CHAPTER 2

"Well, guys, that's the end of the series," David Chase, creator/writer of The Sopranos, looking every inch the sleepy-eyed, gray-haired Mafioso that he so expertly realized via the reputedly real Family. "I don't know about any of you, but it almost brings tears to my eyes that, after six seasons together, we're all saying good-bye to some of our favorite Italian characters. Li saluto tutti."

At that, everyone, cast and crew alike, lifted their glasses of Dom Perignon, 1999 vintage, in a centuries-old salute to one and all, simultaneously saying, "Saluto!", before drinking down the delicious bubbly beverage so intrinsically linked to such celebrations.

"Here's to the best bunch'a assholes I've ever had the pleasure of workin' with," James Gandolfini, the actor who'd so perfectly portrayed the undisputed head of a New Jersey-based Mob, while refilling his glass in order to complete the uncustomary toast with a seldom-seen smile on his own bulldog-like countenance framed by thinning black hair.

Having already refilled their own glasses with the delicious champagne, one and all lifted them, again, and chimed in, "Here, here!", just before drinking it down.

Some, like Edie Falco, the ever-vexed spouse of the husky actor who'd portrayed her philandering, and murdering, husband for so many years, could scarcely contain the tears at their parting, while slightly sobbing, "I'd just like to tell you all…each and every one…that this has been the greatest years of my life as an actor. God bless you all and good luck."

Lorraine Bracco, much like the lovely lady psychiatrist she played so perfectly, echoed the earnest sentiment, "I know how you feel, Edie, I can't believe this beautifully played-out tragedy has reached the end. I'll remember you all for the rest of my life."

Michael Imperioli, he of the uni-brow and big nose, sniffled slightly while smilingly saying, "Even though I plan on spendin' a lot more time behind the camera, I'll still never forget you guys. Hopefully, we'll all get to work together again someday soon."

"Not too soon, I hope," quipped Dominic Chianese, who played the role of Uncle Jun so scarily convincingly, "I've been lookin' forward to some serious rest for a long while. Maybe play some golf or just sleep a lot. Who the fuck knows?"

A spattering of laughter, both polite as well as loving, spread itself through the tight-knit gathering as more expensive champagne made its way into glasses during this wrap party get-together.

Even as Drea de Matteo, the undeniably beautiful and especially sensuous, though supposedly dead, as far as the TV show was concerned, Adriana, fought back feelings of distinct sadness mixed impossibly with a performer's pride. She said her private farewells to other equally killed-off actors, such as Joseph R. Gannascoli, who so convincingly played the homosexual hitman, and even the man the world would always call "Big Pussy", Vincent Pastore…

"I'm gonna miss you mugs," said a one-time petty criminal-turned-actor, Tony Sirico, even as he, too, seemed on the edge of a mini-emotional meltdown, even as the group gradually split into mini-groups of glad-to-be-done-yet-teary-eyed actors wordlessly bidding adieu to the characters they had long been.

Jamie-Lynn DiScala said her good-byes to TV brother Robert Iler; Federico Castelluccio did the same with Max Casella; Carl Capotorto had joined Ray Abruzzo and David Proval; Frank Pellegrino stood to one side with Frank Pando, one actor-portrayed-agent to another; not to mention the "Big Fish" of the six-season series.

Such supremely important pundits of James Gandolfini's main man character: Steve Van Zandt, wearing his trademark "do-rag" over a head that normally sported a thick, slicked-back "made-guy" wig, along with the other primary players as well as the well-known, as both a director and an actor, Peter Bogdanovich; not to mention the popular likes of Joe Pantoliano, black beret perched atop hairless head, and Steve Buscemi, he of innumerable, and memorable, movie roles…

And so on and so on, into this most momentous night, until, at last, the cast would separate in order to head off to various California-located, at least during final filming, dwellings. It would be not too long after that those murderous men sent across the country, from East Coast to West Coast, would literally execute the long-standing demands of their Boss back on the New Jersey shores.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

"Who the flyin' fuck…?"

By the time Tony Sirico, tired and still a little plastered, angrily answered the door, snarling, "Do you cocksuckers know what fuckin' time it is? Jesus H. Fuckin' Christ!"

Though he had, many years before The Sopranos, been on the inside of a cell and knew full well what such could do to those so incarcerated, nothing could prepare him for the treatment he would undergo at the gloved hands of all-too-real criminal-types in too-casual clothing wearing, the Soldier's at least, leather coats.

"What the fuck is this? Who the fuck are you guys? What the fuck do ya want?"

"It sure as hell ain't no autograph," snarled the Boss' better-dressed Lieutenant in charge of the Soldiers sent West, then with insulting emphasis, "'Paulie'."

"Time to pay the piper," one of the Soldiers said with a sadistic sneer while pulling a silencer-equipped stainless steel Smith-and-Wesson .45, even as another forced a defiant criminal-turned-actor to his knees. "Hands behind yer fuckin' head!"

"Fuck you!" said the man known to the world as Paulie "Walnuts" Gualtieri on the hit HBO show sporting the purposely grayed hair, looking like folded-back wings, that fit so perfectly into the coifed mien millions would forever relate to the TV thug.

"Look, asshole," said the Family Lieutenant overlooking the operation, "this ain't no scripted shit! And this ain't no Punk'd episode either! This if for fuckin' real!"

"Like I give a shit!" shouted a red-faced with rage Tony Sirico, while punctuating his point with well-directed spittle sent straight up into the Lieutenant's ludicrously squarish features. "Now go fuck yer mother!"

Taking his silken handkerchief from the front breast pocket of the only cloth coat, tailor-made, being worn by the ghoulish group of cold-blooded killers, the Lieutenant politely wiped away said spittle while giving a wordless nod to the Soldier with the silencer-equipped .45.

"Last call, creep," snidely sniggered the thuggish gunman even as two whisper-quiet gunshots sounded…

Pft! Pft!

…utterly obliterating the brain within the famous-faced, and haired, head, along with much of said head, to drop the brave actor into a dead heap upon the stained with blood, bone, and brain matter carpeting.

"Let's go," said the Lieutenant even as the Soldiers under him proceeded swiftly out the door. "We ain't exactly got all night."

END OF CHAPTER 2