Face down, Ass up
Silvio Berlusconi is stood on the deck of his luxury yacht, a cabin cruiser slicing through the atomic waters of the Gulf of Naples. He is in an all white ensemble: leather waistcoat, slacks, deck shoes and bandana. A large gold plated crucifix is nestled in his chest rug which is dyed jet black. The Priest is in attendance, hanging over the side-rail and smoking, his shock of wiry silver hair ruffled by the warm breeze.
"Sil, what the fuck they been dumping?"
The Priest gestures at the green and fizzing sea.
"Looks like they dropped a giant Alka-Seltzer in it. Naples is rotting through all the shit dumped in it. My grandmother's peaches are fucking radioactive."
Papi sips champagne and shrugs, "You wanna be fucking herding your grandfather's goats in a field or getting blown by chocolate titties below deck?"
"All I'm saying Sil is surely we've gotten all we need from it."
"Yeah, we have, lots ain't. That's why we're here. Anyway, relax, enjoy yourself. What do we owe Naples? Hell what do we owe the Republic? No fucking gratitude."
The Priest lights another cigarette.
"I love it out here," says Papi. "There ain't no law on the water. No law, no judges, no cops, no bullshit. All you got to worry about is some maritime assholes."
"What about the broads?"
"Broads up your ass," spits Papi. He walks to the front of the yacht so he is facing the shoreline. Cupping his hands around his mouth he starts to holler. "Hey, listen to this. People of Italy, judges, cops, all the law…I've got something for you…"
Papi grabs his crotch hard with both hands.
"Take this and shove it up in your mother's twat!" Papi thrusts his hips forward with a theatrical flourish. He throws an arm round The Priest's shoulders.
"What you were saying earlier, do it tomorrow."
The Priest's taciturn demeanour is briefly dissipated, "Such a waste Sil."
"What can you do? Angel's a great kid, Jesus, she takes a dick so deep it'd take Christopher Columbus to find it, but she's a chatty catty. And Lucretia, that disrespectful skank, she has Angel in her pocket."
"Tomorrow then, Sil."
"Fuck don't dwell on it, lets get back to the hot chocolate. Hope my goona-goona likes vanilla sauce."
They retire to separate cabins.
Slash Fiction
The Priest is watching silent camera phone footage downloaded onto Slonisco's iPad.
"You'll see," says Slonisco.
The action takes place in what appears to be a Venetian ballroom. Lots of Renaissance shit and opulence. The guests are formally attired in tuxedos and full length ball gowns and are wearing masks influenced by the Commedia Dell 'Arte. Whoever shot the footage makes their way through the guests. There is lots of champagne and cocaine about. On the ballroom floor a small crowd has gathered in a semi-circle. A naked couple are fucking hard doggy style. The Priest recognises the girl. It is Angel. The tanned and muscular porn stud fucking her is wearing a parody of the mask of Pulcinella; instead of a long, beak like nose the black mask has a blue veined dildo set between the eye holes. Angel is a very enthusiastic performer. The male guests are being masturbated and fellated by their female partners. Porn stud pulls his huge cock out and kneads it to keep hard. Angel wraps her tits around the big prick and wanks away. The stud makes her suck his balls while he brings himself to orgasm. He ejaculates over her tits and face. The guests applaud. Bowing to the crowd, the stud removes his mask. It is Rocco Siffredi. As he exits the scene, a pugnacious figure wearing a Janus mask , fly unzipped and cock hanging out, walks up to and stands beside Angel who is licking the cum off her tits and pouting intermittently. She starts to suck the man in the Janus mask off. Visible above the top of the mask is a bizarre hair weave, one that is familiar to The Priest, which looks like the crown of the head had been painted black. The clip ends.
"See Uncle," says Slonisco. He is young, lean and earnest in a good suit and looks more like an investment banker than an ascendant star in the Comorra. The Priest's face has taken on the mordant expression he always wears once he has decided to kill someone.
"Keep a copy back for us and bury it."
Mondo Cane
Slonisco drops Angel and Lucretia off outside the well heeled apartment block.
"Penthouse suite. Just buzz. Uncle's waiting for you."
"On whose say so?" asks Lucretia.
"Ill califfo…" replies Solinsco.
"You're cute Federico. I'll do you for free sometime," says Angel.
"If I didn't have a baby on the way I'd take you up on that sugar tits," laughs Solinsco.
"That's so sweet…daddy…" says Lucretia tartly. The girls climb out of the silver Lamborghini and make there way to the reception desk of the apartment block. A wizened hunchback man takes them up to the penthouse suite. Angel buzzes, "We're here."
The Priest greets them and pours them drinks. Straight vodka with ice for Lucretia, champagne for Angel. They admire the sumptuousness of the suite. Lucretia and The Priest smoke cigarettes.
"Aristide, what we doing here?" asks Angel.
"Your gonna be entertaining one of Sil's friends from London."
Lucretia snorts contemptuously, "The English ones are weird. Always want to be pissed on or watch you shit."
"Americans are best," interjects Angel. "They just like a suck and a good hard fuck."
"Well, Sil's sent something to get you in the mood."
The Priest takes a bag of coke out of the inside pocket of his blue jacket. Angel's wondering why he's wearing a jacket on such a warm evening, Lucretia's eyes are full of narcotic hunger.
"All of that?"
"All of that for two of Sil's favourite girls."
"Shit, that must be three grams there," says Lucretia excitedly.
"Here, tuck in. Your guest's only gonna be here in half an hour."
Angel and Lucretia drain their drinks and sit down on the sofa. On her compact mirror, Lucretia precisely divides the powder in lines of equal length. She takes the gold coke straw off her black ribbon choker and snorts greedily. Angel takes the straw and the mirror and inhales the coke. The Priest watches them benevolently, reckoning it will only be a few minutes before the high grade heroin he's cut the coke with kicks in.
"Jesus," says Lucretia, "This is laced with H." She flops back on the sofa.
Angel looks woozy and troubled, "Aristide, why you give us a speedball?"
She tries to stand up. The Priest has an economy and discretion to his physical movements, his arm slipping under his jacket and returning with a pistol. Angel is too preoccupied by the effects of the speedball to recognise the pistol's introduction. Lucretia is hunched over the mirror again, her appetite for drugs prodigious with a matching constitution. There is a hiss and the left side of Angel's face lands on Lucretia's lap, dislodging the coke and mirror. Face spattered with blood, Lucretia stares at the corpse on the floor in front of her. She is just about to scream when the gun hisses again. The Priest shakes his head sadly as he puts the pistol away. He lights a cigarette and sends Slonisco a two word text message: Last supper.
Rubucauer
Silvio is on the bed in just his robe, watching Abu Ghraib Fist Fuckers on the plasma TV and casually jerking off. It is the porn auteur Jim Powers' finest hour. The film is a favourite of Berlusconi, he finds it 'spicy'. It has been passed onto him by one of his old colleagues in Propaganda Due. A defeated and ageing Herschel Savage has Ashley Blue, who is wearing a head scarf, on her knees and attached to a dog leash and is dick whipping her face while the steroid bull Lexington Steele pounds her anus from behind. Camera gets in real close, and you get to see the big cock work away in Blue's tortured arsehole and then the anus dilate when the cock is withdrawn. A cream pie shot finishes the scenes. The story is the imprisoned girls are disciplined by deep throat fellatio when they misbehave; drilling each other with a dildo in an ersatz jail cell is evidently classed as rank disobedience. Sil loves the bit where Blue takes Steele's big black prick in her mouth almost up to his balls, taking it inch by inch, fighting the gag reflex, and almost detaching her jawbone as she gorges on the member. As Blue, wearing a white burqa with the veil down so her face is not obscured, chokes and splutters, Steele sings repeatedly 'Hadji girl, I can't understand what you're saying.' She deep throats him good and when he withdraws his cock she brings up his cum from the back of her throat and spits it on his balls. Blue is quite the technocrat. Next up is Gauge, in a black niqab on all fours with the niqab riding up her ass as a pre-surgery hot Belladonna fist fucks her. Savage and Steele are now in white t-shirts and combat trousers abusing the 'prisoners'. The end of the scene has them both beating off dick by dick and aiming their jizz in the niqab's eye-opening while Belladonna has a finger up Savage's rectum as she rims Steele. The film closes on Belladonna licking the cum off Gauge's eyebrows. Sil's Blackberry is vibrating. Sil is tempted to ignore the call as he's near orgasm but a sense of duty gets the better of him and he picks up.
"Yeah."
"All done Sil," says The Priest.
"Go ok?"
"Smooth Sil, like we planned."
" Not too much mess?"
"A little mess. Jimmy will clean up proper once disposal's been taken care of."
"Fuck, I should have had them gang banged and dumped in a back alley."
"Jesus Sil. They've paid in full"
"What, the way they tried to fuck me over I should have made them lick my asshole clean. Instead they get a toot and fucking lavish bon voyage."
"Jimmy says a couple of thou to get penthouse spotless."
"You're not making me feel better. Pick me up in two hours tell Jimmy we'll meet him at the quarry."
"Sil, you don't have to show."
"Fuck that, I'm the super-chicken, don't you forget it."
They are at the side of the quarry. Silvio, in a lilac jumpsuit, Cuban heels and aviator shades, looks at his watch impatiently and observes the sun disappearing into the night. Beside him, The Priest chain smokes and debriefs Sil.
"Jimmy met the girls at reception and took them up to the suite. No one about saw or heard anything. Jimmy helped me take them down in the service lift and then out the back into the van."
"Sounds smooth."
"Always is with junkies."
A bulldozer is parked nearby, a lithe and muscular Nigerian migrant in the driving seat. The bottom of the quarry is a noxious stew of industrial and household waste, a dreary landscape of oil drums containing toxic waste, sheets of asbestos on broken pallets, spilled chemicals and wrapped corpses. A white transit van is driving towards them.
"Finally," says Berlusconi. The van pulls up and out gets the driver, the hunched and shrivelled Jimmy 'The Cleaner' Gigante dressed in a boiler suit coverall . He rolls an oil drum out of the back of the van. It contains the dismembered bodies of Angel and Lucretia. Gigante had cut the oil drum open with a cutting torch and resealed it with a welding torch. The bulldozer rumbles towards the oil drum and pushes it over the edge of the quarry. When it hits the bottom green smog billows upwards.