Interview with a Madman
by Eli Lipton
"So how does it feel to be the richest man in the Southern United States?"
I've been asked that question for about twenty five years now, and it still puts a smile on my face. Oh, granted i'm not as nimble as I used to be. Do I miss the feeling of power that I get from waving a gun in someone's face and telling them-No, telling is the wrong word- Killing their friend and THEN asking them to get out of the car. Oh, god, I loved that feeling. But i'm old now. Can't do that shit anymore. Hell, I don't need to. I got about twenty Rolls Royces and a fuckin' Lambo out in my garage. Oh, wait a minute, I got three if you count the ones I got at my ma's house in Sicily. So many memories, I need some Cubans to remember them all. I open the drawer. The reporter gasps as she sees the gold-plated Colt Python under the box of Cubans. I grin at her as I open the box and I come out with a handrolled cinnamon Carribbean stogie. Patting myself down for my Zip, I belt out a string of curses in Italian and I think a few in Spanish.
"Got a light?"
Shakily, she reaches in her purse and hands me a Bic. "Not the best for the situation, but your a reporter." She sniggers anxiously. I can't blame her, she's talkin' to the most powerful Mafia Don in the universe. But Tommy, there are no alien Mafias! I know that, but it helps to be prepared. Any fuckin' pgymy grey wannabe Genovese alien motherfucker try to fuck me over, they're gettin ten Black Talons in their brains. What? They don't have brains? Get the fuck out of my face, I run this fucking world. I'll decide if aliens have brains. I took a drag off my cigar.
"Pretty damn good."
"Mr Vercetti, there have been reports that you-" Her words were spoken haltingly. With a snap of my fingers she could be sucked in a van full of Vercetti goons and never heard from again. What would happen? Would she become part of Yankee Stadium? Ground up for fish food in Hawaii? In a safe at the bottom of Mariana Trench? "Go on."
"That you have grown paranoid and, well, people say that you may be unfit to rule your mafia due to your irrational judgment and lack of impulse control.."
"Lady, how much do you make a year?"
"I don't understand how that's relevant, Mr. Vercetti"
"How much do you make a year?"
She was confused.
I leaned forward and spoke into her ear, my voice just above a whisper" You're talkin' to the most powerful fuckin' Don in the universe, and you're gonna answer my goddamn questions or this bitch over here- I gestured over to the maid cleaning my closet. Will be cleaning your brains off the fucking ceiling, door, and floor for the next four hours."
"So pretty please, with sugar on top, answer my FUCKING QUESTION."
She was petrified. Her mascara ran down in thin lines due to the tears that ran down from her pretty green eyes.
"Do you live in an apartment, house, or a mansion?"
"Apartment."
"Wanna know why?"
"Why?"
I sat up with unnatural speed and scooped the Colt out of my desk drawer and threw the lamp on top of the desk to the floor, shattering into about fifty pieces.
"YOU'RE AFRAID! YOU'RE AFRAID TO DO THIS!"
I trained the sights of the Colt onto the maid's kneecap and pulled the trigger. A scream penetrated the once-still air of the room, and the maid collapsed onto the floor in agony.
"Now do you know why? Why you're a useless sack of shit that I am God of? I AM GOD TO ALL YOU STUPID MORONS THAT ARE AFRAID to rise up and say HEY, ASSHOLE, DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A FUCKING ANTHILL TO YOU? You're afraid to be like me...to take life by the horns and strangle all the goods from it.."
"Now you get the fuck out of my fuckin' face."
Didn't need to say it twice. She ran out the door, down the stairs, and out the door.
I sat down and took another hit off my Cuban.
"Lack of impulse control, my ass."
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Bottom of Form
by Eli Lipton
"So how does it feel to be the richest man in the Southern United States?"
I've been asked that question for about twenty five years now, and it still puts a smile on my face. Oh, granted i'm not as nimble as I used to be. Do I miss the feeling of power that I get from waving a gun in someone's face and telling them-No, telling is the wrong word- Killing their friend and THEN asking them to get out of the car. Oh, god, I loved that feeling. But i'm old now. Can't do that shit anymore. Hell, I don't need to. I got about twenty Rolls Royces and a fuckin' Lambo out in my garage. Oh, wait a minute, I got three if you count the ones I got at my ma's house in Sicily. So many memories, I need some Cubans to remember them all. I open the drawer. The reporter gasps as she sees the gold-plated Colt Python under the box of Cubans. I grin at her as I open the box and I come out with a handrolled cinnamon Carribbean stogie. Patting myself down for my Zip, I belt out a string of curses in Italian and I think a few in Spanish.
"Got a light?"
Shakily, she reaches in her purse and hands me a Bic. "Not the best for the situation, but your a reporter." She sniggers anxiously. I can't blame her, she's talkin' to the most powerful Mafia Don in the universe. But Tommy, there are no alien Mafias! I know that, but it helps to be prepared. Any fuckin' pgymy grey wannabe Genovese alien motherfucker try to fuck me over, they're gettin ten Black Talons in their brains. What? They don't have brains? Get the fuck out of my face, I run this fucking world. I'll decide if aliens have brains. I took a drag off my cigar.
"Pretty damn good."
"Mr Vercetti, there have been reports that you-" Her words were spoken haltingly. With a snap of my fingers she could be sucked in a van full of Vercetti goons and never heard from again. What would happen? Would she become part of Yankee Stadium? Ground up for fish food in Hawaii? In a safe at the bottom of Mariana Trench? "Go on."
"That you have grown paranoid and, well, people say that you may be unfit to rule your mafia due to your irrational judgment and lack of impulse control.."
"Lady, how much do you make a year?"
"I don't understand how that's relevant, Mr. Vercetti"
"How much do you make a year?"
She was confused.
I leaned forward and spoke into her ear, my voice just above a whisper" You're talkin' to the most powerful fuckin' Don in the universe, and you're gonna answer my goddamn questions or this bitch over here- I gestured over to the maid cleaning my closet. Will be cleaning your brains off the fucking ceiling, door, and floor for the next four hours."
"So pretty please, with sugar on top, answer my FUCKING QUESTION."
She was petrified. Her mascara ran down in thin lines due to the tears that ran down from her pretty green eyes.
"Do you live in an apartment, house, or a mansion?"
"Apartment."
"Wanna know why?"
"Why?"
I sat up with unnatural speed and scooped the Colt out of my desk drawer and threw the lamp on top of the desk to the floor, shattering into about fifty pieces.
"YOU'RE AFRAID! YOU'RE AFRAID TO DO THIS!"
I trained the sights of the Colt onto the maid's kneecap and pulled the trigger. A scream penetrated the once-still air of the room, and the maid collapsed onto the floor in agony.
"Now do you know why? Why you're a useless sack of shit that I am God of? I AM GOD TO ALL YOU STUPID MORONS THAT ARE AFRAID to rise up and say HEY, ASSHOLE, DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A FUCKING ANTHILL TO YOU? You're afraid to be like me...to take life by the horns and strangle all the goods from it.."
"Now you get the fuck out of my fuckin' face."
Didn't need to say it twice. She ran out the door, down the stairs, and out the door.
I sat down and took another hit off my Cuban.
"Lack of impulse control, my ass."
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