It was a rare, quiet afternoon at Jesse Pinkman's place. The echoes of

his chaotic life—meth labs, shootouts, and unhinged partners—were

temporarily silenced. Jesse lounged on his couch, scrolling through his

phone, thinking about what fast food to order. The phone rang.

"Yo, who the hell's calling me right now?" Jesse muttered, squinting at

the unknown number. He answered it. "Yo, this is Jesse."

On the other end, a gravelly voice, thick with sarcasm and aggressive

undertones, barked, "Yeah, hey, how ya doin'? This is Frank Rizzo. R-I-Z-

Z-O, capisce?"

Jesse blinked. "Uh… okay, Frank. What do you want, dude?"

Frank didn't skip a beat. "Yeah, listen, tough guy, I'm calling about

that rat problem you got. Yeah, the one in your basement. You called me,

remember?"

"What the hell are you talking about, man? I didn't call anyone about

rats," Jesse said, already annoyed.

"Yeah, yeah, don't play dumb with me, jerky. I got your name on my

clipboard here. Says 'Jesse Stinkman.' Real cute. You got a rat problem,

and you need me to come down there and bust some heads, right?"

Jesse's jaw tightened. "First off, it's Pinkman. Second, I don't have a

rat problem, jackass. You must've called the wrong number."

Frank snorted. "Oh, so now you're callin' me a liar, huh? Look, pal, I

ain't got time to argue with some snot-nosed punk with a dirty house. You

got rats, I got the solution. End of story. You want the deluxe package

or what?"

"What? What package? Dude, I don't need anything from you!" Jesse

snapped.

Frank's voice grew more aggressive, dripping with mockery. "Oh, big tough

guy, huh? Think you're too good for Frank Rizzo? I'll come over there

right now and show you what a deluxe package looks like, buddy boy."

Jesse gritted his teeth, his face reddening. "Man, screw you! I don't

know who you are, but you're starting to piss me off."

"Starting? Starting to piss you off? Oh, boo hoo, tough guy! You want me

to call the Waaah-mbulance for ya?" Frank chuckled, amused at his own

joke. "Here's what's gonna happen, Pinkface. I'm showin' up in ten

minutes, and you better have coffee ready. Black. None of that froo-froo

crap."

Jesse's temper hit its boiling point. "Yo, are you freaking insane?! Stop

calling me! I swear to God, if you show up here, I'll—"

"You'll what? Cry to your mommy? Listen, junior, don't make threats you

can't back up. Frank Rizzo don't play that. You hear me?"

That was it. Jesse snapped. He hurled his phone across the room, barely

missing the wall. "Son of a—!" Grabbing a baseball bat from the corner of

the room, he started smashing anything in sight.

The coffee table? Gone.

The lamp? Destroyed.

A framed picture of him and Jane? Shattered.

"THIS GUY IS OUT OF HIS FREAKING MIND!" Jesse yelled, swinging the bat

wildly. "FRANK RIZZO, HUH? I'LL SHOW YOU A DELUXE PACKAGE!"

As Jesse wrecked his room in blind rage, his phone, lying on the floor,

buzzed again. The screen lit up: Frank Rizzo calling…

Jesse picked it up, gripping it so tightly his knuckles turned white. He

answered, his voice shaking with fury. "WHAT?! WHAT DO YOU WANT NOW?!"

Frank's voice came back, calm and smug. "Yeah, one last thing: you just

got pranked, jerky! HA-HA! Gotcha real good, huh?"

Click. The line went dead.

Jesse stared at the phone, his mouth open in disbelief. "Pranked?

PRANKED?! Who the hell even does that anymore?!"

He threw the phone again, storming out of his trashed room. Somewhere in

the distance, Johnny Brennan, AKA Frank Rizzo, was laughing his ass off,

already planning his next call.

And thus, Jesse Pinkman became the latest victim of Frank Rizzo's

legendary antics.