Louis Del Rossi. Fats. Del Rossi. Louis. Asshole? Sometimes. When the heat within needed an exit, his escape valve tended to be aggressive language and over posturing. To start. Sometimes, he got lost in it. In the smoke. The thoughts that arose more and more in the heat of the moment. The inner fire, the emotional crock pot. His emotions were the kindling to his skewed convictions, which in turn became searing coal to the sentiments. It was a dance. A callus producing foxtrot. On his soul and mind. And often times as a result, his body.

And when the dance was in full swing, he was an asshole. Abrupt. Short sighted. Stuck in a thought loop of a time continually losing it's truth. The origin long forgotten. The meaning? Who knew. Who cared. It was once a principle. And just yesterday a knee jerk reaction. It was never what it was ought to be. But damn did he feel justified. And later, shame. Sometimes guilt. The voices never let in. They egged him on, then kicked his ass over and over again long after. He was never alone though. Even as an asshole, he always had company.

Today was no different. Louis tried to escape himself. His self-loathing. He had most nights sorted, but the time between jobs and the planning of jobs was the worst. It left him idle. When his mind was engaged he was able to prolong his self-destructive tendencies. It was mostly why he drove. Why he accepted jobs from total strangers. His rigid yet systematic process kept the evils at bay. That and the job itself. The eventual thrill of the chase. And the risk of it all coming apart.

Seven days. Seven trips a day. The figuring out of the best possible route. The quickest route. The short cuts. The hideaways. The potential hazards. The continual monitoring of the environment for signs to walk away. Beyond those times though, he was one step away from a meltdown. A wrong interpretation away from letting his demons out to play. And for all the shit he got into for his lack of social mastery, his angry outbursts, it was what also helped him to step into the life of a gangster.

The morning started like any other. In the early afternoon. Scouting routes for a job in Chicago had the past week a blur. When he was in Fats mode, he was all in. No mind apart. No emotional under or overtone. Just a one pointed focus on the planning for the job ahead. That was done. And the next few days before it kicked off were less involved. Down time. But instead of it being a time of peace, it was a time of anxiety and restlessness. The barbs helped. But they didn't completely stop the voices. Not at brunch.

'He's looking at you'. And he was. 'He's judging you'. And maybe he was. 'He thinks you're good for nothin'. And maybe he did. If Louis had something else to sink himself into, other than fuck all, maybe he could let it go. But he was looking. Staring even. And eventually, something had to give. And bit by bit he was losing his cool. The heat was rising. The smoke gaining in thickness. Anger ensued. Thoughts, poking at him like daggers. Something was about to give.

"The fuck you lookin' at?"

That's what he should've said. Not polite in the least. But better than leaving the man with a broken jaw. After his fist connected and the stranger dropped on the sidewalk, Louis figured he'd broken that or his wrist. As onlookers began to gather, Fats' right worn boot continued what his hand started. And probably what his voice should've been doing instead. But it was what it was. One man beating the shit out of another on the common streets.

Cesare had been enjoying a nice cup of coffee at the café near the park, sitting in the outdoor area with a newspaper, when he noticed a crowd of people gathering around a couple men apparently in some sort of disagreement. Curious, Cesare folded his paper and brought the coffee to his lips as he tried to will the crowd apart so he could see some of the action. Finally a gentleman stepped to the side and he caught a glimpse of the scuffle behind.

"Shit!" Cesare spilled some of his drink down the front of his shirt as he recognized Louis. He hurriedly placed the cup on the table and brushed at his shirt with a napkin as he stood and tried to get a better view. What was the new kid doing? He couldn't see the other fighter, which no doubt boded well for his man, but the crowd of innocent spectators was getting a bit agitated. He saw several women run down the sidewalk past him. Following them with his eyes, he realized they were sprinting towards a beat officer who'd just rounded the corner.

His eyes flashed back to the fight. He couldn't afford his new kid getting pinched over a street brawl. As the cop was hearing the story from the women who spoke all at once, Cesare put a thumb and forefinger in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle then shouted,

"COP, FATS!"

The punch hadn't done damage to his hand. But he was so lost in his rage that he wouldn't have noticed it anyway. Which is why he also didn't get the warning. His boot kept stomping into the man's torso. With each one, Louis got more gusto for the next. And the next. And the next. Until a beat officer burst through the crowd and grabbed Fats by the shoulder.

In a continued frenzy, Del Rossi turned and socked the peace keeper right in the mouth. Now, his hand was broken. And he felt it. An immediate shot of pain from his shattered 5th metacarpal snapped him out of his fury. That's when he also realized what he had been doing. As he shook his right hand instinctively, he surveyed the scene. It was as if the people had all of a sudden just appeared.

Then he saw the officer being helped up off the ground by some civilians. The grimace on Fats' face didn't last long. His mug didn't stick around for anyone to notice the look of fear. Off he shuffled, finally passing by and looking at Cesare as he gained some momentum. His movements were less than poetic.

Mild cerebal palsy had him walking with a slight limp. If he played his cards right, he could hide it in most interactions. And he would always try leading with his best hand; a non limping right leg. But with a quickened pace, it was hard not to notice Louis prancing through the streets. He held onto an awkward smile as he nurtured his injured hand with the other and passed the café near the park.

Cesare jumped the railing of the café and walked up behind Louis. He didn't know what the man had done, but to get a beating like that, it must have been egregious. He stepped up and matched Louis' pace for a moment and watched him rub his hand as the skin around his knuckle turned a discolored shade of purple. He looked behind them to see the officer staggering to his feet with the aid of the crowd and beginning his trot in their direction.

"Here."

Cesare directed with a tug on Louis' arm. They ducked down a side alley near the café. Cesare took the lead and eventually stopped in front of his car. He never liked parking on the street. Ironically he thought there were too many criminals, although none of them would dare touch his car, he didn't want temptation like that sitting on the road in Chicago. The car was a 1933 Chrysler CL Imperial Convertible Roadster, and one of Cesare's favorites.

The voice of the officer and the sound of his whistle grew closer, as Cesare spun around and looked again at Louis' hand,

"Can you drive?"

Things became fuzzy. The tooting of the officer's whistle faded. His jaw dropped an inch, agape with awe. The pain in his hand subsided. What hand. What pain. He could see nothing but the beauty before him. He stood before the white metalic mare in wonderment.

"The Supreme.." Louis began, unintentionally ignoring Cesare's question. His heart strings were being played, by a car he hadn't yet the chance to drive, but deeply admired. "..Imperial eight. One-thirty-five horses. Holy sh..-"

His hand. The pain. And the officer's whistle. They came flooding back into awareness. He gritted his ego between his teeth as the infatuation disappeared. And as he snapped out of his daze, Louis quickly realized they should do the same. Get the fuck out of there.

As Fats quickly approached the driver side door, he played off his injury as if it were nothing. Pride. If he knew how to do one thing in this world, it was handle a vehicle. And he wasn't going to let this heart pumping chance slip away..

"Can I drive?"

Louis slid himself over the door and into the driver seat. He reached his good hand in the air and flicked an upward nod at Cesare, calling for the keys..

"We'll just have to find out."

Cesare rummaged through his pocket until he finally snagged the keys to the car and tossed them to Louis before jumping over the door and landing in the passenger seat. The engine turned over with a roar as his associate gave it gas. Cesare had never seen someone so taken with a vehicle before. Good thing too, since the disturbance from the café and the police officer's whistle were now being matched with whining sirens creeping closer down the city avenues.

"Shit..." Cesare breathed as he looked over his shoulder to see the officer rounding the corner.

"Now's not the time to tease her, Louis! Throw 'er in gear and let's get the Hell out of here!"

Louis teasing her? She had him by the balls as soon as he saw her. Looking all elegant. All innocent. Robed in white with wheels that emphasized her out of your league status. She was the type Louis never dared to touch. Not just because of who she usually belonged to, but because of the lies. She told a story of comfort and upperclass. But really, she was just like all the rest. A stick shift away from cussing and a bad decision. At least with other cars you knew how they'd handle from first sight. Like Henry's ladies. This one, she was a devil in disguise. And Louis was reluctant to see that side of her. 

But sometimes taking a risk and hoping for the best was the best option. And what's the worst that could happen? Louis drifted the roadster around a corner then quickly shifted up a gear and planted his foot down. Both hands gripped the wheel, hard. He could see his chance off in the near distance. A cross intersection. His broken right hand non existant. The car quickly picked up speed. Up another gear. It shot through the street with fury, as if possessed by the soul of a hell hound that had just escaped from the fiery pits and had an eternity of pent up torture as fuel.

The cross section came upon them so quick that only after they were seconds away was it obvious. A red light. Their lane was clear. But the cross section that ran across the street they were on wasn't. They instead had the green light. Louis was already committed. The car had him by the gonads, and it wasn't about to let go. His sense of adventure wouldn't allow it. And if he had to bite the dust, this would be his dream. Riding the best of them, with the best of them. So Fats' soul boner got the best of him. Up another gear and foot planted, hard. They hit the intersection and a slight bump at a blistering speed. Then, silence.

Cesare wanted to yell but the velocity of the vehicle took them into the intersection before a sound came out of his mouth. The jarring bump before the crossing sent them momentarily airborne and Cesare lifted out of his seat as he looked over at Louis. Louis was the picture of serene joy as his hands grasped the wheel of the car in mid-air.

They landed in the middle of the intersection and clipped a coupe passing in front of them before Louis brought them back under control and squealed past the crossing as the smoke from several tires flew into the air behind them. The police sirens began to drift farther and farther behind them as Louis slid around the next corner.

Cesare was dumbfounded. The kid hadn't made it up. He was good. Damn good.

As they finally pulled into the HQ of the Poets, Cesare stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk, his legs slightly weak. Louis slowly went for the keys in the ignition, but Cesare held up a hand.

"No. No way. Keep the damn car." He insisted, "She definitely belongs to you..." he laughed heartily as he watched Louis' face.