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Clemenza's Scrapbook


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  • 10 months later...

Well, I had another want to write about the Mafia. Here goes; I'm pretty rusty. ;)

                                    New York City, 1948

  Joey Lazzaro cocked the snub-nosed .38 and lifted it up to his head. He was in a dark alley in Hell's Kitchen; the police would take their time to get there. It wasn't the best of neighbourhoods, sadly. As he held the gun at his head, he though over why he had come to this decision. The roaing twenties with the millions coming in from illegal liquor were over, so were the wild forties with the war and the black market in rationed goods. He was broke, and worse, in debt $10,000 to a loan shark of the Erminio family; a big thug named Romano Guglielmo. With one final smile from knowing the fact that Romano would never get his ten grand back, Joey pulled the trigger.

Pehhh! went the gun. Joey swayed for a second, then dropped onto the wet pavement, half of his head blown off. Raindrops mixed with the blood, creating a large puddle that stretched its tendrils to both sides of the alleyway. In his hand was clutched the smoking gun.

A day later...

  Vito Lazzaro stood over his younger brothers' stiff, cold body. A white sheet covered everything from the neck down, and a white towel the gruesome side of his face, or what was left of it. Beside Vito stood his close friend, a man known only as the Papillon. He was called the Butterfly because he had no other name; an orphan since the age of 4, he had chosen the name after fluttering away from the nets of the law several times. He told no one his real name, and, in all truth, nobody wanted to know. Now he stood stony-faced beside his good friend and grieving brother Vito. After confirming that the stiff was indeed Joey and departing the morgue, Vito turned to Papillon, enraged.

"Papi, I need to find out which dasher drove him to this. Both in his and my interests. I want you, Papi, to poke around. It shouldn't be to hard, my brother was a sociable person. Capiche?"

Papillon patted him on the should reassuringly.

"I got it, Vito. We'll find out who that dasher was, and then we'll make him suffer niiice and slow."

Vito smiled sadly. "Thanks, Papi, you're a real pal. At times, I think you're the only one I can really trust. Well, we better get busy, eh?"

Papillon managed a weak smile.

"Don't talk like that, pal! You get me really down. Okay, lets go."

The two men parted ways, each walking in his own direction in New York City...

To be continued.

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"Tell...me...what...I...need...to..KNOW!" Papillon roared in the thugs' face, hoisting him up by the collar of his shirt. The thug only squealed in fright and screeched, in a heavy Russian accent,

"My boss will get you for this! I am Pavel Sergeyovich! Donch you know who I am?" Papillon shrugged, pulling the rim of his fedora lower, so that it shielded his face.

"As you wish, pal. But remember this: Utter one word, and I'll feed you to Joe Adonis' tiger, capiche?" With this, he slammed his knee into the thugs stomach, winding him. Papillon let go of the man, who fell to the ground in a heap, clutching at his stomach. Papillon sneered at the curled-up form, then went and retrieved a rusty iron bar from the ground. Jerking one dirty, greasy hand from its position of clutching the solar plexus, Papillon raised the iron bar above his head - and brought it down, hard, on 3 fingers. The thug screamed out in pain as the bones shattered from the blow. They would not be able to be fixed.

"Tell me! NOW!" Papillon demanded once again.

"Oh no! Please... Please don't kill me! Please oh please oh please oh - AAAHH!" The thug screamed in pain once again as the iron bar struck another blow onto the broken fingers, and then on the other hand.

"That's it! I'll tell you! I'll tell you! Word on the street is that Joey owed a bigshot loan shark big moola! Erminio family, his name was something-something Guglielmo! PLEASE, LET ME GO!"

"Thank you for the information, son," Papillon said, and brought down the iron bar onto the thugs' head. Several drops of a dark, warm liquid trickled onto his loafers.

"Aww, crap, these loafers were new!" Papillon groaned, and angrily struck another blow to the Russians' head. Before leaving, Papillon dumped the body and iron bar into a nearby dumpster. He wasn't afraid of cops or the law; things like this always happened. A drunken quarrel, a disagreement over how much would be paid for a shipment of heroin. Now he only had to deliver the good news to Vito.

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  • 4 weeks later...

This is the first part of a short battle piece I wrote out of boredom. It is something between Mountain War and Warlords - the setting and climate being that of Mountain War, and with me as the leader of the defenders(Warlords)

The mountain pass was the only safe way into the region of Old Latvia from Old Lithuania, and whoever controlled it controlled who would and would not received access to the hot springs several miles into Old Latvia. At this moment, Clemenza

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