It was a bad idea to start drinking, he wasn't even particularly good at it.
"Grinny Gin Social Club" was an awful name for a place. It was also full of equally awful demons. A literal shark tank, if Moxxie had ever seen one. Most imps his age were too young for this sort of crowd and yet, this was the one he managed to grow up with.
Rich mahogany paneling with various mobsters' photographs framed proudly upon every corner, complementing far-from-tasteful plaques of some beer bands that were unpronounceable to most. Most of them were for piss-water pilsners, yet the bar itself didn't seem to serve much of anything beyond wine, gin and tonics, whiskey old fashioned, the occasional jack-and-coke or some coffee liquor.
The crimson velvet drapes were more beneficial for a brothel and the amber-tinted chandeliers were more expensive than any of the tables, booze or seats. The place wasn't entirely beaten up, though. The bar itself was a polished onyx, lined with black leather stools, which stretched invitingly to the varied clientele of the Greed Ring's worst wise guys and most desperate street sharks.
Scattered round tables, marked with black tablecloths, were where a whole lot of serious talk went on. Nothing big was going on tonight, as far as everyone else was concerned. It was more of the same old, same old. The air was overly thick with a stench of expensive cigars lit with brimstone, which stood out to his senses more than the murmur of ignorant conversations and the clinking of glasses.
The den was nothing luxurious to the young Moxxie, but he still was drinking like it was some place that it was not. He had been nursing gin and lemon tonic all night, since the evening began. All between a few sips of a bitter, earthy wine and a bit of coffee liqueur to even out the taste buds.
It was never going to be easy, he knew this. But this was his birthright. Being born under a father like Crimson meant that he had to play the game. There was no bugging out and the worst deed of them all was already done.
One question kept coming to mind, 'how do you live when your father is god?'
Patriarch Crimson was just a Capo in the Family the other day, but now he was going to be a Don. All because…
"Don Fiarelli got whacked!" Someone in the bar said out loud. These words alone made Moxxie dig deep into his seat and wish to disappear, if even for a moment.
"The fuck you mean the Don got whacked?" Another shark bit back against the air of this news.
"As in he's fucking dead. What do you think?"
"That doesn't explain much, shit for brains. I'm talkin' details."
It was several times quieter in the club now than before. Enough that Moxxie could hear the ice in his gin and tonic tink around as he took another sip.
"I just heard it myself, I am sure we will hear more soon."
"Yeah, yeah, sure. How did you hear about this?"
"Well, the photos are out already."
"So the Don's dead and someone is already marching around the streets with his corpse for people to take pictures?" The shark had every reason to be skeptical.
"Fine, fine, take a look for yourself. And don't call it Photoshop…"
Moxxie could hear some shifting of clothes and a few sharp taps against a tempered glass screen. One shark had shown his phone to the other, likely with the evidence at hand to prove his claim.
"No fuckin' way. First Friggitello and now Friarelli."
It was a terrible night to drink, but Moxxie couldn't help but take a stiff gulp and order another of the same. He wondered if he drank enough, it would somehow wipe his memories of the past dozen hours forever.
"Who got him?"
"Some kid."
"Some brat? Or some young wannabe?"
"Let me read the comments now…"
Of course, the comments were not too helpful to him. After some frustrated noises and audible eye rolling, the attempt to find more context ended in failure.
"Whatever, doesn't matter. Just means we are down another boss. Who is going to be paying us by the end of this month, huh? Might as well call us the Dead Dons Social Club, because that is the only thing people are gonna know us for."
"They always find someone just in time."
The ultimate convenience of the family was that there was always going to be someone to pop up and take the crown. Few knew who was next in line, due to there somehow, dissonantly, being several underbosses beneath the Don. Likely, it was going to be a battle royale among them.
The silence slowly gave way to mournful drinks and the sound of many sharks wondering who will be signing their checks in a week's time. If they were lucky, they'd get a bonus for putting up with all of this.
"What is the point of calling it a 'family' if the Capos go to war every economic quarter."
"A Don stays in about as long as a pregnancy around here does anymore. If he's not gone in three months, then maybe he's here to stay."
"Friggitello made it nine months, at least. We almost made it to New Years without changing the name of the whole organization."
The two sharks pause. Another shuffling of expensive suit parts. All for the emergence of a cheap, off-brand zippo lighter. For some reason, Moxxie can't help but continue to eavesdrop.
Rather loudly, the zippo snaps open and clicks shut, all within seconds of one another. A dying cigar is revived in the process between the two mobsters behind him.
"Think it was Crimson?"
"He's a bit ambitious, even for an imp. Makes me wonder how long he really is goin' to last if he gets to the top."
"He got his promotion under Friarielli for putting two in the head of Friggy anyways."
"Damn… you really, uhhh, call Friggitello… 'Friggy'?"
"What, what is wrong with it?"
"Just a bit saucy is all."
"The fuck you mean by that."
"Just a bit heavy on the sauce, you know. A bit gay, you know."
"The fuck you mean by that? Too personal for you or some shit? Friggy's friggin' dead anyways, no big deal. Why you gotta make a big deal about how I call some dead fuck?"
"Ayy, ayy, calm yourself down, man… If Friggitello was alive and heard you calling him 'Friggy', he'd choke your cock with a garotte wire until it looked like a friggitello pepper."
Miraculously, conversations in these Social Clubs had the tendency to turn to the subject of dicks and balls more often than not. Moxxie nearly let out a chuckle at this brief moment of familiarity, before the bartender gave him a glass of water.
"O-oh…" Moxxie blinked. Slowly. Out of coordination. "I'm f-fine, really Bimmy. I got a bit more in me before I need to hydrate…"
Bimmy was built like a brick shithouse if it was also fortified in a concrete overcoat. As always, the bartender managed to be the best dressed shark there. His complexion was on a more yellow side. The razor-grinned Bimmy was the nephew of the late-late Don Friggitello. In Moxxie's increasingly intoxicated state, he mentally referred to him as 'a stoic banana pepper'.
"You're not much of a drinking type as it is, Moxxie." Bimmy admitted, taking some time to polishing the bar where Crimson's son had spilled some of his drinks from earlier that evening. "Frankly, ya look like hammered shit. You got a small body, no offense. Can only put so much drink in ya before it comes out. One way or the other."
"I've been urinating frequently and juuuuust-" Fine. Moxxie was trying to say he was pissing just fine, a straight shooter. But the word was lost. His entire vocabulary having been soaked with gin. "I'm fucking okay, alright…"
"That didn't sound very convincing."
"I am talking… mostly coherently."
"That's because you're one of those types who gets completely shitfaced on a few shots and even when your body is out of control, you're some backseat passenger to your own show."
"That is…" Moxxie sighed and rubbed the space between his eyes with two fingers. "Surprisingly accurate, Bimmy."
"I'm the same way. That's why I'm behind the bar and not in front of it." The yellow shark tapped the lacquer of the bar to get Moxxie's attention, before pointing to something just beside the sink and beside a bottle of vodka that was gathering a slight layer of dust. "Had things goin' big for me, before this gig, ya know."
It was a framed picture. Faded already somewhat. A much younger Bimmy with his brother Whoreson Jimmy and his uncle 'Friggy'. Beneath Jimmy's hammerhead-face and an unrecognizably youthful Friggitello was some crude sharpie-marker handwriting, spelling out "R.I.P."
The setting was some boxing match. It looked like Bimmy was the one holding the belt, with one of his eyes seemingly collapsed into itself. A black eye from hell, if there ever was one. The other guy must have looked worse.
A complex flurry of emotions ran through Moxxie, but only the most inappropriate would bubble up to the surface, through slurred words.
"Your brother looks… nothing like you. Huh. But you two were, uhh… close?"
"Yeah…" A solemn expression ran across the yellow shark's face as he refused to look away from the photo. "Had so much going on in my own head back then. Mostly alcohol. Would get into these fights, outside of the ring. A drop of blood, a bad look from some punk, someone talking shit – I'd just lose it."
"Oh…" Moxxie knew where this was going.
"I went from holding a championship belt to holding my own brother as he choked on his teeth. Worst part is, before I had any time to mourn him, I started hitting him again." Bimmy finally glanced away, he noticed that Moxxie had given in and started to sip at the water. "We were drinking that night, as we always did. Jimmy and I tried to get through a lot of things with boozing."
"You guys seemed to be doing well." Having dared to note such, Moxxie regretted voicing it immediately. But it was too late to shrivel up and hide away now from the conversation topic at hand. "Why did you guys… drink the night away?"
"Jimmy was adopted. His dad no-showed from life early on and his mom was a whore. Thus the name, Whoreson Jimmy."
"I'm sure she was just doing her best to provide, right?"
"Nah. Jimmy's dad left them with a lot of money before he ditched town. His mom had a gambling habit and turning tricks paid for it."
"Oh."
"Yeah, it wasn't pretty. My dad's second kid was a miscarriage. I almost was too. I wasn't supposed to be born, when I was, I was underweight and frail. Had a lot to prove from there." Bimmy shook his head. He didn't want to sell this sob story too much, everyone in hell had something similar. Especially the hellborn. "My father made me strong and he hated to see how weak Jimmy was. His mom defaulted on a loan and my father took Jimmy in as his own. And to me, he was as real of a brother as anyone could be."
"But…"
"But… I was rough on him. Rougher than I should have been. I wanted him to be like me. Dad wanted him to be like me. And he wanted to be just like me."
"Lot of expectations were forced on him…"
"More than you know." Sighed Bimmy with a nod. "I was training him up for his own fight and I tagged him a few times too hard during a spar. We decided to take a break, pop into some drinks. Had a bit too much already. We were workin' through dad's bourbon cabinet."
"I'm guessing it started out fun at first?"
"Always. We were laughing, having a good time and then…" There was a stark difference in Bimmy's eyes as he recalled the memory in perfect clarity. A different shark stood there now than the shark he had been that night. "He made a smart ass joke and before I knew it, I was beating him until his whole face was red."
The sight must have looked like two sharp-toothed peppers fighting one another.
"He didn't make it then?"
"Nah." Bimmy confirmed. "Stopped fighting and drinking the same night. Never had a problem since."
Moxxie blinked a few times as his vision became more clear, the water was helping. Or maybe just the slight shock of the tap-water ice cube hitting his lips had given him a brief jolt of alertness. "That's good, Bimmy. Not many people can go cold turkey like that." He offered a genuine smile.
A smile that Bimmy couldn't help but frown at, no matter how well intended it was. "Good or not, it doesn't bring Jimmy back."
What a terrible fact of life. Good deeds and habits can't fix everything.
"I'm sorry, I really shouldn't have said anything…"
"Ay, chin up and drink the water, Moxxie." Without missing a beat, Bimmy had filled the glass up again. The ice cubes have become somewhat smaller due to the temperature change earlier. As of now, they are the primary fixation of Moxxie's, so that he doesn't have to look up at the yellow shark more than he has to. Bimmy can't help but feel that Moxxie seems smaller than ever before tonight. "It is a bad habit, picking this up at your age."
"Everyone tells me that." Admitted Moxxie, although he sounded confused. "But when someone puts a gun in my hand, tells me to point it at someone and shoot, suddenly I am applauded."
"Even killing should be done with a sober hand."
"I guess… but, jeez, this is all so fucked up."
"No one around here has an un-interesting life, honestly."
"I know, it's just- Bah…" The imp's head planted itself against the surface of the bar. "Everyone is looking down at me. Wherever I am. Except when I have a gun in my hand. And you know what? I hate that this is what I have to do to get any respect. Any dignity. That this is my value. My willingness to follow orders."
"Following orders is what everyone expects of us. It is hard when the orders come from your own flesh and blood, howeva…" Bimmy did not allow himself to glance back at the picture behind him. Instead, he focused on ensuring Moxxie would leave the Social Club well hydrated. "When my dad was the Don, it was like he was-"
"God?"
"Yeah, exactly."
There actually was some relief in this shared feeling.
"Did you ever feel… hopeless?"
"Of course. My dad was the Head Shark in Charge. Survived his own capo-war in the family after the Don before him got whacked."
"Why is it that all our Dons get killed so often? How are we going to get anything done…?"
"Big question there, Moxxie. Gotta save it for the next Don who takes over from Friarielli."
The silence that began between them accompanied a new distance. Any familiarity was cut off by the context of Friarielli's death that only Moxxie knew in detail.
"Family is a man's weakness, but also his greatest strength." Bimmy suddenly imparted this wisdom, which shook Moxxie closer into temporary sobriety. This was what alcoholics called 'a moment of clarity'.
"Sorry, Bimmy, wish I could be more of a fun fella to talk to…" Moxxie couldn't help but feel his own moping had just brought out the harsher, more painful topics out of everyone else.
"I'm the one that should be apologizing."
"Huh?" The imp felt something ominous calling. From some distant, far away place. Some hidden chamber in his heart.
"I've been stalling you and making sure you sober up a bit."
Every hair on Moxxie's body stands at attention like a loyal soldier. "Why?"
"Because your dad is coming to pick you up. He just texted me after I poured you that gin and tonic."
"Why…?" Disbelief. Betrayal. Disorientation.
"He said that he is picking you up personally and he doesn't want you throwing up in the car."
"M-my father? He's not sending Alessio?!"
"He said it was a special occasion." Bimmy finally stared at the photo again, despite telling himself he would not for the rest of the night. Solemnly, he pushed the dusty vodka bottle in front of it, obscuring all but himself. "Not every night a Don dies, I guess…"
"Actually, it is a little too fucking common, if you ask me…!" With his hands slammed down hard enough to nearly knock over the glass of water, Moxxie reached into some deep pockets, but was only able to pull out a wad of cash from one. "Don't worry, I'm still tipping…"
"No need to."
"No… I… I guess I needed the talk. Sorry." Originally, Moxxie fingered through a few bills, counting them in a discordian rhythm in his pounding head. At some point, his heart spoke for his brain and he dropped the whole brick of green in front of Bimmy. It just narrowly missed a growing puddle from the water he did manage to spill just now in his final act before leaving his stool. "In case you don't see me again."
"Why wouldn't I see you again, Moxxie?"
"I…" Moxxie patted himself down, ensuring he still had the concealable, snub-nose revolver hidden within his coat. "I don't know. See you when I do, Bimmy."
Leaving the club, his heart was doing a whole dance routine inside of his chest. Pounding his ribs like drums. The sort of anxious pain that grew inside of him, from the base of his spine that made him tense his jaw to the point his entire skull hurt, was something years in the making.
It was the kind of anticipation and worry that only bad experiences could truly pave a road with. A hardly smooth path, but a rocky lane with nothing but jagged, sharp memories. Each one risked cutting deeply if they were ever assembled into something coherent.
His hand kept patting his chest, as if the revolver would just disappear if he wasn't careful.
If you're brave enough to kill your Don, you can kill your dad.
Moxxie told himself, again and again. Forming it as a mantra. Something he did fairly often to get through complicated feelings that threatened to drag him into an ocean of feeling like shit, an undertow of pitiful misery.
If you're brave enough not to drown with all these feelings and thoughts, you can kill your dad.
Outside of the Social Club sat an ominous vehicle. The kind that everyone, at a glance, knew who it belonged to.
The vehicle was more or less new. Ever since his father started gaining more rank and prestige, the more money went into the car, rather than his own son and wife. There was no pleasant vacation ahead in the coming years, but dad had his car and it was the son he always wanted.
It was sleek in obsidian black, with an elongated, aggressive profile. The bodywork was tightly sculpted with sharp, angular lines. If the car was a creature, it would have been a predator, some prowling beast that was always ready to strike.
Moxxie felt like the car was fitting for some politician who wanted to compensate for his BDSM moonlighting gig in Lust ring or something. The paint job was a deep, glossy black and beneath the right light, a dark crimson undertone.
The front grill had intricate, wrought-iron designs that looked like an especially pissed off feline, although Moxxie was sure his dad had intended it to be more demonic and vicious in nature.
The headlights were narrow slits, with red hues that cut through the darkness. The car sat low to the ground, enhancing its sleek and dangerous aesthetic. However, if it drove too quickly over a curb or into a parking lot, it was quick to bottom out with a metallic screech.
The whole thing was like an ill-behaved panther with a bloody nose.
Crimson, upon spotting Moxxie, rolled down the window. The sight of a new fedora with a red band made Moxxie cringe, but he was not going to say anything. Whenever Crimson bought a new hat, it was like when he added something to this ridiculous car. It meant another night of him living like a high roller, while Moxxie ate another frozen vegetarian ratatouille meal for dinner the next week or more.
"You been drinkin', Moxxie?"
"Y-yessir."
"Good." An audible click meant that Crimson had unlocked the passenger door. Without much hesitation, Moxxie entered and took a seat. The entire time, Crimson merely watched him with his eyes. One hand on the steering wheel and the other leaning out the window. "Just don't throw up this time."
If you are brave enough to survive throwing up in dad's stupid car, you are brave enough to shoot him. Tonight.
The interior was new too. It had that smell. The kind of smell only a synthetic textile shop from Greed ring could make. Sweatshop tears, vinegar and failure. It's a smell you don't forget anytime soon.
Even the wooden inlays on the dash and door panels were polished to a mirror-like finish. Nothing in their house looked half as good, half the time. Steering-wheel wrapped in leather, with the center bearing an imp-skull motif that looked more suited for a sad cowboy's belt buckle than a car ornamentation.
Moxxie guessed it was some sort of new crest for what would be a very new Mafia family, come the immediate future.
"So, uhhh… why didn't Alessio come?"
"He's busy."
"Oh. Okay…"
In other words, Alessio was cleaning up something Crimson did earlier that night.
Rather ignorantly, Crimson performed an especially loud burn out in the parking lot and nearly clipped the corner of the Social Club on the way out of the parking lot. Normally he waited to do this in front of an orphanage or school, or something.
The back of the car seemed especially heavy, judging by how often the rear of the vehicle scraped against the pavement as Crimson began to immediately speed down the road and into the residential blocks.
Moxxie didn't even bother to buckle up. His hand rested on his leg and twitched every few seconds. Mentally, he rehearsed how he would do this. Getting away with it wasn't even something to be considered.
Truthfully, the only thing that stopped Moxxie from shooting Crimson right then and now, was the fact it would just mean someone would take his father's place. And it was likely to be him, being initiated formally into The Commission.
The car's engine is powerful, it roared the more Crimson pressed the pedal to the floor. The streets were filled with the low, thunderous growl.
Moxxie tried to visualize it. As if his thoughts could maybe manifest the courage to turn the imagined into reality. Deeply, he envisioned Crimson's complete lack of peripheral awareness as the revolver was drawn. From there, he vividly painted the picture of placing the snub-nose to his father's temple.
No words would be exchanged. Just a knowing glance. As if Crimson gave permission to do it. That is how Moxxie always justified these fantasies to himself. That his father was secretly suffering from the life of a Capo, that he was just a fish trying to fight its way up stream. He didn't want to live life to its fullest, he just wanted some violent, poetic end of his life.
Moxxie wished that every shitty thing his dad did, was just to give his son the strength to be better, to put him out of his misery. This tragic family dynamic could be flipped onto its head any minute. All Moxxie had to do was retrieve the gun, cock the hammer, aim it and pull the trigger.
Everything would suddenly be much sadder, but everyone would be happier. Deep down, Moxxie knew he would be the happiest. Just to know his dad couldn't even utter a 'sorry' before having the inside of his head inverted and spat out against the bulletproof windows, nearly black in their tinted opacity.
Taking notice of the tint in particular, Moxxie was reminded that this car was a holy thing to his dad. And they were in it together. When your dad has an unchecked ego and petty insecurity to boost it to new heights, you get a demon with a god complex.
In this car, this booth, this confessional – was Moxxie's communion with the higher power that was his father. The patriarch of his entire life, the holder of his restrained free will. The man who takes for everything he gives.
If you are brave enough to fantasize about killing him, all you have to do is retrieve, aim and pull the trigger. Tonight is the night you kill your dad.
The realization that it was finally happening had given him the courage needed.
Tonight's the night.
Moxxie slowly reached into his coat. His fingertips danced against the handle of the revolver.
Tonight's the night mom stops crying. And the night I cry for the last time.
Sorry, dad.
But dammit, I wish you would apologize for once!
He gritted his teeth. The tension that grew became suffocating, much like the distance between Moxxie's consciousness and his most basic, primal want. The desire to extinguish a life to better his own for once. Rather than to benefit his career in The Commission or to get his dad ahead in the game.
Finally, I am going to do something for myself. I am going to kill someone for myself!
His thumb pulled the hammer back inaudibly. The click was silent like a tired cat's purr.
Just then, Crimson glanced over to him with an oddly sad face. Or some emotion close to it.
No turning back now, Moxxie. He knows. You won't live if you don't pull the heater now and put some hot, warm holes in his head!
Damn, he was even calling guns 'heaters' now. The mob had truly drilled the deepest brainrot in his head and now he was about to commit familicide.
"Mox." Crimson spoke like there was something caught in his throat from dinner still. But quickly, he regained his verbal posture. "I'm proud of you."
I'm not brave enough to kill my father.
"Huh?" The genuine surprise made Moxxie's hand retreat entirely, leaving the revolver still cocked beneath his coat. "You're… proud of me?" He blinked several times.
"I am. Yeah. I don't say it enough. But… you're kind of a snot nosed kid. A bit of a pain in the ass. You get in the way a lot and you snitched to your ma way too much when she was still alive. But…"
"But?"
"You did good tonight." Crimson genuinely smiled. "Honestly, I thought you were going to bitch out like a pussy or somethin'."
Moxxie rubbed his own arm harshly as if someone had punched it. "Oh, uhh, well, I didn't. Besides, hardly the first time I've followed your orders, sir and… killed someone."
"Don Friarielli was a quack. A square. Always talking about the 'Old Ways', 'Tradition', 'I'm proof the Old Ways work', all that shit." His father did not hold back. "He was keepin' the Commission behind. You can keep all that old shit as an aesthetic, ya know? We don't need to be a bunch of Mustache Petes, acting like some old guard or some shit. It is a new world for us, Moxxie. A new hell."
"A new hell?"
"The news just got out and all the capos are goin' to be gunnin' for Friarielli's chair. But I'm the only one who is going to be able to sit on it." Crimson smiled before spitting out the open window in distaste. "Ha! Those fuckin' idiots really think this shit is sustainable. All these inter-family wars and shit? Fucking lunatics! I am going to bring some peace and quiet to The Commission, let everyone sort things out like a fuckin' gentleman."
"Really?" Admittingly, this sounded like a mature direction to take the mob. "Won't the other guys, you know, miss the violence?"
"The violence needs to go outward, not inward. We've been rubbin' elbows and jerkin' each other off for too long. Everyone is gettin' soft. Sitting around, bullshitting, busting balls, playing cards. The rackets aren't enough. The extortion neither. It is about getting some blood onto these streets again."
Moxxie no longer thought this sounded like a mature route for The Commission.
"So… instead of killing each other, we're just going to kill other people?"
"Yes! You see, now that is why you're my boy…! You fuckin' get it! All these idiots have their heads up their asses, trying to suck their own dicks and make more money. Enough of that crap, we gotta let the blood hit the water and let the sharks loose, ya know what I am sayin', Mox, my boy?"
"Not… really? I mean, I get what you are implying, but the logic-"
"Bah!" Crimson's eyes rolled almost audibly in his head. Just like how he almost rolled the car as they took a sharp turn at intense speeds. The whole vehicle was sturdy, but sounded like it was about to fall apart any minute. "Let me tell ya somethin', boy. Family is a fuckin' curse. The Commission cares too much about fuckin' family."
"It does?"
"Yes, it does! The Capos and Dons are all a bunch of nepotistic fuckheads! All of them blood related sharks! They're stupid as all hell too, fuck me running, they are stuuupid!" Said the imp bottoming out every time the car changed gears and boosted forward. "None of that shit is gonna fly! I already got Alessio planting car bombs for all these stupid, fin-headed fucks."
"Wait, what-"
"Sharks, sharks, sharks, all they care about is blood. Blood in, blood out. They take family too seriously. You know what family gets you, Mox?" Crimson reached over, momentarily letting go of the steering wheel entirely. With his index and middle finger combined, he jabbed Moxxie painfully on the forehead. "It gets you two in the head, Mox, boom! Two in the head, yer fuckin' dead! No, it's time to stop running things like a family and to start running things like a business."
Holy shit, my father is going to be a lunatic.
Crimson just barely got control of the wheel again before the car spun out. "Maybe it is just the bottle of bourbon talking, but-"
The vehicle screeched as it nearly drove some hapless driver off the road and into a picket fence.
"Wait, the whole bottle-"
"But listen! Listen, Mox. Come morning, when everyone packs up in their cars to go see the Don's funeral, they are all going to be blown to fucking fish paste! And only the broke, the poor sharks, the tuna, if you will… they are going to be looking to the last standing Capo alive. Me!"
"Ahhh…! Okay!" By this point, Moxxie is holding the "oh-shit" handle in the car with all of his might and willpower.
I'm not brave enough to survive this ride with my father, no way I was going to be able to kill him.
"I am going to make sure they stay fed, going to make sure they get heaters to light up our enemies in the streets, in their beds, their wives and families too! I'm going to make sure they get the nice suits, eat the nice caviar and they are going to be eating my ass!"
"What?! You mean… eating out of your hand?! Or did you mean kissing your ass?!"
"Yeah, whatever, same thing, right?"
Obviously, Crimson was testing fate. They were on the highway and in the opposite lane. They were practically minutes away from a fatal head on collision.
"S-sir, what are you doing?!"
"I'm taking fate into my own hands. If destiny doesn't fuckin' want me to rule this ring, then it will take us both tonight!"
Why the fuck does it have to take both of us, dad?!
"Uhm, are you sure you don't want to just-"
"Mox, shut the fuck up, I'm trying to monologue here-" The obsidian, black beast of a vehicle continued to roar down the highway, a dark blur against the landscape of Greed. Crimson gripped the leather-wrapped steering wheel tightly, his eyes burned with some reckless abandon and fierce determination. "We're finally going to be somebodies down here! Well, me, at least! Your mom and you… you'll be fine, I guess!"
His foot has the accelerator to the floor. The narrow winding highway is his dangerous playground. He swerved past several oncoming cars with hair-rising precision. Moxxie can't believe his dad is going to kill them both. He should have shot him when he had the chance.
For Crimson, each near-miss shot the adrenaline through his veins. Putting their lives on the line here, it satisfied his hunger for power and control. He truly felt like God himself.
"Dad, why are you doing this?!"
"Because I'm taking destiny by the horns and fucking it like it's my bitch! Fate can't even kill me if this traffic can't!'
As they continued to speed down the lane, an upcoming truck loomed ahead. Its horn blared a desperate warning. Crimson's eyes narrowed and he jerked the wheel to the right. The side mirror clipped the truck, shattering into a spray of glass shards that glint in the dark stars in the dim light. The prized car wobbled, but maintained its course. The tires tore hard against the asphalt.
The sudden maneuver destabilized the car. Crimson fought for control and without knowing any better, Moxxie reached out to try and help. With all these hands on the steering wheel, of course they were bound to get completely fucked up.
The steering wheel bucked from their hands and the car began to fishtail wildly. A split second later, the wheels struck a patch of loose gravel on the shoulder of the road. Thus, the tires lost their grip entirely.
Moxxie's entire world seemed to slow down as the car tilted and then lifted off the ground.
The car flipped once.
Then twice.
Then once again.
Each impact was a chorus of metal crunching and glass shattering through the night. Crimson was tossed violently inside along with Moxxie. Neither had their seatbelts, but the bulletproof-glass did surprisingly well to prevent them from being fully ejected from the vehicle, despite cracking and shattering upon one of the last rolls.
The dark mahogany panels and crimson-stitched leather interior became a chaotic blur as the car somersaulted down the highway.
Finally, the black beast of twisted steel came to a rest. Upside down and crumpled like a discarded toy. The once sleek and menacing vehicle now a mangled wreck. Its demonic-feline headlights flickered weakly.
Smoke puffed from the engine, mingling with the arid scent of burning rubber and gasoline. The air is oddly silent, broken only by the distant wail of sirens approaching.
Inside the wreckage, Crimson and Moxxie laid across the roof of the vehicle, sprawled out as if it were a frat house dorm floor. Their shared breathing was ragged, each inhale painful.
Despite the mutual pain and disorientation, their eyes burned with some fierce understanding of having survived that all. At one point, the hidden gun that Moxxie had cocked went off.
Blood trickled from his chest from the self-inflicted graze. Other than that, Moxxie and Crimson merely bled from several places but couldn't be bothered to worry so much. Both were now utterly sober from the adrenaline that ran rampant through them.
The two of them, battered but unbowed, crawled from the twisted wreckage of Crimson's once-magnificent car. Their suits were now torn and stained with blood, but clung to them uncomfortably.
Once the two got some decent distance, Crimson's scraped and bruised hands, which moments before were gripping the scorched earth as he pulled himself to safety, reached for something in the inner pocket of his torn jacket.
Moxxie watched with some silent surprise as his father retrieved a slightly crumpled, but intact cigar and a few long-stick matches. With a practiced motion, he brought it to his lips and struck a match against the sole of his shoe.
The match flared to life, casting a brief, fiery glow to his bloodied face.
Once the cigar was lit, he took a long drag and let the rich, smoky flavour fill his mouth. The still lit match was flicked away without a second though.
It happened to land in the gathering pool of gasoline from the wreckage.
Moxxie watched his father's eyes glint with dark amusement as the scene before him played out. The car, already belching smoke, began to crackle and hiss. The newly ignited gasoline licked the edges of the wreckage and began to sneak in.
The fire grew, feeding on the spilled gasoline, until it engulfed the entire vehicle in a roaring blaze.
Crimson merely took another drag from his cigar, savoring the moment. He was free. He lost everything he truly loved and now he could focus on the future. Getting rid of the car was his own ego-death. Now it was time to make an even worse, ego-driven god-complex in its place.
Just as either of the two were about to say something, the car erupted in a deafening explosion. A fireball of orange and red shot into the sky. Shockwaves washed over them, rustling their hair and clothes. Crimson didn't flinch, whereas Moxxie tried to guard his face as best as he could. Crimson merely stood there. A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face. The inferno reflected in his eyes.
"How did it feel, Mox?"
"What?" Moxxie coughed. "Nearly being killed or-"
"How did it feel killing the Don?"
"..." He really didn't want to answer that. "Terrible."
"Why?"
"I told him everything you told me to tell him." A few tears began to fill his eyes. "That I knew his deep, dark secret and that I was willing to indulge him in it…"
"He didn't… you know, did he?"
"No." Moxxie hugged himself. He was the only person able to give him comfort in this instance. "I dressed up for him and everything. We had a light dinner. I reiterated my age to him again and he… didn't care."
"What a sick fuck." Crimson snorted. "No room for diddlers in The Commission."
"I told him to bathe first and… when he was in the tub, I retrieved the stashed double-barrel." Moxxie continued and couldn't find it in himself to stop with the details. "And I just walked in. He smiled, thought I was going to surprise him and he said…"
"Enough, boy."
"He said… 'come to join me?', and…"
"Fine, go on then. What happened?"
"I shot him. Once in the chest. The whole bath was full of blood…"
"First shot didn't kill him…?"
"No, it did… it just… he had this look on his face. And I didn't know what it meant…"
I have an idea now, though.
"So you blew his head off? Just to make yourself feel better?"
"I… guess so. Yeah."
"That's my boy." Crimson grinned. Patting him on the back. "He won't be missed."
That much was true. Whoever found his body, likely one of the maids that just got on duty from the shift-change, was quick to post pictures of his nearly-decapitated body all over the internet. Word hit people's email chains and instant messages before the news could even get a hold of it. All within about four or five hours.
"Don Friarelli was… a sick fuck, you're right." But why did you have to use me as bait to get close to him? Your own son? "We could have… blackmailed him or something."
"Nah." The soon-to-be-new Don come dawn corrected immediately. "Freaks like him don't get to walk around with the rest of us."
"Why did you… make me do it? Was it just because of my age? His preferences?"
"Because I wanted you to know what it was like…" Crimson turned to Moxxie like a statue in one of those really shitty b-film horror movies about inanimate objects being possessed by ghosts or some dumb shit like that. "To kill a wannabe who thinks he's a god."
"You… could have done it yourself." Replied Moxxie with a strong hint of malice. "You killed Don Friggitello, after all…"
"I did." The cold reply showed just how much this memory actually bothered Crimson. "It wasn't easy. Friggitello was different. He did a lot for the family. For our family. The whole Commission loved him like the patriarch he was. The Don of all Dons."
"He made you a Capo, didn't he?"
"He sure did." This time, Crimson inhaled from the cigar and let his stomach get sick from holding it in, before he exhaled a large ring of grey into the air. He watched as it lingered above his head. A halo of smoke. This was the only legacy mobsters had. "We'd have nothing without him."
"Then… why did you kill him?"
"Back when I was just a wannabe running the streets as an associate, I was into dog betting. You know about that shit? Its like horse-betting but a lot fuckin' sadder."
Moxxie could barely imagine his father taking care of a dog of any sort.
"I'm listening, sir…"
"I had this wonderful dog, named Precious. Fast, furious, all attitude. A dog with attitude, can you believe it? She was more like a daughter, than a pet. Really. If you met her, you would have called her sister."
"Uhhh…"
"I had nothing in life, but I made sure that fuckin' dog was well fed. I went hungry, but was still taking her out for walks and jogs. She paid back all of my investments at once during the first race. Everyone just knew she was a winner. Don Friggitello betted on her personally. But back then, he was just an ordinary Capo."
"I see…"
"Yeah, so like, picture this…" Crimson took another puff from the cigar and promptly handed it to his young son. "Hey, don't wet-lip my fuckin' cigar, boy."
"S-sorry."
"Anyways…" A long sigh followed. Just as another part of the burning wreckage seemed to pop and come to life, before settling down, calmed by the soft rattle of perky flames along the steel exterior. "I'm putting this dog in every race and everyone is betting on her. I am making more money than any racket in The Commission. They open the books to me and I get inducted into the family. I even met the broad that would become your mother at the race tracks."
"Wait, really? She always said you met online."
"Yeah, that is how she coped with it." The cigar was retrieved and Crimson sucked at it hard, the end glowed bright red before it fell off as salt-and-pepper coloured ash. "One day, my Precious doesn't win the race. Capo Friggitello is pissed the hell off. We all lost several months of rent over it."
"What went wrong?"
"I spoiled that dog too damn much. But at the end of the day, a girl in heat is a girl in heat. The minute she got out of the yard, every dog in the neighborhood would fuck her."
"..."
"So she was pregnant. She lost the race because she was pregnant." Crimson flicked some ash onto Moxxie without thinking. But he was quick to wipe it off of his shoulder before even he noticed. "That is why I don't want you making big bucks just to go boozin' at the Social Clubs. You need to dry up, I don't need you fucking up now that we are all getting more responsibilities."
"Yessir…"
"Because, if you start getting big gigs from me and you just march around the clubs, buying everyone a round and shit, you know what it makes you look like?"
"What, sir…?"
"Like Precious. Like a bitch in heat. And like a bitch, everyone is going to want to fuck you."
Moxxie gulped.
"Yessir…"
"That is why I am going to show you the ropes, so you don't get strangled by them." The cigar was almost done, as was the conversation. "Anyways… where was I?"
"Precious lost the race?"
"Right, right. I didn't show my face for about a month, but I caught Friggitello trying to drown my bitch…" He paused. "The dog, not your mother."
"Yeah, I got that much…"
"He came to my home, to my yard and was trying to drown my dog in the pond…"
"What did you do…?"
"I busted his fucking lights out and then he busted out mine." Crimson snorted at the memory, almost as if it was the only good part of the whole incident. "Then he shot Precious in the head."
"Oh…" The gravity of it all came crashing down on Moxxie, as if it was now his burden to carry, having become the receiver of this story. This burden of guilt.
"Decade and a half later, I have it all. A fifteen year old son, a Capo under the Don of Dons and Friggitello takes me out for dinner one time."
As the flames among the car die down, leaving only a smoldering, charred skeleton of what was once a prized possession – Crimson's own ambitious storytelling slowly snuffed out. He stood there, a solitary figure against the backdrop of destruction.
"That was… around mom's birthday, last year, right?"
"Yeah." Nodded Crimson, as he examined the last plume of cigar smoke mingle with the lingering smoke from the wreck. "We got some fucked up porkchops. Rough, rubbery. He joked that it tasted like how Precious felt that night."
"Oh…"
"And you know what? You remember that night when we buried Don Friggitello together? As father and son? We buried him in lye, in your ma's rose garden. Right next to Precious. I know the old man must have hated it. Being buried next to that damn dog. But it was the best place for him, really." Crimson flicked the stub of the cigar into the remnants of his car. "They were both some of my best friends."
"I'm sorry, sir."
"Don't be, Mox."
"Why not…?"
"Because it felt good. Also, it probably would have pissed off your ma, if she was still around. Wouldabeen funny."
"Yeah…" Moxxie didn't think it was funny at all.
"You know, if you ever end up whacking me, be sure you bury me next to Friggy and that bitch Precious."