Don't talk back to your father
“SOUP’S OOON” boomed John’s voice across the whole house.
Right away, a merry rush started through the corridors and two little ones turned up in the kitchen.
- Daddy, Dino don’t want to give my cowboy pistol back to me ! whined the first toddler.
- What did I tell you about never leaving your weapon accessible, little fellow? answered Abruzzi while putting a casserole of spaghetti on the table.
- Yes but he stole it from me when I was havin’ a pee !
- A good thug is never without his weapon.
- But that’s cheating ! You stop playing when you go to the loo !
- Don’t talk back to your father, settled Theodore, coming in the kitchen and adding a casual clout on the head of the kid.
He was followed by a third brat and they both had their hands splattered with red.
- Where are you coming from like that ? said Abruzzi with an annoyed face.
Bagwell glanced at his palms and casually answered :
- Oh, nath’n. I was showin’ Jimmy Junior how to cut a cat open.
- Theodore, you just didn’t slay the tomcat of the student next door ? It’s gonna be the fourth one this year, he sighed with resignation. She will smell a rat one day or another and be sure she won’t like so much the fact that cutting the cats’ throats is one of your numerous cruel and childish hobbies. You never want to piss a woman off. They are unstable creatures and that’s why, god forbid, we don’t have any at home.
He crossed himself while stirring his nice warm bolognaise.
- Yeah well, if ya ask me, this one mostly needs a good sha…
T-bag was interrupted by the unexpected arrival of a cutting board across his face.
- Ouch ! he protested in an almost shocked way.
- No foul language in front of the children… We’re not in the deepest Alabama here, snarled the ex-godfather.
- John, ya hurt me… C’mon, kids, let’s wash our mitts. You too, Gugul, he added while affectionately pulling the short curls of the poor child who was still sulking about his stolen revolver.
- But I just washed them : I was coming back from the loo !
- Don’t talk back to your father, replied Abruzzi while putting his sauce on the table.
The brat then started to whine capriciously about the world’s injustice, immorality and incoherence.
- See ? I told ye this one wasn’t mine… said T-bag while approaching the sink, grabbing one of the Mafioso’s buttocks on his way.
In the twinkling of an eye, he found himself violently banged against the cutlery cupboard, John’s furious face extremely close to his.
- Primo, Theodore, I already told you : “not in front of the bambini” ! And secundo, it would indeed be astounding that the slightest ounce of honour sprang from your screwed-up inbred genes, but your bad tendency to decline the fatherhood of this kid every time he acts pathetic is seriously getting on my nerves.
Bagwell and Abruzzi had indeed agreed on letting chance decide of the authorship of the last illegal artificial insemination they had ordered for themselves. This agreement obviously came from the foursquare refusal to let the other one do the honours, but it lead to a couple of set-tos now and then. The first name was the first subject of numerous quarrels and made a few objects fly across the pad. John, always proud of his origins, wanted a hero of the Greco-Roman mythology, in order to give a noble and powerful stature to the youngest child.
- How ‘bout “Jason” ? suggested Theodore innocently.
- No, answered the mobster without even getting worked up. Me giving one of your former boytoy’s name to my son is just out of question. Don’t even think about it.
- Who said it was gonna be your kid ? And Jason is a Greco-Roman hero : he got his hands on the golden fleece for your information, you uncultivated guinea.
- You bet, I see the kind of fleece…
- You’re abject, John, scowled T-bag.
- I want this boy to have the name of a real man, not of a little fag with his lambskin. How about something like Achilles or Hercules ?
- I swear to God if ya give a pooch’s name to this child ya won’t fuck me for two months, sneered the Alabamian.
After many rhetorical arguments, numerous personal affronts, a lot of blackmail during sex and some threats including blades, out of sheer desperation, he was christened “Caligula”, the trivial and derisory nickname of “Gugul” soon adopted by T-bag. This roman emperor, loving eloquence and debauchery, actually brought together the souls of the two scoundrels in a rather satisfying way, and preserved the benefit of the doubt.
T-bag rolled his shoulders a bit to try and wriggle out of his uncomfortable position.
- T’s alright, John, it’s alright… I s’ppose we’ll never know where this sweet lil’ thing comes from, eh ?
He tried to soften up the godfather with an innocent smile and the latter brushed him off with an annoyed grunt.
- Everybody sits down at the table before I draw my Beretta, he firmly ordered.
They all hurried up to obey him and T-bag volunteered to feed the brood.
- Poppa, you gave more pasta to Dino ! bitched Jimmy with an acrimonious expression under his shaggy chestnut hair.
- It’s because Dino is the eldest, sweet pea, he’s got the right to have more than the others, answered Theodore casually.
- That’s bullshit, grumbled the kid before getting an expected clout from Abruzzi.
- If ya think it’s rightfully yours then try and take it from him… he let slip from the corner of his mouth, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in it.
The piece of advice didn’t go unheard and James ferociously dived his fork into the next plate, defended by Dino who had anticipated the attack. The brats soon crossed swords with their cutlery and started to test their forces and their dexterity with a savagery that was a pleasure to look at. Even John, in a quite irritated mood, regained his smile.
- This little fellows will become real tough guys, he predicted, folding his arms on his chest proudly.
- And ya’ll see : it’s gonna be far more entertaining when we take away the round-edged utensils… added T-bag while looking fondly at the struggle with a watchful and appraising eye.
- Teddy… you sick puppy, said Abruzzi tenderly while pouring him a glass of Asti.
Bagwell sent him a dangerous and wheedling gaze, raising his glass :
- To Pretty, to our blow bellow the belt of the world… and to the take over ?
- Salute, concluded the mobster, clinking his glass against his.
Accueil 