Trish Una awoke on a mattress in the middle of a foggy Sunday morning, and immediately felt an unquenchable thirst that only Capri Sun could satisfy. In a haze, she wobbled her way to the dingy kitchen, barely acquainted with the place before she and her father had fled there the night before, following a disagreement in which Diavolo curtly told her 'trish you can't be showing off that shit (kush) like hotcakes', brought on by an incident where Trish was showing that shit (kush) off like hotcakes on the streets of Rome, and then promptly ditching her well-constructed booth to evade the authorities. Reaching for the fridge handle and missing thrice, Trish kicked the door off the fridge's barely-attached hinges, sticking her head inside in search of the life-giving juice that motivated her so. An assortment of varied cheeses, breads, and wine laid inside, all useless—or as Giorno would so eloquently put it 'mooda-mooda'.
"Dad," Trish said loudly, announcing her presence in the living room. Her father had his head buried in a newspaper about the latest tabloid bullshit regarding Passione, gasping loudly every few seconds. King Crimson was squatted in the corner, snorting a line of coke—the only time when its resting bitch face contorted itself into something resembling a smile. "Dad, dad." Trish repeated, inching closer to Diavolo with increasing urgency each time. Diavolo muttered a 'what', before gasping again, practically sniffing the paper as he ignored his daughter further in favor of the daily gossip. "Dad, we're out of Capri Suns." She pushed the paper flat on the table, revealing thirteen yellow straws in his mouth and thirteen punctured pouches at the bottoms, staring unamusedly at Trish.
"Daad, you asshat, this is why your gang hates the earth you walk on." She pouted, not willing to take this injustice standing down. Diavolo sipped loudly from all thirteen straws until Trish sat down reluctantly, trying her damnedest to guilt him. When Diavolo sucked the pouches dry, Trish laid a hate-filled palm on her forehead. "Ugh, thisissomeCommunistbullshit." She muttered, half-glancing at her father.
"I provide so much for you," the ceiling fan collapsed, sparking a small electrical fire on the floor. "And this is how you repay me?" Diavolo mimicked his daughter's accusing body language.
"Giorno wouldn't stand for this."
"That's because Giorno's a snitch. His dad's some candy-ass from England anyways."
"Is not!"
"Is too!" Diavolo shouted intensely, the conversation hitting a passive-aggressive halt. "You know what? This is a good opportunity for some father-daughter bonding. Let's enjoy it."
"Okay." Trish mellowed out a bit, her eyes wandering elsewhere in deep thought. "Dad, I've been meaning to ask."
"Yes?"
Trish's eyes narrowed, her jaw hanging a bit loose before she finally asked. "Dad, how does King Crimson work?"
In just a few words, Diavolo had gotten mad. Not just mad. Two hundred-percent MAD. King Crimson's head whipped around, its fish-like pupils bulging and having donned a whitened coke-stache above its lip. "Shut the fuck up, Trish."