Chapter 5: First Rule of Fight Club

Over the course of the following two weeks, Mario and Luigi lived almost completely separate lives. While Mario spent all his spare time at Mickey's Boxing Club off 65th Street, swimming laps at the Flatbush YMCA, or doing his weekend military service up in Massachusetts, Luigi started his morning forty-five minutes earlier to drive to Carroll Gardens and meet Daisy for thirty-minute breakfast dates before work.

On the Friday after their previous date, they met at a Downtown Brooklyn diner for lunch a couple streets away from Luigi's construction site. Since Daisy did not have classes at the Columbia campus on Fridays and usually spent Thursdays and Fridays studying or researching the 'EMA,' the diner was a ten-minute subway ride and walk from Carroll Gardens and thus very accessible for her. In order to save time on an hour lunch break, Luigi had texted his order to her earlier that morning – a Reuben with fries. At 12:05, the plumber arrived at the diner, finding the auburn-haired woman sitting at a corner table next to a large window. Though she was dressed casually in a long-sleeved floral-patterned shirt and black yoga pants, Luigi's lips parted, thunderstruck by her simple beauty. As their eyes met, he smiled, removed his hard hat, kissed her, and plopped down at the table.

"Hey there," she greeted him. Her eyes appreciatively scanning the dark-haired, sweaty man in front of her and flashed a flirty grin. He was wearing a reflective jacket, green hoodie, and blue jeans. "Well, it looks like you're a plumber after all."

As if on cue, the waiter came to their table with two large plates: one Greek salad and one Reuben with fries. Instead of immediately answering her, Luigi took a large bite of his sandwich and gulped half of his glass of water. Daisy raised her eyebrows; as she cut up the Romaine with a fork and knife and dumped the vinaigrette atop the salad, she watched him bite off large portions of the sandwich and three fries at a time. "Do they starve you or something?" she asked in a teasing tone.

Wiping his mouth with a white paper napkin from the dispenser, Luigi shook his head and ate more of his French fries. "I have an embarrassing confession. I, uh, I get very, very hungry at lunchtime, to the point of being a miserable bitch. Not sure why – I've always been like that, ever since I was a kid. It got worse when I became a plumber. A lot of people don't know this, but we don't just fix toilets and sinks. We do a lot of heavy lifting – some of those fuckin' pipes are fifty, sixty, even seventy pounds a pop. I also do some welding onsite, so …"

"You get quite the workout," finished Daisy, who savored her first few bites of the Greek salad. "How long have you been a plumber?"

"About ten years. Right after I finished high school, so 2004. I had to spend three days on a shitty sidewalk in Queens to get an apprenticeship application and then wait for my number to be called for an interview. They only hand out something like fifty applications and take about ten or twenty guys out of several hundred," he said, now chewing on his sandwich at a normal pace.

She swallowed more of her salad, then frowned. "Wait – I thought New York unions were dominated by family connections. Y'know, like your Uncle Paulie got you in or something."

Luigi laughed and popped a French fry into his mouth. "Well," he began, "I don't have an Uncle Paulie. I do have an Uncle Tony who owns a moderately successful eatery out in Jersey, so while he could get me a discount on pizza, he couldn't get me into the union." At her snort, he continued, "But yeah, my grandfather was a plumber, my Uncle Joe's a plumber, my brother, Mario, is a plumber, my cousin, Maria, is a plumber … It's a family thing, and that counts if you get on the list. But you still gotta apply like everyone else."

"But not your father?" she asked over another bite of Romaine, kalamata olives, and feta cheese.

"No," Luigi replied, quickly shoving more of the Reuben into his mouth. Licking his fingers of the salt and Thousand Island dressing, he gazed up to find Daisy expectantly awaiting more information. After drinking more ice water, he continued in a cautious, almost shaky tone, "He didn't really get along with his father – my grandfather – so he broke with the family tradition and joined the FDNY to be different. Family joke goes that no Mario gets along with his namesake. Back in the day, you had to know someone to get in, and he had a couple of connections. He was in rescue, then became the engineer for a firehouse not too far from your place. The engineer's the guy who runs the truck, knows every hydrant, everything there is to know about the business. My mother always worried, you know?" He took another sip of water. "She always begged him to quit. But everyone on our street had a story about Jumpman saving the day. Like my brother, he's kind of a legend in Bensonhurst. Not that I remember much," he reminisced quietly.

Daisy watched as her boyfriend rocked back and forth in his chair, rocking himself ever so gently and faintly. We are all stories in the end. Sensing Luigi's need to drop this topic, Daisy ate the next bite of her salad and said, "So you didn't want to be different. Do you enjoy being a plumber?"

Luigi planted his feet solidly on the floor and straightened his posture. "Yeah, y'know, it's okay. Nothing's the same; one day, I'm working on someone's busted toilet, the next is working on gas pipes. I like the challenges and the problem solving. I mean, it's a dirty job, but it's not as dirty as you might think." Finishing his Reuben, he started to chew the kosher pickle audibly.

She grinned flirtatiously, leaning forward. "Okay, so what's the grossest job that you've ever done? I mean, like fucking disgusting, filled with literal shit."

Mid-bite of his pickle, he looked at her incredulously, pinching his free fingers. "We're eatin' here! You wanna talk about that while I'm eatin'? Jesus, Daisy …"

She gave him a pout face and batted her eyelashes. "Please?" she begged. "Luigi, I'm the kinda girl who munched on kung pao tofu during Saw while my girlfriends screamed and looked away."

The plumber shook his head. "Aight," he began, setting down his pickle. "I'd say the worst job that I ever did was a couple years ago. I took one of Sal's apprentices – Sal's my boss – down to this mortuary up in Ocean Hill. The, uh, morgue floor drain was backed up, so we had to use a sewer snake. As I was bringing it back out to unclog the backup, it got caught on the edge of the drain, and it flipped … something out from the drain line and onto the apprentice. I didn't want to know what it was, though if it came from the mortuary drain, you can guess. Poor kid; when Sal heard, he laughed his ass off for thirty minutes straight. I got called Vinny Price for a week. Also, grease traps in seedy burger joints are pretty fuckin' smelly and disgusting. Ten times worse than shit or septic tanks."

Unphased by the plumber's story, Daisy kept munching on her salad. "Hmm, not so bad, Vinny Price," she chortled. Luigi gave her a dirty look to which she laughed out loud.

"Stop breakin' my balls, Daisy," he whined. "I need those!"

"I'm not breaking your balls!" his girlfriend guffawed. "If I were truly breaking your balls, Vinny, I'd have called it the House on Haunted Hill. No, even better: Nightmare in Ocean Hill. Shit from the Crypt: A Plumber's Tale."

Luigi stared at her. "That … That is so not funny." As Daisy snorted, nearly choking on a kalamata olive, he insisted, "No! Nope! Not funny." She continued to giggle, turning a bright pink. "You're mean, Daisy Abravanel, you're really mean. Nah, nah, I'm not talking to you." He comically crossed his arms and turned his body away from her.

"Fine, ignore me … Vinny!"

Luigi unfolded his arms and extended his right middle finger.

Tears in her eyes, she wiped her mouth and replied, "Maybe later. I'm eating!"

As she scooped up more romaine and feta cheese, Luigi reached over and plucked one of the remaining kalamata olives that she had grouped in a small pile to enjoy at the end of the meal. She glared at him. "Did you just eat one of my olives?"

Mustachioed-highlighted lips smirking and blue eyes twinkling, he nodded. "Yep. And it was pretty tasty, too." He then chomped on the remainder of the kosher pickle while she used her fork to slide the olive pile closer toward her, giving him a warning glare. He smirked again. "So, how was tennis practice?"

Daisy's demeanor immediately shifted from protective lioness to purring domestic Abyssinian cat. She unconsciously flicked her medium-length auburn hair and happily answered, "Actually, I didn't have tennis practice this morning. Usually, I have tennis on Mondays and Thursdays. On Valentine's Day, I joined a friend of mine for doubles. We usually do that every month or so. But I went to an early session for Wing Chun. Fridays are kind of a free-for-all."

Luigi frowned as he played one of his now-cold French fries. "Wing Chun – I'm guessing that's a martial art, right?"

She used the knife to push the last of her salad onto her fork. After finishing it, she explained, "Yeah, I started doing it in my second year of uni. One of the law students in my college started offering classes to make a little money on the side, so I signed up. I, uh, wanted to know a little more about Hong Kong and Southern Chinese culture, among other reasons. That, and doing the same art as Bruce Lee, Donnie Yen, and Michelle Yeoh sounded pretty fucking cool."

He smiled, eyeing the olives teasingly, which did not escape her observation. "Ah, yeah, I vaguely remember the movie with ten black belts against Donnie Yen. My bro loves him; makes me watch kung fu movies every so often. Do you like fighting or somethin'?"

She suddenly became serious again. "Sparring? Hells yes! Actual fighting? No, no, I don't. I agree with martial arts' first rule – defense only. I mainly do Wing Chun for the exercise and challenge. Anyway, I go at least once a week, twice if possible." Setting her fork down onto her plate, she continued, "Some guys think it's a waste of time for a woman, 'cause 'she could never beat a man.'"

Luigi glanced at the olives once more. "Yeah, that's how I felt about ballet. When I started, Mario and the kids on my street teased me mercilessly, calling me fenucca and such. For my first recital, Mario bought me a pink tutu from the Salvation Army." He sniggered at the memory. "I danced in it, too, just to spite them. I mean, I was already playing baseball and real football, but I wanted to jump higher than Mario, and it did help me in the outfield. They all shut their mouths when I danced as the Corsair for my eighth-grade talent show and got to lift the prettiest girl in school."

"So how old when you started and why'd you quit?" asked Daisy.

"I think," he paused, searching his memory, "I think I was maybe ten or eleven. I stopped when I was about fifteen. School got in the way." As she picked up the water glass for a drink, Luigi quickly reached out to grab another olive; millimeters from the black salty food, he felt his hand abruptly swing to his left and away from the plate. He gaped in shock, shaking out his stinging hand, as the simpering woman set the water glass down with her right hand and set her left hand flat on the table.

"Nice try, plumber," she chortled.

His blue eyes glazed over her face and then her shapely body. "Very feisty indeed," he murmured in a throaty tenor.

They chatted for several minutes afterward which culminated in a five-minute heated discussion over who would pay the bill. Eventually, Daisy won by stealing the check and notifying an upset Luigi that their next date would probably be in another month, as her midterms were the following week, and she would be leaving for California on a week and a half-long spring break. Dejected, Luigi stayed silent throughout the process of settling the bill. When they exited the restaurant, Daisy unexpectedly found her back pressed against the cold brick of the building and her lips enveloped by dry and warm masculine ones, mustache scraping across her philtrum. Relaxing into the impassioned kiss, she began to press back, trying to take some control of the situation, but the man steadily refused by framing her cheeks with his hands to keep her still. Needing air, Luigi broke the kiss, though he kept himself inches from her.

"Text me, write me, call me anytime, I don't care," he breathed. "Don't keep me hangin' for an entire month. I can't …"

She grinned, reaching up to cup his cheek. "I know," she said. "Don't worry, sweetie. I won't be a stranger."

Wordlessly, he brought her left hand up and kissed it.


Throughout the next week, Daisy and Luigi continuously texted each other, culminating in a Friday call that lasted three hours. He was thankful that she called him on Friday night, as Mario was out for the evening and would not have any knowledge of the call. They discussed Luigi's Wednesday visit to St. Rosalia's to receive his ashes from Father Sal. They talked about her 'bullshit' Corporations and Human Rights midterm, which Luigi renamed Intro to Assfucking (with guest lecturer Jeff Bezos; Daisy confirmed between snorts that the professor did in fact have balding hair) as well as the upcoming baseball season. Daisy promised her sweetie that Madison Bumgarner, Buster Posey, and the rest of her beloved San Francisco Giants would obliterate both the shitty Yankees and the ineffectual Mets. According to the incredulous New York plumber, "Bumcover" and "Poser" had nothing but press, to which Daisy asked if anyone outside of Brooklyn or Queens could name a Mets player. The banter carried on for an hour before Daisy reluctantly announced that she had an early flight out of LaGuardia. Although Luigi offered to give her a ride to the airport, she declined, as she had already reserved a car. They "kissed" good night, and she promised that she would text him upon her arrival in San Francisco.

Luigi slept in on Saturday morning due to work-related fatigue as well as depression at another two weeks without Daisy. Mario had already left the house, so he got up at ten o'clock to begin his morning routine. Fifteen minutes after waking up and showering, he strolled downstairs to find a small bakery box waiting on the table. Opening the lid, Luigi found two cornetti con crema which Mario had probably procured first thing from their favorite bakery and left for him. Feeling a surge of excitement, he hurriedly made coffee with the moka pot and grabbed a blue salad plate from the wooden cupboard. Sitting at the table, he plucked each pastry onto his plate and ravenously devoured the first cornetto, every so often licking his fingers of the overflowing pastry cream. Out of the corner of his eye, Luigi abruptly spotted a small piece of paper with Mario's chicken scratch. With two fingers, he dragged the paper toward him and read the text: "Didn't want to text and wake you. At gym. Meet you there when you get up. –M."

Sighing in exasperation, he sourly finished his pastries and coffee. Mickey's Boxing Club on 70th Street had been a hangout for the Bensonhurst tough guys since the 1970s; several generations of Italian, Jewish, and Irish guys gathered there to train and learn new moves to settle their beefs on the streets. Much to his Nonno Mario's, Uncle Joe's, and brother's horror, Luigi adamantly refused to frequent the boxing gym. Even as a small child, he screamed and cried at the sight of boxers; he preferred taking constant beatings from the neighborhood kids to fighting and losing. Although Luigi's father was known around his firehouse and the community for being the toughest and strongest guy on the block, easily lifting three-hundred-pound men on his back, he defended his youngest son's pacifism and supported his ballet lessons, albeit with concern over his potential homosexuality. In one heated argument with Uncle Joe, which the young Luigi had accidentally overheard from the stairwell, Mario Senior growled, "I don't want him pickin' up that shit, Giuseppe! He's gettin' outta Bensonhurst, he's goin' places. Princeton and Harvard won't want a fighter." Uncle Joe retorted that his elder brother had always been "too much of a fuckin' dreamer."

Despite Luigi's loathing for beefs and street violence, he always ended up getting pulled into conflicts due to his elder brother's de facto position as the Enforcer of 62nd Street. If he was not getting cornered and brutalized for his nonconformity to masculine norms, he and Yoshi were used to goad Mario into fights, during which the latter expertly swung the Louisville Slugger at the legs and sternums of the bullies of 65th Street – more specifically, at the Bowser family bullies. Mario and Luigi's nemesis was one Marco Bowser, who was the eldest of six children. Like his younger brother, John, he was six-foot-two and had flaming Irish-red hair, yet he possessed cold and unfeeling Sicilian-brown eyes. The remaining four children – all girls – moved away in their early twenties when they married into Irish families living in Queens and Long Island. Roughly ten years Luigi's senior and a close associate of Fat Tony Morano, Marco ruled 63rd through 65th Streets with an iron fist. He was known to the local precinct as a delinquent and bully for hire. According to the local school counselor, Marco met most of the criteria of the Dark Triad: he conned or outright beat kids for their lunch money and, on occasion, their actual lunches and expressed little to no remorse. However, the worst was when he casually inferred to the psychologist that he had dismembered the family cat of a girl who rejected his advances. Even though the school and several local cops tried to incarcerate him, Marco's father, Jimmy Bowser, regularly called in favors with higher-up friends at the NYPD to keep him out of reform school or juvenile hall.

Marco was especially cruel to Yoshi and Luigi. Aside from directing a constant barrage of ethnic and homophobic slurs at them, he once trapped the two young boys in an abandoned car service garage near the corner of 63rd Street and 17th Avenue where he beat the seven-year-old Yoshi bloody and ten-year-old Luigi nearly unconscious. The former managed to escape and, regardless of his purple bruises and bloody cuts, to run over ten blocks to Mario's hangout near New Utrecht High School. The enraged eighteen-year-old Mario came charging to the rescue, which culminated in savagely beating Marco's toadies with the Slugger and winning a vicious street fight with Marco himself. Unexpectedly, Marco and his gang left him and Yoshi alone thereafter, although they still taunted the children with slurs. Luigi never asked why; he was simply glad that the torture ended.

Luigi looked loathingly at the piece of paper once more. How long would Mario tangle and deal with psychopaths? Mario's constant need to relive the 'glory days' repulsed and terrified him. Could he last that long? With a heavy sigh, he rinsed the dish and put it in the sink, then proceeded upstairs to change into gym clothes. Though he was proud of his Italian heritage and the history of Brooklyn's Little Italy, he had wanted to leave for some time. On a password-protected computer file, he kept tens of listings for three- to four-bedroom family homes in Staten Island. He had amassed close to a quarter of a million dollars in investments and savings since becoming a journeyman plumber. Passing the master plumber exam would double his income and enable him to afford the million-dollar homes as well as comfortably support his future spouse and children. Just a few more years, he promised himself.

An hour later, the green-hoodied sweatshirt and grey sweatpants-wearing Luigi shuffled timidly into Mickey's Boxing Club, wrinkling his nose at the palpable body odor and salt in the air. As he approached the main ring, several Puerto Rican, Russian, and Irish youths were intensely punching heavy bags and practicing one-twos. He inwardly groaned as he spied Fat Tony and John Bowser the bartender standing in the corner and watching the two boxers circle and throw jabs at each other, one of whom was Mario Masciarelli. Unlike Mario, whose red tee-shirt and black shorts were drenched in sweat, John and Tony wore pristine clothes, with the former in a blue "New York Giants Super Bowl Champions XLVI" and jeans and the latter in a light purple sweatpants and hoodie set.

"Oh, c'mon, Mario, you lazy asshole!" barked Bowser, toothpick jammed in his left cheek. "Even my fuckin' ninety-year-old grandma can slug better than that!"

Mario's boxing partner and Fat Tony laughed at Bowser's insult as Mario rolled his eyes, removing his helmet, and went to the corner for his clear plastic bottle filled with water. "Shut up, dumbass, unless you wanna get in 'ere. You could earn your thousand bucks back … if you could actually hit me."

Bowser's eyes shifted to the side as he noticed Luigi standing unobtrusively behind the ring, staring at the scene before him. Grinning evilly, he replied, "Yo, Mario, if you're getting tired, we got another sparring partner for ya. We'll even put him in a cute pink tutu."

"Go screw yourself, Bowser," retorted Luigi.

"John, leave the kid alone," said Fat Tony, who leaned on the top ropes. "He's no use here except as moral support for Mario. The kid can't fight."

"You mean he won't fight," corrected John, chewing on the toothpick.

"Whatever. Same thing," replied Tony.

Luigi shrugged. "Hey, I'm smart. Unlike some people, I won't get my head bashed in; I'll actually remember to put a cap on my dick and not blame every little accident on my supposedly sacred sperm."

Bowser angrily jumped out of the ring corner and moved right into Luigi's space, jamming his right index finger into his face. "You got somethin' to say to me, you little fenucca?"

"Woah, woah, Bowser, move away from my bro," warned Mario, who had walked to the edge of ring and was ready to intercept the larger man.

The young plumber laughed sarcastically, refusing to back away from the irate redhead. "How's the missus? I mean, ex-missus. How many's that, by the way? Got a goomah in every port."

Before John could punch Luigi in the stomach, Fat Tony caught Bowser's fist. "Basta! It's not worth the effort. As for you," he said to Luigi, "keep your big mouth shut, kid. If you ain't gonna fight, then be a good musciada and sit in the corner. To change the subject, how is the missus, John? More importantly, how's the goomah?"

Bowser glared at the four men around him who were either chuckling or looking away to hold in their laughter. Removing the toothpick, he pointed his index finger in a panorama starting from Luigi and ending with Tony. "Fuck all of youse. After eighteen years of marriage, that fuckin' bitch cheats on me with some fuckin' snot-nosed, four-eyed accountant in Queens, then I get to pay her alimony and child support. And my balls, too. She and youse can go to the fieriest pits of hell!"

"Ah, la poveretta. Who can blame her?" started Mario, making a pinching gesture with both hands, "You were fuckin' stupid enough to get caught with your piece on the side. Those poor kids."

The bartender's brown eyes turned black. "You fuckin' leave them outta this. Just because their mother's a two-timing puttana doesn't make it their problem. You're one to fuckin' talk, anyway," he growled, raising his right hand and extending his thumb and pinky fingers in a 'horns' sign. Mario angrily crossed his arms in response, silently and slowly shaking his head in disdain. "Fuckin' my sister-in-law; that's low even for you, Mario. Is the puttana still hiding in the City, or did she get her head on straight and go back to Venice? Or maybe she upgraded and got a few servants to give her the ol' badah-bing." He made a screwing gesture with his right arm.

Mario jumped out of the ring and shoved Bowser backward several feet. "Sta ta zee, stronzo!"

As Bowser threw down the toothpick with his left hand and approached Mario to shove him back, Fat Tony and Luigi intervened, with the former holding Bowser back and the latter doing the same with Mario. "Basta!" shouted Tony. After they struggled against Tony and Luigi for a minute, they reluctantly relaxed.

"The fuckin' pair of youse," Tony grumbled. He opened his mouth to elaborate further when his cellphone rang. Fishing it out of his pants pocket, he briefly checked the caller ID and answered, "Yeah. Uh-huh, yeah, okay." Pressing the end key, Fat Tony looked up at other three, a flicker of disappointment passing over his portly face and announced, "Got called away to work. I'll see youse at the fight next Friday. Play nice." Before anyone could ask further questions, he quickly made his exit out of the boxing club.

Bowser and Mario threw each other a menacing glare, then resumed their positions around the ring. Luigi rolled his eyes, crossed his arms, and observed the resumed sparring practice from the corner opposite from Bowser. Silently, like a good musciada, he fumed; why the fuck was he even there – to watch the Great Mario flex his muscles and act like he was king of the fucking world? Mario knew that he hated being in the company of these two individuals, especially Bowser. Granted, he was arguably less of a psychopath than his late brother, Marco, but he was sneaky, slimy, and treacherous like the other Bowser men, beginning with their father, Jimmy.

He hated them all, even if he did owe the youngest bastard a debt of gratitude.

After five minutes of Mario clowning around and showing off his Jujitsu locks and holds, with Bowser and the sparring partner snickering throughout the exercise, Luigi spun on his heel and proceeded to the exit. Opening the glass door, he sighed in relief as the cool Brooklyn air hit his hot face. Turning north toward 62nd Street, he started the ten-minute walk home when Mario came running out of the door. He had forgotten to remove his sparring helmet.

"Where ya goin'?" he demanded softly.

"Home," replied Luigi over his shoulder, still walking toward their street. Suddenly, he felt a strong hand on his shoulder, halting his movement.

"You gettin' upset because of Bowser? Weeg, he's a moron. And besides, you started that shit about his ex-wife. You don't want your ass kicked? Then learn to control your fuckin' mouth," said Mario coldly.

"My fuckin' mouth?!" exploded Luigi incredulously, spinning to face Mario. "He and his brother tortured half of fucking Bensonhurst, and now you're amici? Minchia, you come down here to 'kick it' with the Irish and Sicilian Sociopaths more than you do with me or anyone else, for that matter! Did you really need to agree to Fat Tony's plan? Did you really? You're in the Special Forces for Chrissakes! No one there's gonna have your training. So how's attacking the weak heroic? How?! And do you really believe that Fat Tony will keep his word? Nah, he'll just rope you into another of his schemes."

"Weeg, ti voglio bene, really," said Mario as he inhaled to keep his temper in check, "but sometimes, you can be really fuckin' dumb. Despite that genius IQ, you don't always see the forest from the trees. You and Pops had that in common. We didn't create the world; we're just livin' in it. Sometimes, we gotta anticipate stupid shit and the worst and do what we gotta do. But we walk outta here. You walk outta here." He snaked his right hand around Luigi's neck and brought his head so that they were forehead to forehead. "That's why I'm doin' this – you walk out of this."

"But why?" whispered the younger brother. "Why do you need to do this?"

"You know why," he simply stated and walked back into the gym.


Although he went to Sunday mass to take comfort in Father Sal's soothing voice, like his brother, he skipped dinner with the Inquisition, expressing his sincerest apologies, much to Uncle Joe's, Aunt Lucia's, and nonna's pleas and objections. Later that evening, Uncle Joe called him and asked what the real story was. Though he was sure that Joe knew he was lying, he made up a story that Sal had called him and Mario out on a last-minute weekend job. Unenthusiastically, Joe dropped the subject after Luigi's fugazzi explanation, responding in a brusque tone that "Mario better not be at that fuckin' club again." In spite of his proven ability to spin white lies and stories at a moment's notice, Luigi wallowed in immense guilt at lying to his elder for several days thereafter.

The tall, curly-haired middle child of Mario and Nonna Maria (Mia) Masciarelli, Giuseppe was the antithesis of his elder brother; he was ill-tempered, sharp-tongued, and a cynical authoritarian who uttered nothing but the darkest bile at the so-called 'scholastics' and 'Ivory Tower pseudointellectuals.' On several occasions, Luigi recalled running away to Yoshi's house to avoid hearing the screaming matches between his father and Uncle Joe over little Luigi's advanced education. While Mario Senior heeded the advice and counsel of Father Sal, Monsignor Rosetti, and Professor Omaya on how best to prepare Luigi for his bright future at MIT, Harvard, or Princeton, Uncle Joe expressed nothing but contempt and outrage over "putting a kid through that mumbo-jumbo masturbatory bullshit." The late paterfamilias of the Masciarelli clan, Nonno Mario, unexpectedly sided with his eldest son. Though their arguments and mutual dislike for each other were legendary, Nonno Mario supported Mario Senior against Giuseppe, explaining that his grandson was "dotato," and it would be an honor to their family if Luigi – a plumber's grandson – was able to attend an Ivy League school or even La Sapienza in Rome.

Following his two eldest daughters' births, Joe and Lucia moved from Bensonhurst, then nationally notorious for its racial violence and rumored ties to the Cosa Nostra, across the Verrazzano Bridge to Eltingville in the southern tip of Staten Island, an Italian stronghold and the modern-day "Little Italy" of New York City. Unlike much of New York, Staten Island was a quiet, seaside borough of middle-class neighborhoods, Italian restaurants, and natural wildlife without the visible signs of the Mafia and racist lynchings. Joe opened his own successful plumbing shop in which Luigi held his first wrench, plunger, and snake. Before Mario, Sal, and the asshole UA apprentice instructor, John Slaughter, there was Uncle Joe and his cousin Maria, the eldest daughter and assistant to the exacting master plumber. Luigi spent two of his teenage years in Staten Island and in the care of Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucia. Even in adulthood, Luigi received weekly, sometimes daily phone calls from Joe and Lucia. As for the daughters, Maria, Adriana, and Luisa, he often received texts and a variety of invitations to parties where they promised that young and pretty Staten Island Italian girls were waiting to meet him.

Although they were thusly (and thankfully) unaware, Luigi's pretty girl constantly texted and called him from San Francisco throughout the week. On Tuesday morning, she sent him a picture of the view from her Pacific Heights bedroom window, then another atop a hill where the bay was visible in the background, and finally a third walking across the Golden Gate Bridge. In response, he took a selfie of sitting and pouting in front of a set uncut pipes. The next photo of a plush, green forest came on Wednesday afternoon; underneath the picture, Daisy wrote, "Muir Woods/Sausalito." Luigi liked the pic and replied by sending her a dashcam video of a black SUV cutting him off on McDonald Avenue which he titled, "Brooklyn Driving 101 – Assholes on Urban Safari." On Thursday evening, Daisy sent him a pic of a plate of hamantaschen and ma'amoul – fig and date stuffed cookies rolled in powdered sugar – with the caption, "Starting Purim early !" A few moments later: "Fuck, got told off by Yael. 😡. I have serious plans for those cookies. They will be mine." During their phone call, they discussed Daisy's aforementioned plot to steal the cookies until Luigi was nearly asleep and Daisy was called to dinner.

Friday the 14th – Pi Day, mused Luigi – had arrived. Due to Shabbat and Purim, Luigi did not expect a text or phone call from his sweetie until Sunday. Nonetheless, he sighed sadly; even though he loved the pictures from San Francisco, he wished she would come back to Brooklyn sooner than the end of the subsequent week. He called Yoshi, Miles, and Birdo to hang out, but they already had plans that weekend. Yoshi assured Luigi that they could play hoops the next weekend, to which he reluctantly agreed. Finishing his workday at four o'clock, he walked out of the construction site, planning to drive down to Dyker Heights to treat himself to a pizza. As he fished his car keys out of his pocket, the plumber failed to notice a tall, skinny man dressed in a purple polo shirt, a dark blue-gray windowpane suit, and Chucks leaning against the passenger door of the red car.

"Ah, there you are," he said, making a show of checking his expensive wristwatch and placing his thousand-dollar Raybans into his suit pocket. "You know, I've waited two hours here. Do you union guys not keep regular hours anymore?"

Luigi stared incredulously at the taller man inclined against his car. "What the fuck are you doing, Lucas?" he asked lowly.

"Well," he began, "Tony asked me to make sure that you came to Mario's little fight. But I thought that we'd grab a slice first. If we hurry, we can get dinner and be on time. Now open the passenger door. I'm hungry – I haven't been to Brooklyn's Little Italy in a while."

"I'm not goin,' especially if you assclowns want me there. Mario can fight his own battles. And if you need directions to Bensonhurst, the N train's that way," spat Luigi, pointing to the south. "You can get your skanky Manhattan ass on a subway like everyone else."

As Luigi tried to open the driver side door and quickly escape, Lucas had already anticipated the move, and used fast fingers and long legs to open the passenger door and jump into the empty seat. Shutting the door, he stretched out and glanced at the driver expectantly. "Well? Bensonhurst is a thirty-minute drive in traffic. Drive on, James. Pizza awaits."

Blue eyes blazing, Luigi turned to the unwelcome guest. "Fuck you, Lucas. I'm not going anywhere. Now get out of my car!"

"Mmm, how about no?" replied Lucas. "You'll go, Crackhead. Because if you don't," he calmly pulled out his iPhone, "I'll make a little phone call to Tony and tell him that you refused his personal invitation. He'll be so disappointed." He pretended to think hard by scratching his chin, then continued, "Didn't Mario make a deal on your behalf?"

Luigi faced forward and his knuckles blanched on the steering wheel. He badly needed a cigarette. Breathing in and out to calm himself, he started the engine and muttered, "Seat belt, you prick."

Lucas smirked, then fastened his safety belt and slid his Raybans atop his head as the plumber violently drove the car into the street. Over the course of the drive to south Brooklyn, Luigi refused to utter a single word despite Lucas's attempts at engaging him in conversation. Twenty-five minutes later, Luigi parallel parked in front of DaVinci's, per Lucas's demands. The plumber slowly and reluctantly followed the taller man inside the pizza store. Inside, as Luigi looked on irritably, Lucas jumped around like a kid in a candy store, excitedly quizzing the server about the daily specials; he ended up buying an entire Sicilian pepperoni pizza. Lucas insisted that they sit at a booth for the 'full dining experience.' After they sat down – Luigi unwillingly – Lucas frowned, confusedly glancing around from table to table. His non-consensual dining companion raised his eyebrows, silently demanding what his problem was, when Lucas held up a finger and went up to the ordering bar, handing the server a fifty-dollar bill. The large Italian man incredulously stared at the skinny man, accepted the Ulysses Grant, flicked two pieces of plastic at him, and crossed his arms. Paying no attention to the insulted server, Lucas retrieved the plastic fork and knife, then sat down again. As the server watched in horror and Luigi attempted to shield his eyes in shame, Lucas used the fork and knife to divide and eat the pepperoni slice.

"What?" asked Lucas mildly. "I didn't want to get the grease on my hands. I just got these babies manicured. It's bad for the hands, you know, generally."

Side-eyeing the server, whose large, brawny arms were still crossed in disgust and scowling at him for being a 'tourist' into the pizzeria, Luigi hissed, "You've lived in Manhattan nearly all your life! How the fuck can you eat pizza with a goddamn knife and fork?! You never did that before!"

Lucas shrugged, shoveling another piece of pepperoni and cheese into his mouth. "A lot of time has passed, Weegie. I went to college – Harvard, actually – got my MBA at Wharton, and started my own tech company. I had to upgrade my tastes." He looked at the remaining eleven-slice rectangular pizza. "Aren't you going to eat? You must be hungry; I'd imagine manual labor does that." Luigi crossed his arms. The man in purple smiled teasingly, "Oh, come on!" Nothing. "Come on," he cajoled with a sing-song tone. "I know you can't resist Sicilian-style pizza, Weeg. Pepperoni was your favorite. Still is, isn't it?"

Glowering at the man, Luigi grabbed a slice and bit into it like a starving man while attempting to keep the self-loathing from rising up his throat.

"Isn't that better?" said Lucas. "Still got the hangries?" At Luigi's wordless glare through several chews of pizza, he shrugged again and started to speak. "Anyway, what was I saying before? Oh yeah, so a lot's changed. I managed to do well for myself in spite of some people putting roadblocks in my way. Gaming company's doing well. Got into crypto, too! I think that shit's gonna change the financial sector. I can hook you up, if you want."

Luigi finished chewing his slice of pizza, wiped his fingers with a paper napkin, and then crossed his arms cantankerously. "I kinda doubt Tony told you to take me out on a date, so what's the real story? Also, we've got," he glanced quickly at his wristwatch, "fifteen minutes before entry."

The purple man made a face of ignorance. Taking a bite of his second slice of pizza with the fork, he replied, "Oh, man, this is some good shit. Mmm. Tony did ask me to bring you to Mario's fight. I just wanted to have dinner with an old friend. We weren't just acquaintances, and I admit," he leaned in closer to Luigi from across the table, "I felt, you know, a bit guilty for not having reached out before."

"Hey!" yelled the large cook from the kitchen behind the counter. "Yo, Mario's fightin' tonight?"

"Yeah," answered Lucas, raising his body in his chair toward the cook. "Some asshole insulted New York Italians and is inching for a beating, so Tony and Mario are gonna take care of it."

"Same place?" he asked.

"Yep."

Luigi overheard the pizza cooks working out who exactly would stay to cater to the customers and who would attend the fight. One guy – Louie – asked another guy – Mikey – to lend him a few extra bucks to bet on Mario.

"I did you a favor, Weegie. I got more of an audience for Mario. Free advertising," Lucas said, interrupting his eavesdropping of Louie and Mikey haggling over cash.

"Don't call me that," Luigi growled. "Now answer my original question."

"Sorry, Luigi. Geez, you've become so touchy in the past decade! As I was saying before, I felt guilty about not reaching out to an old friend, so here I am. You look like you could use one."

"Bullshit!" hissed the plumber, rolling his eyes.

"Well," Lucas began good-naturedly, "believe what you want, but it's the truth. Honestly. I mean, after what happened back then, you know, with your …"

Before Lucas could finish his sentence, Luigi stormily bolted out of the chair, blue eyes blazing and heart pounding in his chest. He stabbed his right index finger at his dinner companion and bellowed, "Do not fucking go there! Finish your pizza your fuckin' self." Spinning furiously on his heel, he walked angrily out of the pizzeria to the passenger side of his car. Unlocking the door, he fished through the glove compartment until he found the pack of Marlboros and lighter. Slamming and locking the car with tremoring hands, Luigi slid out the cigarette and lit it, reveling in the nicotine fix. Placing the package and lighter in his green hoodie pocket, he briskly strolled up 18th Avenue, cigarette in hand, toward the 65th Street intersection. Behind him followed Lucas at a more leisurely pace, carrying a takeout pizza box in his right hand, observing Luigi's smoke break with mixed amusement and satisfaction.

They both crossed the street at the walk signal and approached a small, abandoned store space located between a Chinese medicine boutique and a coffee shop. Though a large sign read, "Space for Rent! Call 718-657-5555," two bulky Italian guys in black and grey suits stood guard outside of the front door. Bringing the cigarette to his lips, Luigi approached the men and exhaled, blowing smoke in their faces.

"Fuckin' asshole," grumbled the first while the second coughed uncontrollably.

Luigi smirked. "Buona sera." Lucas chuckled behind him, passively witnessing the scene.

"There's no smoking in our establishment, stunad! Filthy habit!" yelled the second man. "Also, what's the parola?"

"Fuck you and Tony invited me," deadpanned Luigi. "That's la password."

"Aight, you green asshole. Just put that thing out!"

Luigi gingerly took one last drag of the cigarette, dropped it on the sidewalk, and ground it into dust with his plumber's boot. "Whoda thought that the Hammer Brothers would have a problem with a little smoke?" The first brother, Petey, just shook his large fist at Luigi as the plumber entered the glass door. Lucas soon followed with the pizza box. The interior was pitch black save for the gentle illumination of a hand-held flashlight pointing toward the outline of a metal staircase. Luigi and Lucas moved along the light and down the staircase to a metal access point. Another Italian wiseguy stood guard and demanded the 'parola;' this time, Lucas provided the correct word – Smash – which permitted them to pass into a vast warehouse-like room. In the middle sat a black-link octagonal cage, where a small crowd of men had already gathered and were exchanging small papers and cash. Luigi immediately spotted Tony, who was gleefully accepting bets. Dressed like a pimp, he thought cynically; the fat man wore a bright yellow suit with velvet zebra trim and a black button-down Oxford. Outfitted in his usual black tee-shirt, blue jeans, and toothpick in his mouth, John Bowser leaned against the exterior of the black chain ring, nervously waiting for the fight to begin. Bowser's and Luigi's eyes met, and the bartender waved, beckoning him. Sighing, Luigi ambled across the room and next to Bowser.

"So, bro-cio, you finally showed your face. Did Tony have to go get your cutesy ass?" asked the older man, still chewing on his toothpick.

"I'm here, jerkoff, so that's enough," barked Luigi.

Bowser faced away from the younger plumber, gazing into the ring. "You smell like a fuckin' ashtray."

Luigi did not answer, instead disgustedly observing the substantial influx of neighborhood guys and other guests from Bay Ridge Avenue and Bath Beach; they greeted both Tony and Lucas, offering green and white-colored stacks of differing sizes. Fat Tony greedily seized each wad, flipping through the greenbacks; he argued with one or two guys who shrugged and assured him that they would pay the rest in a few days. Nodding, the fat man in yellow acquiesced, though he pointed his finger in warning to those who were derelict. After ten minutes, Tony signaled to his guard to shut the door and moved into the center of the ring. Two hundred spectators crowded the perimeter of the cage; several guards appeared to push them all back, one of whom seized Luigi to place him with the rest of the crowd, but Bowser shouted, "No! He's with me and Mario!" The guard released Luigi and held up a hand in apology, then moved to deal with non-essential viewers, including Lucas despite his shouts and protests. Grumbling underneath his breath, John grabbed Luigi by his green hood and fixed him closer to the corner.

"Aight!" started Fat Tony, silencing the excited crowd. "You're all here 'cause you heard what this asshole said! Apparently, this stupid fuck thinks that New York has gone soft!" At the outraged boos and retorts, Fat Tony held up his hands to quieten them. "Yeah, who does this fuckin' guy think he is? Well, we got a nice fuckin' surprise for him, don't we?" The crowd roared with cheers, whistles, and applause. "Aight, he wanted it, and now, he's fuckin' gonna get it! Let's bring out our…challenger!"

Everyone looked toward the left side of the ring, where a six-foot-three olive-skinned man strolled confidently to the cage. The spectators booed and hissed at him; several shouted Italian and English insults at him and slapped their biceps with the ombrello. The muscular fighter sneered at them, lifting his arms in the V-for-victory pose, which further enraged the crowd. He entered the well-lit cage; the buzz-cut, bearded man was covered in Cyrillic tattoos and wore black shorts, his hands wrapped with athletic tape. Luigi's eyes widened in horror as he recognized a couple of the tattoos from a documentary that he had watched on Russian prisons a few months prior. "You stupid asshole, Tony!" he screamed. "That guy's a Russian –"

Bowser clamped his large hand over Luigi's mouth and whispered into his right ear, "Shut your mouth right now, kid! You say it, you could get someone killed. Got it?" The younger man struggled more against the bartender who kept his hand firmly in position. Following a minute and a half of futile movement, he relented and nodded. The redheaded man carefully removed his hand and pointed his finger at Luigi in a final warning.

"In the left corner, measuring six-foot-three, weighing 230 pounds and hailing from Fuckermenistan or Dicksukastan. Whatever, one of those fuckin' stans near Russia, I announce Ruslan Rakhimov!" The fighter smirked and raised his hands at the hostile gathering.

Suddenly, a smaller, shirtless figure – save his gold saint's medallion – wearing a pair of red boxing shorts emerged from the right side; the strapping mustachioed man marched purposefully to the ring amidst the wild cheers and applause from the spectators. Chants of "Mario!" started to echo throughout the space.

"In the right corner, measuring five-foot-six, weighing 195 pounds and hailing from our own Bensonhurst…" Tony was unable to complete the introduction as the crowd loudly chanted Mario's name. When they quieted down a bit, Tony continued, "Il Capitano, the Sergeant at Arms, Mario Masciarelli!" The cheers became even louder as Luigi closed his anxiety-filled eyes. He did not see Mario raise his arms in a Rocky pose while looking determinedly toward his younger brother.

Both men moved to the center of the ring, with Fat Tony standing between them. "Aight, you know the rules," Tony said, "there are no rules except for eye-gouging or weapons. 'Cause I don't want to clean up the mess. Whoever's still standing wins. Good luck."

The challenger scoffed and yelled, "Эта ебаная итальяшка хочет драться со мной? Сука." The audience booed, even though they did not speak a word of Russian.

Mario and Bowser narrowed their eyes uncomprehendingly. The latter leaned over to Luigi and asked, "What the hell did he say? I caught 'bitch' and that was it." When Luigi did not immediately react, John screamed, "Luigi, you goddamned mule! What did he say?"

Pinching his nose and shaking his head, he replied, "He said, 'This fucking wop wants to fight me?' Then he called Mario a bitch."

Bowser set his jaw, gnashing on the toothpick, and then bellowed, "Fuck this cocksucker up, Mario!"

The man in the red shorts took his fighting position, putting his hands up toward his temples, as the sneering Rakhimov circled him menacingly. "No leg, no fight," he growled at the Italian. The shorter man ignored him, shifting his position to cover a potential attack. Rakhimov leisurely extended his right leg in a roundhouse kick, which Mario easily avoided. As he slid back with his left leg to avoid the kick, the Russian-speaking fighter quickly moved in and delivered a hook punch to Mario's right cheek, the force pinning him against the chain of the cage. He put his arms up to protect his head as Rakhimov dispensed a series of one-two blows to his head and sternum.

"Get off the fence!" shrieked Bowser.

Despite the bruising pain against and within his body, Mario managed to shift his weight to his amputated right leg and served a left front kick into Rakhimov's solar plexus, pushing him backward a few feet to provide enough room for an escape. The audience cheered as Mario shook out his swollen face and head. Rakhimov bobbed side to side before moving in a foot to roundhouse knee kick Mario in the side. As he brought his knee up, the Italian elbowed him in the quad, then upper cut him in the chin and jaw, snapping his head backward and causing the man to fall to the floor. Loud applause, cheers, and chants of "Mario!" resonated throughout the hall as the man in red rapidly body slammed himself onto the other fighter. Elbowing him twice in the solar plexus, which made the man gasp for air, he slipped his right arm underneath Rakhimov's head and neck and clasped his hands together, balancing himself on his right knee just above the prosthesis and an extended left leg. Squeezing harder to force a submission, Mario miscalculated his pelvic weight shift by a fraction of a second, which enabled his opponent to relax the hold and bring his long arms around to attempt a grab of his left leg in a D'Arce Choke. Mario hurriedly slipped out of the choke and reverse-rolled to his feet. Soon, Rakhimov was also standing, giving the plumber an impromptu head circle and an evil smile.

Luigi gripped the cage link in cold terror, his blue eyes clouding over with tears, anxiety, and defeat. Unconsciously, his right fingers unhooked from the fencing and stroked the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, and he wildly looked around for the exit. Bowser gripped the younger man's wrist, keeping him in place. "Don't you dare bail, you candy-ass!"

The young plumber heard a groan and gazed up in revulsion as Mario was bent over from a knee kick. Rakhimov dropped punched his head, knocking him down fully to the ground. The fighter held up his arms in a victory pose while the shorter man managed to roll away several feet away from him to the opposite edge of the cage. Out of harm's way for the moment, Luigi watched as his brother wiped the gushing blood from his nose and mustache. Luigi was ready to push through the dense crowd and run all the way from Bensonhurst, through Bay Ridge, and across the Verrazzano Bridge. He refused to watch his brother's annihilation in some hyper-macho, rooster cage fight. As he stepped back to make a discreet exit, the green-hoodied man did an abrupt double-take to his left; a short, well-dressed, olive-skinned man in his thirties with a short black fez atop his head glided through the crowd of cheering and screaming onlookers. Situating himself akimbo and directly in front of the ring, he watched calmly, yet purposefully at the fight.

Luigi's eyes narrowed. What was he doing here?

Inside the cage and breathing harshly, Mario spat more blood from his throat and glared at the man who mocked him further by hopping on one leg. "Fuck!" he growled in self-flagellation between puffs. The pain in his head burst through his eyes and for a moment, he wondered if playing dead was a better idea than continuing to get his ass beat. Glancing over his shoulder, the elder plumber spied the confused and panicked expression by Luigi. The noise of the crowd screaming at him to get up and beat his Russki ass quelled, and the movements of Bowser, Tony, and other neighborhood guys seemed to slow down to single frames like in a movie. He focused on his little brother for what felt like minutes; Luigi had physically made himself smaller since the beginning of the fight, as if he were going to run at any moment. That's it! Mario thought triumphantly. He nudged his left leg just underneath his body and engaged his glutes and quads.

"Hey, moron!" he called out to his celebrating opponent. "Sooka, or whatever you fuckers say!" Rakhimov turned toward him with a none-too-pleased expression. Standing on both feet, hobbling slightly on his organic left leg, he expanded his arms and spat again on the ground. "You need to get me into a submission, sooka, so you're gonna have to try harder than that!" Rakhimov stared at him in disbelief, then nodded his head to signal that Mario's challenge was accepted. The Russophone lunged at him, with Mario moving stealthily to the side, jogging in place.

"What? That's all you got? C'mon! I'm the idiot with the peg leg!" the Italian chuckled at the larger man.

Rakhimov engaged his quick feet and, like a speeding train, threw several consecutive punches at Mario, one of which hit him in the cheek. Shaking his head to dull the pain and double vision, Mario backed up and started to zigzag, forcing Rakhimov to shift his gaze from feet to hands and copy his movements. A split second later, the plumber threw a left roundhouse to his calf, lunged at an angle and came within inches of the large man's chest to prevent his long reach. Grabbing him by the shoulders, he kneed him in the sternum with full power from his left side. As Rakhimov fell backward from the force, Mario pulled him forward and squatted down to connect his hips with the man's body like a fulcrum. Using his glutes, quads, and upper body strength, he flipped Rakhimov legs-first over his hips and shoulder and slammed him down on the ground. Everyone winced and groaned at the sickening crack of contact between Mario's left forearm and Rakhimov's nose. The shorter man then punched him in the face several times. Despite the blood flowing from his recent injuries, the man struggled to get up, but Mario quickly latched his arms around his head and neck, heaving himself down to the ground and wrapping his leg and prosthesis against his mid-section in a sacrifice move. As Rakhimov started to writhe against and gasp from the iron-grip around his neck, Mario growled in his ear, "Tap out, fuckstick!" Ten seconds later, the man indignantly slammed his right hand three times against the ground, indicating that he conceded the match.

The room erupted with cheers, high-fives, and deafening chants of "Mario!" Exhausted, bruised, and bloody from the fight, the plumber carelessly dropped Rakhimov's head down to the ground as he maneuvered himself from underneath him. He limped weakly toward the center of the cage. Like a running donut, Tony rushed back into the ring and swung Mario's right arm high in the air to show that he was the winner and reigning champion. Mario grinned happily at the chants of his name, putting his other arm up in a victory posture, as Bowser strolled into the ring and bear-hugged him around his sweaty middle. This continued for several minutes afterward as Luigi looked on blankly.