Omochao's Revenge

"Hmmm…" commented Omochao. "If I'm gonna get a conference with the Mob, I'm gonna need to look the part. Time to go… SHOPPING!" Such a prospect would have terrified any other man. However, Omochao had been so whipped by his many girlfriends over the years that this did not daunt him in the slightest. He strolled up to a window.

"Them Mobster types all wear those black funeral suits," said Omochao. "But my arms aren't long enough for one of those. Hmmm… how about the 'Money Mike' look? I'm sure that pimp clothing will go down real smooth!" Omochao attempted to do a hand gesture, but a conspicuous lack of fingers prevented him from this. "Curses be!"

Moments later, Omochao emerged from the clothing shop, snipping the purchase tags off of his clothes. He wore a wide-brimmed dark purple hat, an orange crocodile skin trenchcoat over maroon corduroy pants and a burgundy polo shirt with fake chest hair. He wore many rings on his nonexistent fingers and a large dollar sign around his neck. His boots were light brown. To top it off, he carried a bright green pimp cane, which he twirled extravagantly. The whole look suggested less 'pimp' and more 'terminally brain-dead'. Of course, Omochao was unaware of this as he performed the Harlem shuffle down the street.

"Hmmm…" wondered Omochao for the second time in one chapter. "Getting the close was easy, but finding the Mob won't be! They're sure to be well-hidden," he admitted as the Mediterranean mobster drove by in a black Corvette. "Hmmm…" He turned around to face the French mobster.

"What are you doing?" hissed the French mobster.

Omochao smiled and attempted another ridiculous hand gesture, but this almost made him trip over his boots. "Well, if it ain't mah main man Jamal! How ya doing, brotha?"

"The name's Tyrone," hissed the French mobster.

"Tyrone, on the mike-mike-microphone," improvised Omochao, beginning a rap. "Phoning it home, but the audience don't care, they're lapping it up, they love it, they love the way he works it… um… the way he jerks it… just a sec… er… he's hitting the dance floor, hard-core… um…" Omochao was silenced by a brutal look from Tyrone. "Anyway, mah bro, I want a talk with Don Guido."

Tyrone looked serious. "You call him Father Guillami."

Omochao stood his ground. "Don't gimme none of dat 'formality' crap, I know mah place, he knows mah place and you should know your place, homeboy. Don't give me jive that you can't back up, sucka. Now, take me to Don Guido."

Tyrone attempted one last stand, encouraged by the arrival of the Mediterranean mobster in the black Corvette. "Nobody talks to Don Guido without my say-so!"

"Don't talk up to me, son, or I'm gonna school you!" hissed Omochao indignantly, quite impressed with his own performance. "You can talk the talk, but you can't walk the walk, homie. I got the bling, and I can bring it old-school. You don't got enough soul for a rave, boy." He spat on the ground and assumed a dancing pose.

Tyrone, visibly intimidated, backed off. "My mistake, sir. Please, get in the car." Omochao missed the wink that passed between the two mobsters and got in the car.

"What's your name?" asked the Mediterranean mobster, swiveling and revealing gold teeth. "Mine's Lorenzo. Pleased ta meetcha."

"You can refer to me as Mixdaddy Funkmaster," grinned Omochao. "I run the Whoa Zone up at East North West South Central." He was about to add more, but Tyrone clubbed him over the head and he fell unconscious.

Omochao woke up chained to a wall. A grey door lay in front of him. Omochao strained toward it. He could almost touch the handle… he touched it!

And discovered it was locked.

"Curses!" he shrieked. "I'll never get out!"

Suddenly, the German-Russian mobster opened the door. "This is him, boss."

"Good work, Boris." A man dressed in a white Armani suit walked in, his face somehow in shadow despite the many spotlights shining directly at him. "I am Don Guido. My boys tell me that you've been threatening them."

"Now wait just a minute," spluttered Omochao indignantly. "I did no such thing! I requested an audience with you, and they refused. So, I had to lay a little bit of the Mixdaddy Funkmaster charm on them."

"Mixdaddy Funkmaster," repeated Don Guido incredulously.

"Or just Omochao is fine," whispered Omochao, defeated.

"So, Omochao," said Don Guido, lighting up a highly illegal (not to mention stereotypical) Cuban cigar, "you say you want an audience with me. This is as good as you're going to get. Tell me what you have to say."

"I'm going on a revenge mission against Sonic the Hedgehog and his friends," reported Omochao. "They… um… they killed all seventy-eight of my daughters."

"You had seventy-eight daughters and no sons," said the Don.

"Yes," said Omochao. "No! I mean, for whatever reason they left my thirty-twelve sons alive. Quite fortunate."

"I agree," said the Don, sounding a little suspicious. "I can help you. But," he said, "my help comes at a price."

"Anything," said Omochao. "I'll do anything!" He rattled his chain in a frenzy.

"Hmmm… never mind," said the Don, "I'll help you just for the heck of it."

Omochao sighed in relief.

"But I will ask one thing of you," said the Don.

"What?" said Omochao. "I'll do whatever you want."

"You have to pass my test," said the Don happily, puffing some more on the cigar.

What could this test be? Find out next chapter! And how do you get a next chapter? BY REVIEWING!