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(Entry to the City Tale contest - Detroit is Obscenely Crazy, etc. Yeah, it's sort of loosely hung around the theme but I consider all of these things to be the crimes of Thomas Rourke, of which I found myself caught up in, so yeah.)
I stepped out of Paul Vidi's Fine Suits looking like a million dollars and smelling like $11.50. Hugo Boss cologne. Don't leave home without it. I took a moment to breathe in the slightly chilly New York City air.
You see, I'm the kind of guy who likes himself a little bit of conflict and New York provides that for me. I wake up and shout at my neighbors for fucking too loudly. I step out the door and shout at the landlord for not fixing my plumbing. I shout at my Italian mob friends because that's how we talk. I smack some kid to get his attention and tell him to buy me a newspaper and then I rough him up when he gets back for trying to steal some of the change. New York is all about conflict. Even crossing the street is a god damn war, trying to make your way through a crowd of identically dressed business men in double-breasted jackets, yelping at each other about market this and stocks that.
I'm not here to explain my love for The Big Apple though. I've got a story to tell. It's about this real mean guy. Tougher than cowhide, harder than a nail, you might've heard of him, a certain Mr. Thomas Rourke. This is a man so unpleasant and entirely evil, the highly credible genius and certified witch doctor Fossil recently came to the streets and delivered his aptly titled speech, <a href=" http://mafiareturns.com/comm/thread/63350 " title="riveting."> Rourke Family is full of Douche Bags </a> just to spite him. I've sat in Thomas Rourke's family for a long time now, forced to cooperate in his crimes against humanity. But now...I reveal everything.
Yep, this Thomas guy is a real dick. Legend has it, in his farm estate in upstate New York, he's surrounded himself with a 5 mile radius of barbed wire; layers and layers of barbed wire. That's not the worst part though. His mail man? Refused to risk his own life to reach Thomas' mail box, got fired, and has beaten his wife everyday since. Fucking Thomas Rourke.
Furthermore, I heard Thomas has his own private comedy club and since Thomas owns New York, every New York comedian has to perform there. It's not that easy though. If you don't make him laugh, you get shot. Thomas hasn't laughed in 27 years. Tough shit, ain't it? You know, being the comedian next in line, watching the sorry son of a bitch in front of you get dragged away by two goons, feeling the sweat drip off your balls, the microphone shaking in your hands. Yeah, knock-knock jokes aren't gonna cut it, sunshine, and it doesn't look like the priest, the rabbi and the minister are gonna be entering any bars today.
At least you can guarantee New Yorkers are clean though, with all that soap. ...You hadn't heard? Thomas owns the soap company. You want to know how Thomas makes maximum profit? He cuts costs. How? Think about it. What does Thomas love doing the most? That's right; shooting chumps like you. Now what is abundant on the bodies of chumps like you? Right again! Body fat! Thomas uses the body fat of every sorry sucker he's killed and makes soap. Pure, clean, ethical soap.
Would you like to know the most terrifying secret of all? You thought the soap was bad? Oh, my friend, this is much more sinister. If he knew I was telling you this, he'd shoot me. That's how secret this information is but I'm going to tell anyway.
If you know anything about his crew, he's got 8 members. If you add the amount of shots it would take him to kill you, you get 9. If you then take away the number of people he would never kill, you get 6 (Thomas is a huge Three Stooges fan). Take the number of times you've wished you were him; 16. 16 minus the number of times he's slept with your girlfriend is 6. There are 9 letters in 'Godfather'. Minus the amount of Godfathers he has killed and you get 6. That's 666. But the other night, as I was working on deciphering this mystery, I stumbled upon what is perhaps the most damning evidence of all..
If you take the letters in 'Thomas Rourke' and change the 'T' with an 'F', the 'h' with a 'u', the 'o' with a 'c', the 'm' with a 'k', the 'a' with an 'I', the 's' with an 'n', the 'r' with a 'g', the 'o' with an 's', the 'u' with an 'a', the 'r' with a 't', the 'k' with a 'a' and the 'e' with an 'n', you get "Fucking Satan".
This can only mean one thing.
Thomas Rourke is fucking Satan.
I could not determine whether this meant Thomas Rourke IS fucking Satan or whether Thomas Rourke is just fucking Satan. If you know what I mean. I'm not gonna clarify to you jabroni's any longer as I'm putting myself in immense physical danger by revealing this secret, especially if Thomas Rourke IS fucking Satan and not just fucking Satan, although one would assume either way I'm fucked, but regardless, I'm going to lock myself in a nuclear bunker until the paleness of my skin blinds me and my brain rots back to the size of a New York politician. My pastor thought I was crazy but we'll see who's crazy when Thomas comes knocking.
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