Author's notes: I've more or less written this arc, so I'm just trying to pace the publication to avoid readers getting overwhelmed. Not to sound shameless for feedback (although ...lol), it would indeed help me greatly to receive a note whether to space the chapter publications out more or keep at the same pace. I realize my chapters are longer and denser than in most fanfic, and the action is about to pick up BIG TIME. Thanks to everyone who is still reading; this turned into a much longer story than I had ever anticipated, and I'm motivated to finish it. Fear not; we will have Mario and Luigi together.
Two quick notes:
1) The spelling "miha" instead of "mija" is intentional, in case some of you either know or speak Spanish. Judeo-Spanish tends to use Portuguese/Medieval Spanish spelling, so h instead of j and v instead of b.
2) I realize Twitter uses blue checkmarks instead of green. However, for legal reasons, I can't use mock duplicates. Thank Jack and Elon for that.
Chapter 31: Interruptions, Part 1
Shabbat was usually a joyous time in the Abravanel household; bread, chicken, figs, and other delights decorating the Queen's table. However, the Queen had descended to bless a tense end of the week, with daughter refusing to eat or speak to her father and stepmother. The exasperated Yael muttered in her native Hebrew that her husband had raised a stubborn girl and if she wanted to starve herself in protest, then so be it. As for the calmer Harry, he simply ignored Daisy's angry response, knowing she had inherited her stubbornness from her paternal grandmother and the Azoulay clan, of which he was also a member. Afterward, he stored his daughter's dinner in the appropriate refrigerator and let her stew in her room.
To make sure that she did not run away to Mr. Cannoli's in Palo Alto, Harry worked from home over the weekend and beginning of the week, which made his stern Israeli wife sigh in relief. He did not otherwise interfere or punish Daisy; though Yael insisted on taking her electronics, which resulted in the upstairs' echoes of yelling in English and Hebrew, he allowed her free access to the downstairs gym, kitchen, and home library to work on her law school applications and thesis. By Wednesday evening, he was ready to have the difficult conversation with his headstrong daughter about Mr. Cannoli. Flipping open a folder from his law firm's New York-based private investigator, he was utterly dismayed at its contents as well as her lack of good judgment. While he had been less than pleased at Yael's phone call regarding 'The Date' from the previous Thursday, Harry sensed something more in Luigi Masciarelli than his self-presentation as a simple, yet stable Italian plumber from Brooklyn. Having grown up in Somerville, he knew the Irish, Italian, Portuguese, and other Jewish kids in the neighborhood, and heard certain rumors about a couple of the Italians and their extended families in the North End of Boston. As an immigrant kid in the Greater Boston Area, he had developed a 'sixth sense' which had been long forgotten until that night. Harry had not shared his gut feeling with the Israeli Yael whose experience was so dissimilar that it would constitute more than a language barrier.
He heard a knock at the door; glancing at the grandfather clock, the elder Abravanel smiled to himself – seven o'clock, right on time. "Entre, a porta está aberta, filha," he replied in Portuguese.
An angry-looking, plainly-dressed Daisy quietly entered the wooden home office, complete with an antique writing desk, a green stained-glass lamp, multiple shelves of law books in English, Spanish, Hebrew, French, German, and Portuguese, and two brown leather chairs. Though he managed to keep a straight face, he inwardly laughed at the sour cat-face of his only child. She always tended toward the bratty side, especially if she thought she was right or deserved more than she had received. As a father, he was secretly proud of her persistence, which pushed her to excel and possess a deep sense of arete; still, it made her extraordinarily difficult at times. Arranging the folder in front of him like he would with opposing counsel, he gently gestured for her to sit in one of the chairs, which she reluctantly did.
"Miha," he began in Judeo-Spanish, which he tended to use to keep his conversation private from his wife, "I know this is … difficult. No one wants to be told whom they can date. And you must think I'm a hypocrite given my marriage to your mother." At her shrug of agreement, he nodded and went on, "However, I would like you to hear me out. You will get angry with me, but it's important that we discuss it. I will not insult you." He opened the folder and presented a picture of Luigi Masciarelli's New York driver's license.
"You ran a background check on him?!" she demanded.
"Yes," he admitted. "Miha, I sensed … something about him. I've talked to you a little bit about growing up in Somerville. Well, the East Coast – cities like New York and Boston – are different than San Francisco. Different sounds, different culture, different history. Some of the kids in my neighborhood had … family in the North End. Mafia territory. Granted, the Irish gangs were more of a threat to the Jews than the Italians were, but still … the Portuguese and Brazilian kids – many of whom were Jews – developed a sixth sense about whom to trust and whom to avoid. Sure enough, I was right. He's related to some of the most murderous mafiosi from the 1980s and 1990s – the Moranos and Campisis. He's from Bensonhurst, which was a no-mans-land for anyone not Italian. His neighbors lynched that poor kid, Yusuf Hawkins, for just looking to buy a car! And his cousins give John Gotti a run for his money!"
"Yeah, I know, Papai. He told me," murmured Daisy. "He … didn't know until recently about his mother's family. His uncle Joe did his best to keep him away from it."
Harry sighed. "Sweetie, I'm sure that's true, but that's … not what I'm talking about. It's hard to convey a feeling to someone who hasn't been around or accustomed to it. But I'm trying to tell you that it's more. And it's not because he's Italian."
Her amber eyes widened, and she covered her mouth. "You think … You think he's one of them?" At Harry's wordless answer, she shook her head emphatically. "Y-you're wrong! Just because he's related to them doesn't mean he's joined them."
"I know, and I'm willing to admit that it's just an intuition. No evidence. But his union is controlled by Carlo Morano, the don, and that is circumstantially provable."
"So that's one side, Papai! Yes, his mother's family does have this history and, no, he doesn't want any part of it. Did you check his paternal side?"
"Of course," he nodded. "The Masciarellis are not mafia. But they are … dysfunctional. The grandfather was a known bully, and the father and uncle were street kids raised by Mr. Cannoli's maternal grandmother, Audenzia Rigassi. Her maiden name is Campisi, which is a very well-known Mafia family in Sicily."
"Wait, w-what?" stammered his daughter.
Harry chuckled mirthlessly and remarked, "Ah, Mr. Cannoli didn't tell you that part. Did he?" She shook her head. "To be fair to the father and brother, my PI could find no record of them ever having been actively involved with organized crime. The father in particular seemed to have hated it, which is perhaps why he quit plumbing and became FDNY. One of their best search and rescue guys, in fact. It's a damn shame that he died in the …"
"Yeah, I'm aware of that part," interjected Daisy. "Even more than ten years later, Luigi has panic attacks if he's in or near Manhattan. He's … never talked about it directly, but I've been able to piece together what happened."
"Poor kid," whispered Harry. "Can't blame him there. That day was … sheer hell. Boston had its own last year, and the feeling for us was … indescribable. I can't imagine losing one's father at fifteen. He was then sent to live with the aforementioned Moranos. Bizarrely, it was the father's wish that he live with the nearest Rigassi family member if Mario, the older brother, could not take custody. My PI got a copy of the will from the court in King County, which I read. What's notable is that the Moranos aren't technically Rigassis; their only claim came through Audenzia's sister, Rosa, who's a Campisi and not a Rigassi. So they would have been caretakers at best until either Mario or an actual Rigassi could arrive. Any half-decent family court lawyer could have contested the Moranos' custody."
"I know; Luigi always wondered why his father named the Rigassis, to say nothing of the Moranos, and not Giuseppe. No one would ever say why. He never got along with his cousin Jackie and ran away several times before Giuseppe brought him to Staten Island."
"Interesting. Then," continued Harry, "we come to the older brother, Mario, who may have ties to organized crime, although they could be incidental to several tangles with the Bowsers, who are known Morano associates. You yourself had a run-in with the younger brother, John Bowser. Mario's another street kid and is rumored to have some involvement with underground fighting rings, though he's like his father in that he serves his country with distinction and seems to be on the up-and-up. Both he and his brother own their house on 17th Avenue in Bensonhurst – an inheritance from their father and mother. Their taxes and financials are all thankfully legal."
Daisy shrugged and crossed her arms. "Okay, so overall, Luigi told me ninety percent of this. I still don't …"
Harry flipped the file closed and responded in English, "Miha, I'm your Papai; my first duty is your safety and well-being. As your father, I cannot approve of Mr. Masciarelli for three reasons. Let's begin with the first two: he's not Jewish and his education is disparate from yours in the extreme. Culturally speaking, the Italian Catholics focus on family, much as we Sephardim do, but they cannot understand our norms or our history. I speak from experience when I caution you that interreligious relationships and marriages are a minefield. And rarely do conversions work or satisfy either family, as you well know. As for his education, I will give him credit that he is attempting to do better, and yes, what happened to his father definitely played a role. However, what happens, miha, when you get accepted to Stanford Law? Or Harvard Law? Will he move with you? Given his family and professional obligations, I very much doubt it. So to be with him, you would have to give up your dreams, which seems both unfair and a 've already done so much – Oxford, the Peace Corps, and now Columbia! Multiple sports trophies! And what's he done that is even comparable? This brings me to the third and most important objection: his maternal family." Inhaling deeply, the lawyer added, "Daisy, I have always encouraged you to explore the world and the people in it; that being said, it is essential that you think this through rationally. Pursuing a relationship with this man is neither rational nor wise. Inasmuch as the heart has its say, we have minds to protect us."
"Papai, how is rejecting someone for their religion rational? How is rejecting someone for … an unforeseeable tragedy rational? And as for his maternal side, I have personally seen him reject it – multiple times! And he has never impeded my desire to go to law school. If anything, he's … he's repeatedly said that he'd follow me."
"All valid points," he admitted. "You're right that it isn't strictly rational to reject someone solely on the basis of religion. However, dating is properly a step toward married life, yes? Marriage is both a social contract and partnership; whether we like it or not, religion and philosophy are a part of socialization. Will he respect your traditions? What if he wants your children – Jews by our laws – baptized as Catholics? Miha, his other uncle is a Catholic priest; that implies a certain level of familial faithfulness and devotion."
Daisy snickered; at her father's raised eyebrow, she replied, "Luigi rarely goes to church. And as for 'Father Rigassi,' he speaks conversational Judeo-Spanish, Papai. He has no problem with us 'sirianos.'"
The visibly astonished Brazilian took a moment to process his daughter's last statements. Finally, he answered, "Now that does surprise me. You've met both uncles?"
"Yes, Papai. Or rather, following the incident with Bowser, they met me. Both Giuseppe and Salvatore. Salvatore – which is what he prefers to be called outside of the church – engaged me in Judeo-Spanish upon learning our last name. And as for Giuseppe, he's the quintessential Italian patriarch – he reprimanded me for fighting with Bowser." She watched her father's eyes convey a certain amount of agreement with Luigi's uncle. "Concerning religion, we haven't discussed it at my request. I didn't want to move too quickly. But given his family and our conversations, I doubt Luigi would disrespect our culture. He did send you and madrastathe kosher cannoli."
"Touché," admitted Harry with a slight smile. "And I did enjoy them. To your original second counterpoint, rejecting someone with … extenuating circumstances, it can be logical, just not empathetic. However, on that point as well as the third, there is so much that has yet to be seen. Are you willing to risk your happiness on … conjecture and guesswork?"
"I haven't received any diamond ring," she retorted sarcastically. Harry crossed his arms in a wordless rebuke of his daughter's disrespect. She took a deep breath to calm her building anger and added, "If it hasn't been observed, then there is no way to make an educated judgment."
"And what of normalization? Probability?"
The auburn woman smirked in victory. "Same, and you know that."
"Ah, the theory versus empiricism argument. I suppose all human experience comes down to that; some rabbi has certainly written a responsa about it." Exhaling, Harry studied the resoluteness of his only child. They were at a stalemate; she would not give up Luigi Masciarelli, for now. Since early adolescence, he and Daisy had a system in place; if she felt that a punishment or objection was particularly unfair, he would allow her to present a logical argument which he would consider. Yael rolled her eyes at the system, having come from far more dictatorial Ethiopian and Yemeni patriarchs. Since age thirteen, Daisy had won roughly twenty percent of her 'cases,' which avoided more rebellious behavior and trained her mind to analyze and self-analyze. In this case, she neither won nor lost, which meant he neither won nor lost. There would eventually be a 'winner,' yet it would require extra time and patience, like a decision from the Supreme Court. He could take the heavy-handed approach; however, he feared that, by doing so, Daisy would both distance and find herself on a path of no-return toward self-destruction. When faced with a particularly cumbersome court case, Harry usually advised his clients to strive for a settlement. "Alright, the discussion cannot be conclusively decided right now. What are your intentions upon returning to New York?"
"I …" she suddenly hesitated. He did not dismiss her, which meant that he was going to negotiate – a rare occurrence. She had to tell the truth to obtain the settlement that she wanted. "I applied for a job with the United Nations – a contact in Senegal asked me to apply. I have an interview next Wednesday. It's not a lot, but it's a start."
Harry sat up in his chair in surprise and delight. "Oh, my, I am pleased. But … will it affect your current studies?"
She shook her head. "No. In fact, it will help getting into Harvard and Stanford Law. It'll also save me two courses in statistics that Columbia last-minute decided that I needed to take despite having completed stats at Oxford. There are, however, two problems. First, my roommate came back with, well, Mr. German Heavy Metal."
"Guay de mi," cursed her father. "Okay, so … Oh, Christ, don't tell me Mr. Cannoli proposed a 'solution' to your living situation! That, miha, is an emphatic no. I won't have you living in Bensonhurst, especially when you don't know who your neighbors are. And if his cousins are nearby, and believe me, they are,then that puts your safety at risk. But inasmuch as I'm not keen on Mr. Cannoli seeing you, I won'ttorture him by putting you in Manhattan. Here is my counter-proposal: you can pay a portion of the rent and I'll pay the rest for a safeapartment in Crown Heights, Park Slope, or Williamsburg. If I find, however, that you're 'renting' and not actually living in the apartment, then the deal's rescinded."
"I'll … I accept," she said with a hint of disappointment. "It's fair."
"Miha, I suspect, in time, you will thank your Papai. Mr. Cannoli aside, Bensonhurst still has an undercurrent. I don't care that it's been thirty years since the Hawkins murder. Hate crimes are still prevalent in this country – even in New York. He needs to understand Yael's and my position – we will not have our only child frequenting the Mafia's stronghold. If Mr. Cannoli is really as anti-Mafia as you say, then he'll understand the reasoning. I do have one more request, miha, mostly to appease your madrasta: please do not attempt to contact him until you arrive in New York. She won't … budge on that one, I'm afraid. Instead, invite your school friends here – take a week's break from him, do other things. Tomorrow, we will also look at studio apartments for rent and get this settled."
Wordlessly, she gave a single, tired nod of agreement, knowing that her parents may not allow her to return to New York for the United Nations, her final year, and Luigi if she were to disobey. That being said, she would not leave him wondering, and her parents would not recognize Miles's encrypted email.
Since the previous week's date night and the subsequent confrontation with her angry parents, Luigi's lioness had all but disappeared: he sent three texts and left two voicemails asking if she was okay, all of which went unanswered. Over the course of his final week in California, Luigi became a gym and ballet rat to avoid succumbing to the temptation of alcohol and cigarettes, having promised both Dr. Czernin and Daisy to practice less self-destructive habits. Nevertheless, his behavior was not totally healthy; he exercised to the point of extreme exhaustion and failed to eat his usual four meals per day, which caused him to lose an inch off his already thin waist. On the afternoon prior to his morning return flight, Luigi made one last bike trip to the southern edge of campus for his therapy appointment with Dr. Czernin. In the waiting room as well as in her office, Rosalina immediately took notice of the dark circles under the man's eyes and thinner physique.
Following several minutes of blank quiet from him, the psychiatrist inquired, "How've you been, Luigi?"
The plumber shrugged and opened his mouth to give a blasé reply when the blonde's eyebrow raised challengingly. Instead, he swallowed and murmured, "Not so good. I mean, my classes are fine – great, even – but … My girlfriend's parents caught us on our date last Thursday. They're, uh, Jewish; they didn't know about me, let alone that I'm an Italian Catholic plumber. Now she won't return my texts or calls."
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Luigi," said Rosalina sympathetically. "You've been dating Daisy for, I think, six months?" He nodded silently, focusing on the floor, which she knew was his way of disassociating himself from pain. "That's a long time to hide a relationship from one's parents. Still, she must have had her reasons. Are you worried that she's ended the relationship? Would she just cut you off like that?"
Luigi took a sip from the tea mug in his hands and hoarsely answered, "Yes and … I don't know. I don't think she would, but she's never gone this long without a word, not even when she was in Mali."
"Do you trust her?"
He thought silently for a few seconds before replying, "Yeah, I do."
"Then … perhaps wait and see? If she is not the type to ignore or intentionally cause you pain, then trust that she will get in contact with you." Her eyes dropped to his too-narrow waist. "How has our homework been?"
"It's been," he shrugged again, "I don't know. I have craved cigarettes and alcohol since last Thursday, but I've been doing ballet and working out in the gym. They've helped."
"On average, how long have you been at the gym per day since last Thursday?" she calmly asked.
"It depends on ballet, but anywhere between two and three hours."
"Luigi," she set her tea mug down to look at the avoidant man, "while I applaud your efforts to combat your cravings, do you think that you're replacing alcohol and cigarettes with exercise?"
He laughed a little. "Undoubtedly. But Dr. Czernin, I don't know what else to do. I need that endorphin rush, otherwise I'll lose my goddamned mind!" Inhaling at his booming tone, he took another sip of Earl Grey and calmed himself. "I'm – I'm sorry. I just …"
"It's okay, Luigi," she soothed. "That's actually progress. You're expressing anger instead of shutting down. Let's stay with that. Where is that anger directed at?"
"It's … It's everyone!" Luigi suddenly set the tea down on the side table, stood, and anxiously paced back and forth in front of her bookcase. "No one – not Mario, Daisy, my uncles, Yoshi, or Miles – has even texted a single word to me! It's like … they don't even know I exist, like I'm not good enough! Oh yeah, Stanford's across the country, but hey, we've somehow never heard of a fucking phone!"
"That sounds very lonely."
"Yeah," he breathed after a moment. "I feel … lonely."
"And with Daisy's … let's call it 'silence,' it also sounds like you feel … abandoned."
The plumber nodded. "That, too. I feel abandoned. And it's not the first time!" Sitting back down, his blue eyes once again stared blankly at the carpet.
"How did you feel when Daisy's parents confronted you?" she prompted to coax him out of disassociation.
His blue eyes snapped to hers in surprise over the question. "I … I don't know. I haven't really given it much thought. I suppose … I was angry." After a second of reflection, he nodded to himself, "Yeah, I was pissed. I mean, who the hell is the high and mighty Harry Abravanel to judge me? Like I'm the New York Guido who's too dirty to date his daughter, yet I have a house, a six-figure salary waiting for me, a car, adult responsibilities, and I'm trying to overcome … my adolescence."
"Unlike Daisy," she remarked.
Luigi's mouth fell open and he pointed lightly at her. "I … I did not say that!"
"Well," Rosalina began, "it's a logical deduction of what you said. He does have a house, a decent salary by the sound of it, adult responsibilities, and," she chuckled lightly, "I'm sure that he drives. The person who doesn't have some or all of those things is Daisy. Do you resent that about her?"
"No!" he shouted. "No! That's … that's not what I … meant." Rubbing his eyes, he abruptly glanced at his psychiatrist. "Okay, you know what? I'm pissed at her, too! Yeah, I'm pissed because I've been a secret for months, yet I said to both my Uncles Joe and Salthat I stood by her – us! None of my immediate family members have married or been in long-term relationships with non-Italians. I've told her about my family, I've stood by her, and I've done what she's asked! And niente!"
"Whose idea was it to go out on a date? And was it in Palo Alto or San Francisco?"
"Mine, and it was in San Francisco, but …" The plumber snapped his mouth shut as soon as he had begun talking. "Mamma mia. Y-You're saying that I subconsciously forced the issue because … I wanted Daisy's parents to know?" he mumbled.
Rosalina smiled a little. "Luigi, I have a theory; feel free to tell me if I'm wrong. You've said that California gives you a sense of freedom; I think it's also given you a voice to your years of pent-up anger which, I suspect, had previously been expressed by self-destruction. You're Italian, and family means a lot to you. You felt … slighted, offended even, when Daisy wanted to wait, because you're always thinking that the newest person in your life will abandon you. And I'm not invalidating your personal history. Whereas she probably took, what she felt to be, the cautious route to keep both you and her family in her life, you expressed your anger at her by 'forcing the issue.' Anger can be positive; it can give you a voice, a backbone, if you will. But it can also be …"
"… Self-destructive," finished Luigi, who put his head in his hands. "God, I'm such a fucking putz!"
Taking a sip of her chamomile tea, Rosalina shook her head. "No, you're not a putz. You've endured years of trauma through no fault of your own. Throughout those years, you've had people come in and out of your life, so much so that you've learned to doubt and distrust anyone who comes into your sphere. It's what we call a defense mechanism. Everyone has them; it's how we cope with distress and pain. Some are healthy; some are not. And as the saying goes, 'Fear is an incompetent teacher.' In your case, that defense mechanism, if left unchecked, will drive people away. No one likes to be judged on what they might do."
"So what do I do?" he whispered. "I don't want to lose her or anyone else."
Though Dr. Czernin was reluctant to offer relationship advice to clients outside of marriage or couples counseling, her clinician's 'intuition' told her that the younger man needed to be redirected, lest his anxieties result in emotional and physical self-flagellation. "My advice?" she spoke carefully. "It's okay to feel angry over her choice not to tell her parents prior to your date. On some level, I suspect you feel that you're doing the heavy-lifting in the relationship. I'm not saying you're objectively right or wrong; I haven't met or seen you interact with her. I'm going solely by what you're expressing. And you're in a state of transition, as we've talked about in these three sessions, which only adds to that sense of emotional turmoil. Give yourself some time and space to sit with those emotions and then process them in a healthy, non-destructive manner. In other words, figure out what you need that is both present and absent from the relationship. Taking a break doesn't mean that she is any less your romantic partner; it's rather taking the time for self-care." She looked up at the clock which was about to chime. "We're almost out of time. Your homework is to let Daisy come to you when she's ready. Allow her to pick up some of that burden as you recharge your batteries. That also brings us to the end of our sessions together."
"Yeah, about that," interjected Luigi. "I'm, uh, going back to Brooklyn tomorrow, as you know. My job, it's very … union. I do have health insurance, which includes therapy and psychological health, but I don't want this getting back to them for a variety of reasons. I know there's HIPAA, but trust me, it's dicey. Is it possible, I mean, can you do, like Skype sessions?"
"We've begun a pilot Skype program here at Stanford and my private practice, yeah. You'll need to pay out of pocket, but if you can do that, we can make it work," she said with a smile.
He grinned back. "Nah, that won't a problem."
Rosalina walked him out of her office and, handing him her card with her Skype information written discreetly on the back, wished him a safe journey back to New York. Though Dr. Czernin's homework would prove challenging, Luigi felt strangely lighter following the hour-long session. While on his final bike ride to the house in Menlo Park, he wondered if his suggestion to move into together was too soon. Although it was true that he loved sleeping with her, in both senses of the expression, the conversation with his therapist exposed an unresolved issue in the six-month relationship – Daisy's personal growth when it came to her parents and life experience. Until Dr. Czernin pointed it out, Luigi had not felt entitled to his own qualms, as he was so grateful to have been picked by his lioness. Yet as the argument outside of the Abravanel household had shown him, Daisy might not be able to give him the long-term commitment that he desired. She was moving in the right direction, albeit in baby steps, by securing regular employment with the United Nations and considering alternative options to her father's bank account. But independence was more than being financially stable; for him, it also meant a willingness to prioritize the relationship and acknowledge him publicly. He had always been ready to go with her; though Lucas helped him 'get his foot in the door' with the admissions committee, Luigi partly chose Stanford to signal that her law studies would never be in question, that he would go to California with her. However, as he walked his bike into the garage, he did admit to feeling that he had been making the majority of the sacrifices – attending therapy, standing up to both sides of his family, and giving her career precedence – without receiving the same level of commitment in return. Trust that she will get in contact with you, admonished his therapist's voice.
Per his afternoon tradition, the plumber raided the refrigerator for the last can of lemon-flavored Pellegrino, put the last load of laundry in the washing machine to be packed into his suitcase later that evening, and took a shower to freshen up and relax. Dressing comfortably and retrieving his half-finished can, he connected to his secure router to check his email. His eyebrows raised at an encrypted message sent from one of Miles's addresses. Clicking on the email and decrypting it, his heart thudded between angst and joy at the contents:
"Msg from Daisy: Parents took away electronics; she'll explain upon return to NYC. She loves you (w/underline).
My msg: we're working on a plan to can Lucas. See you soon."
"Sh-sh-she l-loves m-me?" he tearfully spoke to the empty house. He was somewhat glad that he was its only inhabitant due to the stream of tears falling from his cheeks. Luigi knew Daisy well enough that, like for him, those three words did not come easily. "But … w-what does that mean?" He read it again; Daisy emphasized the underlining, which meant that it was key to the message. "Gaaaaa!" he cried, clutching wavy brown strands in dire need of a haircut. Could it mean that she chose me? he wondered.
Allow her to pick up some of that burden as you recharge your batteries.
Wiping his eyes with his right hand, Luigi now recognized the wisdom in his therapist's suggestion. Upon her return to New York, she would explain further. Right now, he suspected that he needed extra nourishment and a low-stress environment. Self-care. For dinner, he ordered an extra-large platter of chicken tikka masala and steamed rice, watched a few episodes of Star Trek, Farscape, and Doctor Who on Netflix, packed up his suitcase, including the portable router, and turned in early to catch his taxi and flight in the morning.
At around 5:30 a.m., he put the keys in the mailbox before hopping into his reserved taxi and heading to San Francisco International Airport. To save money on baggage fees and time in what he, Mario, Miles, Yoshi, and several friends and family called the Toilet Security Administration lines, Luigi upgraded to first class and checked in for his eight o'clock flight. Despite relatively few clouds, the plane inexplicably took off forty-five minutes behind schedule, though the pilot assured the passengers that they would regain much of the lost time on the way to New York. Luigi did not mind, as he knew it could take Mario an extra hour if he were in Manhattan or Queens on a plumbing job. On board, Luigi ate lunch, made sure to have several snack breaks, and watched three films. Though he was diligent in this week's homework, his mind kept wandering to Daisy – her green dress, her flirty smile, her gasps when he pleasured her, the way she felt in his arms when they danced at the club and on the yacht. He imagined what it would be like to discuss her new job, books, sports, and television over dinner; he hoped to experience the mundane as well as the uplifting. It seemed like only minutes between his eyes closing and streaks of the early evening sun waking him. The attendant gently helped him with his trash as he put on his seatbelt and gazed out to the New York skyline that stretched from Bayonne and Newark to Long Island.
About an hour later, Luigi had collected his luggage and walked into the warm, humid air of Jamaica Bay. He spotted Mario's black Honda that was stopped in a passenger loading zone. Waving to his brother, who had exited the driver's side to help him load his luggage into the trunk, Luigi jogged out of the automatic doors and found himself in a Brooklyn Italian bear hug. "Fratellino mio," breathed Mario, kissing his cheek. The older plumber let go to inspect his younger brother who had lost a significant amount of weight. Luigi then felt himself being pulled into a hug by smaller, feminine arms. Looking at the woman's face, the younger plumber's blue eyes widened in surprise that the normally perfectly coiffed Peach appeared to have aged almost ten years and her hair was askew. Snapping questioningly to Mario, he noticed for the first time that the weight he had lost ended up around Mario's waist. "C'mon, let's get outta here," murmured the red-shirted plumber.
The drive to Bensonhurst was eerily silent, with Luigi's eyes shifting between the almost-spouses in front; Mario drove robotically while Peach gazed out of the window. Did they have a fight? "Uh, the flight was pretty uneventful," he began, "even for a Friday. How's the shop?"
Mario nodded as he changed lanes. "That's good. The shop's fine. Sal's, uh, ready for retirement." He smiled slightly in the mirror. "He's, uh, like us, happy that you're back in Brooklyn."
"And, uh, the Bowser kids?" he asked uncertainly.
Mario sighed sadly and Peach sniffled a little. "DK, he, uh, didn't find anyone who was tryin' to kill Bowser. Since the kids got school comin' up and Bowser's no longer in danger, the police and Protective Services sent 'em back. They're with John now."
Luigi studied the couple; he supposed that they would have formed an almost paternal bond after two months in their custody. Whether they openly said so, he knew both Mario and Peach wanted children. Yet he felt that there was more that had caused such stress to the pair; in their eight years together, which included several weeks-long arguments, he had never seen rapid physical changes, especially in Peach. "Okay," he demanded, "just what the hell is going on?"
The older plumber exchanged an uncertain look with his almost-spouse, then answered in a flat tone, "Let's, uh, get some dinner in ya first."
"Youse okay? You're … not, like, separating?" Luigi, now upset, inquired.
Peach turned to face her boyfriend's brother and took his hand gently into hers. "No, cognato. Mario and I are okay. But it's better that we wait like Mario says."
Luigi spent the next thirty minutes watching the traffic and attempting to control his racing mind. His cognata recognized the signs of the plumber's building anxiety, and she did her best to distract him with mild conversation about California while placing an online order for dinner. Eventually, the black car pulled into the driveway and garage of their 17th Avenue A-frame. Mario softly insisted that both Peach and Luigi go inside as he brought his little brother's suitcases inside the house. Ten minutes later, their food from the diner down the street had arrived. Mario muttered a weak thanks, yet he made sure to tip the delivery man well. Wordlessly, he distributed Peach's spanakopita, Luigi's cheeseburger and fries, and his chicken parmigiana hero with fries. Luigi glanced at Mario probingly; something was seriously wrong if he ordered the ultimate comfort food – chicken parmigiana or fettucine alfredo. There were no cracks about hippies, earthquakes, or threats over ketchup. Instead, their motivation to eat revolved around Luigi's return.
Plucking a steak fry into his mouth, Luigi quipped lightly, "Jesus, I just went to California for a few weeks. What's going on?"
Mario exhaled and dropped his hero sandwich carelessly on his plate. "Weegie, it's … Zio. He's not doin' well."
Luigi's smirk shifted into open-mouthed horror. "U-Uncle Joe? W-what's wrong? What?"
Peach took his hand again and interlaced their fingers. "About two weeks ago, Giuseppe … collapsed. Mario brought him to me in Manhattan, and we took him to Presbyterian. He has advanced lung cancer. We convinced him to go through with chemotherapy and radiation to shrink the tumor before surgery, and … well, chemo's chemo. It wears the immune system down, killing healthy cells along the malignant ones."
The younger man's head and heart reeled and, recoiling from them both, hissed in disbelief, "Wait, what? Two weeks ago? But …" He stood up from the kitchen table and started to pace animatedly to the alarm of both Peach and Mario. "Why didn't you tell me two fucking weeks ago?!" he suddenly screamed.
Turning to Mario in a quiet j'accuse, the blonde physician raised an eyebrow, as if commanding him to explain. The older plumber tiredly responded, "Uncle Joe and I … We made that decision. You were in the midst of finals at Stanford. We know how much that means to you and … how much it would've meant to Pops. He asked me not to say anything until you got back."
"Okay, so … is he in the hospital? Where is he?!"
"He's at home in Eltingville," replied Peach. "Lucia is caring for him, and your cousin Maria is acting manager of his shop. She has applied to take the master plumber exam as soon as possible. Since he's a bit weak from the treatments, we haven't seen him since he received the first dose two weeks ago. Your zia promised to call us when she can."
Luigi sank blankly into the chair while Mario moved an inch or two closer to him. "H-How many treatments?"
Peach shrugged. "It depends. Usually, the process takes months so as to eradicate any malignant growths that we can't see. My colleague, Dr. Gauthier, is hoping that by December, the larger tumor will have shrunken to be operable. We're trying to save as much of the lung as possible. But he will likely lose part, if not all of it. To start, he'll receive his chemo every three weeks in Park Slope." She took a deep breath and added, "There are no guarantees that we'll … save his life. We don't even know the cause."
The plumber's incredulous blue eyes quickly morphed into black orbs of pure rage. "You … You don't know the cause?! Oh, what a crock of shit!" At Peach's stunned reaction, he gaped at his brother who guiltily looked at the uneaten chicken parmigiana hero. "Oh, you fucking son of a bitch! You didn't tell her, did ya?! You're fucking unbelievable, you know that?! Can the Masciarelli men stop with the goddamn secrets for once?! This time, it's actual killing us!"
Mario's eyes darkened to the same color as Luigi's, and he scoffed, "Like you're one to talk, Weegie."
He crossed his arms. "What the fuck's that supposed to mean?"
"Lucas Kariolis!" the older plumber yelled, becoming louder with each syllable of the man's name, and stood to move into Luigi's space. His younger brother's eyes widened in shock. "Yeah, I see you know the name. Apparently, you've been running around with that piece of shit for a while now. The goddamned Mafia, Weegie?! The fuck you doing? Uncle Joe was interrogating Bowser about him when he collapsed!"
"Mario, that is not fair!" interjected Peach.
"Ah, so you're sayin' that I caused Uncle Joe's illness?" Luigi growled. "Know what? Fuck you, fratello! How about we start with what really caused it? I can even give an exact date of onset! Should I, y'know, tell Peach?"
A fuming Mario stalked toward the garage door and barked over his shoulder, "I don't give a flying fuck, Weegie. I'm goin' out. Don't wait up." Before Luigi or Peach could chase him, he had backed his Honda out of the driveway and sped down the street.
Shrieking in unexpressed rage at her boyfriend, the blonde marched back into the kitchen to lean over the sink. Luigi sobbed behind her, stopping at the table to give her space. "Peach … I'm sorry. This … This is my fault, I …"
"Luigi," she interrupted in a hoarse voice, "it's not your fault. The bloody stronzo has been keeping things from me. Your Uncle Giuseppe more or less said so. I don't know who Lucas Kariolis is, but this is the first time I've heard the name. Are you truly running around with Mafia figures, cognato? They are dangerous! Mario and I … can't lose you."
"No," he denied. "Well, I have had contact with our cousin Pete Morello. He's the son of our Sicilian great-aunt on the Rigassi side. But I know what he is, and I have no intention of joining them. As for Lucas, he was … my sort-of-friend in high school, at Brooklyn City High, before, during, and after … Pops's death. The prick threatened the shop if I didn't go with him to … California, Arizona, Colorado. But I'm not with him."
"And what is Mario not telling me? Where did Giuseppe's cancer come from? Why is Giuseppe so … reluctant to seek treatment?" Peach abruptly straightened her posture and focused her teary blue eyes at her boyfriend's brother. "Aren't you tired of the secrets?"
"Yeah," he whispered. "I … I don't remember … much. Truly. I think I … blocked it out, y'know? There's an entire week of my life that I really don't remember. I just … can't be in Manhattan. You know that." She nodded. "You … know how Pops died, right?"
"Of course I do. Mario starts drinking Jack Daniels the day before and doesn't really recover until several days after. Except for his banging head, he acts like nothing ever happened. I've tried … asking him, but he shuts me down every time. I don't … I don't know how he didn't get a demerit in the military. Surely, they must know."
"He, uh, once told me that once the C.O. found out the reason, they sort of … looked the other way, as long as he showed up for duty in a satisfactory state. Those who didn't know just assumed that he had a little too much to drink the night before. Given the shit that they dealt with in Afghanistan and Iraq, it was, I guess, pretty common."
Shaking her head disgustedly, the blonde moved to sit on the living room couch. Luigi followed to sit next to her. "And what about Giuseppe?"
"He was there."
She closed her eyes. "Bloody hell," she rasped. "No wonder why it's adenocarcinoma. I think Salim – Dr. Gauthier – was … suspicious. He asked me about Giuseppe's personal history, but I didn't know. Giuseppe refused to talk about it with him. Why … Why is that such a secret?"
Luigi shrugged weakly. "I don't know. And that's the truth, Peach. Every time I … I think about it, my head hurts, like it's something I'm forbidden to know. I had just started my sophomore year, and I was more worried about getting my ass beat by the captain of the varsity basketball team for screwing his on and off girlfriend." At the woman's raised eyebrow, he chuckled, "Yeah, I had to hide in the school kitchen refrigerators to avoid him. He probably had almost eighty pounds and a foot on me. Several of his friends were also on the football team – uh, American football. Anyway, I was fifteen, and …yeah."
"Mario's never been very … clear about what happened to you, cognato. I always assumed you went to live with Giuseppe and Lucia afterward, that he left you in their care when he joined the military."
He laughed again, though it was dry and mirthless. "No, Peach. My father's will requested, in Mario's absence, that I be sent to the nearest Rigassi member – Jackie Morano. Mario was gone to the Army, so I was sent to Jackie Morano's. I didn't get along with him, so I preferred living in the school or on the streets until Giuseppe came for me a year and change afterward. He risked his life and a court battle to do so. Thankfully, Jackie never took it further. It also explains Lucas; he was the only one I could rely upon."
"What?" she glowered. "You were left with the Mafia?! Jesus fucking … !"
"God, youse have been together for eight fucking years, and you never … ?" She emphatically shook her head while he crossed his arms incredulously. "Okay, since we're all about truth, why'd you reject his marriage proposal? Why do you care about our family all of a sudden?"
Peach was quiet for several moments, inhaling inaudibly to calm herself and choose her words. "Because," she finally spoke, "there was a part of me that believed I wasn't good enough for someone as brave as Mario. I knew he broke up with Pauline shortly before we … And then I married a horrible man. God, that must say something about me, right?! When he rescued me, I reacted to his eyes – so determined, so gentle. I never got that from Marco. And I never thought that I'd … fall in love with Mario. But I realized that I'd put him on a pedestal as my savior. He's generous, kind, and so brave, yet at the same time, pigheaded, impulsive, and self-destructive! I just didn't want to make the same mistake twice. It doesn't mean that I don't care about you, Giuseppe, Lucia, your nonna or cousins."
"Yeah, he is pigheaded," snickered Luigi through fresh tears. "And no, you're … human. I can relate, to both the self-protectiveness and self-destruction. I'm, uh, trying to work on those."
"For Daisy?"
He nodded a little. "Yeah. But also for myself. I don't want to live in a world where I'm always feeling … unsafe."
Smiling a bit, she enfolded her boyfriend's kid brother in her arms. "You'll always be safe here, with us, cognato."
Lucas hummed to himself as he brought his iPad into a vault-like room inside the basement level of his Manhattan home. The black and white marble floors gleamed like mirrors, having just been waxed by his full-time cleaning staff. He walked past several gold Ionian-style pillars with light purple bases into a smaller room roughly ten feet by ten feet with plum-colored accent walls. Against the back wall of the room sat a twenty-four-carat gold flush toilet and bidet; in front of it, a purple and gold sink bowl and Egyptian cotton washcloth stack. Above the toilet hung a framed diploma from Harvard. The tall man in purple pajamas halted just shy of the gold toilet, dropped his bottoms and matching speedo, and positioned his bare bum on the smooth plating. "Ah, nothing like a good morning crap to start the day of mass gaming pilferage," he muttered happily as he logged onto his official Twitter handle, lucaskariolis, to view the latest worship of War Rampage 3. Scrolling through the numerous tweets and replies, his mouth fell open at the unanimous insults:
lucaskariolis
You are a swine among pearls!
lucaskariolis
Ah, Lucas, you think you're so suave and brilliant. But you're really just a sad, pathetic pig of a man. Enjoy your illusion of superiority while you can, because you'll get yours!
lucaskariolis
You're a black hole: a singularity of astounding mediocrity, somehow managing to look down on everyone while simultaneously being so insecure that no amount of cheating and stepping on others will ever satisfy you. That's what black holes do; they only consume.
lucaskariolis
War Rampage 3? More like Toenail Clipping Party 3: Revenge of the Jam!
lucaskariolis
Bet you sit on a golden throne … heh.
lucaskariolis
A Greek friend told me what his name meant. It's fitting.
lucaskariolis
Catullus 16, my dude.
"Waa?" he asked wordlessly. "Waa?!" Lucas continued to read numerous tweets disparaging him and his company for copyright infringement, weak gaming ideas, and a working culture that routinely discriminated against women, the LGBT+ community, and short people. Finishing on the golden toilet, he stood up, used his bidet, flushed, and cleaned his hands. Angrily, he grabbed his iPad and stomped out of his throne room and into his office. The device thudded against the desk as he logged into his official Twitter account to respond to the growing number of hate messages.
Lucas Kariolis✅ lucaskariolis Aug 16
Wow, look at all the lovely messages. Who did I kill in a previous life, lol?
Lucas Kariolis✅ lucaskariolis. Aug 16
My official statement in 47 characters: I'm not dignifying any of this with a response.
Meanwhile in a Brooklyn apartment, Yoshi was sitting on his own porcelain throne to peruse Lucas the Loser's Twitter page. Upon reading the tweets to him as well as Lucas's generic and petulant reply, he squealed with high-pitched, giddy laughter. He heard a knock on the other side of the white door. "Everything okay in there?" inquired Birdo.
"Yeah, everything's, uh, heh, fine! Just reading something hilarious."
"Okay, well, don't take too long!"
"Yeah, heh, okay," he muttered as he texted Miles's email address. "Dude, are you on the john?"
A moment later, he received a hex message which read in plaintext: "What kind of question is that?"
Yoshi rolled his eyes as he repeated the question, insisting upon its importance. He continued to cackle at the social media shitstorm when Miles sent a follow-up message, "Yeah, okay, why?" to which the physicist requested that he check out Lucas's official Twitter page. The phone was uncommunicative for several minutes, though he was unbothered by the delay, as his attention focused on former and currently disgruntled employees trashing the purple prick publicly. His phone finally buzzed, and he decrypted his friend's latest email: "Oh, wow. What happened?"
"Dunno. Was reading the daily shit and saw Loser was getting reamed." Concluding his business, he redressed, flushed the toilet, and washed his hands. Exiting the bathroom, the Bensonhurst physicist alternated between whistling and snickering at the twenty-odd direct tweets accusing Lucas of everything from sexual harassment to intellectual theft and several more retweets demanding that he be tried, convicted, and cancelled in the court of public opinion. Yoshi rolled his eyes at 'opposing counsel,' twelve gamer bros who replied that "feminists were trying to kill gaming" and "the trash took itself out because they couldn't cut it." Though he could not muster enough of a shit to actually respond, he was nonetheless tempted to tweet back that women went for dudes who knew the difference between first-person shooters and reality. Minutes afterward, Yoshi was hardly surprised at the CEO's retort:
Lucas Kariolis✅ lucaskariolis Aug 16
I'm sorry to all those whom I've offended over the years. I'm moreover apologetic at any
unsatisfactory textual encounters we've had. My tongue and iPad always aim to please.
"God, what a fucking douchebag," he said to his empty office. "How in the absolute fuck did Luigi tolerate this asshat for so goddamned long?" Logging into his iMac and his 4chan account, which was secured by one of Miles's routers, Yoshi scanned for any suspicious posts within the gaming and War Rampage community. He read the new posts from the previous evening; ninety percent panned the third installment for bugs and lack of new material or plot, five percent were apathetic, having decided to concentrate on Call of Duty, and the remaining five percent ranked it between C+ and B+, a "cheaper and way easier version of GTA and CoD." Although it was an anonymous forum, one gamer claimed that War Rampage 3 was "completely underrated" and while there were bugs, it was "certainly better than CoD, which couldn't get away from ghosts and limeys." Yoshi smirked; the lone defender of the game had to be Lucas. He noted the user's ID and sent it to Miles for a deep dive and possible hack. Leaning back in his red and black gaming chair, he contemplated his next move. While Lucas might have been a master hacker, he was also an impulsive, narcissistic idiot. He would leave the hacking business to the Chelsea-based professional and use Lucas's psychology against him. Quickly writing out a basic plan to Miles, he called out to his girlfriend, "Yo, Birdo! We need to go to B&N or Game Store! I gotta get a piece of shit wargame for research purposes."
Birdo walked into her boyfriend's home office and crossed her arms. "Oh? Why are we spending money on pieces of shit? We just got back from Asia, and I just started working again."
"Forgetaboutit, I'll pay out of my personal account. I'll even throw in a black sesame ice cream. The payoff is bustin' a gamer-bro prick."
"Oh?" she asked, uncrossing her arms and approaching his computer.
"Yeah, the guy's an asshole who's giving Luigi trouble at the shop. He also hates women."
"Okay, that's enough for me. Let me grab my purse," she said, leaving the office to the living room. "And I want that ice cream cone, Yoshi!"
"Your wish is my command!" he shouted toward the hallway.
Scowling, Lucas threw on his five-hundred-dollar, black and violet long-sleeved shirt and bottoms. Even though he was enraged at the anonymous bimbos and beta males who could hardly come up with any bit of programming beyond Python Pac-Man, and was sorely tempted to fight fire with fire, he ultimately decided that ignoring the social media shitstorm was the best course of action – for now. Putting on his orange canvas shoes, he put in his earbuds to go for a run around Central Park. A twelve-mile run would allow him to relax and formulate a new plan to deal with those who were vexing him: the gaming industry, his idiot employees in California whom he planned to sack, and his fucking petulant 'friend,' Luigi Masciarelli. The tall man stepped out of his several-floor ivory brick apartment near Lincoln Square, crossed the narrow street to the right side, and began to jog eastward toward the edge of the park. As Rammstein's "Du Hast" blared in his ears, he remained unaware of a black town car flanking him. Lucas stopped at the crosswalk, jogging lightly in place to wait for the signal. The car halted slightly behind, made a right turn signal, and then parked right in front of him. The Manhattanite gave it a passing, quizzical look, then began to run; the front car doors abruptly opened, and two burly men in suits grabbed him by each shoulder and shoved him into the cab. Lucas attempted to reach for the latch when the men engaged the automatic locking mechanism. "What the fuck?!" he yelled.
"Buckle up," calmly requested a feminine voice. Before he could speak any further, the car sped off, the acceleration pushing him into the seat. He hurriedly fastened his seatbelt and faced the blonde woman in sunglasses, a black Armani pants suit, and blue diamond earrings.
"Who the hell are you?" he growled. "What do you want?"
She chuckled amusedly. "The question is, Lucas, what I can do for you? I hear you have ninety-nine problems, two of which we have in common. The Moranos and the Rigassis."
Lucas raised an eyebrow. "Oh? What makes you think that they're my problems?"
"We have an associate in common, Scott Pichler. He's been constantly irritated by Fat Tony Morano, one of your associates. Or rather, your father's. I've been an advisor of sorts on how to … deal with cockroach infestations. I can help you deal with your cockroaches."
"For a fee, I'm guessing?" he scoffed.
"I wouldn't be a businesswoman of my talents if I didn't charge a … gratuity." She leaned in conspiratorially and added, "I know you stole that money from Whitaker Investment Group – y'know, that hundred fifty mil. Well, you, your father, Carlo Morano, Fat Tony, and the little Rigassi coterie in Colorado did. An unprecedented joint operation. I also know you're hiding part of it. Or so I've heard."
The taller man smirked and crossed his arms. "What a crock of shit. Nice story, but there's not a word of truth to it. If you know who I am, you know I'm pretty well off, and so's my father. I don't need to steal money from investment firms."
"Bien au contraire," she interjected with a slender, manicured finger, "it wasn't strictly about money. Was it? The real question is why you're hiding it. Seventy-five million bucks in some bullshit crypto bank account somewhere. You coughed up half to Pete Morello and your father, but not the other half. Hmm. Why?" At Lucas's chortle, she went on, "I have a theory. Maybe you planned to play Fat Tony's father against Pete Morello? Dangerous game you're playing, especially as you're … befriending the puppy dog – Mario's freak brother. So sweet, so innocent, so … dazed and confused. Well, in the interest of fucking with two capos,how'd you like to go pro with a pro sponsorship?"
"Pro?" he probed incredulously. "Lady, I am a pro. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a run to finish."
The blonde hummed. Pulling out a large letter opener from one of the compartments, she briefly admired the gleam of the sharp metal, then jabbed it into his left hand, effectively nailing it to the seat. The Manhattanite let out a scream of pain, clutching his bleeding hand. "Oh, no, I'll need to have the seat cleaned. Pity, but there's always Brighton Beach. Anyway," she removed her sunglasses and met his tear-filled brown eyes with insensitive grey ones. "You don't seem to know who you're dealing with, Lucas. No one tells me no. Do you want to know why?"
"Jesus! Why … you crazy bitch?" he hissed while trying to clutch his pinned hand.
"Because, well, I have a lot of money and a lot of influence. Friends in low places, if you will. And these friends are friends of my husband. Ask me who my husband was."
"Fuck … you!"
She pressed down on the letter opener handle, which caused him to scream louder. "Ask me, you little prick!"
"Ahhhhh, who's your husband?!" he bawled.
"That's more like it. He died six years ago, but his name was Marco Bowser." His eyes became even wilder, filled with anguish and terror. "Ah, I see we understand each other now. I'll get rid of your cockroach problem, and I'll even let you keep some of the loot … and the puppy. Here's what you'll do for me: you'll continue your plans to screw with the Moranos and the Morellos, and you'll help me take over everything – I want the Moranos' business empire. All of it. That means you give me the remaining seventy-five mil and make each side believe the other has it. Easy task. But if you don't agree, I'll throw your skinny ass off one of these skyscrapers. It wouldn't be the first time a rich prick jumped to his death in the City. Do we have an understanding?" Despite the agony in his dominant hand, he managed to nod. "Good boy," she said, patting him on the head before yanking the letter opener from the seat and his bloody hand. He screeched again and wrapped his injured appendage in his shirt. "We'll be in touch within the next twelve hours about the money transfer, so be ready." The car came to a halt; Lucas saw the passenger door open, and one of the large men grabbed him by the shirt to dump him on the side of the road. "Oh, one last thing," spoke the blonde Bowser. The man forced his head toward the woman attentively. "If you decide to be a hero or alert anyone to my presence, I'll make sure that half of Lincoln Square is painted with your intestines. Au revoir." With that, the man undid his seatbelt and tossed him onto the sidewalk like trash. As Lucas moaned on the concrete, the car and its occupants disappeared down West 60th Street.
The bleeding man tottered to his feet and wearily looked around to determine where they had left him – a block or two from Mount Sinai West. He ambled weakly toward the hospital while wincing at the applied pressure to his hand. Who was that crazy bitch? Bowser's wife? I thought Sergeant Major Dickerson's blondie was his ex? Given the video of Marco Bowser with known members of Al-Qaeda, Lucas did not find it surprising that he was also a bigamist. Whereas Dickerson's blondie wanted little to do with the Bowsers, or so he gathered from John's disparaging rants about her, this woman wanted him to know that she was every bit as dangerous as her husband. Unlike the Colorado Crazies who used non-physical, psychological warfare, the crazy bitch would undoubtedly toss his body into the East River. Lucas was alone; his father could care less whether he turned up dead. Provided with no better alternatives at the moment, he opted to cooperate with the woman and enact his original plan of playing the Morellos against the Moranos. Eventually, he would recuperate some of the money and flee the country. The throbbing sting of his impaled hand fueled his building rage toward Joe the Plumber, Daisy Does Dumbo, and Sergeant Major Dickerson for taking what was rightfully his – Luigi. New plan: get the money, escape the crazies, and take Luigi to someplace where no one would ever find them.