Author's notes: I'm back! Thanks to everyone who sent me reviews; I will answer them ASAP. Apologies for the delayed response; I did read them, but I've been pretty busy with holidays and work. Ugh.

I've begun the answer to the challenge to include both Swahili and Finnish. Heh. I hope you all enjoy. I'll also give a general warning for strong language, though no ethnic slurs. Please continue to read and review!


Chapter 22: Houseguests

Mario sat in a white vest shirt and red boxers, tiredly watching the images flicker across the fifty-inch flat screen in the spare bedroom. After Luigi's departure to California a few days prior, and not wanting to spend his summer in an empty house, he had relocated to Peach's 5th Avenue apartment in the Upper East Side. To ease the transition, Sal kindly allowed him to work tickets in Queens, Manhattan, and Williamsburg over the next couple of weeks. On Tuesday evening, he received texts and photos from Luigi of the Stanford University campus. He had to admit that the buildings and grounds were beautiful, peaceful, which was what his little brother badly needed. Nonetheless, living in New York without Luigi made him restless. On nights when the jitters and racing thoughts started to overwhelm him, Mario moved to the spare, pale green room, a large eighteenth-century Venetian-style chambre with antique green and blue furniture, ivory fireplace, and a pastel-colored Oriental rug. Particularly during the week, Peach was required to wake up early or at certain times to conduct or oversee procedures or surgeries as a top pulmonologist at New York-Presbyterian; thus he spent such nights in the second bedroom to avoid interrupting her slumber.

As he watched the screen blankly, Mario felt a smaller, feminine hand caress his bare shoulder. He closed his blue eyes, leaning his head slightly toward her in both greeting and request for more. The blonde woman, who was dressed in a pink satin nightie, slid into the space next to him and, propping herself up in the bed, moved her hand into his dark brown cropped curls.

"Don't you have a surgery in the mornin'?" he asked lowly.

"No, it's in the late afternoon," replied Peach, still caressing his hair. "Lighter workload this week. God, I can't wait until you're out of the Army; I love it when you actually grow them out."

Mario hummed. "Yeah, you'd think that, bein' stateside, that they'd relax the regs, especially for Italian guys who got the Mediterranean umbrella. Soon, Peaches, soon."

"He'll be okay, you know," she said. "Stanford will be good for him. It's a long time coming."

The plumber did not immediately answer his significant other; while he knew that Stanford was an excellent university, and their father would have been ecstatic, bragging to anyone who would listen that his son was going to an elite school, he missed his little brother terribly. "Earthquakes," he finally spoke.

Peach laughed a little. "It's not so easy when the shoe's on the other food, is it, mate?"

He shrugged. "Nah, that's different. He's my little bro."

"Well, I was going to surprise you later in the week, but I might as well tell you now," Peach purred absent-mindedly, as Mario put his muscular arm around her and kissed the top of her head.

"Surprise?"

"Yeah," she glanced at him with a teasing smile, "Before he left, Luigi and I had a little chat. We both knew that the, uh, separation might be difficult for you."

"Well, it's just, uh, I-I worry about earthquakes. There are a lot of 'em in California," replied Mario nonchalantly. "Anyway, what's the surprise?"

"I know you're off on the Fourth of July with both Sal and with the Army, so … Would you like to visit Luigi in Palo Alto?"

He turned to her with a skeptical, yet hopeful look. "But it's end of June; I don't know how we're gonna get tickets or get a hotel without payin' up the nose. Not to mention whatever closet Stanford put him in on campus. I heard about colleges puttin' kids into former closets or even toilets 'cause there's no room."

"It's already done, amorino. I bought the tickets, and don't start complaining about money! It's my gift to you both. We would fly out to San Francisco on July 2 and return to New York on July 6. I reserved us a car, and no, Luigi's not staying in a closet. I guess a friend of a friend found him a … I can't remember what you call it in English – sta badando alla casa vicino a facoltà?"

Mario raised an eyebrow. "He's housesitting? Well, okay. I guess that could work. I mean, I don't wanna bother him. I hear Stanford's pretty tough."

Peach giggled. "He's fine, really. I think he wants to see you, too."

A grin spread across Mario's face. "Aight, I guess we can fly out to California and see what that fuckin' Stanford's all about." He leaned down to kiss her deeply. "Grazie, amore mio," he murmured against her rosy pink lips. His hands beginning to wander from her face downward, he growled seductively, "Tra l'altro, io so esattamente como posso dire grazie."

She moaned in delight, "Mi mostra!"

Before he could fulfill the breathy request of his personal Venus, they both froze at the buzzing of the intercom. Peach groaned at the interruption while Mario immediately became suspicious and, going into the hallway, raised a finger at his cohabitant to stay quiet. Pressing the answer button, he stated in a no-nonsense voice, "Yo, Anthony, it's ten at night. What's the matter?"

"Yo, Mario, sorry to bother you, but I got a couple of visitors down 'ere. They say their names are John Bowser, Wendy, and Louie," explained the doorman.

At Peach's widened eyes and Mario's shocked stare at the com box, he answered, "Put Bowser on for a minute." A moment later, they heard a familiar voice grumble a 'thanks,' and the plumber snorted, "I see you brought the clown car, John. What the fuck do you want?"

"Mario, you fuckin'-A-well know that I wouldn't be here of all places if it weren't important!" Bowser barked, though both Mario and Peach could hear a sense of urgency and even fear in his voice. Muting the box, the plumber raised his eyebrows to Peach.

She let out a puff of indecision and annoyance. "I mean, he's right. He wouldn't be here of all places if it weren't important. But I don't trust him whatsoever."

He nodded. "Di certo." Hitting the button again to speak to the bartender, Mario spoke in his best staff sergeant's voice, "Bowser, you say anything other than very nice, flattering, tasteful things to Peach, I'll kill you and toss your worthless fuckin' corpse into the East River. If you're playing me in any way, same applies. And if this is just for babysitting, I'll motherfucking kill and bury you underneath a cheaply paved lot in Newark. Got it? Anthony, g'ahead and send 'em up, thanks." Ending the call, he strode into their room to the shared executive desk while Peach searched for something to cover her night clothes. As she tied a matching pink dressing gown around her waist, he unlocked the desk drawer, took out a black box and, to her dismay, its contents, a Smith and Wesson 9mm. Checking the clip, he slammed it into the gun and tucked it into his shorts.

She raised an eyebrow, "È davvero necessario?"

"Eh," said Mario, tossing up his hands. "He's a dirtbag and a stronzo." At his pronouncement, they heard a firm knock at the front door. Marching downstairs in front of Peach, he motioned her to move into the living room to wait in safety. Mario then looked through the peephole to see a nervous Bowser standing with two kids, a boy and a girl, in their early teens. Slowly, he unlocked the door and opened it, stepping aside to allow the three into the inner hallway. The elder Bowser gestured for Wendy and Louie to step inside first, which they did hesitantly; as he came inside and shut the door, Mario ripped the New York Yankees cap off his head and carelessly tossed it to the floor. Louie's brown eyes widened and fixated at the gun-shaped bulge in the plumber's waistband while Wendy gasped at Mario's assault of her uncle.

"Fuck!" gasped Bowser.

Mario stood in front of the three Bowsers and put his hands at his sides, in reach of his concealed weapon. "I don't allow drug paraphernalia in my home. Now, what brings you to 5th Avenue of all places, John?"

"Look, Masciarelli, I figured you'd be here. I don't care for the … Cristina," he quickly corrected at Mario's stern glare, "but I need your help. Junior's stayin' at his mother's with his three brothers and sisters. My sister's two little ones are with their grandmother in Queens. Wendy and Louie are my brother's, and they got nowheres to go."

Mario narrowed his eyes at Marco Bowser's two offspring. John's got a lot of nerve calling Peach a donnaccia and, at the same time, protecting his previously unknown 'stepbrats,' he thought uncharitably.

"It's okay, Mario," spoke a feminine voice from behind and to the right of him. They all turned to see a weary Peach standing in her dressing gown, arms crossed. "John might be a cretino, but he won't try anything with the children watching." She calmly moved to the frightened kids and kindly escorted them to her kitchen for a cup of hot chocolate.

As they were out of earshot and sight, Mario lifted his shirt to show Bowser the Smith and Wesson. "I ain't in the mood for games, John, especially when you bring me and Peach the spawn of that lowlife piece of shit. By the way, I truly hope he's burning in the lowest pits of hell. Now, what the fuck do you want?"

"Mario, listen, I got to hide out for a day or two. I wasn't gonna leave the kids without someone to look after 'em."

"Bullshit!" spat the plumber. "You got four fuckin' sisters in Queens. Or the kids' mother. Bother them."

"Mario, goddamn it!" yelled Bowser. "I don't have time to explain this shit to you!"

As he turned to leave, Mario frowned and put up his hands. "Wait a moment. Wait a fuckin' minute! This isn't about that shit in the gym, is it? You embarrassed Tony and Big Jackass, yeah, but you'd pay some sort of tax, hence why the bar's shut down. They wouldn't kill you for it!" Without replying, John opened the door and tried to leave once more, only for Mario to quickly slam it shut. "Uh-uh. You ain't fuckin' goin' anywhere until I get some answers! You brought fuckin' Marco's kids to Peach's apartment in Manhattan, for both of us to watch, only to disappear in the night. Nah, fuck you! I'll take 'em tomorrow mornin' to CPS!"

Bowser whirled around to face Mario and snarled, "Aight, King Asshole of the Sewer! You want the fuckin' truth? Someone put a hit out on my late brother! A hundred Gs."

Mario chuckled, "Well, then, whoever did is the dumbest motherfucker in all of New York – your ass included – because Marco's been dead for six years. I brought the body back to New York myself." He made a gun with his index finger and thumb, then pointed them at his head, "Taliban bullet to the head. Someone's just fuckin' with you. Can't imagine why."

"No shit, Sherlock!" John yelled. "But these particular people, they kill family members in the dead man's place."

The plumber's incredulity dissipated and his blue eyes grew worried. "Wait a fuckin' second. That's not Fat Tony's or Big Jackass's style. That's not their boss's style, either, and he's as ruthless as they come. Just who the fuck did you cross? And why are you bringin' them to our door?"

"Mario," Bowser murmured, "I got to go if these kids have any chance. They ain't gonna risk fuckin' with a Green Beret. It's as simple as that." He stared blankly at his frenemy and added, "It's already at your door – yours and Cristina's. You just don't know it yet."

"Wait, what the fuck do …?" Suddenly, Bowser used his upper body strength to push the plumber off-balance and rushed out of the apartment. Regaining his equilibrium, he opened the door again to find that the redhead had disappeared.

A perplexed Mario ambled into the large professional kitchen that he had helped remodel a few years prior. When she was not working at the hospital, Peach loved to indulge in her passion for cooking and baking, and begged her boyfriend to build her a true chef's kitchen. Aside from the finer points of wiring, for which they had to contract an electrician, Mario installed the ovens, dishwasher, sinks, garbage disposal, marble countertops, and used his carpentry skills to measure and design the wooden cabinets as well as the wooden pastry island. It paid off for both of them, as Mario ate well – too well according to his commanding officer and Army doctor – in the subsequent months. Much to Mario's secret chagrin and envy, Peach never seemed to gain a single pound from her culinary adventures. At the wooden island, two silent teens sat on one side, sipping their hot chocolate in colorful and expensive Venetian porcelain, and Peach stood on the other, eyeing them worriedly.

"What happened?" she asked Mario in Italian, not wanting to alarm them with potentially upsetting news.

"I don't know, love. John said someone put a hit out on him," he answered back in the language. Mario fixed a blank look to keep his significant other from knowing that the 'they' in question may have put out a hit on the children. "Before I could get more, he took off like a bat outta hell."

"So he left Marco's children here?!" hissed the blonde. "Fucking idiot. We're not – we don't have any legal standing! What if their aunts in Queens find out? I'm a mandatory reporter, for Chrissake!"

"Basta, honey, I know," he steepled his hands together and hesitantly made eye contact with his girlfriend. "Did you know about them? About Marco's children?"

"No!" she almost screamed. "The Bowsers, particularly my ex-mother-in-law, kept that from me throughout my brief marriage to Marco. I knew about John's two, well, I guess four now. I knew about his druggie sister's two children. I knew that my ex-mother-in-law was looking after two, but I was led to believe that they were from a cousin."

He moved to hug and kiss her. "Aight. Tomorrow, I'll give DK a call. He'll know what to do. We'll keep the kids here for tonight. There's nothing else that we can do right now."

She nodded and turned to the kids who had been listening uncomprehendingly to the exchange in Italian. "Finish your chocolate, piccoli. You'll be staying with Mario and I tonight. Your father will be back soon," she told them in English. Wendy gave a terrified look to Mario, who crossed his arms in response, displaying his large biceps and military tattoos. Peach rolled her eyes and calmly said to the girl's unspoken question, "Don't mind him; he's just afraid of teenage girls." Mario gave his girlfriend an outraged look and a chin flick as Wendy shot him a toothy smirk. Louie watched the scene emotionlessly.

At Peach's behest, Mario made a quick run to the bodega down the street to pick up some toiletries for the kids and returned around eleven o'clock to the waiting Bowser children. Her 5th Avenue apartment had four bedrooms, so each child received their own bed, bathroom, and toiletry kit. Once they brushed their teeth and went to bed, Mario and Peach retired to their shared bed and made a rough plan for the next day; he would go into work early in the morning, complete most of his normal shift, and then return to Manhattan to relieve her for surgery and hospital duty in the afternoon. At lunchtime, he would call DK, who was a NYPD lieutenant based in Manhattan.

By the time Peach, Wendy, and Louie had gotten up at eight o'clock the next morning, Mario had already left for work. Still quiet during breakfast and into the early afternoon, Wendy and Louie stayed together, preferring to watch television or look out of the apartment's large windows into the Manhattan skyline that stretched for miles. About 12:30 in the afternoon, Mario returned, having completed his job queue for the day. Because of Luigi's departure as well as his confrontation with Slaughter in Staten Island, which had become the talk of several shops in Brooklyn Heights, Flatbush, and Greenpoint, several apprentices and early journeymen stepped up and refused to give Mario more than 'his fair share' in solidarity. Sometime that morning, someone had also pinned a defaced union picture of Slaughter with the caption "Suck our dick!" to the news bulletin board in the common area, where the plumbers gathered to eat lunch or shoot the shit between jobs. Normally, this violated the official regulations on professional behavior, yet Sal permitted it, even stamping it with his company seal to make it 'official business.' Mario made sure to snap a picture to send to Luigi later that evening. He had, however, first showed it to Peach, who laughed so hard that she choked on her water. Bowser's kids, whom Peach and Mario discovered were nosy, snuck a glance as well and sniggered.

After Peach went to work, and he left a voice message for DK to call him back ASAP, the jeans and red-hoodied Mario sat in a light green and white Rococo Revival chair across from the children, who were sitting on the red, ivory, and orange-flower patterned sofa. Even though Bowser identified Wendy and Louie as Marco's daughter and son, they looked almost nothing like him, save their reddish-brown hair: Wendy had expressive green eyes whereas Louie, who was an inch taller than his sister and the same height as Mario, had rich brown eyes. The girl's hair was medium length and French braided with a polka-dot bow. Both wore blue jeans, tee-shirts, and a zip-up hoodie that were no doubt purchased at the secondhand clothing store in Mapleton.

"So," began Mario while looking out the window uncomfortably, "your, uh, uncle told me that you've been livin' with him. You got family, you know, in the area? Your mother?"

"Just Uncle John and our cousins," responded Wendy. "We never knew our parents. We were raised by our nonna until she died."

"Oh. Did your uncle say why he brought you here?"

"No. He just said that we going to stay a few days at a friend of the family's house. But we don't know you," she affirmed with a slight attitude.

Mario glared at her. Fuckin' Bowser ragazza, he thought nastily. He turned toward Louie who was looking quite upset at his sister. She made several dismissive hand signals to him, and he rolled his eyes, agitatedly insisting on making his point with his hands.

His blue eyes widening in recognition with every succeeding gesture, the plumber joined in on the sign-language conversation, albeit inelegantly, first asking if Louie was deaf and then commenting that he didn't appreciate Wendy calling him a dumbass.

Averting her eyes in a mixture of anger and embarrassment, Wendy gave a huff to the plumber, who sneered back at the spoiled little b-ragazza. Louie, on the other hand, was astonished and, in clear enunciation, though with a minor lisp that had become more pronounced, inquired, "You know sign?"

"A little bit," answered Mario, facing Louie squarely so that he could read his lips. "Well, I'm Italian, so talkin' with our hands comes naturally. But, uh, I was at Bethesda a while back." He lifted his pant leg to show the child his prosthesis. "It's a hospital for soldiers who lost limbs or became otherwise disabled. I spent over a year there; in my first couple of months of rehab, I was placed with a couple of guys who lost their ability to hear from bein' too close to exploding IEDs. I learned some ASL with 'em."

"How'd you lose your leg?"

"Afghanistan. Taliban sniper fired a round from a mile away."

Leaving his sister on the sofa, Louie cautiously approached the Green Beret to inspect the prosthesis. Although he was initially unnerved by Marco Bowser's presumptive son being so close, Mario soon relaxed as the boy's slender adolescent fingers touched the cool metal and plastic. "Does it hurt? I heard that some people experience pain, even after the limb is gone."

"Sometimes," the man admitted.

Louie nodded, processing what the soldier had said. "How long were you over there?"

"Well," Mario began, leaning back in his chair to think, "I spent several tours of duty in Afghanistan and Iraq. I enlisted in the Army in 2001, and my first deployment to Afghanistan was in 2006. I was there for about eighteen months, then got deployed again in 2008. So about two years."

This surprised both Wendy and Louie who exchanged looks. "Just like our dad. Or so nonna told us. He went to war in 2001 and died in Iraq in 2008. I was born in November 2001 and Wendy was born in January 2003," explained Louie. "Did you know him?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I did, kid," confirmed Mario. "We, uh, grew up in the same part of Bensonhurst. I'm from 62nd Street. A couple guys from the neighborhood, your father, and I enlisted in the Army together, about a month or so after 9/11."

"Uncle John told us that he was a war hero, that he died while trying to protect his group in Iraq. Is that true?" interjected Wendy, who had been silent up until that point.

Mario paused, internally debating how much 'truth' he should give to the innocent children. Obviously, John and his mother had spent years telling Louie and Wendy lies about Marco Bowser's conduct in the military. The truth was that the Weapons Sergeant-turned-Delta Force operative had become a liability to the Special Forces Command and had been investigated numerous times for a variety of 'incidents' that were kept so secret that not even the base commander knew the full extent. Known as the 'wheeler and dealer' of favors, ammunition, and information, Mario traded a year's worth of New York cheesecake shipments for a minute amount of information from his unnamed contact in intelligence; word had it that Marco Bowser was 'compromised.' As the details were beyond even his contact's security clearance access, the trail stopped there, cold and unknown. However, a few months later, Mario and Marco were assigned to a top secret mission to sabotage an important Iraqi Republican stronghold in Fallujah. Their twelve-man group was unexpectedly ambushed and, within minutes, Mario was holding pieces of Marco's skull and brain matter together with his hands. The master sergeant and warrant officer, all Delta Force, were also killed, leaving Mario as the second-in-command under his injured captain. After he carried his archenemy's body to the chopper, he heard a rattle of the man's final breath. Though the man's death neatly solved the Army's problems as well as his with respect to Peach, he felt strangely numb and depressed, the echoes of funeral volleys rumbling in his ears for months afterward. He was trying to shake those unexplained blues when he encountered Daisy and her piece of shit ex-boyfriend outside of an Oxford pub.

"Yeah, kid," Mario finally said.

The children seemed satisfied with that answer and had moved from across the room to the long, red chaise next to his Rococo chair. "Did you know our mother?" asked Wendy several moments later.

"No, I honestly didn't know anything about youse until your Uncle John dropped you off last night. I knew that your grandmother had custody of two kids, but I just assumed that you were from one of your aunts," responded Mario honestly, though with a bit of embarrassment. "I guess I should have asked your uncle."

"Yeah, no one in the family will tell us anything," said Louie in a forlorn tone. "None of our aunties wanted to take us in. We're hated by the Bowser family, but we don't know why. Only Uncle John and our nonna seemed to care." Louie spat out the last words, while his sister crossed her arms again and looked away in shame and anger.

Mario again fell quiet and reflected on the last bit of information. He knew that the four sisters all moved to Queens once they turned eighteen and never returned to Bensonhurst. At least one became addicted to painkillers and alcohol. As a youth, Giuseppe and his father had both warned him to stay clear of that rat-infested sewer of a home, though typically, he did not listen. On one Saturday afternoon, the fourteen-year-old Mario snuck into the Bowser house's front yard; he instantly regretted doing so, as he heard shouts, women's screams, and glass shattering. He came home in a daze, terrified of what he had heard. His father was off-shift and noticed his son's distress upon the latter's return. Despite learning that his eldest son had disobeyed him, he enfolded the teenager in his arms and murmured, "I can't always protect you from the evils of daily life, can I?" Mario felt sorry for the six children, even Marco to a limited degree; they never had a chance.

"Aight, well, your Uncle John will be back soon," Mario told them, attempting to change a subject that, in his opinion, was best left to their uncle. "For the time being, you'll be staying with P … Cristina and I. She's workin' late, so it's just us for rest of the day. Maybe about six, we can get a slice for dinner."

Wendy rolled her eyes dramatically and moaned, "I don't eat pizza. It'll make me fat!"

Mario stared at her. "What the fu- ? That's the stupidest fuckin' thing that I've ever heard. You're fuckin' twelve! The fuck's a twelve-year-old ragazza got to worry about?"

Louie started laughing at the man's colorful response to his sister. She signed a "Fuck off" at him using first the middle finger and then spelling "off." In response, he made a "B" sign and brought it to his head to call her a bitch.

"Ey, enough!" shouted Mario who brushed his flattened right hand over his left fist. They stopped when the plumber reprimanded their bad language in ASL. "Does your Uncle John let you get away with that?"

Wendy shrugged. "He doesn't know sign, so … yeah."

"Jesus, the pair a' youse," muttered Mario. "Anyway. Wendy, I'm sure they'll deliver a nice salad to ya." At Wendy's outraged look, he added with a grin, "Louie and I will eat the pizza."


Luigi leaned back in his white executive swivel chair and rubbed his face tiredly. He had been leaning over his laptop and mahogany wall desk for the past three hours, working through both the weekly problem sets and preliminary research for final projects. The past week had been a whirlwind of check-ins, appointments, and fifty-person amphitheaters with PowerPoints of normalization, Bayesian statistics, and sample SCADA poster topics. With exception of Daisy's daily texts and his Masciarelli cousins' demands of livestream and pictures of the Hoover Tower, palm trees, and red-tiled Renaissance roofs and brownish-gold buildings of the campus, no one had tried to contact him from the East Coast. On one hand, he welcomed the silence and acceptance that he had gone his own way. Yet on the other hand, Luigi found that he missed the daily articles about earthquakes, hippies, druggies, and the probability of California floating away in the Pacific Ocean.

He missed his brother.

The pale yellow house in Menlo Park at which he was staying for the next eight weeks was practically a villa: it was easily three times the size of his and Mario's A-frame in Bensonhurst with five bedrooms, three bathrooms – of which the master had a jacuzzi tub – a large kitchen, dining room, living room, and a large backyard with pool. He often fantasized about Mario and Peach coming for the Fourth of July and cooking chicken, sausages, and vegetables in the kitchen-sized outdoor grill. Late at night, he imagined making Daisy gasp and moan with pleasure in the jacuzzi. Though he was excited to be somewhere other than Brooklyn, he was a bit lonely in the big house without his family and girlfriend.

A buzz rumbled against the mahogany of the desk. Seeing the name flashing on the screen, he hurriedly answered it, "No earthquakes."

"Not yet, anyway," the older plumber retorted in Italian. "I got guests. Guess who?"

"Uh, I don't know. Why are you speaking in Italian and not English, or some variant of grunts and Brooklyn Asshole?"

"Because these guests don't speak Italian, and I don't want them to understand."

"Ah," responded Luigi in their first language with an eyebrow raised, "so they're unwanted guests?"

"Exactly. Look, DK hasn't gotten back to me, and you're the only one who might have a solution to this. I got Marco Bowser's two kids here."

"What the fuck?!" shouted Luigi in English while standing up from his chair. "Mario, why in God's green fuck do you have Marco-fuckin'-Bowser's rugrats in our house?!"

"They're not in Bensonhurst, fratellino, they're in Manhattan, in Peach's apartment, which is, aight, just as bad! John brought 'em, says that there's some hit out on Marco. Because Marco's dead, they'll kill family in his place."

"W-wait a sec," said Luigi, resuming the conversation in Italian. "Back up. John's on the run? Or are the kids the target? And why now? Marco's been dead, for what, six years?"

"Yeah, I know. None of this makes any goddamned sense. I tried calling DK, but he's not picking up."

"Cazzo," breathed Luigi. "Does … Does this have anything to do with Daisy beating his ass a few weeks back?"

"I doubt it, bro. Jackass's crew wouldn't have been happy to see that go viral, but they wouldn't kill him or Marco's bastards because of it. It isn't Fat Tony or Jackass's style. Even the old school guys wouldn't have gone to such lengths. This is something else."

"Terrorism?" Luigi suddenly blurted out to Mario.

There was a shocked pause, then a suspicious Mario spoke again in Abruzzese dialect, "Why would you say that?"

Realizing that he had almost let it slip that he knew about the video, he replied, "Ah, he was killed in Iraq. I thought maybe …"

Mario paused a second time, then answered, "It's possible. Though I don't know why terrorists would be interested in that piece of shit. He was a shitty Green Beret and an even worse human being."

It was time for Luigi to pause. Had Mario killed Marco for the Army or out of a personal vendetta, he never would have denied knowledge of the man's death to him. Security clearance be damned, Mario would never lie to his fratellino. So who killed Marco Bowser? And whatever Marco did, was it worth the lives of his children? Who was the mother? "Where did these kids come from? Are you sure that they're actually, well, his?" he asked.

"I don't know, and neither do they. One's deaf, or mostly deaf, and one's got an attitude. They were, I guess, raised by Bowser's mother. She died a few years back, and John's been taking care of 'em. Apparently, none of the Bowser sisters want anything to do with 'em."

"Well, they're not your responsibility, either!" barked Luigi. "Bro, just surrender them to CPS before some crazy fuckin' ex or another psycho family member comes out of the woodwork to accuse you of kidnapping or worse!"

"Yeah, I know! That's why I called DK!"

"Aight, aight. Just lemme think," interrupted Luigi more calmly in English. "Give DK seventy-two hours in total, from the time that John left them with you. If either he doesn't show or DK doesn't answer, then you need to call the cops and OCFS. Seriously, Mario, this could get you in deep shit."

"Bene. Okay, that works. And yeah, I agree. Oh, uh, before I forget. Y'know, Peaches thought it be nice to, y'know, visit for the Fourth of July," he remarked in English. "I don't wanna bother you if Stanford's got you busy."

Luigi beamed brightly. "I'd like that. Peach's got some good ideas, y'know."

"Yeah, yeah. We'll be comin' on the Wednesday before and leave the Sunday after. So we'll be there three, four days. Come hell or high water, we'll be there, bro. I can't have you eatin' veggie boogers, vegan mushroom dong, or whatever the fuck else they eat in California. You sure that you want the sfacciata, bro? She eats that shit, you know!"

The younger brother rolled his eyes. "She has a name, cagacazzo. Say it with me: Daisy."

"Yeah, okay. Sfacciata."

"Asshole," grumbled Luigi as he heard cackling through the iPhone speaker.

"Yeah, I know," said Mario with a chortle. "Oh, one more thing. Check your phone; I just sent you a pic."

Luigi lowered the phone from his ear to look at the incoming message. Putting his brother on speakerphone, he opened the file to reveal the defaced photo of Slaughter. He burst out laughing, especially with his former boss's visible seal of approval stamped on it. "Oh, that's fuckin' perfect!"

"My little bro's become something of a folk hero. Any chance of his return?"

"No decisions made, bro," answered Luigi firmly. "I'm just focusing on Stanford right now."

"Yeah, yeah, sure. Aight, well, I'll, y'know, text ya."

"Bro, call me when you hear back from DK or if you have to go to OCFS."

"Yeah, no problem."

They said their goodbyes, and Luigi ended the call, growing uneasy by the minute. First, the Koopa Bar closed, then Bowser goes on the run? And worse, Mario and Peach are now watching Marco's illegitimate children? Could this have been Cousin Pete's doing? While Pete did not seem like the type to target innocent children, both Sal and Joe warned them that the Rigassi cousin was both deceptive and ruthless.

Before he could internally debate the issue further, Luigi heard a knock at his front door. Checking his security camera on his phone, he saw Lucas waiting for an answer. Moving from the spacious study, through the den and kitchen, and to the entry way, he opened the door to see the tall Manhattanite grinning at him.

"My man! Congrats on your first week at Stanford!" he announced in a celebratory tone as he invited himself inside the house.

Shutting the door behind him, Luigi replied, "Uh, thanks. What are you doing here?"

Lucas stretched leisurely in his dark purple polo shirt and beige khaki pants. "Taking you out to cruise San Fran! I assume you're still Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes and got your homework done right as it was assigned, right?" At Luigi's silence, he nodded, "Yeah, thought so. Look, Weeg, part of the college experience is not only smoking exams and impressing professors, but also partying every so often. You have seven more weeks, at least, and every week's going to become more difficult than the previous. One Friday night at the start won't kill you."

Tiredly, the plumber inquired, "Okay, so what do you have in mind?"

"Have you eaten yet?" At the shaking of the plumber's head, Lucas continued, "We grab sushi. It's actually better here than in New York. Then we visit a bar or two. Nothing major."

"Alright, I'll come out with you on two conditions," answered Luigi holding up two fingers. "No bars with naked or semi-naked women, especially those involving a pole. No weird sushi bars, including and especially involving any naked women."

"Ah, you're no fun," whined Lucas. "Jesus, does the Amazon Queen have you on a short leash." At Luigi's glare, he put up his hands, "Alright, alright, no titty bars or titty sushi, despite how fun either or both sound. Happy now?" Nodding, Luigi grabbed his housekeys and wallet; Lucas exited the house to a waiting black BMW and driver. At Luigi's raised eyebrow, his friend laughed and retorted, "I'm not going to waste hours looking for parking in this goddamned city. Bay Area's small and horrible, too horrible, to drive." Once inside the backseat of the car, Lucas instructed the driver to drop them at an upscale and well-known sushi bar in Nob Hill. The nearly hour-long drive was passed in silence, with Lucas writing a few sharply-worded emails to his Los Angeles-based Sales Team over the imminent release of War Rampage 3 as well as a few ideas on a new game "to appeal to the feminazis" for his Research and Development Team, and Luigi staring out of the tinted windows into traffic, still mulling over the Bowser mystery. Once finished with his last-minute work, Lucas handed his friend a Kind Bar and insisted that he eat it to prevent "the emergence of the Hulk." Still affected by the three-hour time difference, Luigi wordlessly accepted and snacked on the chocolate, fruit, and nut bar over the remaining fifteen minutes of their trip.

Arriving in time for their 7:45 pm seating in a private dining area, Luigi was relieved to have his appetizer of Hokkaido scallops with miso aioli and ice water with Lucas ordering a bottle of koshu for the table. After Luigi's initial hunger had subsided, the staff brought out the chef's ten-piece assortment of fresh, colorful nigiri – salmon, tuna, caviar, trout, Spanish mackerel, and snapper. He snapped photos of each piece of art to share online with his lioness, as Mario disliked "raw fuckin' fish" and, like Giuseppe, balked at going to any sushi restaurant, despite the pleas of Zia Lucia, Cousin Maria, and Peach.

Watching him take pictures of their feast, Lucas poured him a bit of the sake. "I'd only imagine that you're sending pics to Her Majesty, as Sergeant Major Dickerson doesn't strike me as a sushi guy. Probably whines about the fish being raw," he deadpanned.

Luigi finished sending the pictures to Daisy via email and put away his phone. "You would be right on both accounts." Eating the first piece of nigiri, he sipped the rice wine and winced at its comparative strength. "Damn, this is … not what I expected."

"Fucking lightweight!" jeered Lucas. "After drinking table wine since birth, I thought that you'd adapt. But it's official – Greeks can outdrink Italians!"

The plumber shrugged. "Yeah, that's probably true. I won't drink that licorice shit that youse optimistically call 'alcohol' if you paid me five hundred bucks. No fucking way."

Shaking his head and extending his middle finger, Lucas ate his third piece of nigiri. "So, how're you liking Stanford?"

Between bites of the nigiri, he answered, "I'll admit, it's pretty cool. I really like the professor for Computer Security for Manufacturing and Control Systems – he seems knowledgeable and doesn't wax philosophical on his research or 'the graduate experience.' Intro to Machine Learning's okay; it'll be a lot of neural networks and coding in Python. Don't quite know yet about the Technology Entrepreneurship course yet. A lot of talks and shit, I think."

Lucas took a sip of the amber-colored koshu and nodded his agreement. "Yeah, Intro to Machine Learning's either taking it in Rs or grabbing the snake. Then mapping and framing the results of your decision for an easy … A."

Luigi choked on his bluefin tina piece as Lucas snorted with laughter. "Jesus fucking … Why did you have to tell me that with seven weeks to go?!"

"Man, if you're going to last in tech, you'll have to adapt to the humor. Believe me, I'm fucking tame compared to some bros out there." He took another sip of the drink and popped his seventh piece of nigiri into his mouth. "Those Linux assholes, now they are the fucking pervs. I once saw this sysadmin use nothing but the command line in Kali to describe butt sex. It was frankly a frightening experience, especially as the commands actually did something. Worse, the guy went on to work for the DoD and gets paid a quarter-mil per year."

His dinner companion stared at him mid-bite, then chewed his fish very slowly to avoid gagging. "Please," said Luigi after swallowing harshly, "never say 'butt sex' ever again. Just don't."

"Aw," snickered Lucas. "Just remember, Weeg: saying Java is nice because it works on all platforms is like saying butt sex is nice because it works on all genders."

"Goddamnit! Fucking Kariolis!" shouted Luigi, coughing and laughing into his sake as Lucas hooted and snorted like a pig. The Brooklynite tossed his cloth napkin at the purple man's head, which only caused the latter to howl and turn red from merriment.

"Choir boy," he gasped between snorts. Taking a sip of ice water, he watched as Luigi shook his head and ate his last pieces of nigiri. "Oh, changing the subject, save some room for dessert. Their black sesame ice cream is the best in town."

Thankfully, Lucas did not repeat the forbidden phrase for the rest of dinner; instead, he gave Luigi a brief overview of War Rampage 3 and how his sales team would no doubt "fuck it up with a sewage pipe" because they were roughly three weeks behind in the release. Despite the setback, he did think that the game would be released by August 1 and do reasonably well. Luigi did not have much to say about it, as he had never played the first two games, much to Lucas's dismay. He used the time to let his companion talk, to which the Manhattanite did not object, and finish his sushi without interruption. By the time Lucas had concluded his rant, the servers brought out two bowls of the rich and surprisingly decadent black sesame ice cream. While Lucas groaned aloud, Luigi shrugged at the earthy and slightly nutty taste; he did not dislike the flavor, but he could not embrace it with the same enthusiasm as a good pistachio, lemon, or stracciatella gelato. Nonetheless, he made sure to snap a picture of the dessert for his princess's approval, given that she would not have eaten the sushi.

After dinner, Lucas's chauffeur picked them up in front of the restaurant and drove roughly a mile and a half to their next destination, which the Manhattanite swore up and down was not a titty bar. The black town car pulled up alongside a brightly lit establishment – purples, greens, oranges, and pinks flashing from the entrance – and Lucas motioned with his head for Luigi to exit. As the plumber stood on the sidewalk, Lucas indicated that he would call the driver when they were ready to leave, and slid out of the right-side passenger door, closing it behind him. They walked inside to a large, two-level hall engulfed with neon lights of all colors. At one end was a bar with several bartenders handing out beers and liquors of every type; extending all the way to the wall-sized television at other end were rows of arcade games, billiards, and video game cabins. Loud dance mix boomed and deafened every square foot and ear, with several scantily-dressed blondes and a brunette twerking to the base.

"What is this place?" yelled the plumber.

"It's where all the techies go to get smashed!" Lucas shouted back. "The Amazon Queen would forbid you from going to Hooters, so …"

As Luigi rolled his eyes, he followed Lucas toward the bar. Having waited for two minutes, which the man in purple thought was ninety seconds too long, the bartender served them each a local microbrew and a handful of gaming tokens, which they took with them to the arcade machines.

"Oh, shit!" exclaimed Lucas. "They got Street Fighter II!" Reaching into his khaki pocket for a token, he deposited one into the respective slot, then selected his preferred character and began to play.

"How am I not surprised that you chose M. Bison?" asked Luigi, sipping his beer.

Lucas shrugged as he dispatched Zangief. "Hey, taking over the world sounded good as a kid, just as it does now. Let me guess – you played Guile. I know the Sergeant Major did."

The Italian smirked. "Nope. And I have no idea what my brother chose. Hell, I don't even know if he's ever played Street Fighter."

As he beat the Russian for the second time, Lucas replied, "Oh, your brother played, even if he didn't admit it to you. Uh, let's see, you played Ryu. Fucking goody-goody Nintendo pussy Ryu." He selected his next opponent – E. Honda.

"Wrong again," laughed Luigi. The tall man growled in frustration as the sumo wrestler threw him to the ground. "Goddamnit!" he swore. He hated being wrong twice. He stopped the game, slid another token into the slot, and barked, "Okay, asshole, let's see who."

Gingerly setting his beer down on the table near the machine, the grinning plumber walked up to the second player's controls and, with the stick and buttons, chose Chun Li.

Lucas turned to his friend incredulously. "You played Chun Li?! The chick? Why? And how did you not get your ass kicked in school?"

As they started moving against each other, Luigi hummed uncommittedly. "Don't ask, don't tell. My cousin Maria played Chun Li first. I could never beat her, so I decided to figure out how to win by learning her favorite's moves. Eventually, I used Chun Li exclusively." With a lightning kick followed by a tensho-kyaku, he knocked out Lucas's M. Bison.

"Fuck you, chun-cheater," he snarled as Luigi snickered and resumed play with the second round. "C'mere, bitch!" In response, Luigi's Chun Li helicopter kicked Lucas's Bison and followed it with a kicking combination that ended the match. "Fuck!" cried the Manhattanite. "Asshole, you-you channeled your girlfriend to somehow kick my well-endowed ass!"

Luigi shrugged again. "That's just a video game. Daisy, on the other hand, has actually beaten douche ass." He took a sip of his beer and blithely added, "Not that I approve of violence."

Lucas harumphed and took a swig of beer, feeling the alcohol rush to his head. "Yeah, Bowser the Bitch. Is that stupid fuck still licking his wounds behind that poor excuse for a bar?"

"Actually, he, uh, disappeared."

He did a double take at his shorter, mustachioed friend. "Wait, what? He disappeared?"

"Yeah," said Luigi. "Closed up the bar. No one's seen him for a couple days. I mean, do you think," he dropped his voice several octaves, "Fat Tony, y'know, did something?"

"It's not his style," he whispered, staring out into the crowd blankly. A moment later, he snapped his fingers and shouted with forced joviality, "Killer Queen, man! We should play!"

A confused and annoyed Luigi followed Lucas from the arcade machines, across the hall, and toward a row of larger machines where a smaller crowd had gathered to watch a group of five blondes destroy another mixed group of five.

"Pata matunda!" moaned one of the mixed group in Swahili. "Malkia yuko nyuma yako!"

The Queen is behind you!

The small crowd traded cheers and groans when the game ended in a loss for the Tanzanian group. "Nini?" yelled one of them while another complained good-naturedly, "Ufala, man! Ah, nataka kunywa. Twende bar?" Shaking hands with the blonde winners and congratulating them in English, the five Tanzanians headed to the bar to discuss and lament their loss.

"Ah, my cock just saluted!" chortled Lucas as he moved toward the blondes. Covering his face with his right hand and shaking his head, muttering that this was a bad idea, Luigi hopelessly followed his idiot "friend." Strutting up to the young twenty-somethings who were chatting animatedly in their native language and drinking IPAs, Lucas proclaimed, "Hello, ladies! I saw you dispatch those annoying Kenyan trolls with haste. My congrats to you!"

The women's faces transformed from amused smiles to icy glares. "They're Tanzanian and our friends," said one of them in a flat, hostile tone.

"Well, whatever. Same thing." He leisurely set his bottleneck next to hers and moved into her space. "What's that language you were speaking? Danish?"

Another groaned, "Kuka on kutsunut tuon mulkun?"

The leader exchanged a knowing look with her friends. She proceeded to bat her blue eyes and slightly toss her medium-length blonde hair at Lucas who began to visibly puff up and lean in toward her. "Finnish, actually. We're exchange students from the University of Helsinki. We're studying at Berkeley." The other blondes giggled and nodded.

"Oh, how quaint," replied the Greek New Yorker in a charitable voice, stretching to accidently-on-purpose touch the woman's hair. An embarrassed Luigi watched silently as the women tried to hide their discomfort in favor of whatever ruse that they were planning. "What's your major, uh … ?"

"Anneli," she responded with a slow smile. "And I study … a variety of things. English, Swedish …" At this point, two of the women took a quick sip of beer to hide their snorts of laughter. "I'm a linguist. I study languages and communication. And you, my new American runkkari, do you speak Nordic languages like Swedish?"

"Well, my name is Lucas. While I can't converse in a language like Swedish, which is frankly boringly easy, I speak fluent Greek and French." He narrowed his dark brown eyes at one of the girls who was turning red and about to hyperventilate. "I'm also the CEO of my own gaming company in LA."

"Oh, well, that's interesting," answered Anneli neutrally. "You seemed very … Greek to me, so how fitting, yes. And what are you doing in San Francisco, being an important CEO?"

"I'm just here visiting my bestie. He's right over there." Lucas pointed toward Luigi, who was looking down at his shoes and phone, desperately not wanting to be a part of the obvious setup in progress. "Luigi's studying at Stanford. Computer engineering." Noticing that one of Anneli's cute friends was giving the plumber a very appreciative glance, he waved his hand, "Anyway, don't mind him. I'd love to buy you a beer and maybe," he leaned in, "serve as one of your drones, if you get my meaning?"

Anneli briefly gave another glance to her friends who nodded eagerly. "Oh, yes. I think that's a great idea." She waived the timid Luigi over to the group. "What about your … friend? There needs to be five to play."

"Uh," Luigi interjected, "I'm sorry, but I don't know how to play, so perhaps I should sit this one out. I can grab another round of drinks." Before he could disappear into the crowd, Lucas snatched his wrist and kept him in place.

"My friend's very shy around women," he apologized while shooting a warning glare at the nervous Italian. "But he'd love to play."

"Excellent. That makes two. Find three more men, and we could have a proper battle of the sexes."

"Awesome!" agreed the Manhattanite. Three neckbeard software engineers from Nob Hill, whom the women recognized as self-described aficionados of Killer Queen, stood up to volunteer. "Okay, I think we have our five."

"How resourceful you are," articulated Anneli as the four other women went to their stations at the gold-side of the machine. "You will be the blue team." Except for Luigi, who was being dragged to the gaming station by Lucas, the men grunted and snickered. "Oh, one other thing: since we are the defending champions, we get to name your team to start. If you beat us, you can rename ours. Fair's fair?"

"Sure," Lucas agreed once more. "But beware – I can be quite vicious with my victory prizes."

"Of course," answered Anneli in a saccharine voice. She exchanged a few words with her teammates in Finnish and added, "We've named your team 'Ruotsalaiset Tuhkamot.' RT for short." ["Swedish Cinderellas."]

"Uh, fine," responded Lucas, suddenly becoming suspicious at the turn of events. "What's that mean?"

"It means American tech bros."

"Right," Lucas said with a fake smile, then turned to Luigi who was already at Google Translate. He typed in the approximative spelling, as they had simply written 'RT' on the competition board.

"I don't even know how to spell that," grumbled Luigi. "But I'm almost positive that it doesn't mean 'American tech bros.' I once watched this weird Amazon TV show from Scandinavia, and apparently, Finns have a thing about the Swedes. They, uh, think they're all gay or otherwise effeminate."

Lucas pushed him toward their side. "Alright, if that's the way the Finnish femoids want it, we'll humiliate them into a lay. One girl for everyone; I'll even let you pick first. Nash Equilibrium, my man."

Luigi angrily spun to his friend and hissed, "I am not interested!"

"Just shut up and play! I'm gonna get laid tonight, and I am not going to allow your cuck ass to ruin it!"

"Yeah, well, I don't know how to play!"

"Okay, Luigi here will be our Queen. He's good at running, likes frilly dresses, and is a supreme cuck," loudly announced Lucas as their impromptu teammates chuckled at the plumber's expense. "It's a perfect fit. You hit the other team's queen, warriors, drones and keep out of trouble. Capisce?"

Before Luigi could refuse, he was shoved toward the machine. As the blondes looked on with sympathetic stares, the four men surrounded him and prevented escape. Okay, he reasoned, he'd play one round and be done with it. Then he would find his own ride back to Menlo Park. Resigned, the plumber and one of Anneli's friends opened the game; as the Finnish women worked in tandem, discussing strategy and muttering a "Vittu!" every so often, the men talked over each other, bickering about "getting the snail" or "grabbing that berry." Luigi's voice of reason, trying to direct the traffic, was drowned out, so he focused on bopping the gold drones on the head as much as he was able, much to the women's displeasure and glares at him. Eventually, the women were able to drive the snail into their goal, signaling a win. Again, Luigi was cajoled, even by the Finnish women, to play another round. He reluctantly acquiesced, still facing the inability for Lucas and the three neckbeards to come to a consensus. This time, however, he was immediately chased by a drone-turned-warrior, which one of the women had become specifically "to keep him in line." Flying here and there to avoid the onslaught, Luigi cursed and told her "to mind her own berries," while Lucas griped at 'his team' not to "let a bitch collar them." By some magic, one of the software engineers rode made a goal by snail, tying the game at 1-1. Agreeing to play a final round, the men managed to form a very relaxed strategy, with one of the engineers – the aptly-named Chad – drawing it using Xs and Os on a paper napkin. Though having absolutely no clue what his makeshift "whiteboard strategy code" actually meant, Luigi continued his general policy of bopping gold players on the head and running away from crazed Finnish warriors, though this time, they sicked two different blondes on him, with one chortling a loud "Suski vittuun!"

Game, match, point. Lucas's impulsive move to become a warrior instead of putting the berry into the slot at the top of the screen gave the women a few more seconds to deposit their last berry to win the game. Two of the men swore and started in on Lucas for his imperiousness and break from the predetermined strategy. The women high-fived each other in victory and the small crowd, which had gathered to watch 'the Battle of the Sexes,' clapped and hooted. Anneli approached the angry Lucas and said, "Well, my dear runkkari – wanker – it looks like you've lost. We will once again rename your team: Vitulla päähän ja kyrvällä ohtaan. You won't find that in your Google Translate, at least not exactly. It's for something bad happening to you, like a loss. But literally, it means, 'A Cunt to the Head and a Dick to the Forehead.'" Several men and women snickered and laughed; Lucas's eyes burned with sheer rage. "Well, my friends and I have to get back to Berkeley, so hei hei ja suksi vittuun – see ya and ski to the cunt, creep. Well, a cunt other than ours. Perhaps your three companions might suit?" The crowd giggled at the last burning comment, after which the blondes mockingly saluted them with their beer bottles and left.

Luigi began to walk away as well, but Lucas grabbed him nastily by the arm and shouted, "Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

He ripped his arm out of the Manhattanite's grasp and sneered, "I'm going back to Palo Alto, you fucking prick. Aside from the frankly asinine game that you made me go through back there, harassing those women – yes, women, not 'femoids' or whatever the fuck you called 'em – and making shit comments about my girlfriend were not my idea of fun. Go … fuck whatever idiot blonde who strikes your fuckin' fancy. I don't give a shit! I'm not fifteen anymore and haven't been for thirteen fuckin' years!"

"Oh, c'mon on, man," wailed Lucas, but Luigi put up a hand and wordlessly left him in the arcade.

Walking out into the cooler San Francisco evening, Luigi unlocked his iPhone and searched for the number of a cab company. Entering the number into his phone, he was about to call when he heard an African-accented voice call out, "Luigi, you need a ride home?" He looked up to see one of the Swahili-speaking guys motioning him over to a blue car from the passenger's seat and across the street. In the driver's seat was one of the Finnish women.

"Uh, youse guys going to Menlo Park?" he yelled.

"Yes, we live near there."

"Uh, sure, thanks." Quickly looking both ways, Luigi jogged across the street, stood on the island to wait for passing traffic, and ran toward them. The man slid into the passenger seat next to the woman, and Luigi climbed into the backseat, shutting the door. "Thanks for the ride. Hey, I'm sorry about what happened back there. The dumbass, whom I unfortunately view as a friend, was out of line."

The woman put the car into gear and proceeded to drive down the street. "Apology accepted, though it's not you who was offensive. My name's Jenna. This is my boyfriend, Anga."

"Hey, how you doin'?" he greeted, and they shook hands. "Luigi Masciarelli."

"Ah, very Italian name," replied Anga. "We get a lot of Italian tourists in Tanzania. Kilimanjaro climbers. Which part of Italy are you or your family from?"

"Yeah, I bet. I'm from Brooklyn, New York. My mother was born in Sicily. My father was born in New York, but his parents were from Abruzzo – Southern Italy."

"I love New York, it's just a beautiful city! Manhattan is so much fun, and there's so much to see!" interjected Jenna. "So what brings you to California? The wanker said you were studying computer engineering?"

"Yeah," affirmed the plumber. "I was accepted into Stanford's summer program. I'm taking a few classes in SCADA and controls engineering. I actually work in the plumbing and construction industries, so I'm branching out a little."

This surprised both of them. "Uh, then why are you with the wanker? He just seems like a little poser," asked Anga.

"Yeah," agreed Jenna as she merged onto Highway 101, driving southward. "We run into those types a lot out here in Silicon Valley. Us programmers do all the work and those little shits get the credit for being 'innovative' as CEOs of start-ups."

"Youse guys are programmers?! Not exchange students?"

"No, we were admitted directly. I came from Tanzania to study software engineering at Stanford, then got a job with a start up in Mountain View. That's where I met Jenna. She's a graduate student in computer science at Berkeley. But all we do is program from the back-end while the bosses kiss each other's asses and talk about what geniuses they are."

"Anneli, Ellen, Helena, Marja, and I all are computer engineers. Frankly, we enjoy putting little bro-bitches in their places because that's what we deal with all day long. Play hard, work hard really means play hard, screw-over hard with occasional free lunches. Sometimes nights, too, which really is shit," added Jenna.

Luigi nodded sympathetically. For some reason, this did not surprise him – women and blacks were always at the figurative back of the bus in STEM. He had seen it himself at Brooklyn City and Staten Island Tech, to say nothing of how those groups were too often treated by certain union representatives back home. "And don't you, I dunno, fear reprisal for that? Like, if you were going to apply for another job?"

They both shrugged. "Sometimes," admitted Jenna. "But once I have my PhD, Anga and I want to return to Europe; Germany's desperate for decent tech skills, as are England and Finland, so it'll be okay. I would be more afraid if I wanted to stay permanently in America. No protections, no unions practically. So your family is in New York? Marja was giving you the eye. Do you live alone?"

He chuckled nervously and turned a little red. "Yeah, right now, I do. My girlfriend is in Senegal and Mali doing research for her thesis. She's coming back to New York in early August, and I'll join her back there for the next year at least."

"Mali?!" exclaimed Anga. "It's a very dangerous country. The people are welcoming, but their government is problematic at best. Aside from Islamic terrorists hiding in the north and east of the country, their politicians are incompetent, too busy fighting with France to care about the bigger threat. They're pro-Russian, pro-Chinese. I hope that she does not stay there for a long time."

The Italian shivered and, looking out of the car door window, softly replied, "Me neither. I miss her – her being with me. But, uh, I'm proud of her work, of her. She's hopefully going to law school next year – California or New York. We don't know yet."

The three continued to chat pleasantly over the next forty minutes to Menlo Park, which Luigi enjoyed as a momentary distraction from Anga's comments about Mali and the Malian government. Like many, if not most Americans, Luigi knew little to nothing about Africa, let alone West Africa and the Sahel; his brother was generally tight-lipped about his overseas experiences and those of his service buddies in the Special Forces. However, Mario was visibly nonplussed about Daisy's "excursion to shitsville," and he made his disapproval loudly known at his birthday party almost a month ago. Nevertheless, Daisy and her advisor had planned this trip months before she and Luigi started dating, and the latter reconciled this as a 'few weeks' trip in Africa,' which he now understood to be a bit more. Now, the plumber had to hide his discomfort and put on a brave face, lest she think he had lost faith and confidence in her.


Early the next morning, Miles Prower collected his coat and black carry-on suitcase, handed his driver several twenty-dollar bills for the fare and tip, and exited the yellow cab. He walked through one of the black sliding doors toward the United Airlines and TSA checkpoint at Newark Liberty International Airport. Thankfully, the security line was not yet obscenely long, as the holiday increase in domestic and international travel would not start for another couple of days. Presenting his driver's license and online ticket, he was allowed to proceed toward the inspection machines which he and his luggage were able to clear within ten minutes. Making his way to the gate, for which he still had another twenty minutes before pre-boarding, he stopped at a nearby coffee shop to purchase a regular and a croissant. Paying again with cash for breakfast, he brought the food to a gray charging cabin and surreptitiously checked his burner phone for the pre-arranged message and password sent from a number beginning with area code 347, to which he signaled 'all clear' and imminent departure in an Italian phrase. He disliked and distrusted the U.S. Government with a passion and attempted to limit his 'cyberfootprint' whenever he possibly could; he paid small expenses with cash and larger ones with coin, save his rent, utilities, and taxes for which he had a special bank account. Regrettably, he could not completely travel incognito and was forced to present his real credentials to fly or cross the Canadian border. And that was on rare occasions; Yoshi and Luigi routinely joked about his paranoia and reluctance to travel, especially following last summer, when a former and notorious NSA contractor revealed that the government had been actively spying on the entire world for years, amassing zettabytes of personal data via the obsequious Microsoft and FAANGs looking to cash in from neural networks aimed at billions of potential consumers. But in this instance, Miles doubted that Uncle Sam would care about his travel plans, even if the City of New York and a few political 'donors' might, were they to know of the knowledge that he now possessed.

A few minutes later, a woman's voice blared through the overhead speaker that, "Flight 1807 with service to San Francisco International Airport is now ready for pre-boarding …" Finishing the remnants of his breakfast, he gathered his travel effects and headed toward the gate.