From an early age Zola had been told tales of the business empire built by one of his forefathers. The businesses that the family held at that time ranged from jewellery import and export, to dance halls and clubs to suit all musical tastes. Such was the success of one of the clubs it was considered by the city in which it was built to be the jewel in the crown. It was a place to be seen in, a place to conduct business in, to mingle with the high flying socialites of the day. It was even rumoured to have several secure suites which were regularly used for meetings between city heads, although no one ever witnessed such events, of course.

The city of Detroit had come of age under Godfather Revolve. A new era dawned and even leadfoot had finally disposed of those badly stained jogger bottoms of his in favour of a look more in keeping with his position, so he claimed. Tight, soft brushed Lederhosen.

The time was right, Zola knew this. The City of Detroit will once again stand shoulder to shoulder with the other cities, alliances will be forged, opportunities secured and more importantly Detroit will from now on be firmly in charge of its own destiny.

It was midday on Maple avenue and relatively mild for the month of January. The final skip was being lifted onto the rear of a wagon as a small army of workers swept, rinsed, polished and generally applied the finishing touches to the frontage of Zola`s latest and most prestigious acquisition. A tall bald headed man appears from within the building, smartly dressed and wearing a pink carnation in the lapel of his jacket. He was Ferdinand Dafoe, an accomplished architect whose work was well known throughout many of the major cities and he had been secured for both the external and internal works for the “Pit”. A lifelong friend of Zola and with considerable ties to the Detroit families through marriage, his reputation for creating architectural works of art was second to none. He slowly makes his way down the covered stairs onto the sidewalk, overseeing the operation out front as a large Packard Sedan draws up outside. He notices the car immediately and makes his way over, opening the rear door. Gordon_Zola steps out; the two men shake hands, and stand admiring the facade of their creation.

“My god Ferdy, you`ve done it!” exclaimed Zola as he grabbed Dafoe by the shoulders embracing him as if he was a long lost son.

“Indeed Gordy. It is special, no?”

“Special it is my friend, so very special. I am lost for words............”

The two men then approach the building where Dafoe begins the guided tour;

“The parking slots out front have kerb lighting as requested, with small ground spotlights guiding the path to the entrance. As you can see the finest Sicilian marble has been used for almost everything out here, with a large green and beige canopy to protect the patrons from any unfortunate weather as stipulated in the original specification.”

“Do we have parking around the back?” asked Zola.

“Indeed we do, two hundred slots, and with the city metropolitan park only one block away we should be more than ok.”  

Dafoe directs the way through the revolving plate glass doorway and into the building. Zola`s eyes light up as he looks at the intricate plasterwork and ornamental lighting. The reception area was built from the highest quality Canadian Maple, with brass capping on every joint and corner. The wall behind the reception housed a bronze cast mural of the Detroit skyline, with tastefully painted gold edging. The men walk through into the bar area, carpeted in rich Wilton with oxblood coloured leather furniture scattered around its walls. The bar itself was mirror plated at the rear, giving the impression of a much larger area. Possibly every known brand of liquor was hung on the mirrored wall, with chilled beer pumps fitted to the highly polished oak bar top. Several large candelabra`s sat atop the bar giving a secluded look in contrast to the highly reflective mirrors.

To the rear of the bar was the entrance to the restaurant, a lavish area on two stepped levels with around 80 tables, each with its own independent table lamp and waiter service button. The finest linen had been used and cutlery and crockery all being supplied from Sheffield, and the potteries, in England. Menus were place on each table offering the exquisite, to a simple steak and fries. In the corner was the stage, housing a five piece house band, and a small dance floor.

“This place will be epic”. Remarked Zola as the two men removed a glass of champagne each from a passing waiter’s tray. They make their way back through the building to the front where Zola addresses the small crowd that had gathered in anticipation of its opening.

“Ladies and gentlemen. I gives me immense pleasure to declare The Peach Pit is now open for business.”

It had been 10 days since the Pit's grand opening and Donbot was still not allowed inside. Despite being an important person within the Detroit hierarchy, everyone, especially Donbot, knew that his position was primarily an honorary one and neither did he nor did anyone else, expect him to actually do anything. Except drink and make incredibly philosophical statements of course.

The word for Donbot, although it was often incorrectly misconstrued as lazy, was profound. He was a modern scholar with a taste for alcohol that bordered on an obsession. Gordon_Zola knew this of course, he was a young man who Donbot had taken under his wing in the early days, back when that infertile dwarf TyrionLannister was knocking about. Donbot had guided Gordon, kept him on the right path and made him all the right introductions. Eventually, when there was discussion of opening the books in Detroit, it was Donbot who had put Gordon's name forward and it was he who had stood beside him that one fateful night when he had taken his vows.

"And look at him now, Mr Big Shot" Drawled Donbot from the steps of the Pit to nobody in particular.

"Shutup, tramp" Someone call from what felt to Donbot like it was far away but probably wasn't.

"Fuck off" He shot back. His razor sharp wit hadn't lost its edge.

Donbot slumped down next to the revolving plate glass door and thought about all the things he had done wrong in his life. He didn't get very far before he decided that was boring as fuck and instead he thought about all the reasons why he hated Gordon_Zola. His protégé had turned his back on him once he had made his bones. Donbot had given him a tip about a job they could pull together and split between them, but Gordon had cut Donbot out and pulled the lucrative Lederhosen heist with leadfoot instead. They had made millions and it was obvious to everyone their stars were on the rise.

"Fucking Lederhosen" Donbot mumbled to himself.

Since then, things had gone from bad to worse for Donbot. He had felt himself being marginalised in his old age, despite his obvious wisdom and flawless advice, Revolve had turned to others and elevated them instead, Gordon being a prime example, now leading his own crew.

"Fucking Gordon" Donbot spat on the steps of the new Pit.

But none of this had been what had upset Donbot the most. In his depression, he had slunk off to the deepest, darkest hole he could find. It was frequented by the scum of Detroit, the dirtiest rat-bag of a shithole that you had ever set eyes on. Violence, extortion, gambling, whoring, drinking, fighting, murdering, thieving and everything else in between was common place before lunchtime. It was a place that righteous men would see burned to the ground and a place where evil men found worse than themselves. It was the Peach Pit and it was broken and it was horrible and it was home for the Donbot.

"Home..." Donbot mumbled.

At least it was, until Gordon and his Lederhosen wearing deputy had set eyes on the place. They had rounded up all the muscle they could find and they had delivered a final blow to Donbot's top-line occupying heart. They had torn down the Pit, driven off the disgusting patrons like Flea and Roberto_Carlos and killed anyone who wouldn't leave, like Camazotz who was cut down largely out of mercy.

Donbot had been passed out at the time, so he was just tossed out and left to find a new dump to call home. All the memories had gone and Gordon had his new swanky pad to wine and dine his bumboys like Leadfoot. They hung on his every word, sniffed up his farts and told him they smelled like roses while Donbot sat outside, on the steps, alone and thought about how much he hated them. Especially Leadfoot.

"DeShawn bastard." Donbot muttered to himself. Thinking over what an unbelievable ass Gordon was, Donbot felt some of the old fire burning in his belly again at that. It was like his father always used to say "Gordon_Zola - What an ass" and Donbot realised now that he was right. He would have to do something about him, but he wasn't sure what. He remembered a story he had heard passed around the old Pit, about two heroes, Marionette and Chuckle and how they had displayed their distaste for Gordon's forefathers. He decided that seemed like a good plan.

Donbot climbed up into a squat and opened the cord on his trousers. He dropped them to his ankles, took up the position and pushed with all his might. His little arse perched over Gordon's doorstep as he felt himself begin to smile.

"Take this, fucker!" He shouted at the revolving door.

After 5 minutes, he had curled out a shit big enough to have shits of it's own. It was horrible in sight and smell. Even Donbot, the creator of the brown mess was a little ashamed of it. It smelt ill and toxic. It steamed in the cold January sunlight, glistening with wetness from his broken insides. You could even see little pieces of sweetcorn still in it from Donbot's lunch. It reminded him of a lad he used to know called SexyBeast, except better looking and less revolting.

Donbot laughed to himself and thought about Gordon's face when he received his infamous calling card. He knew that Gordon would try to dress it up as something else, some clever twist of events no doubt, but they would both know what had happened here. Donbot had shit on Gordon's doorstep.

"Fuck you" He said as he flipped the new Pit the finger after pulling up his pants. He walked away, considerably lighter and much happier than he had been in a long time.

The still-born contents of someone’s lower bowel lay dormant and forbidding at the entrance of Zola`s empirical establishment “The Peach Pit”. He had expected this sort of behaviour, especially from one of the few who lived within the towering shadow of Zola for so long, hanging upon the very tails of his success and reputation, eagerly awaiting their own rise to fame and stardom only to be batted back into the shadows where they rightfully belonged.

He had a feeling who had done this deed. A thought ran through his mind “It’s got his name written all through it, just like a stick of Brighton rock”. 

He stood looking at the brown mess with other members of the “Pit” before he asked;

OK, so who saw it then? Anyone? Who witnessed this heinous act of wilful damage?

A young Goomba immediately piped up...........

I saw them, well him, I saw him, it was definitely Tarquin!

Zola frowned as he replied...........

Tarquin?

Yes Sir, Tarquin.

The Goomba looked around him for some sort of confirmation from one of the others but, no such confirmation was forthcoming. Zola and his aides encircled the Goomba, eyeing him up as if he’d just slipped on a tutu and sung a verse of “I’m just a boy who cant say no”.

The awkward silence was broken as Zola commented...........

I don’t know a Tarquin round these parts, is he from outside the city? Sounds like someone from Los Angeles to me.

The Goomba produces a flyer from his hip pocket and with an embarrassing look unrolls it and offers it over.......

There, it’s Tarquin, look, it’s definitely him.

The flyer was for a Friday night experience and two for one down at Cap`n Bobs Pirate fun house and male go-go bar. Zola had heard of this place, and his face dropped like a stone as he continued reading of the perverse exploits of one “Tarquin Prendeville Smallpiece”. The photograph below was of a man on all fours, looking behind while smiling. It was undoubtedly Donbot. That toothless grin and an arse like a cycle park, there was no question.

There!, There! said the Goomba. I'd recognise that plump pink arse anywhere. It’s him, and the tattoo, it’s definitely him!

Zola`s gag reflex kicked in as he offered the flyer to leadfoot only to snatch it back immediately as leadfoot began to rub the palms of his hands on those Lederhosen covered thighs of his.

Oh stop it. Remarked Zola as he continued reading. His eyes suddenly widening as he eventually made out the wording on the poorly etched tattoo................”Scream if you want to go faster”

I will investigate this further and speak with the big guy. He will not be pleased. This is an act of gross indecency that cannot be swept under the carpet my friends. Old Tarquin indeed.......what a fucking stage name.

Zola storms off as he aides clean up the now liquifying mess, revealing a mixed diet of mainly pistachio nuts and carrot.

So you brought a trenchcoat to a nudist affair? TrenchSweeperUnkemptButtHairzClappsAnnihilationzz. The FatGypsyKangOfStrangz really fuckin lost it. Freshest unit91 of the i7 this peacocked corvette cruiser was set to kill or nothing. Fueled by fire inside that couldn't be contained, only could those paying attention hope to not get contaminated by the poison of their own mentalframework. Those that have cracked are the ones that the light shines through. Jesus means nothing, we live inside the sneeze of a giant. The giant doesn't like us nor care for us all to well. We're destroying a grain of sand that composes the higher framework for the divine. Master of dividing people by subgenres and open ended boxes begins to unleash a solid 10 angle attack known as holistic cognitive behavior becoming engrained into a brains mainframe. The craftwerk of the craftsman with no flagg fell flat on his back and shit his pants. Metaphorically speaking of course.

GoodGodSonDoYouActuallyWantToFuckYourMom?

Too late already diddled that roo, dumb cunt had no manners. But the Modelos only revved in 2x. This MadCapnOfTheKnowMadAeroNauticalVessel, Class of Peacock, Phylum Corvette, and the Kingdom of patroller. The heart robbing hertzthrobbler gobbled his own cock, jerking himself off in the streets over free things running through a thoroughfares crossway, but could they do a cross word puzzle. What if he Emptied an entire clip into one human bodyframe? With no misses? Would that be the unconscious caller of bluffs becoming conscious of his rambling and gambling ways? Or is he just a vessel crossing a queer'eye't canal and he happened to have authentic SwampGator in his blood with the mind of a starving artist and the nude suit to match. Do his farts reek? Pits stink? Bet no one alive would lick this mans stick if he paid them. Becoming conscious of how and why his brain worked, the MadRedEyFlightOverDizzysGypsyTheLoneliestMonkWithTheLoudestMouth ever did so sleuthelahdedelayleely sloop into the crick in his neck, putting pressure on it before he takes a drag of the spliff that hangs from his loose lips. His whole body relax and his eyes resnap to attention. He notices the slight ticks in his vision as the pupil dilates to adjust to the light let it.But what about the light let out when death gets in? Like one of THESE

Southern GaelStroganMyOwnShitOffaMathHoffa destroys an entire belief structure with just a few points and way more than a few examples. He immediately begins lighting up civilians in the middle of the day, as everyone can see he's only demonstrating how not crazy he actually is. If you look through the kaleidoscope of irony you'll find fuck all kunt. He just grew up where the coontcap with tree fiddy happened to be a million of his ancestors.

Double knicks to a dime, the MinuteManOfOrangeAndPurpleAndRedColouredNuggs with a colour somewhere inbetween let loose a 100 hammer salute upon the establishment. An undisclosed amount of Durden's from the nest of this abandoned building all died to the riddled rhyme scheme of the Texas Hammer at Work inside Play