mobsters who write

“In the end the guys hand gets chopped off.”


“What do you mean, “so?” The guy doesn’t have a hand anymore.”

“Sure it’s sad, but it’s not tragic or anything.”

“Well, then how do you propose I end the story, Shakespeare?”

“End it the same-just add another layer to it. Wow, surprised you even know who Shakespeare is.”

“You think I’m stupid or something? Frank, what the hell are you talking about, layers?”

“I’m talking about making the guy a carpenter or something. Like his whole identity is based off of how well he uses his hands. And without his hands he doesn’t know who he is anymore.”

“That will take forever to factor in… think of all the rewriting I would have to do, how ’bout he loses his wedding ring when he loses the hand, that adds a layer, no?”

“Jesus Pauly that’s material shit. You want to write a good story or a just alright one?”

“Yeah, yeah a good one.”

“Well then, you gotta put some effort into it. The same way you put effort into wacking people who disrespect The Boss.”

“Louie’s supposed to be here soon, yeah?”

“Not until…shit, he’ll be here any minute-put your damn sissy journal away and pretend we’re playing poker.”

“You get the cigars!”

“Is there lasagna anywhere, or a gun or something?”

“You’ve been working here your whole life you know the lasagna’s in the fridge and the guns are in Tony’s room.”

“I’m just nervous is all, alright?”

“Okay, would it be the worst thing if everyone besides me knew you liked something other than lasagna and poker?”






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