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| The Green Thread Tailor & Co. | Started by: Carlo_Gambino on Jun 24, '25 21:00 |
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The Green Thread Tailor & Co. – Eastern Market, Detroit “Fine Stitchin’ Out Front. Sharp Dealings Out Back.” The front of the shop looked like something out of a better time; clean glass panes, gold-leaf lettering that read The Green Thread Tailor & Co., and a modest green awning trimmed in silver. In the daylight, it passed as just another quiet business trying to make it in Detroit’s hard streets. Inside, the scent of pressed wool and cedar hung in the air. Suits, coats, and fine shirts lined the walls, stitched with care, measured with pride. It wasn’t flashy, it was classy. Honest. At least on the surface. Carlo Gambino stepped through the front door, the bell above giving a soft ring. Dressed sharp in his usual grey pinstripe with that green silk handkerchief tucked just so, he paused to take it all in, the place was his now. Not just the brick and mortar, but what it represented: a new branch of business, sanctioned by the family, born from permission granted by Fredo_Trapani himself. “Respect buys space. Loyalty builds empires.” Carlo had said that once to a younger guy who didn’t last long. But here? It stuck. At the counter stood Albie Rinaldi, a seasoned tailor with silver at his temples and hands that measured cloth like a surgeon. The man had stitched for judges, boxers, and the occasional priest with secrets. He gave Carlo a nod, already pressing a new suit for a judge’s driver. Flanking him were two younger assistants—Delia Rosso, sharp-tongued with a wicked sense of humor and an eye for cufflines, and Frances “Franny” Morello, quiet, graceful, and always one step ahead when it came to customers or carrying whispers from the shop floor. Both were as loyal as they were stylish, and Carlo liked that. “Morning, ladies. Albie,” Carlo greeted as he passed through the main shop. “Everything lookin’ decent?” “Pressed and prepped, boss,” Albie muttered without looking up. “Got a councilman’s man comin’ in for a hem job. Might be a good time to talk interest rates.” Carlo smirked. “My kinda customer.” He stepped into the back room, where the tailor’s chalkboard gave way to a thick steel door. Beyond that was the heart of the real business; a quiet room, dark wood walls, thick carpet, a large desk, and a small safe tucked behind a rack of forgotten coats. Carlo eased into the leather chair behind the desk, stretching slightly, letting the morning settle into his bones. Across from him stood Tony “Bends” Giaccone, one of his most trusted heavies, broad shoulders, sharp jaw, and a reputation for getting debts repaid with minimal noise and maximum efficiency. His nickname wasn’t for flexibility, it was for what he did to kneecaps when collections got behind. Carlo poured two fingers of rye from a bottle kept in a drawer and sat down with a satisfied sigh. He opened a leather-bound ledger and ran a gloved finger down the list of names. “Fredo gave the nod,” he said aloud, mostly to himself but loud enough for Tony to hear. “Didn’t have to. But he did. That’s the difference between a boss... and a kingmaker.” He let the words sit for a second, then looked toward the alley window, light spilling through the frosted glass. “They’ll come in soon. The ones who can’t afford to lose but don’t know how to walk away. Same breed, every city.” He paused, swirling the rye. “But this time? The house don’t play games.” The muffled clang of the front bell rang again; another customer, maybe for a suit, maybe for something else. Didn’t matter. The needle was threaded, the backroom was open, and Detroit had itself a new tailor... ...with a ledger sharp as a straight razor. |
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The Packard Coupe, now dressed in unremarkable brown but lined with hidden armor, rolled to a stop outside The Green Thread Tailor & Co. Domenico adjusted his fedora, eyeing the gold-leaf lettering. A place like this didn’t just sell suits—it sold legends.
The bell chimed as he stepped inside. The air smelled of wool, cedar, and ambition.
Behind the counter, Albie Rinaldi—the silver-tempered master tailor—paused mid-measure, his sharp eyes sizing up the newcomer. To his left, Delia Rosso smirked over a bolt of navy silk, her fingers drumming the shears. To his right, Franny Morello stood poised with a ledger, her gaze already noting Domenico’s stance—left shoulder slightly higher, a man used to carrying weight.
And then there was Carlo_Gambino.
The owner lounged in a shadowed corner chair, a cigarillo dangling from his lips, watching. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His presence was the unspoken rule of the shop: Perfection, or nothing.
Domenico met his gaze, nodded once. Carlo exhaled smoke, a silent proceed.
"Need a suit," Domenico said, brushing dust from his sleeve. "Something that says I belong in the front room, not the back alley."
Delia snorted. "So, not your usual aesthetic, then?"
Franny stepped forward before Albie could scold her. "We’ll need measurements. Wool or cashmere? Peak lapel or notch?"
Domenico’s mouth quirked. "Surprise me."
Albie’s tape snapped taut around his shoulders. "A man who doesn’t know what he wants usually ends up with someone else’s idea of it."
"Then make sure it’s your idea," Domenico countered.
Carlo’s chuckle rumbled from the corner. "Careful, Albie. He’s got a tailor’s tongue."
For the next hour, Domenico stood like a statue as they worked—Albie barking orders, Delia mocking his posture ("Christ, ever heard of relaxing?"), Franny silently noting the pistol’s outline beneath his coat.
Finally, Carlo stood, straightening his own immaculate cuffs. "Three days. Midnight. Don’t be late."
Domenico dropped a stack of bills on the counter. "I’m never late."
As he left, Delia called after him, "Try not to get blood on it before the fitting!"
The bell chimed again. Outside, the Packard waited.
Inside, Carlo smiled. "Now *that’s* a customer." |
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| Reply by: Domenico at Jun 24, '25 23:13 | |
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Carlo didn’t move right away. He watched the bell settle in the doorway’s wake, listened to the Packard’s hum fade into the Detroit street, and let the quiet reclaim the shop. Then, slowly, he stepped out from the shadows of the backroom, his footsteps soft but deliberate across the worn wood floor. Albie had gone back to his chalk marks. Delia was already complaining about thread counts like it was a matter of national security. Franny, ever the silent sentinel, was still noting figures in that little black ledger of hers. Carlo pulled the cigarillo from his lips, tapped ash into a crystal tray, and spoke low, but loud enough. "Guy walks in wearin’ road dust, leaves wearin’ purpose. That’s what we’re sellin’ here." He turned to Albie, voice like velvet cut with gravel. "Make that suit sing, old man. I want him lookin’ like he owns half the street by the time we’re done, just enough truth to make folks wonder." Albie grunted without looking up. "If he gets blood on my seams, I’m sendin’ you the dry cleaning bill." Delia chimed in, "I’m puttin’ a hidden pocket in for brass knuckles. He didn’t ask, but I know a fella who needs one when I see it." Franny didn’t speak, but she did give Carlo a tiny nod. That was enough. Carlo turned to head back toward the rear door, to the real shop, behind the bolts and bolts of cashmere and wool. He barely made it three steps before the bell chimed again. He paused, turning slowly. A young man stood there; early twenties, thin, pale, with desperation flickering in his eyes like the last glow of a bad match. His coat was too big, collar up, hands twitching like he wasn’t sure if he should run or kneel. “I—I need a loan,” the kid blurted, loud and breathless. “Please.” Albie glanced up, eyes hard beneath the silver fringe of hair. “You walk into a tailor’s askin’ for cash? That’s a new kind of stupid.” But Carlo held up a hand, calm as always. "He came to the right place. Just walked through the wrong door first." He stepped forward, motioned with two fingers. "C’mon, kid. This way." The boy hesitated only a second before following Carlo past the shop floor, through the curtain, and into the back room. The world changed behind that door; dim lights, heavy walls, the thick smell of old smoke and velvet threats. Carlo sat behind the desk, motioning to the chair opposite. The kid sat like it was a church pew and he was about to confess. “Name?” Carlo asked, pouring a quiet splash of rye into a chipped glass. “Earl. Earl Belancer.” “Alright, Earl.” Carlo set the glass down. “You got ten seconds before I decide if I’m wasting time. Talk.” Earl swallowed, nodding quickly. “I—I had savings. Whole life’s worth. Put it on a game over at Stinson’s. I knew the odds. I swear, I knew. But the dealer...he played me. I was close. Real close. I just need one more shot. I swear I can turn it around.” Carlo studied him, silent. Smoke curled from the cigarillo in his hand. “So lemme get this straight—you blew your life’s scratch on a crooked deck, and your solution is to borrow from a stranger who charges interest and ain’t fond of late payments?” Earl didn’t answer. His shoulders sank. He looked like he might melt right into the floor. But then Carlo leaned forward. “I respect the desperation. Ain’t much different from hunger. Just louder.” He pulled open a drawer, took out a small ledger and pen. “I’ll front you two large.” Earl’s eyes lit up. “I—seriously? That’s more than enough!” “Don’t thank me.” Carlo’s tone turned cold. “That two turns into two-fifty by next week. Sunday night. Not Monday morning. You don’t pay, you don’t disappear. You become a cautionary tale with a new coat of red paint. Clear?” Earl nodded, fast and hard. “Crystal, sir. Absolutely.” Carlo nodded once and slid the bills across the desk. Earl stood, stuffing the money into his coat, shaky but grateful. “Thank you. I won’t let you down. You’ll see.” “I already do, kid.” Carlo stood too, walking him back toward the curtain. As Earl reached for the door, Franny silently handed him a receipt with a time and a place. Earl paused, then nodded again and slipped out into the street. The bell chimed once more. Carlo stood in the doorway to the backroom, watching the street for a beat before speaking to no one in particular: “Place’s barely open and already breathin’. Let’s keep the heart pumpin’.” He turned back into the shadows, the curtain swaying shut behind him. |
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| Reply by: Carlo_Gambino at Jun 25, '25 09:49 | |
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The bell above the door rang again—softer this time, but sure. Carlo_Gambino didn’t look up right away. He let the moment hang, let the presence behind him fill the room. Some men walked in with noise. Others brought purpose. And this one—this one carried weight. “Babs,” Carlo said without turning. “You here to settle your tab… or make it heavier?” A low, smooth chuckle followed. “Came to look better while I’m rackin’ it up.” Carlo stood and turned. The handshake between them was solid—two men who’d survived too many smoke-filled rooms and bad ideas not to appreciate a clean one. Babs looked around, nodding quietly as he took in the fine suits, the care behind every button and stitch. He tapped the display glass lightly with his knuckles. “You always knew how to dress a message,” he said. “And you always knew when to deliver one,” Carlo replied. They sat in the back room over a glass of rye, the air thick with cedar and unspoken deals. Babs pulled out a folder, slid a list across the desk. “I need something special. Couple of suits for me—custom, of course. Not for the street. For the nights that matter. For negotiations, for eyes that judge before you speak. Needs to say ‘I’m the boss’… even when I don’t say a word.” Carlo nodded slowly, already thinking through fabrics. “And the rest?” “Uniforms. For the hotel staff. Paramount Detroit. I want clean lines, subtle elegance. Forest green as the base, silver accents. No goofy hats or white gloves. Just presence. Class.” “Authority without the theater,” Carlo said. “Exactly. And one more thing…” Babs leaned back in his chair. “I’m launching a label. Iron Note Records. We’ll have live music at the hotel—evening sets, regular acts. I want the musicians to have a look. Not costumes. Style. You see ’em, you know they ain’t off the street… but they carry the street in them.” Carlo smiled. “So, you want your crew dressed like artists… but built like businessmen?” “Right. And when people see them, I want them to know they’re part of something bigger.” Carlo stood, walked to the wall of fabrics. “I’ve got some ideas for you. And for the band… I’ll hear how they sound, then I’ll know how they should look.” Babs grinned. “If this all works out, you won’t just be their tailor. You’ll be their shield.” Carlo raised his glass. “And the tailor of your little empire.” “It ain’t little,” Babs corrected him with a smirk. “It’s just still growin’.” And as they toasted, the wind outside kicked dust down the Eastern Market streets. But inside, something new was being stitched into Detroit’s undercurrent—thread by thread, beat by beat, stitched in loyalty and ambition. |
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| Reply by: Babs at Jun 25, '25 17:18 | |
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The back room hummed low with tension, like the quiet before rain. Carlo sat behind the desk, pen scratching numbers into the worn leather ledger. Across from him, Wilson Gurganious wrung his cap in his hands, the brim practically twisted to rope. “Three large,” Wilson said again, voice low. “Just till the end of the month. I got a payout coming, union job over at the yard. It’s solid. I swear it.” Carlo didn’t answer right away. He watched Wilson; watched his hands, his eyes, the sweat gathering at his brow. Desperation had a rhythm, and Wilson was tappin’ it out like a drummer in the gallows. He was about to speak when he heard Albie’s raised voice from the front. “Sunday’s the earliest I can get it done, mister. We’re backed up tight.” Then a sharper voice, a customer, offended. “Sunday? That’s a whole damn week! It’s a simple mend!” Carlo exhaled slow and rose, holding a finger up to Wilson. “’Scuse me a moment.” He stepped through the velvet curtain like smoke slipping between cracks. The air in the shop had gone a degree colder. Albie stood firm, arms crossed, a suit jacket half-pressed still waiting on the table behind him. The customer was a thin man with a short temper and a louder voice, waving his ticket like it was a badge. “I got an event Thursday, and I don’t appreciate being told I gotta wait in line behind whatever nonsense you got—” Carlo’s voice cut through the space, low and smooth. “We got a full line of fittings due for The Paramount Detroit.” The man turned. Carlo was adjusting his cuffs, looking calm as a lake. “Ain’t nonsense, friend. It’s the kinda job that keeps this place runnin’. You want a suit that don’t wrinkle under pressure, you wait your turn. Saturday if you’re lucky. Sunday if you’re not.” The customer blinked. The fight drained out of him like a leaky kettle. He mumbled something like “I understand,” took his receipt from Franny, and left without another word. The bell gave a hollow ring as the door shut behind him. Carlo turned to Albie. “You alright with the schedule shift?” Albie didn’t glance up from the steaming iron he’d returned to. “It’s tight, but we’ll manage. Domenico’s jacket’s takin’ shape. Babs’ uniforms are in progress. Delia’s doin’ lapels and Franny’s pulling double time on numbers and prep.” “Good,” Carlo said with a nod. “Don’t kill yourself. Just make it sing.” He lingered a moment, taking in the steady rhythm of the front; the hum of pressing, the swish of chalk, the tick of the clock above the window. Then he turned, stepping back through the curtain to the rear. Wilson sat hunched, knees bouncing, nerves louder now. “Apologies for the wait,” Carlo said as he poured two fingers of rye into twin glasses. He slid one across the desk. “We take care of our clients. Even the ones with holes in their pockets.” Wilson chuckled nervously and took the glass, sipping like he wasn’t sure if it was poison or mercy. The deal didn’t take long. Terms were strict but fair. Three grand lent, four due. One month. Ten minutes later, Wilson was at the front counter, pocketing his receipt from Franny with an awkward smile. “You always this efficient, or just with handsome fellas?” he asked with a wink. Franny didn’t blink. “Only with the ones who don’t ask stupid questions.” Delia snorted from the sewing table. “That boy couldn’t charm a sock off a radiator.” As the door jingled shut behind Wilson, the two women shared a look, equal parts amusement and exhaustion. In the back room, Carlo leaned back in his chair, ledger open once more, cigarillo lit and trailing smoke in a lazy spiral. He tapped his pen against the margin, one eye on the numbers, the other on the door. Business was moving. And business was good. |
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| Reply by: Carlo_Gambino at Jun 26, '25 07:51 | |
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The back room was thick with smoke and tension. Earl Belancer sat slumped in the client chair, lip split, one cheek already blooming violet. Tony “Bends” Giaccone stood over him, sleeves rolled, his knuckles freshly painted with regret. The rye glass Earl had been sipping from earlier now sat untouched; save for the blood that dripped slow down its side. Carlo stood by the safe, ledger open, marking the page like he was settling up a grocery bill. Calm. Always calm. Another thud. Tony's fist landed in Earl’s gut, not hard enough to kill; just enough to remind. That’s when the back door creaked. Albie Rinaldi stepped inside, wiping his hands on a strip of muslin, but he froze mid-step. His lined eyes shifted from the bleeding kid in the chair to the silent brute looming above him, then back to Carlo. “Boss…” Albie’s voice was quiet, not judgmental, but concerned. “You…got a minute?” Carlo didn’t answer right away. He lifted his hand toward Tony; just a flick of the fingers—and the storm stilled. Tony took a step back, jaw tight, but said nothing. Earl coughed, wheezing shallow breaths, too stunned to speak. Carlo walked to Albie, slow and composed. “I know that look,” he said, voice low, tilting his head just enough. “And I appreciate it. But Earl here? He needed a reminder. Loud one.” Albie’s brow furrowed. “He’s just a kid. Bit of a fool, sure; but he paid, didn’t he?” Carlo nodded. “Late. And scared. That don’t teach anyone anything. Now he’s learnin’. And tomorrow, he starts work. Errands, messages, collections if he’s got the spine. He wants to clear his debt, he’ll sweat it off. But he’ll remember what happens when a man thinks he can take from this place and disappear into the cracks.” Albie took that in, quiet for a moment. Then he gave a slow nod, still eyeing Earl like he was a stray pup who might bite if cornered. “Well,” he said, straightening the muslin in his hands, “Domenico’s suit’s finished. Hangs like a damn shadow. He’ll be happy.” Carlo allowed the faintest smile. “And the others?” “Babs’ hotel uniforms; every one pressed and labeled. Musicians too. Gina-Rose’s included. Delia took the bust in twice; claimed she sang better when she could breathe.” He smirked faintly. “Franny’s been pacing the floor on numbers, but it’ll all be boxed and ready tonight.” He paused, then added with a hint of pride, “Also stitched up a little number for Dutchmaffia. Kid’s just started makin’ the rounds; new associate, green as spring clover; but he’s got that look. Straight shoulders, eyes that don’t blink too fast. Figured I’d front him a suit, on the house.” Carlo raised a brow. “A freebie, huh?” Albie shrugged. “Ain’t charity. It’s investment. People remember who dressed ‘em when they were still proving their worth.” Carlo gave a small nod of approval, but Albie wasn’t finished. “And uh… one more,” he added, more carefully. “The piece we put together for Limits? It’s done. Silk blend. Slate black with midnight stitching. Tailored close.” He scratched his jaw. “Franny thought it was a little… risqué.” Carlo tilted his head. “Risqué how?” Albie smirked. “Let’s just say; ain’t a fella gonna be forgettin’ she walked in, even if she never says a word.” Carlo chuckled under his breath, a short puff of smoke escaping the corner of his mouth. “She asked for presence,” he said. “Sounds like you delivered.” Carlo stepped forward and laid a hand on Albie’s shoulder, firm and full of weight. “You’re the heart of this place, Albie. Don’t think I don’t see it.” Albie gave a tight nod. “Just keep the back room mess off the bolts, boss. I got standards.” With that, he turned and slipped out the door, letting the velvet curtain fall softly behind him. Out front, the rhythm resumed: the hum of machines, the slice of shears, the occasional murmur of business. Albie glanced to Delia, who was threading a needle with all the patience of a nun and none of the forgiveness. “Any more customers?” he asked. “Not yet,” Delia said without looking up. “But Franny just turned down another poor sucker tryin’ to flirt with her.” Franny, behind the counter, smirked without lifting her eyes from the ledger. “Charm’s cheap. Like thread from Chicago.” Albie exhaled through his nose, rolled his sleeves back up, and returned to work. Behind the curtain, Carlo poured Earl another glass of rye, this one just within reach. “You start tomorrow,” he said flatly. Earl nodded through a busted lip, reaching for the glass with trembling hands. Detroit moved outside. Inside, the stitch held firm. |
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| Reply by: Carlo_Gambino at Jul 02, '25 19:51 | |
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The bell above the door gave a tired little chime as TheDude stepped in; though “stepped” might’ve been generous. It was more of a shuffle. A drift. Like a man who wasn’t in a rush to be anywhere specific but had somehow ended up here. He paused in the doorway, blinking at the fine suits, the gold-lettered signs, the faint smell of cedar and steam pressing through the air. His cardigan; lumpy, off-white, and slightly askew; hung open over a wrinkled Hawaiian shirt. A bowling ball bag swung gently at his side, because of course it did. “This ain’t the sandwich place,” he muttered to no one in particular. Albie looked up from the pressing table, squinted once, and went back to steaming a cuff like it owed him money. Franny, behind the counter, didn’t move. Just one brow arched slightly over the top of her little black ledger. Delia leaned on the end of a rack, arms crossed, smirking. “We ain’t servin’ pastrami, honey, but you look like you wandered in off a postcard from confusion.” TheDude scratched the back of his head. “Yeah… I get that a lot.” He looked around, took in the shelves of fine wool, the measured rhythm of needles and cloth, and nodded appreciatively. “Real tidy,” he said finally. “Place has got vibes.” Albie muttered without looking up, “Ain’t the word I’d use.” TheDude approached the counter, slow and easy, one hand absently smoothing down his cardigan as if realizing for the first time how out of place he looked. “So listen… I’m not really a ‘tie’ guy. I mean, I tried once. Choked me out before breakfast. But I hear this place used to be run by a guy… Carlo somethin’. Stand-up type. Real sharp.” Franny nodded once. “Carlo Gambino. You’re late.” TheDude gave a soft shrug. “Yeah, well… story of my life.” He leaned on the counter, peering down at a bolt of dark fabric. “I ain’t here for a loan, and I ain’t here for a shootout. I just... y’know... heard this place still moved quiet. And I figured… maybe I could be of some use. I’m not fast. I’m not loud. But I got hands. I got time. And I know when not to ask dumb questions.” Delia raised a brow. “And what exactly do you do?” TheDude thought about it. Really thought. “Mostly? I abide.” Silence. Albie finally looked up, gave TheDude a long, slow once-over, then turned to Franny. “Get his name. We’ll find somethin’ for him to do. Maybe cleanin’ dust off the dust.” Franny scribbled into the ledger without blinking. “Name?” “TheDude,” he replied with a crooked little smile. “Just TheDude. It’s a whole thing.” Delia snorted. “God help us.” TheDude nodded, content. “Cool. I’ll be by tomorrow then. Or maybe Thursday. Y’know… I’ll feel it out.” And with that, he turned, the bell chiming again as he wandered back out into the Detroit sun, his bowling bag swinging and his slippers barely making a sound. Behind him, Franny whispered, “You think he’s serious?” Albie pressed a fresh cuff and grunted, “Doesn’t matter. Even shadows cast footprints.” And the shop carried on; the stitch held, the thread pulled tight… and somewhere in the mix, TheDude had just sewn himself in. |
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| Reply by: TheDude at Jul 10, '25 21:07 | |
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*Gethsemane was starting to feel like things were taking a turn for the better; nothing catastrophic had occurred for almost 24 full hours. He hadn't been sucker punched, man handled naked in public or nearly murdered. He had half a mind at this point to buy a lottery ticket, but thought that was perhaps pushing his luck slightly* |
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| Reply by: Gethsemane at Dec 08, '25 08:49 | |
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The bell over the door gave a clean little ring when Paulie pushed into The Green Thread Tailor & Co., brushing a bit of street dust off his track jacket as he stepped inside. He walked in, swept his eyes across the shop before they settled on Albie waiting with a tape around his neck.
"Name's Paulie, I got a club out west; the Broadway Athletic. I need a couple suits for my guys. Something respectable for when business calls for it. Nothing flashy, just sharp enough people know we ain't walking off the street." He tugged lightly on the sleeve of his track jacket and smirked. "Even i gotta look like a gentlemen once in a while." Paulie glaced at the racks of suits. "Figure you fit me for one grey, one charcoal. Then we measure a few of my boys when they come through town. If they like it, you might see more of us." He leaned on the counter, lowering his voice enough. "And if a couple of fellas in the neighborhood ask where a good tailor is...I'll make sure they hear about this place." |
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| Reply by: Paulie_Gualtieri at Mar 08, '26 23:38 | |
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Malone stopped in to see Albie. "Hello sir I need some tops for both men and women. They are staff at my casino so they gotta be fancy. I hope you carry Emerald green material". he knocked on the steel door and D0min1c opened. "here ya go. VIP access to Royal Obsidian Casino."*hands him a,playing card with Ace of Clubs |
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| Reply by: BricksMalone at Mar 22, '26 15:29 | |
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As the wind ruffled the stray fallen leaves of the summer heat, the gold lettering of The Green Thread Tailor & Co. came into view. It wasn't a particularly distinct facade, but had the way of the olden world, of better times, of people who cared deeper about it. The green colouration with the vibrant lettering, the thick old glass displaying wears tailored of the years....you could be forgiven to assume this storefront was as old as the city itself. Inside, after all these years, it still bustled with the necessary characters, working to finish suits and patrons requesting more. It had been a very many number of years since Tussy last approached the building - last time he was too intimidated by the stature and level of the people entering to join their illustrious company. Having now ages, he didn't care. As he entered there was but one thing on his mind - a green velour jacket. It wasn't a particularly exciting thing to be wanting, and he wasn't sure whether they would be willing to cater to this request. What it was though, was vanity. As a young child he had once stolen such a jacket from a rival family's Don, disappearing into the night clad in green. Sadly, this also meant he was particularly visible during the day time, and it soon transpired that the jacket was returned to its original owner, and Tussy was treated to more black and blue all over than he cared for. Now, all this time having passed, he felt it was about time to restore himself. He was going to try looking that suave in the face of adversity again. |
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| Reply by: Tussy at Aug 21, '26 13:39 | |
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