The Mobster’s Story

I’m sitting in the parking lot at the Boom Boom Room with that fat fuck Tony Roses, and it’s raining so fucking hard we can’t see the door, and this fat fuck is about to suffocate me with his stink.

See, Tony’s real name is Tony Melone, but everybody calls him Tony Roses on account of he smells so fucking bad. Like George Carlin said, he could knock a buzzard off a shit wagon.

So we’re sitting in Tony’s car with loaded sawed-offs across our laps, waiting for the rain to slack off so we can get into the Boom Boom Room and do our business without having to swim to the door. I usually like to drive on these jobs, but the boss wants me and Tony to do it, and there’s no way in Hell I’m going to let that fat fuck stink up my Navigator.

“What’s the plan?” Tony’s too fucking fat to even turn his big fat fucking head my way when he talks to me. He just kind of glances at me out of the corner of his big fat fucking eye and squeezes and wheezes the words out around his big fat fucking tongue. This is probably good because if he could turn his head, he’d spray me with spittle and sour breath.

Don’t get me wrong. Tony’s not a bad guy, but he’s so fucking stupid and fat and smelly and grotesque that just looking at him makes you hate his fucking guts. He can’t help it. It's glandular or something.

“What’s the plan?”

I just look at him for a second or two.

“What do you mean, what’s the plan? There ain’t no fucking plan.” I take a breath and slow it down a little. Christ, I’m in a bad mood. “The plan is I go in the back door and, you go in the front door, and we blow every piece of glass in that joint to hell and back so Jimmy gets the message. Then we calmly walk out, get back in this stinking piece of shit Cadillac, and get back across the fucking river where we belong so I can get myself fumigated and burn this suit.”

Tony gives me a hurt look out of the corner of his eye and turns his head just a little, just about as far as it’ll turn, to look out the window. This tiny movement causes him to start breathing like he’s running a fucking marathon. Glandular or not, how does a guy let himself get like that? I mean, you got to eat, but do you have to eat it all?

“Why do you get to go in the back door? I want to go in the back.”

I shrug my shoulders.

“What the fuck difference does it make?”

“The front door is farther away. Why do you get to go in the back door?”

“Because I want to see what a whale looks like swimming across the fucking parking lot.”

Tony sighs real big and taps his hands on the steering wheel.

“What?”

Tony glances out of the corner of his eye and then out the window again and drops his hands into his lap like he’s giving up or something. He’s still puffing and blowing like some kind of train or something.

“What?”

“You know, you ought to be careful with that fat shit. Some people can’t help it.”

“Aw, Jesus fucking Christ! I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, you fat fuck.” The stench is getting thicker than the rain, and Tony blowing sour stink breath like a fucking exhaust fan isn’t helping, and I feel like my fucking head is going to explode. “O.K. Fine. We’ll toss a coin. Heads, I go in the back door; tails, you go in the back door.”

And just then, some poor dumb motherfucker taps on Tony’s window, and Tony jerks and fires both barrels of the fucking shotgun through the window, blowing the glass out, throwing Mr. Never-Should’ve-Got-Outta-Bed-Today about ten feet across the lot, and making me deaf. Imagine cramming a fucking stick of dynamite in each ear, lighting it, and then putting a bucket on your head, and you might get an idea of what it sounded like.

Tony jumps out of the car to see who he just shot, and when he sees, he fucking loses it, but I can’t hear a goddamn word he’s saying. I look out and see what’s left of a cop laying out in the parking lot. Mother of Christ, are we fucked.

I pop the trunk and run out to help Tony lift the cop into it before somebody comes along. I mean, what else’re we going to do, right? But while me and Tony are picking the guy up, Tony drops his end and grabs his chest. I mean, it’s still raining like a motherfucker, I’m drowning, and Tony is on his knees in the parking lot with a heart attack and a dead cop hanging halfway out of the trunk of the car.

Tony mouths something, but I can’t hear shit. I mean, he might be saying something, or he might be gasping for air, but then he just falls over, face-first in a puddle, like somebody shouted “Timber!” or something. Dead.

So, I mean, what am I going to do? Nobody’s around, and I sure as hell can’t lift Tony into the trunk, so I grab an umbrella out of Tony’s car and walk away fast. I figure the cops’ll find them both and decide Tony blasted the cop on purpose and dropped dead trying to get him in the trunk.

And then I get the hell out of that parking lot. Who knows? Maybe world’ll smell a little bit better tomorrow.

© 2025 Brian G. Parker