"The Godfather, part 2.475"
A Godfather fan fiction by TheEmperor
DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of the characters from the Godfather. Please don't sue me or send any Mafia-style goons to flatten my lips.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I love The Godfather. This is my first actual fic about characters from my very favorite movies of all time!!! It's supposed to be funny…
*Please read and review this story. I love reviews. I really like reviews that tell me how I could improve a story. If you see something you think I could improve, please tell me about it. I write these things for fun and other people's enjoyment, so I need feedback.*
Chapter One
"The Adams Family"
The house of Martha and Arthur Adams, situated in bland middle-class New England suburbia, was literally one and a half stories tall and cluttered with easily breakable figurines, Reader's Digest Condensed Books, and misplaced Gideon's Bibles. The roof, covered in cheap black shingles, sloped upward lazily. The tiny porch was supported by four fat, white, square columns, and the façade had been partially painted at various times in different shades of brown. The house was set on a hill, so the yard was practically worthless. Martha Adams had planted it with a ground cover that looked suspiciously like common, garden-variety weeds.
It hadn't changed at all, except for the addition of a new black and white television set to the already crowded living room. Kay Adams was thankful. It reminded her of a simpler time, a more innocent time, a time when her life wasn't filled with misery, sorrow, and hatred. There was only one thing that hadn't changed that Kay had always thought could use a bit of improvement. That was her mother's pot roast.
"It's so nice to have you home," Martha Adams exclaimed, sliding a portion of oddly colored pot roast and several pink potatoes onto her daughter's plate.
Martha conveniently avoided mentioning the word divorce. That was the reason her daughter had returned home, but Martha had grown up in a time when young girls weren't taught the meaning of that word. Martha herself still wasn't quite sure what it meant, so she thought it best to avoid the topic. Her husband, Arthur Adams, the sort of man who began to wrinkle at twenty and now bore an uncanny resemblance to a raisin, lacked his wife's discretion.
"Dammit girl! What did you get a divorce for? He wasn't such a bad guy. I met him a couple times, and I am a damn fine judge of character!"
Kay stared at the pot roast and the viscous gunk clinging to it looking as though someone had used the meat as a make-shift tissue. There had to be a polite way to avoid eating it. Her mother had always been one of those 'eat everything on your plate and you're not leaving the table until you do' mothers. Kay doubted things had changed. When she was a little girl she had always fed unwanted food to the family dog, something that had probably contributed to the poor beast's early death.
"Why the first time I set eyes on him," Arthur continued, struggling to cut his piece of pot roast with a blunt knife, "I said, now there is a fine young man. There is a man deserving of taking my beloved Kay's hand in marriage. My Kay, the girl I poured my heart and soul into raising up right. The girl her mother and I turned into a fine young woman." He sawed away at the pot roast. The meat and the knife were locked in a deadly struggle, neither willing to give in. Sadly, the meat seemed to be winning.
"Oh Arthur be quiet and eat your dinner!" Martha snapped. "Don't start that old argument again. I just think it's lovely to have Kay home again."
"You mother's always say that! No one ever thinks of the fathers. No one thinks of how hard we worked for out children, to give them the things the needed. No, all I hear about these days is this stupid mother/daughter bonding crap!"
Martha frowned. "Arthur, don't use the word 'crap' at the table. It's rude."
"I'm the head of this house, dammit! I'll say whatever words I want to say at the table. This is my table. It was all my years of work, all the blood, the sweat, and the tears that I shed in service of my fellow man that bought you this table. So, it's my table and I'm gonna say crap as many times as I damn well please. Crap! There, Martha, I said it, and you know what. I think that I just might say it again. Crap."
Martha just sighed and rolled her eyes behind her thick, plastic-framed glasses. Kay didn't say anything. She had never enjoyed fighting and regardless of the ridiculousness of her parent's bickering Kay derived no pleasure from listening.
"My damn table."
"Actually, Arthur, this is the table we inherited from my grandmother," Martha reminded her husband.
Arthur was silent for a while, scrambling for an answer. Finally he stated, "Still, it's in my house. It's my damn table."
They ate the rest of the meal in complete, total, absolute, inclusive silence. Kay looked at her mother, who was the only one thoroughly enjoying the pot roast, then at her father, who had given up on the knife and moved on to the green beans. She smiled. No, nothing had changed. Nothing could ever change in the little world populated only by herself, her parents, and their little collection of eccentric elderly neighbors. Finally, she was home. Everything would go back to the way it had been before, before she had ever heard of the Mafia, and Senate Hearings on Organized Crime, and (Kay shivered) Michael Corleone.