NJ

NEW JERSEY, called the Garden State for a reason. It is a gifted slice of nature, stuck of mountains, farmlands, rivers, opulent Estates of the rich. It brims with flowers, manicures gardens, towering trees, horses, beautiful women and the legalized corporate criminals that support it all.

Close to NY City, a financial hub of the World, there is no shortage of Old World wealth. Actors, sports stars, Dot Com Millionaires, investment bankers, software geek geniuses, as well Old Money first families of The Industrial Revolution are prevalent.

Henry Kravitz, cousin George, Warren Buffet, Larry Ellison, and others, Wall Street touts, Henry Blodgett, Mary Pierce at one time or another thought it a comfy place to hang their multiple millions of ill gotten slag. Before jail time, Marvin Bosky, Frank Quattrone, Michael Millikan as well as another New Jersey elite wannabee, one Anthony Uruguay had, or still had palaces along her green countryside.

By definition, Anthony Uruguay is Organized Crime.

In reality, he is nothing, a minnow in a sea of sharks, the man eaters, the real organized crime being Main Street Corporate America.

Compared to the Gang Bangers on Wall Street, Merril Lynch, Morgan Stanley, J.P. Morgan, Kidder Peabody, etc, ruthless Robber Barons, Tony’s organization was like The Boy Scouts of America, penny ante stuff.

Through his ex whores counseling, he owned about fifty mil worth of Blue Chip Stocks. Also, following her brain, he owned various Burger Kings, four Mickey D’s, coupla pizza joints, as well as several legit check cashing houses.

Dim and Bobby had visited once, got the boot, bad mix for future stars in society.

Thanks to Mandal, Tony wasn’t just rich; he was fuck you filthy rich.

Done that, did that, what have you done for me lately.

Was Tony’s sacred mantra.

He wanted his seven-fifty large back from her, plus the bitch.

No one stole from Tony, left him or survived to tell about it.

Rockefeller’s, Vanderbilt’s, Carnegie, Pierpont, Tony Uruguay money, no difference. If ya had it, you were one of the gang, accepted no matter how gruesome, fat and fuck you scary you were. Like the criminals before him, Kennedy’s in Hainesport, Rocky in New Jersey, a boat load of cash could excise all past sins, creating new persona’s, making a street thug, like old Joe Kennedy, a notorious boot legger a respected member of society.

Tony had done the same thing.

Taking his hitters advice, he had bought a huge estate, filled it with treasures, rare art, antiques, Persian rugs, odd things and the most rare and beautiful of them in Tony’s mind, the gold cunt he adored and loved.

That treasure, now gone, missing, broke his gangsters heart. An unhappy mobster, he was filled with sociopathic sadness, almost uncontrollable rage. Like a lot of the filthy rich, he had a second home, preferred the lowlife of his New Jersey crib there. Mandal, odd, dramatic, troubled, stunner, loved dogs, cats, birds, horses which he would rather eat then ride.

More money than God is usually a good thing, yet, even he had blinked at how she had burned through it, his money.

Language, art, music, tutors; she had more computers than fucking Steve Jobs. He was no way sophisticated enough to understand her psychology, who could. Hawking might.

She talked about him, whoever the fuck he was, yet he adored her for those very reasons. He knew class when he saw it. Mandal loved munching popcorn, watching Kate, Audrey Hepburn movies, weeping, fucking cats curled up everywhere; he had learned to love them too.

Everything she did, excited him, fucked him up, all he could think of doing to control her was to kill her, beatings never worked, the whore loved pain.

Unlike the off spring of the rich, which surrounded him and he had worked like a pig his entire life to get what was his. Son of a long-shore-man, he never had a chance to become anything other than what he was. Rolled up his sleeves, through gut busting risk, toil, death everywhere, he had become something.

Mandal of course was the complete opposite, born beautiful, smart, spoiled, why did she fuck him in the end? Tony never did figure it all out.

She was, his reward, or penance, or curse, but she gave him a sense of class.

Mandal on his arm told the fucking world that he had arrived.

Trusting her, going against every street nerve ending he had, he had trusted her and, then what? Stacks of cash gone.

A fool and his money was the oldest fucking story in the book.

Often as he watched from the terrace her, racing on those damn horses across the country side. No Christopher Reeves for him.

At times she fell to the ground, rolling around with the dog’s that adored her, as he did. He would ease drop, she, writing at her computer, Opera everywhere, struggling through Japanese and fighting verbs, vowels in Italian. She already spoke fucking French, talking to the Mexican gardeners in Spanish; fuck, they cherished her too.

She had been unbendable, unbreakable no matter how he tried to control her. Nothing as she begged him to kill her. So he had, in one last attempt sent her on a gruesome chore, unthinkable in its monstrosity. No eye blinks, she had done it. He had, not she, had been broken. After, he had loved her even more and, then a week later, now, she was gone and he thought he knew why.

Shelving all those thoughts, the King is Grumpy because nobody stole from the King, not even the Queen. Love, or no love, not a dime, a penny, or his love, nobody thieved him. Just ask Bobby Ugo.

“HARDER.” Tony said.

As his voice said filled with controlled rage reverberated to the masseuse rubbing hot oil from the simmering wax pot deep into the folds of fat on his back, in his Penthouse crib, in New Jersey.

No one displeases The Fat Man therefore that is why, rub, rub, rub. The masseuse, like the last client she will ever have, a possibility, was wearing a hole into the fat mans back.

Opera, Strauss, filled the opulent room. Paintings, art, vases and shit he knew nothin’ about hung on the wall. The penthouse looked like it fell from the pages of House and Gardens. The bitch had great taste.

Rub, rub, rub, fear, fear, fear, in the masseuse eyes, Tony puffing away on the Cuban.

The house was spotless, perfect, to make her happy when she returned. A fucking gangster dreamer; go figure.

Off to the side, Bobby and his trained Orca, Dim Dim sat. Bobby, face twitches, eyes like they just were ladled out of cauldron of melted lead, white knuckles, on edge, Dim, counting hamburgers in his head.

Very frustrated, how did Cupids arrow pierce the Fat Mans fat heart?

Dead, very dead, was his priority for Tony’s whore now. Nothing for Christmas, no scooter, ball glove, just the cunts front teeth, more than two, laying on the polished pine floors like crapped out dice. That is what Bobby wanted.

Meat loaf arm, to the floor, Cuban attached to it, fat fold eyes closed, girl punching a sinkhole through the lard, Bobby’s eyes drift, the oil pot, looks like it could melt skin. Little note book, gold pen, make sure to get oil pot, Tony’s hitter girlfriends name written on it. Tony, groaning, opens eye, puffs on his cigar and says. “I am not happy, Bobby, not happy at all...please see that I am.”

Bobby stands, Dim Dim stiffens, muscles rippling like a tsunami ready to roll over Japan.

“Tony, she’s gone. Nobody knows nothing. The crews are spreading out...We’ll get her.”

“And Onetta Marnete...Has she been helpful?”

Lip twitches, Bobby losing it, slowly turns, look’s at Onetta Marnette sitting and looking like a used sack of flour on the chair; duct taped mouth piece, screams in her eyes. Ankles, hands, wrists, ducted taped to arms, legs of the chair. Burns, blood, cuts, both eyes black, swollen slits, look of unmitigated terror in her eyes, mascara mixing with black burns on her eyelids, three bloodied knuckle stumps on her left hand.

Bobby, disgusted, looks at her, returns to Tony. The masseuse quick peeps at Onetta, rub, rub, rub, harder, fear blasting through her frozen brain.

“Onetta is helping with the problem, Sir. I think if she knew more, she would tell us. The bitch was very cleaver.” Bobby almost spits the words out in disgust. “But what’s new about that.”

Exhales from the Cuban, smoke, words through obese lips. “Good, Bobby. How many of our men are on the streets?”

“Three teams, two soldiers each, me and Dim, make four. We’re spreading out over....”

“I want her back, alive Bobby...Understand?”

Bobby grows livid, silent. Tony lifts his head, rivets him with a stare, no questions asked glare.

“Kapeeche, Bobby?”

Tug of war, kill, bring back alive, Bobby’s temples burning, he murmurs. “Yes, Sir...I understand.” Literal discomfort shows, from his words, “And Onetta?”

Puff, puff, puff, red ember, smoke.

“Talk to her a little bit more. Then if memory fails, kill her.”

Onetta gasps, screams through the duct tape, finger, the one left tapping on the chair rail, bare feet tap dancing in her own blood. Masseuse, eye ticks, rub, rub, rub.

“HARDER.” Tony seethes, digging the red tip of his cigar into her thigh.

Whelps, fear, eye ticks at Onetta, folds of fat, thigh smoking, she digs for her life into his spine, having trouble finding it.

Bobby nods, turns black eyes to Onetta’s shrill orbs, eye contact, smiles from Bobby, boyish, prankish eyebrow waves,

Bobby never jokes and Onetta knows it. Onetta’s praying and drooling, no rosary beads; just screams in silent fear.

Bobby looks at Dim Dim, bolt cutters in Dims sausage fingers, nothing on his face, tilt to Onetta, Dim DIm stands, numb, nothing but a man at work. He moves to Onetta, V on a knuckle, next to two stumps. Onetta’s eyes, wide, ovals, gawking at the bolt cutter tip.

“SNIP.”

Onetta bellows into the duct tape. Dim looks at Bobby as Bobby tilts hishead at Onetta and leers at Dim Dim and understands now why he is the nastiest Bogey-man on earth.

Dim Dim moves in.

Onetta shrieks as another knuckle falls to the floor.