I don't suppose I ever told you I was in the Mafia, did I? It was wonderful:
nice suits, neat hair, lashings of pasta, shooting a couple of fucking
fuckers when their fucking got to be a bit too much. It was the happiest
time of my life, I was amongst friends, I was looking smarter than Einstein
with polished shit - and until you've tried buffing diarrhoea, don't presume
to tell me anything - I was eating well, my violent streak was being
utilised for good instead of evil. What's the point in life if we don't live
in a constant state of flux? What's the point in having high moments if we
can't compare and contrast with the very not so high moments? I questioned.
I doubted. I searched my soul (you can get to the secret area if you go left
from the start and grind the rail leading down to the statue). It was a long
and arduous task, broken only by frequent urination breaks. Where was all
this pasta coming from?
As dawn broke on the twelfth day, I slept, just as I had on the eleventh,
tenth, eighth, seventh, sixth, fifth, fourth, third, second and first. On
the ninth I'd woken up to go to the toilet, but I went back to sleep shortly
after. I'm all for soul searching, but I'm not going to let it affect my
sleep. Sleep's important. Without it you feel tired. The sooner you go to
sleep, the sooner Santa or succubi (posh word for wet dreams; embarrassed
explanation for gushing semen) come. Would you fuck Santa? I think I might,
not cos of any physical or emotional attraction, but just for a story to
tell the grandkids. Obviously it couldn't be one of those fake Santas, it'd
have to be the real deal with a beard you can really grab hold of, otherwise
you're just fucking some fat ugly guy, and that sinks my boat in oh so many
ways. I guess it's the cult of celebrity really. Something a celebrity said
on the twelfth day really caught my attention: "No food without a face." He
was right: pasta was wrong. No more pasta for me.
A Mafioso without pasta is like a psychologist without reversing lights. If
I was to be true to my new ideals I'd have to turn my back on the exclusive
club I loved so much. The only ways out of the Mafia are dying or
testifying - and testifying usually leads to dying, so was pretty much out
of the question. You don't just walk up to the capo di tutti frutti and ask
to leave the Mafia. That way lies a bullet through the nose, through the
side if you're lucky, through the front and out the back if you're not so
lucky. What else could I do though? I didn't want to die, I didn't want to
testify and die, I couldn't stay in the Mafia with all that pasta under my
nose day in, day out. I walked up to the capo di tutti frutti and asked to
leave the Mafia. He was laughing so much as he shot at me that he shot his
baby granddaughter by mistake. The only way out is to die or testify, she
knew that; if she had a problem with it, she'd not have been born into a
Mafia family. It's the way of the Mafia, he knew that, and was naturally
sad, but life does go on.
At the funeral I got a chance to buttonhole (orig. buttonhold) him and
explain my position. I'm not saying he agreed with me, but I think I struck
a chord with him. I'd like to think he respected my bravery in risking a
bullet in the nose - why, only last week his baby granddaughter had been
shot in the crossfire when someone had asked him if it was ok if they left
the Mafia. I think he could appreciate that I didn't want to hurt him, or my
extended Mafia family, I just couldn't be around that much pasta and be
comfortable with myself.
I don't suppose you get to be capo di tutti frutti without knowing the
crossword capabilities of your foot soldiers. I don't suppose you get to be
capo di tutti frutti if you don't know to take a bumper book of cryptic
crosswords to your baby granddaughter's funeral. He tossed me the book and
told me if I could do a crossword he'd let me leave. I don't do cryptic
crosswords; I have at times, but I tend to top out after two answers. Once,
just once, I managed to do all bar two, and it was a joyous day, a party was
held in my honour with lashings of pasta - it just makes me physically sick
to think back to that immoral time in my life, as wonderful as it was. Cap
knew I had no chance of doing the crossword, but I knew that as a man of
honour - almost as important to him as pasta - if I did, I'd really be
allowed to leave. In times of great stress it's said we can draw on reserves
of immense strength. I lifted a couple of buses, but still was struggling on
fourteen down. Somehow I'd managed to get all the rest right, I really don't
know how, I'm sure it was tres dramatic - as dramatic as a crossword can
be - as the sweatiness of my genitals after will attest. Three letters. Y
something S. Are you a child of the free to be you and me generation? Good
ol' Marcy Playground, they've instilled the courage of guessing in me. I
went with E. I won. I left. We kissed as Mafiosi are wont to do. Nothing
more though. Certainly no tongues. It was a funeral, after all.