, when you think about it, it’s not as if you had much of a choice, right? Your abhorrent lifestyle has given you a slew of reasons not to go to work:
You’re hungover.
You’re stoned.
You need to get stoned to cure the hangover.
You’re now hungover and stoned.
You’re trying to figure out why that chick you brought home from the bar is standing up to piss.
Dear God her Adam’s apple is huge.....
***
Point is, fuck ‘em. You’re not going. And if they want to fire you for not calling in then that’s their prerogative. You’ve had enough of being run into the ground by a faceless machine. You’ve decided to stand up to the oppression by lying down on your Tempur-Pedic mattress and getting so high you hallucinate ambition. Aside from bursting in with automatic weapons, there are numerous ways for a person to show that they give dog shit about their employment.
And today, you’re utilizing all of them.
Now you being a peon, your dispassion is understandable. If you’re not at work, they’ll just find another simpleton to scrub the toilets and forget you ever existed. What throws everything into upheaval is when the guy in charge says, “Fuck it.” By definition, the boss responsible for the decision making in your department cannot exhibit carelessness, if for no other reason than avoiding an unhinged employee trying to lance him with his erection like a toothpick through an hors d’oeuvre.
Not giving a damn about employee satisfaction can be as dangerous as wearing piranha rubbers (or rubber, since you’ll never have to wear one again). Hindsight being 20/20, an old boss of mine would probably agree.
If he could talk.
***
I assume you’re familiar with the art of ballet.
I know fuck-all about it myself. Couldn’t tell you shit.
What I can regale you with is the time I was wrapped up in a criminal organization whose tentacles reached every corner of the globe. When I was part of a vicious juggernaut that is still active in virtually every illegal enterprise. A network ran by Men of Honor who made their living from scandalous black-market activities—from human trafficking and narcotics sales to political corruption and contract murder.
***
I was at the top of my game as a celebrity bodyguard, sheltering such notables as a still-bangable Pamela Anderson all the way to Brad Pitt when he was still tackling meaningful roles, circa Fight Club. I took pride in my work and enjoyed it thoroughly, as I met famous people who finally gave me respect for my itchy trigger finger. Be that as it may, my last assignment had eroded my affinity for the job.
The contract had left me jaded, disillusioned. The client, being an exceptionally spoiled and willful little wretch, had wrung me dry of my virility, leaving me a shell of my former self. She incited mobs wherever we went, invited strange men back to her home for syrup parties, and eluded me in public to go pull trains in meth houses for days at a time.
Being a chastity belt for a twenty-something Kim Kardashian was fraught with peril because that slut made it impossible to adequately fulfill my duties. The finale of that contract was like the welcome end to awkward drunksex.
I abandoned my enterprise to seek personal fulfillment. Taking a cue from Conan the Barbarian, Fred and I roamed the land seeking adventure and loose bitches. Our journey led us to New Orleans where we found the good drugs and cheap whores we’d always known were out there. I rented an apartment outside the French Quarter, whiling away my time in the streets, loving every bit of ass that seated my face. But still, I felt a hollowness that yearned for something meaningful.
***
It was winter in the Big Easy
. Walking along the outskirts of Woldenberg Park just after sunrise, I was approached by a gentleman in dark jeans and a black leather jacket with hair of galvanized steel. The jagged white scar slashed from the rim of his upper lip spoke of a once much-needed cheiloplasty. His introduction said the name was Marco Poliona. Told me he’d seen me on one of my walks the week before and had been occupying the wrought-iron benches every morning thereafter, watching me as I trudged through. It was fact; the corners of my eyes had taken him in, but I thought he was just a mugger scoping for a mark (his stares hadn’t garnered concern from me or my .45).
He made small talk as I smoked my large joint. It was colder than a dead man’s dick and my eyes narrowed at his interruption. They slitted thinner when he commented on my hefty size and asked if I knew how to handle wood. I began to suspect he was hitting on me.
I’ve seen Cruising, man. Pacino told me about the yellow bandana and I wasn’t falling for it.
My fears were abated when he revealed that he was a Made Man in the Italian mafia, a Caporegime in charge of a neighborhood crew who was looking to add muscle to his throng of soldiers. My conjecture was apparent when I queried him about the yellow bandana in his pocket. He laughed, stating it was for a bug he was fighting. I relaxed when he used it to wipe his nose, also relieved to find that his “wood” comment was an allusion to swinging a baseball bat.
The air rolling off the frigid Mississippi bit my nuts as we spoke. I was freezing and asked if I could have some time to consider his proposal. I’d meant in terms of days. Marco gave me only a moment to mull it over.
It was made clear to me that I had two choices: a) agree to his terms, or b) wind up in an oil drum at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico. He said it as slick as reciting a grocery list.
What balls on this fucking dago.
I gave the park a quick once-over. It was early—too early for tourists and families with small children. No cops. The only people around were the hobos sleeping on the benches and they wouldn’t care what happened next.
This was New Orleans, man. They’d seen it all before.
I dropped my joint and slid my hand to the small of my back. He slid his through the open zipper of his jacket, reaching for the shoulder holster.
The cold air made my already-rough voice sound like Redd Foxx gargling broken glass. “Marco, if you got plans for an oil drum, it better be big enough to pack a fat man and a vengeful goat.”
Fuck him. I wasn’t going to take a threat from anybody, especially some stranger dripping of olives and Old Spice.
He stood stock-still with his hand on the weapon and voiced his rationale. I suppose from a criminal’s standpoint, it made sense: in under five minutes I’d been made privy to sensitive information, and I couldn’t very well be expected to walk around with it should I decline, nevermind that I hadn’t asked for any of that newfound knowledge.
The tight grip I had on my pearl-handled 1911 pressed white knuckles into my spine as we both held our positions by the water.
The ridges of Marco’s eyebrows jutted forth like a Neanderthal’s. “So what’s it gonna be, Innis?”
Ventilating the skull of a mafia captain in the early hours of the morning wasn’t the way to win friends and influence people, especially when those people were members of a crime syndicate who’d seek revenge for the murder of their boss. The only citizens I’d met since my arrival were the dealers on Bourbon Street, and if this went south, I had nobody to turn to for help. Even if I ran, his crew would track me; just because there was no one around to see it didn’t mean it wouldn’t get around who did it. For no matter how bad a man thinks he is, it’s impossible to wage a one-man war on the mob, even with a mentally broken goat picking up the slack.
Against every instinct, I cried uncle, dropping my hand back to my side. He slowly did the same and jerked his head toward Cafe Du Monde. We walked side-by-side to the open-air restaurant for beignets and particulars.
Despite his threat of stuffing me in a metal container for eternity, Marco proved to be a valuable instructor in the nuances of the criminal underworld, teaching me the all but indecipherable codes of the mafia, and educating me in the history of its many traditions.
He also revealed himself to be a dastardly backstabber who got what he deserved.
***
The son of humble Italian immigrants who owned a small cafe, Marco was given the wet end of the breadstick the instant he slid from Mamma Mia’s pie. Besides being born a club-footed, hunchbacked, twelve-fingered monstrosity with a sneering hairlip, his parents were a couple of uneducated foreigners who’d gotten their little bundle of horror late in life. Of course, none of that mattered to the Polionas. Though Marco was an abomination before God, they loved their son without question. Even so, their love failed to curb two harsh truths:
One, they couldn’t afford another mouth to feed; with Marco being their thirteenth child, the financial hardship would be just too great. Two, their other children were pretty thick; the Polionas were getting on in years, and couldn’t bear the chore of chasing another mental deficient away from the street sweeper.
After much praying, they came to a painful decision: they’d give the boy a better life by any means possible. It wasn’t their first choice, but they could swallow their emotions for little Quasimodo to have a brighter future. Still, this ray of sunshine came with a dark side. It meant a change for the family as well. They’d be forced to leave New Orleans, fleeing the urban swamp to avoid reprisal from the authorities.
This wasn’t like casually giving someone a cigarette. Or the clap. They were gifting a child to a stranger without overture. As far as the law is concerned—and my father when the whiskey has flowed like wine—“that’s as wrong as two boys fuckin’.”
Choosing the proper trustee for Marco would be difficult, for there were some factors to consider: who would give him the proper guidance? Who would teach him to be a man? Most importantly, who wouldn’t instigate a nationwide manhunt for the family who “forgot” one back home? The answer came in the most unlikely of benefactors.
On a warm evening in July, a prominent figure in the community called in a large order. The senior Polionas, bustling in the kitchen, froze in their tracks when they read the customer’s address.
They knew that address.
Everybody in the neighborhood knew that address.
Mr. Poliona shook the shock from his head and yelled the numbers to the rest of his family who were working in different parts of the restaurant. The dim-witted Poliona children dropped what they were doing, blank stares given to one another in the dining room, the information slowly sinking into their gelatinous brains.....
…..
…..
…..
…..before setting the wheels of their plan into motion.
The customer’s order was put together with extra attention to detail. The clan knew this was the last meal to be made in their café, and their final dishes had to have a punch. Mrs. Poliona slaved away over cast iron cookware. The men of the house took to clearing out irate customers. Marco’s sisters gently bathed him in a water bucket filled with lilac soap, preparing him for a new life with siblings who didn’t forget they had indoor plumbing. After coating him in olive oil and baking flour—Marco giggling as the flour tickled his hairless nuts—they sheathed him in wax paper (I’m telling you, these children were stupid), placing him next to the food in a handmade wicker basket made especially for the occasion.
Their eldest son reached the customer’s home and knocked on the huge wooden door. His knuckles had barely finished rapping the oak before he sprinted to meet the rest of the family at Louis Armstrong International. A hastily booked flight to New York was firing up to take them away.
The Poliona family, minus the youngest member, solemnly boarded a Delta plane and bid their private farewells to Marco and their city. As they taxied on the runway, tears flooded the crevices of Mrs. Poliona’s grizzled face. She was exhausted, but she could rest e
asy knowing that another life awaited them in the East; that little Marco finally had a fair shake in the South.
So it passed that Marco’s life truly began when he was gifted to the notorious Mafioso Peppino Ballasacko along with his order of tagliata di manzo and strawberry cannolis.
***
An importer of fine art and Italian cheeses, Ballasacko was a respected member of the business community who wielded great influence in local affairs. Known for his benevolence and entrepreneurial savvy, he organized events for charities, lunched with members of the political circle, and attended Saint Hypocrites on Sunday mornings. He’d been a decorated soldier during the Vietnam War, and was renowned for his shrewd financial acumen.
But his shellac was tacky. Everyone from the mayor down to the lowest gutter hood knew how the “Italian Battalion” really did business.
Ballasacko, commonly known as Don Balls, was head of the bayou branch of the mob with half the city fathers in his bed. When a corrupt politico pulled his thong to the side to expose the city treasure chest, Ballasacko yanked his hair and violated every fiscal orifice. He got a cut from everybody—from the little black kids who tap danced for the smiling tourists in the Quarter, to the councilmen who accepted graft from the shady construction companies.
If there was an apple pie cooling on a windowsill, he got a slice.
You didn’t satisfy his sweet tooth, you were garroted with piano wire and dispatched to the Gulf.
His charm was endearing, his bootleg funds bought him protection, and the threat of bodily harm to any would-be whistleblowers kept it the best open secret in town.