04:27:48 pm on
Monday 22 Jul 2024

F***king Salesmen 2
Joe Vitulli

This is part two of a three-part series

Chapter Six

Did God Invent Mosquitoes?

Monday morning came, Nick and Natch dressed well, golf shirts (who the fuck plays golf anyway?), nice slacks, a crease to shave with, shined shoes, close shaves and big smiles. The sun was bright, glinting through the trees, then bobbing and weaving around the tall buildings in the Big City as they drove into town. They headed over to the west side, thinking, well, this is where those fucks are workin’ our routes and this is where they are gonna’ find out it ain’t nice to fuck around with serious guys, especially two guys who will rip your fuckin’ lungs out.

The traffic was light, they were cruising the streets, up and down, slipping in and out of shadows, each lost to their own thoughts, thinking, well, where the fuck are those guys? After a while they would find out where the fuck were those guys.

Nick kept his eyes on the road, taking only quick looks at the storefronts and big buildings, looking for the salesmen. He was thinking how lucky they were to be in this position, and how they would make sure Joseph and the fairly important guys in the trash business would never regret giving them this big chance. He took a quick look at Natch, his eyes glued to the streets, looking, Nick thinking, he’s the tops this buddy of mine, a solid citizen, no bullshit kinda’ guy, a wrecking crew rolled up into one incredible fuckin experience.

“Hey, you believe in God?’ Nick wondered why that thought popped into his head.

“Which one?” Natch thinking, what’s he goin’ sappy here?

“What? Whattaya’ mean which one?”

“Well, there’s the Ghost guy, then you got Junior, the kid from Israel, that Spanish kid, Jesus, and the Old Man, the Beezer what began the whole thing.”

“From what I remember, they are all the same thing, the same one, three guys rolled into one guy. That’s why They, Him, are God.” Not so bad, there, Nick.

Natch thought about it, and it occurred to him, well, maybe there’s something to this stuff.

“You think God invented Mosquitoes. Because, if he-”

“Mosquitoes? What the fuck are you talkin’ about?”

“What I stutter? Mosquitoes, pretty simple. Lets say it’s the summer, it’s hot, and you got yourself a vodka on the rocks, you’re sitting with your main squeeze, she wearing that fuck me bikini, the one made with dental fuckin floss, and you got your free hand playin with that Lotus Flower down there, and WHAM!, a fuckin mosquito, big enough to have a license plate, bites the shit out of her. She jumps up, freaked out and you’re left standing there, holding your dick.” This shit has happened to me so I know what the fuck I’m talkin’ about.

“Maybe, Natch, that’s why He invented mosquitoes.” Nick, thinking, wow, he’s got some imagination.

“Do me a favour, turn left at the corner, there’s a good coffee spot on the next corner-WAIT!, looka’, it’s them, the fuckin’ pricks from the outfit with the big green fuckin’ trucks!”

“Holy Christ!”

Nick swerved to the left, cutting off a few cars coming the opposite direction, parked the car the wrong way on the sidewalk, and he and Natch jumped out of the car.

The two salesmen from whose pricks with the big green trucks, both rookies in the business, both recent graduates from college, both with some pretty strong brain power and both thinking, well, this trash thing is a good thing and we are getting our foot in the door. In front of them they each saw a long road filled with their big dreams. They did not see the two man tornado which was about to explode into their lives.

The first rookie, Gary, wearing his nice golf shirt with the emblem of the pricks with the big green trucks on his chest, spotted to the two guys hustling down the street towards them.

The second rookie, Scott, also wearing a golf shirt with the emblem of the pricks with the big green trucks on his chest, stopped short as he also noticed the two men heading their way, and Scott thought, wow, those guys don’t look too happy, I wonder where they are going.

Where they were going was right there.

“Hold up there asshole.” Nick spoke, throwing his voice across the twenty yards separating the four men.

“What? Asshole?’ Gary stopped walking, yanked a hold of Scott’s shirt stopping him in his tracks, putting a little dent in the golf shirt with the emblem of the pricks with the big green trucks. “Excuse me?”

“Shut up.” Natch closed the distance quickly, then joined by Nick.

“Do we know you guys?” Scott was a bit nervous, wondering, I once heard stories about the trash business in this city, and maybe they weren’t exactly stories.

“I told you to shut up. What the hell you guys doing, walking around town, with those faggy shirts on, interfering with our business here?”

“I thought this was a free country.” Gary thought it actually was.

“Yeah, and I’m free to rip your fuckin’ lungs out. Now listen to me, you two. Go back to the pricks with the big green fuckin’ trucks, and you tell them get the hell outta’ fuckin’ town before the shit really hit’s the fan, you two being the shit.” Nick smiled, not a ha ha smile, but a smile saying, you two geeks wanna’ live beyond lunch hour?

“Yeah, and don’t lemme’ catch you two pukes around town no more, and especially with them douche bag shirts on. Hit the fuckin road.” Natch poked Gary in the chest with his finger, Gary backing up a step.

Both Scott and Gary did get the message, and they did hit the road. They went back to the pricks with the big green trucks, and said, you know what, this trash thing ain’t exactly what we thought it was, so if you don’t mind, we quit.

Nick and Natch waited as the two guys from the pricks with the big green trucks turned and slowly walked away, turning the corner, Nick watching as both of them tossed their business cards into a sidewalk trash container, Nick and Natch thinking, well, that’s the end of that horseshit.

Actually that wasn’t the end of that horseshit, as the pricks with the big green trucks weren’t exactly overjoyed when their two rookie salesmen both quit the same day.

Chapter Seven

Their Big Sale and the Pricks with the Big Green Trucks

About a week later, Nick and Natch, down near the water, scouring the area for new stores being opened, or the trash containers of the pricks with the big green trucks. The sun was strong, bouncing off the windows of the tall buildings, a blinding flash of reflected light, the skies blue, a cloud, one cloud, puffy, skidded across the far horizon.

Natch watched that cloud disappear, fade into the big nothing of the blue sky and lost himself in thought. I need a haircut, the fuckin’ sideburns are way too long, and I gotta’ get laid. Since we took this job, Nick and I, we ain’t been really bustin’ loose with the womens, and I think I gotta’ nail some pussy pretty fuckin’ soon. He also had another thought:

“You know, Nick, we could sell alotta’ weed walkin’ around down here. Looka’ the dirt bags hangin’ over by the pier“.

“You think so?” He might be right.

“Yeah, I think we hook up with that crazy assed Mexican dude, the one we buy from and tell him we’re done beein’ on the wholesale side of things.”

“And if that Paco prick thinks, well, fuck these two guys?”

“That’s an interesting question. I think we hang Paco out a tenth story window by his fuckin’ wet feet until he decides, geez, maybe these two fuckers got a point here.”

“Why don’t we drop in on Paco this afternoon?”

“Now ya’ talkin’ my language.” Natch smiled, he loved hanging with Nick, and he loved this gig they scored, and now he loved it even more since they figured we could score some heavy quantity of weed out here. Now, all I gotta’ do today to make it perfect is get my balls waxed by some hot little tomato.

And at that very moment, a hot little tomato was waxing a set of balls, in Miami.

As they walked, enjoying the sunshine, thinking, hey, it’s getting’ on towards fuckin’ lunch, they came across a spot, that one time last week was empty, and now somebody is hammerin’ away, puttin’ up a small building. Looks like it might be a deli, or coffee shop, and some kinda’ thing like that, Nick thought.

They stopped, watched a middle aged fella, a cigar in his mouth, bent over a saw horse, cutting a pretty big hunk of fuckin’ wood in half. Natch watched, then walked up to the guy.

The Vice President of Sales, for the pricks with the big fuckin’ green trucks, sored up mightily, jumped in his car, and decided, crap, lemme’ go downtown and see for myself why we’re loosin’ stops and why we no longer have a sales team down there.

“Hey, buddy, whattaya doin here, makin’ a store or something?” Natch spoke, the guy with the cigar kept sawing, the noise pretty loud, the saw dust spinning in a small eddy due to the breeze coming around the corner. The sawing finished, the board cut in half, the guy placed the saw down and looked at Natch, removing the cigar from his mouth.


“So, when you are done, whattaya’ gonna’ do with all the fuckin garbage?”

“Why you need to know?”

“Well, for one fuckin’ thing, we ARE the garbage men in this area, and for another thing, we are the guys gonna’ pick up your garbage. You got that?”


“Good.” Nick stepped over the door frame and smiled at the guy, who didn’t smile back, Nick wondering, what the fucks wrong with this gimoke?

“I’ll have the can delivered tomorrow.”

“What it’s gonna’ cost me?”

“Whatever it is, you’ll pay it.”

“I don’t get to know?”

“Stop breaking my balls with these questions. I have no fuckin clue what it costs, but since we are the ONLY fuckin’ deal in town, you’ll pay what it is.”


“Yeah, now stop dancing. We’ll make sure you pay the right price, no gimmicks, no stupid contracts like those pricks with the big green trucks got, just a handshake, me and you, we got a deal.”

“You won’t hurt me with the price?”

“It’s gonna be a good price, no pain.”

“Maybe I should ask around--”

“Go ahead, ask around, talk to the guy across the fuckin’ street, the guy next door and the guy over there, they are all happy, smiling’ customers.”

Not exactly, Nick.

“I don’t need no can until I open.”

“Yeah, you need the can now, looka’ all the shit on the floor here.”


“Listen, buddy, we ain’t got a lotta’ fuckin time to be jerkin’ around, the can is coming tomorrow, a two yard, no big deal, the smallest one we got, and you will be fuckin’ happy.” Natch smiled, patted the guy on his back.

“I guess so.”

“No guessin’ about it, Roscoe, the can is comin’ tomorrow, you’ll be smiling’ in a week.”


“It don’t fuckin matter.”

“What’s this place gonna be?” Nick thinking, shit, he seems like a nice enough guy, this that and the other considered.

“Deli and coffee shop.”

“Great, and listen what I’m gonna do. I’ll put the word out to all our drivers, they gonna’ stop here for their fuckin’ coffee and when they wanna’ have fuckin’ lunch.” How I’m gonna’ do that is fuckin’ impossible, almost all our routes are miles away, we ain’t breakin’ off our routes to get some a this jerk offs coffee.” Nick sorta’ smiled at the guy, the guy sorta’ smiled back.

“You would do that?”

“Without a fuckin’ doubt.”

Big smiles all around, hand shakes (the deal is done), and Nick and Natch took off, heading towards the piers, where they hoped to find Paco and score some major fuckin’ weed.

They did score some major fuckin weed, Paco was very happy to be of service. Quickly, though, Nick and Natch figured, what the fuck, why we gotta’ buy this shit offa Paco, we’re his biggest customer, we need to find our own wholesale guy.

They spent some time doing their homework, don’t tell Natch it was homework, but they did find a pretty reliable source of heavy weight fuckin weed, and this source, this fella, well, they found out this guy could also score some serious shit. And the serious shit was where they figured the large money was.

After a while, when they were moving more serious shit than the source of the serious shit, Nick figured, fuck that guy, we ought head down to Mexico and hook our selves up. A fairly important guy in the trash business knew a guy and he knew the guy they needed to talk to about a direct line to Nick and Natch of the pretty serious shit.

It took months, months of hard work, both for the trash businesses, and for their own enterprises, but the wheels started turning, and pretty soon, Nick and Natch were quite the team for the trash stuff and quite the team for the serious shit.

Joseph was in his office, an espresso being delivered by the awesome ass wagging secretary, sitting across from a fairly important guy in the trash business.

“Those two guys, they set things straight with those pricks with the green trucks. Nobody is tossin’ beefs around, and besides, they are kicking up some serous money.

Joseph smiled, he always smiled when he knew he had come up with a thoroughly well thought out, very well executed (pardon the expression) plan. “Yes, they should be fuckin’ salesmen of the year.

The Regional Sales manger for the Pricks with the Big Green Trucks had other ideas, wondering, who are these two guys scared the crap out of my trainees? And besides which, they got no right scarring the crap out of my regular customers, we are loosing stops to those two clowns. More stops than we can count, contract or no contract, these people don’t give a rats ass, and, well, can you blame them, these two guys come in, terrify the owner and bingo, another lost stop. Not that we had a lot of work down there anyway, but we looked at it like it was a growing thing, we would grow along with the community.

The Pricks with the Big Green Trucks were down to two lousy routes remaining, both only running into town three days a week. The big, real big, executives at the Home Office (those pencils pushing assholes--he thought) had said on more than one occasion, hey straighten that crap out or we don’t need a Regional Sales Manager for a two bit operation we got there now.

His green company car, a small little two door something, cruised along a side street, the radio on, listening to some talk radio shit, not really paying attention, these cheap bastards don’t even put FM radio in the car, forget altogether the satellite radio thing.

“Hey!” There they were, the two guys, and shit, ain’t that our last stop on this block? The Regional Sales Manager from the Pricks With The Big Green Trucks pulled his car to the curb, shut it down and exited. He hit the sidewalk at a pretty fast clip, and reached the two, ahem, salesmen, thinking to himself, no company shirt?

“Hey fellas.”

Nick and Natch stop, Nick turning around, eyeing the guy. Fellas?

Natch spun around, thinking, fellas?, what the fuck is fellas?

“You need something, Mac?” Nick, looka’ this guy, and holy shit, he’s got one of them douche bag shirts on, another sales puke from the pricks with the green fuckin trucks.

“What the fuck you want, get outta’ here, we toosed the other two assholes and now we gotta’ fuckin toss you?” Natch rapidly approached the guy. The guy, not exactly sure of himself, took a step back.

“You people have been-”

“Shut up.” Nick poked him in the chest.

“Hey, no rough stuff.” These guys might be insane.

“Didn’t he just tell you to shut the fuck up?” Natch poked him in the chest.

“Can we have a conversation?” Maybe I should run like hell, that one, the short one, looks dangerously crazy.

“No, fuck you, no conversation, get the fuck outta’ here before we gotta’ toss your fat ass in the fuckin’ river.” Nick poked him, again, thinking, looka’ this fat fuck, got a fuckin’ belly roll the size of a beach ball.

Natch placed his arm on the guy’s shoulder, curling it around his neck.

“Looka, lets be reasonable, my friend here is gonna choke the shit outta’ you, you don’t hit the fuckin’ road.

It did, at that moment, occur to the Regional Sales Manger for The Pricks With The Big Green Trucks, that he might have made a major mistake. He also realized, with his great horror, that he really, really had to pee.

“Look, fellas-”

“Again with the fellas shit? Hey, we ain’t fellas, not to you and not to anybody you fuckin ever met in your whole fuckin life.”

The guy began to feel a slight leakage from his very turtle like penis. Holy crap he thought, if I pee my pants, Jesus, I don’t wanna’ be here when that happens.

“Dick head, my friend here wants you to do something.” Natch squeezed the guy a bit, his arm around his neck. The guy, unaccustomed to conversations which were conducted in this fashion, was all ears.

“You got a phone shit head?” Nick smiled at Natch.

Natch backed up, walking the guy backwards and together they all entered Vito’s Pizza Parlor, backwards.

“Yes, I have a phone.” The guy was now beyond the point of peeing his pants, he was at the point where his blood pressure had reached a pretty high spike, as a slow leak or urine ran down his pants leg.

“Call your office, call your boss, the big fuckin boss.”

“I don’t know-”

“You think this is some fuckin’ potsy game dick head? Call the office, you tell them you wanna” speak to the biggest big boss.”

“He’s in Phoenix, Arizona.”

“They got fuckin’ phones in Phoenix Arizona asshole? Call him before my friend here snaps your fuckin’ turkey neck you fat bastard. And when you do, you tell that big ass boss, you tell him, hustling trash for scum bags like you ain’t your deal no more, you fuckin’ quit. Can you do that? Can you do it before my friend rips your fuckin’ lungs out?”

“Hey, you pissed your pants, Jesus what a douche bag!” Natch smiled.

The Regional Sales Manager For the Pricks With The Big Green Trucks made the call, said all the things we was told to say, and with tears in his eyes, quit, shut his phone down and slumped into a chair in Vito’s Pizza Parlor.

“Vito, give this guy a slice and a fuckin’ Diet Coke.”

“Gimme’ your wallet asshole.” Nick reached into the guy’s pants and removed his billfold.

Nick pulled out the guys drivers license, his social security card and his company paid credit card. Nick stuffed the wallet with sixty bucks of his own, and gave it back to the guy.

“So we unnerstand each other. I got your stuff, all I ever need to run you down and choke the shit out of you, you ever show up around here again.” Nick smiled as Vito passed, placing the slice and Diet Coke in front of the ex Regional Sales Manager from The Pricks With The Big Green Trucks.

“You got a car around here?”


“Where fuck face.”

“Up the block, the little one, the green compact car.”

“Don’t be lookin for it. Take the money I just gave you and get yourself a fuckin’ cab, you got it?” Nick smiled, Natch smiled, Vito was smiling as well.

“Can I eat this slice before I leave?”

“Yeah, don’t waste fuckin food, then wash yourself up, you smell like shit and get the fuck outta’ town.”

Which the ex Regional Sales Manager from The Pricks With The Big Green Trucks did, very happy to be leaving town, smelly, but very much alive.

Nick and Natch stole the green little car, Natch wondering who the fuck gives people cars like this shitbox to drive?

After a while they arrived at a certain place, a place they were doing some business with, and this place could take a car apart and sell off the parts very nicely, no fuckin‘ questions asked. Nick and Natch got a few bucks from the guy, who said, where the fuck you get this piece of shit, smiled and handed them the money.

Chapter Eight

Not so Funny

The day they wacked Freddy Nocoscia, his brother Benny, Benny “The Tic,” naturally because of his twitch, his eyes winking, was under a truck getting ready to change the oil. He heard the chitter chatter on the radio, then he didn’t hear anything. Benny, Benny “The tic,” one eye winking like a pop up toaster, walked over to the radio in dispatch.

His idiot cousin, Patsy sat by the radio, his eyes glazed over, thinking, hmm, I should be in the fuckin’ Bermuda right now.

“Patsy, what’s goin’ on with the truck and the cops over there?” Looka this jerk off, he don’t know what the fuck I’m talkin’ about.” Benny, the tic ticking right now, snatched the radio off the desk.

“Base to Freddy, come in Freddy.” Silence. A tic, a tic.

“Come back Freddy, where you at?” Silence. A tic, a tic..

Benny sorta’ turned around, looking outside as two cars rolled up to the front gate, smashed through the gate and started to head for the office. Benny might be a tic, but he was no dummy.

“Fuck.” Benny threw the radio mike to the desk, and took off, sprinting out the back door, just as three guys entered the front door. These three guys, just busy eliminating Freddy, figured, oh what the fuck, lets while we’re at it, plant a few slugs into Benny.

They shot the idiot cousin, Patsy, no-one else was around, and they figured, well, Benny might be a tic but he ain’t no fuckin’ dummy.

Benny took off, made it to the bus depot in the city, got himself a ticket on the first bus anywhere, anywhere being Miami, Florida and away he went. Maybe I’ll catch a tan down there, I hear they got great tanning spots what with the beaches and shit like that, he thought as the bus pulled out of the depot.

Some guy sat in the seat behind him had one of them transistor radios, which for a while annoyed Benny and he was thinking as the bus rolled down the highway, maybe I turn around and choke this guy. Shortly, however, the news came on and Benny, The Tic, ticking, heard about the big mob rub out in the garbage business.

Benny decided I ain’t gonna’ choke that guy, he done me a favour, playing that fuckin’ radio. Benny sitting on the bus, thinking about Freddy, thinking about the business that just went up in smoke, and thinking about, well, thinking about getting’ himself set up down in this Miami place, start a trash thing, and one day, when things settle down, I’ll be back fellas, and we’ll see what we’ll see.

By the time that happened, and it did happen nicely for Benny, The Tic, growing up a pretty nice garbage hauling thing in and around Miami. Also, by the time that happened, Joseph was starting to run things up north. It occurred to Benny, The Tic, that the old man might be getting ready to ride himself to the big landfill, and thinking that way made Benny, The Tic, decide, well the old bastard might need a shove into that landfill.

Benny had made quite a few interesting friends down in the Sunshine State, many of which were persona non grata in many other places, especially in the northern climes. He had a very favourite restaurant he went to virtually every day, except, Heaven forbid, Sunday, and he usually ate a nice lunch, pasta mostly and sat with some of his very interesting friends, those personas non gratis, mostly from the northern climes.

On this particular day, over a tasty bowl of Linguini with white clam sauce, he was visiting with one of those interesting fellas, a guy named Patsy Shoes, being he always wore shoes which were brightly spit shined, neither rain, hurricane or whatever stopping the bright shine. Patsy was bent over his bowl of Ziti with Garlic and Oil, one of his all time favourites, and Christ, they can’t make it down here like they do up there.

Patsy was down here since up there had become very hot indeed, not weather hot, but hot in that several disreputable guys form a big city in the Midwest had decided that Patsy Shoes needed new shoes, and those shoes should be made of cement. Back in the day, back in the Midwest, Patsy was known far and wide as a guy fairly handy with a gun or a piano wire, and had created a nice living for himself, with the gun or the piano wire.

One day Patsy had his shoes off, as a matter of fact, had all his clothes off and was showing his erect member to a certain girl, this girl being the ever lovin’ doll face of a fairly important guy in the trash business in the Midwest. Word of this insult got around, how nobody was pretty sure, but it caused Patsy to think, well, the winters up here ain’t so good for my shoes, what with the snow and sleet, and perhaps guys tossin’ slugs into me, me drippin’ blood on my shoes, maybe I should contemplate a move to sunnier spots. He did all this thinking the very next day, and that night was riding a bus, two suitcases packed, heading for Miami.

It wasn’t long before Patsy Shoes met up with Benny, The Tic, as Benny, The Tic, from time to time had the need for a guy with Patsy’s’ special talents, although Patsy shortly became known as the guy who liked to throw these undesirables through windows in high rise apartments. Patsy Shoes enjoyed standing at the broken window and watching the prick glide down to earth, splashing across the pavement, the body collected with a blotter, which Patsy Shoes, a man of some letters, found incredibly satisfying.

Benny, The Tic, inquired how things were shaping up with Patsy Shoes, and Patsy Shoes remarked, well, things have slowed down somewhat, it seems a man of my special skills is in low demand right now, what with peace all around and about with the various organizations which mostly inquired about my services. I can still tune a guy up for you, Benny (The Tic, never spoken to his face), should the need arise, as I have retained my piano wires, and keep them well rosined. This line of conversation struck Benny, The Tic, as something he might pursue, and the more he thought about it, the more it seemed to him well, this Patsy Shoes fella’ might be the right guy to go and shove The Old Man into a much deserved grave.

As they finished their meals, the deal was made and Patsy Shoes left the next day heading towards a little, ahem, meeting with The Old Man.

“Call me when it’s done, here’s my special phone number.”

Huge mistake, Benny, The Tic.

Chapter Nine

I’M JUST A PATSY’ … Manic Street Preachers
‘I FALL TO PIECES’ … Patsy Cline

Patsy Shoes arrived in the Big City, thinking, this big city is bigger than my own big city, a guy could make a fortune over there tossing shit heads through windows. He was pretty much correct, but the job, for the most part, of straightening out large beefs had already been nicely taken by two young fellas, Nick and Natch, and they had no general idea of an early retirement. Had it gotten that far, Patsy Shoes would have done his very best to introduce them to his piano wires or to a very high building.

Patsy Shores learned from Benny, The Tic, that The Old Man lived in some secluded spot, what with a gate and stuff, hard to get into to, backing up to the water as it did. The spot was, of course, Silver Shores, and by this time the Old Man had semi-retired, Mom was gone, and he was spending his time in the house, Joseph visiting on a regular basis.

Patsy Shoes had an uncle, Jimmy The Sailor, in that Jimmy The Sailor was at one time in the United States Navy, doing very well, until he threw his commanding officer off a very large boat. Luckily for Jimmy the Sailor the commanding office was a fairly adequate swimmer, and was rapidly noticed by another officer type guy and rescued. Jimmy The Sailor explained that the commanding officer was a wrong guy and not very nice and deserved being tossed overboard. The United State Navy had several disagreements with Jimmy The Sailor’s logic and after a short while tossed him into the brig.

Often times, after Jimmy the Sailor was “graduated” from both the brig and the United States Navy, he would take Patsy (no shoes yet) for boat rides, Jimmy The Sailor, doing fairly well in the trash business, owning a pretty nifty boat. Patsy (no shoes yet) was impressed with how well Jimmy The Sailor handled the boat and especially loved the idea that Jimmy the Sailor would often let Patsy (no shoes yet) drive the boat. This all changed after Jimmy The Sailor got himself and his boat exploded after a pretty serious beef with a fairly important guy in the trash business.

So it didn’t take much for Patsy Shoes to figure, well if they got a gate at the entrance to this pretty serious place they got, but it backs up to the water, well, I’ll just get myself a boat, thanks to you Uncle Jimmy The Sailor, may he rest in peace, for teaching me the finer points of driving a boat around.

After an excellent lunch, Pasta Primavera, a really classy Chianti, Patsy Shoes rented a small twenty foot boat, outboard motor, and set sail for the inlet which would then lead him up the coast a bit to the backside of Silver Shores. It didn’t take Patsy Shoes long to figure out which of the stately mansions belonged to the Old Man, since Benny, The Tic, had told him what to look for, thanks Benny, The tic, he thought.

Pasty Shoes waited a while, watching the sun set, the day growing dim, thinking, hey, it’s pretty nice in this spot, the sun goes down you get to see it.

What Patsy didn’t see was Nick and Natch parked in front of the Old Man’s house, waiting to take Joseph to a fairly large sit down with some fairly large guys from the West Coast. These fairly large guys from the West Coast came highly recommended to all, known far and wide a straight shooters, serious men who always made money for their partners, which in this case could be Joseph and his partners , all fairly large players in the trash business on the East Coast.

Joseph sat with the Old Man, a glass of strong Borolo between them, Joseph abstaining, knowing the evening might contain large quantities of wine, heavy food, and he needed to keep his head together.

“I did my homework, these fellas are what they say.”

“You believe this deal is good for the family, all the families?”

“Yes. We can make a lot of money, they can move a -. Did you hear that?”

Joseph stood.

Natch turned the corner, moving to the side of the mansion, looking at the water and stopped in his tracks.

“What the fuck?”

Patsy Shoes, piano wires jangling at his side, patting his pistol inside he jacket, moved slowly from the water to the house.

Natch picked up his phone, speed dialing. “Get inside, we got company and they ain’t bringing coffee and fuckin’ cake“.

Nick jumped out of the car, sprinted to the front door, kicked it in, this being the noise Joseph heard, and as he turned, pulling his Beretta, Nick entered the room. “We gotta’ move!”

Joseph grabbed the Old Man and together all three hustled out of the house and jumped into Nick’s car, Joseph behind the wheel, the Old Man in the back. “Get off the island, I’ll call when it’s over.”

The car sped away as Nick ran inside the house.

Natch watched as Patsy shoes moved slowly to the sliding glass doors at the rear of the house, doors with a commanding view of the ocean.

“Hello asshole.” Natch sped up behind Patsy Shoes, pressing his forty-five to the side of Patsy’s well surprised head.

“Gimme them fuckin’ wires, and lets see what you’re packin’.”

Patsy shoes, had this thought, maybe I should start blasting away, maybe I can kill this, what kid?, before he knows what the fuck. I might have been a good idea until Nick slid open the sliding glass door and stepped outside.

“Who the fuck are you?”


“Shut up.” Natch slammed Patsy Shoes in the head with the butt of his pistol, little lights twinkling inside Patsy Shoe’s head. Patsy Shoes looked down, he was a bit dizzy and was aghast to see his shoes muddy and salt water stained, and it then occurred to him that well, ain’t this some shit.

Nick removed the piano wires, thinking, holy fuck, he could choke the shit outta’ anybody with these fuckin’ wires, what else he got? He found the pistol, took that away, and what commenced was a short, one way question and answer period as both Nick and Natch tried their very best to get to the bottom of this fuckin’ mess.

Natch found the phone with the special phone number. Patsy Shoes had been a bit stupid by placing the phone number in his contact list under the heading “special number, Tic”

They tied Patsy Shoes up and dragged him around front.

They called Joseph, who with the Old Man, returned.

The Old Man had heard stories about Patsy Shoes, and lately about Patsy Shoes tossing guys out windows of very tall buildings.

Joseph grabbed the phone, dialed the “special number, Tic,” and listened to Benny, The tic, say hello, is the job done, is it finished? Joseph smiled and hung up.

Two hours later, a very tied up Patsy Shoes was dragged into an elevator of a very tall building.

Shortly thereafter he made a very large impression on the sidewalk of the Big City.

Chapter Ten


Natch was driving, the highway not too crowded, it was past rush hour in the morning and he was thinking, fuck, who drives this fuckin’ road in rush hour, they gotta’ be fuckin’ outta’ their minds. He reached for the radio, but his hand was grabbed by Nick.

“No fuckin’ radio, that shit you listen too gives me fuckin’ migraines.”

“It ain’t shit, it’s fuckin poetry. Urban poetry, you know, not like they used to have in the old days, when those faggy folk singers crooned about peace and whatnot. This is real shit.”

“Real, shit, right.” He looked up, saw the exit sign for the airport. “Hey, we gotta’ get off, two miles is the fuckin’ airport.”

“Yeah, then I gotta’ ditch this car, boostin’ it from the doctors office was a good fuckin idea, what with people waiting for five fuckin” hours to see the damn doctor, sick assholes lined up for miles in the waitin’ room.

“We might be back before the dip shit knows his car is gone.”

“Ain’t this some shit, we goin’ to fuckin’ Miami. I hear they got babes up the ying yang down there, you gotta’ be a fuckin retard you don’t get miles of pussy.”

“We got a little business to attend to first. Imagine that, Benny, The Tic, tryin’ his very best to clip the Old Man, sending that elevator freak Patsy Shoes up here to do it.”

“Well, Patsy Shoes ain’t exactly winnin’ no gold fuckin’ medals, his dive offa’ that roof was maybe a five outta’ ten, he’s waving his arms like a fuckin’ heliocopter“.

“There’s the exit.”

They pulled off the highway, entered the airport, found long term parking, Natch saying, it’s long fuckin’ term all right. Nick wiped the car down, can’t be too careful, what with this D&A shit all over the place, he thought, smiling at Natch who was watching a pretty snappy stewardess wiggle her cute ass, dragging one a them rolling suitcases towards the terminal.

“Man, I could pop that right now.”

“Wait till we get on the fuckin’ plane.”

“Yeah, I read someplace about this club they got, you get fucked in the bathroom of a airplane, supposed to be a big fuckin’ deal. I think when you get done, they give you some kinda’ medal or shit like that….them wings maybe”

Dragging their two suitcases, they entered the airport terminal. Looking around they spotted the airline they wanted, and whattaya’ know, there’s that cute ass wigglin’ stewardess. Natch pokes Nick.

“Looka that, what an ass.”

Loraine had worked for the airline about two years, always the same, at the check in counter, and she had thought she had seen everything. Loraine was cute, twenty six years old, dark, dark hair and dark, some would say, black, eyes, a big smile what with that red lipstick which drove Natch fuckin’ crazy.

She looked up and saw the two guys heading her way, both dressed in killer pleated slacks, open at the neck shirts, polished shoes and each now wearing a crucifix on a gold chain around their necks.

“What, did we merge with MAFIA AIRLINES over night?”

Large smiles from both as they stopped in front of Loraine’s counter.

“Can I help you?”

“You sure can, honey, wanna’ go somewhere?”

“Hell is too crowed right now. Were you, ahem, gentlemen, flying with us today?” Please, just say you’re lost, looking for the men’s room.

“Yeah, lady, we headin’ for Miami. You got a fuckin flight goin’ there in a while.”

A fuckin flight, she thought, a fuckin’ flight? “Yes, flight 444, departing in two hours. You have tickets?” Please say no.

“Yeah, you wanna join us down there, I hear they got beaches and shit.” Natch gave her the big grin, and flexed his right arm, the muscles rippling in his shirt sleeve, thinking, she don’t like lookin at that she gotta’ be one a them Lesbos.

Maybe, she thought, they are with the circus.


Natch and Nick tossed their suitcases onto the scale, Loraine typed in the stuff she needed to type in, hoping she would finish as quickly as possible, that one guy looks dangerous. Natch was tapping his fingers on the counter, until Nick elbowed him.

Boarding passes were printed, the bags were tagged and with large smiles, they waved goodbye to Loraine, and headed for the gate and security.

“I think she wanted me.” Natch poked Nick in the ribs.

“No doubt.”

The plane was about half full. Most folks who had been unlucky to sit near Nick and Natch were able to change seats the minute the f-bombs began.

Megan Douglas and Jennifer Logan had been stewardesses for this airline for about ten years and had, they thought, seen everything. From people terrified of flying who managed to terrify the entire plane load, to people drunk out of their minds who wanted to Cha-Cha their way across America. They were somewhat surprised, and very much wrong as Nick and Natch entered the plane and plunked themselves down in First Class.

“Nice fuckin’ seats.”

“Yeah, looka, they got a fuckin’ TV screen built right into the fuckin’ seat.” Natch busied himself pushing the buttons on the TV, not realizing nothing was going to happen until the plane took off. “Fuckin’ thing don’t work.”

Megan approached the two men, her eyes full of the slicked down hair, the open neck shirts, thinking, Oh Christ, hoodlums.

“Excuse me, sirs, but this is first class.”

“And we are a couple of first class fuckin guys. How ya doin’ honey?” Nick smiled at Megan thinking, hey, she’s hot. Megan smiled, thinking, these guys must be fugitives from a B Movie someplace.

“Er, not for nothing’, but this fuckin’ TV don’t work.” Natch thinking, maybe they gotta’ change our seats. Megan thinking, I gotta’ get off this flight.

“Can I see your tickets, ahem, Gentlemen?” Please, please be for USA AIR next door.

“Yeah, sure honey.” Nick reaches into his pocket and pulls out the folded, wrinkled ticket, handing it to Megan, who takes it daintily with two fingers. Shit, she thought, this is the right flight. But, wait, these are not first class tickets. There is a God.

“I’m sorry, sirs, but your seats are towards the rear of the plane, not up here.” Maybe next to the emergency door, which maybe might pop open over North Carolina.

“What? What the hell, we can’t sit here, you’re fuckin’ kiddin’, right, this a joke or something?” Nick smiled up at Megan just as dark haired Jennifer approached.

“Is there a problem?” Look at these two guys, holy crap, is it 1947 all over again?

“No problem, cutie, this honey over here, she says we’re in the wrong fuckin’ seats”

People getting on and off were beginning to pile up behind the blocked first class aisle. A lot of “ahems,” and “excuse me’s” were bandied about.

“Yes, sirs, you are. This is the first class cabin, you have to purchase these tickets, they cost more, a lot more.” Maybe they got no money and maybe they’ll slither down to the rear of the plane.

“Shit honey, why didn’t ya fuckin’ say so?” Nick reaches for his wallet and begins peeling off one hundred dollar bills, one after another, a big smile, knowing, shit, this honey ain’t never seen nothing like this, I bet I pop her once we got to fuckin’ Miami, or maybe I hose her in the bathroom.

“Sir, please, we cannot handle the transaction in this manner.” Please, let all that be counterfeit, then we can call the cops.

“What, you want a fuckin credit card, well, why didn’t ya say so, babe?” Nick pokes Natch in the ribs. “Give this here lady one of our credit cards.”

“Here ya go, doll face, just run the tab for us, and hey, what do we gotta’ do to get a drink around here?”

The stolen credit card was processed, the two travellers upgraded to first class and more or less, the flight was more or less uneventful.

Natch tried his very best to get Megan to join him in the bathroom, had to stop when the pilot threatened to have him arrested when they landed in Miami, Natch taking great umbrage at this.

“So, why they got this club about fuckin’ in the bathroom if you can’t fuck in the bathroom?”

Nick actually spent some time chatting it up with Jennifer, who was somewhat inquisitive of these two guys, and thinking, he does have a pretty nice body, and maybe my whole outlook in men is wrong. She shook her head, what, are you crazy?

Click here to read part one of this three-part series.

Click here to read part three of this three-part series.

Joe Vitulli has two books, "Silver Shores (Arizona, 1867)" and "The Havens Core Horror (Lighthouse)," available on Kindle. "As you might see," Vitulli says, "both my books are the Horror category. I'm not sure if that's the genre or my writing skill." Vitulli lives on the East Coast, of the USA, very near the water, which he thinks is a great inspiration for his writing, "as both my novels have a lot to do with seaside communities. "I have a great family," he says, "that indulge me in my writing. I'm currently hard at work on a third novel. on which 'F***king Salesmen' is based. My new book has special meaning for me, as it stirs memories of my youth..though not exactly!"

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