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| Long live the King | Started by: FrankCastiglia on Aug 31, '22 04:29 |
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Frank sat behind the desk in his office. A room with one window contained the most powerful man in the Bronx, New York. The walls now riddled in bullet holes. A glimmer of light shines through the window onto scattered papers on his desk. Photos of those who’ve gone before him. Photos of love he’s lost. He stares upon them fondly before tears swell in his eyes and he flips each photo over, before banging his hands against the desk. “Everyone is dead! All of my friends are dead!” Frank screamed aloud. His voice not heard as often anymore as it once was. No longer did the echoes of laughter fill his halls. Nor did it echo through the corridors of his HQ. First, he lost his true love. She was the first photo he had flipped over. Her beauty was abound and tormented him. How he wished that he had met her another time, another place. How he wished his responsibilities included only working a 9-5 instead of ensuring the safety of many men. Their well being, their success his responsibility. His love had not died, but was dead in his heart. He ached for her, he pined. His soul was that which was laid to rest. Not her. Though he mourned. The second photo he had flipped over was that of his beloved BBB. Gone too soon. Too beautiful for this world. His heart ached at the loss of his best friend. His business partner. The person who he elicited a response from his soul no other could. The joy he brought Frank in their times together were incomparable to any other moment in his life. Franks heart grew heavy, it grew dark, once his dear friend was gone. The third photo he turned over was Hobbs this photo was his hardest. Not because of the relationship. But because of the betrayal. Hobbs had once praised the man whom Frank was. Had celebrated him as the greasiest wordsmith he had ever saw. Heralded his visionary ideals and thought processes. But had recently turned to slander, deceit, supporting of those who created terrorism against the decency of the streets of the Mafia. Frank couldn’t leave his headquarters without hearing his name, slandered, perverted. They sought to bring more of him to the forefront in the name of “journalism”. His broken, heavy heart cornered him. It mocked him. It ridiculed him. It called out its mockery over him as the dim light faded into night and then again into light as dawn would arise. Occasionally his friend Gerald, or Geralt as the people knew him would check on him to ensure his well being. The general Sosabowski would send his men to report to them of the status of the infamous FrankCastiglia. His own right hand man Manolo now acting steetboss of the family because Franks mental state was fractured. His only confidant, a bottle. Which were plenty, scattered across the jail cell room he was his own Marshall for. “The bloodline of Kuklinski seeks to ruin. Hobbs burnt horses. I am the great chosen wordsmith! I was he, he is I!” Frank shouted through his alcohol fueled brooding. Slamming a bottle down to the desk surface as he finished out yet another of Canadas finest. “They wanted FrankCastiglia, then they will have Frank-Fucking-Castiglia!” He cried out as he tossed the empty bottle against the wall to his left. Frank felt encapsulated. Trapped. Broken. His beautiful face, bearded. His hands would shake as much from the consumption as from the sleep deprivation. This is what it meant to be King. This is what it meant to have every person wanting a piece while so many stabbed him in the heart as those pieces fell apart. |
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