What follows is a work of fiction and a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance of the characters to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental
I tossed the bullet riddled spittoon away in disgust.
I had been about to clean it when all hell broke loose. The big .45 cal slugs pinged right through it and splattered me with the contents - and the rest dribbled out all over my new suit. I was covered in a week's worth of gob and snoose juice and half my bloody stock got blown away by about a half a dozen yammering guns in seconds ... and I wondered if my night could get any worse.
But of course it could.
The Old Man walked in. "My club!" he groaned. Then he starts going from table to table to check on all the customers. Luckily the only big ones we had when we got hit were Vladimir Putin and George Dubya Bush - but they was good fellas that knew the score. Finally the Old Man made it round to us. "Good lord! What happened here....?" He was still taking it all in. People don't mess with the Old Man round these parts. Not if they want to live, that is.
"Wallace," I said. The Old Man goes, "What?"
"Bob," I said again. I was still in shock too. "Fuggin BOB is what happened here...." That got the Old Man's attention. "You tellin' me we got hit by Bob Fuggin Wallace?!?! Uncle Fuggin Bobby??? That blue butt baboon from the Treehouse??? That's the mook that hit my bar?!?!" The old man shook his head. "That Jewish motherfu.... that cack suc.... I'm gonna have him swimming with the fishes!!!!"
"JFC! Gotta be 200 brass on the floor! Did any of you mugs get a piece of him...?" We all zipped up and looked sheepish. "Answer me, gawddammit! What happened here!!!" Oh boy. Fortunately Vlad stepped up to the plate. The Old Man got on well with the Russians.
"Dadyushka - Uncle Bob come in through front. Big gun under folded newspaper. Bob gets in, drops newspaper, opens up with big Colt. Probly a .38 Super. Comrade Quartermain come in through back. Got chopper in violin case - RAT-A-TAT-TAT!!! Bullets everywhere, breaking glass, women screaming. Barely had time to get Filthie and Dubya under cover. Finks get away before Vlad and boys could take aim. Want drink...?" Without asking Vlad passes the Old Man a glass.
We call him The Old Man. Others call him GG. The papers are onto him and don't buy his schtick of being a law abiding mild mannered senior, nor do the cops. But nobody had been able to make anything stick to Gorges. Scuttlebutt had it he was paying off the judges the same way Hillary Clinton did. Whatever - The Old Man was talking again. He had pulled out a roll and was peeling off 100's. "I want this place fixed up, Filthie, and I want it done yesterday - aw, foygeddabbadit - " and he gives me the whole friggin roll. Must a been 50 large in it.
"Yessir," I said.
"It's for RENOS, you mutt. I want receipts." Whatever. What the Old Man wants, the Old Man gets.
"The rest a you mugs - carry on! Show's on! We needed to do a reno anyways! While me and my Russian friends have a chat about Mr. Wallace - the rest of you, lighten up fer gawdsakes!" And then - It was like someone flipped a switch - amicable chatter and music started up like nothing happened at all. You wouldna thunk we had just been shot up by one of the biggest, ugliest gangsters on the internet!
"What's with da niglets n' reefers, Filthie? No wonder the turdies n' bums are shooting up my club..." the Old Man grumps. Hey - I only look stupid. I know when to keep my yap zipped and let the Old Man vent. He peeled off another couple grand and stuffed the bills in my pocket. "Get a suit too - Dubya, YOU take him to the tailors. Without adult supervision, he'll just go to Sally Ann or Value Village and pocket the rest!"
Can you believe those assholes? They're ALL laughing at me. "Jeez, Filthie, what grade are you in? Is that seriously lime green plaid? And flood pants? Not even YOUR momma has bad taste like that...!!!" And they're all laughing. Like I said - assholes. "Relax, Glen," Dubya goes, "Barb and I will take you shopping... she has a good eye for stuff like this. And while we do that - what about Wallace, GG? Will our Russian friends take care of him? What are we talking here for reprisals? AK47's? RPG 7's? We need to make an example!"
The Old Man leaned back and thought. "No. Not the Russians. No offense, Vlad, but you got enough heat on you already. We need to handle this with finesse." The Old Man absently puffed on his cigar and thought. "Filthie - get Firehand and Mad Jack on the blower..."
"...and fer chrissakes, get some decent talent happening here..."
What the Old Man wants...the Old Man gets.
TO BE CONTINUED