| May 11 - 20:37:55 |
|
| Post Reply | Post new topic | Page: 1 |
| Another Tale from Taskmaster | Started by: Taskmaster on Oct 28, '08 09:16 |
|
Taskmaster pulls out a cigar and a dozen mobsters offer him a light. He lights the cigar, then puts in out on the ground. I don't smoke, that shit will kill you. Since we're all gathered here, I thought I might impose one of my story sessions upon you. I'm an old man, and, as an old man, I like to recall times of my youth, embellish them, and relay them to you, so that you realize how great I was back in the day. So, here goes. Back in the days of Iris, I used to do a little detective work. Not like a cop, see, but still, it was detective work. Iris would lose some cash, some douche bag would take off on his own, or one of her mob would just disappear. So, she'd drop me a grand or so and I'd go find the money, or whatever. Right. So, there was the occasion that I'd take some work on the side. I wasn't licensed or anything, but what kind of real detective works for the mob? I had this office in Iris' front, some sort of office plaza. Frosted glass door with my name on it. So, one night, I'm sitting there, drinking bourbon and trying to build a house of cards. The door opened and the breeze from the outside corridor knocked my cards down. "What the..." I didn't get a chance to finish. As I looked up, I saw a dame with blazing red hair and a sequined dress to match. She looked like she had just gotten off the stage. I pictured her there, singing "Moon River." She walked to my desk and held out her hand, which was covered with a long white glove. I suppose, had I been French, I would have removed the glove and kissed her hand. I'm not French. I don't even like France. So, I ignored her hand. I would have sat down, but I never stood up. I poured bourbon. "Aren't you going to offer a lady a drink?" She looked annoyed. "Get your own, sweetheart," I said. I could already tell that this broad was a pain in the ass. At this point, I would have rather plucked out my own pubic hair than deal with her. Curiosity, though, is an interesting beast. Sometimes it rears up and bites you in the ass, and you blurt out: "What can I do for you?" I regretted it the second it escaped my lips. "I want you to catch my husband cheating," she said. "What, at cards? Send him to Vegas, those bastards catch everyone. Believe me, I know." I started picking up the cards that I had previously assembled into a rather austere mansion. She stood up. "You're drunk," she said. "And you're pushy. But you also you flew here from New York, right after work, and, if I'm not mistaken, you pawned your wedding ring to pay for it all." Her jaw dropped. Just the effect I was looking for. Damn, I'm good. "Amazing, Sherlock, how do I do it? Say something, lady." "How do you know these things," she finally managed to choke out. "You're obviously dressed for work. Lounge singer, right?" She nodded. "I happened to catch a glimpse of the New York ticket stub under your glove when you stuck your hand out, and even with the gloves on, I can tell that you don't have a ring on. A girl like you wears a rock, even with gloves. And I figure that the only way to get you to part with a diamond is if your husband has stopped bankrolling you, or you're doing something, or someone, that he doesn't nee to know about. Now, sit down." She sat and relayed some stupid story about her husband, how he can't keep it in his pants and how he was fucking some broad from Sicily, where he went on business. "So, who is he," I asked. "His name is Mario Clomanza." Damn. I knew that guy. Tougher than a three dollar steak and meaner than a pit bull with hemorrhoids. "And you want me to catch him en flagrante dilecto as it were? With or without him beating the shit out of me?" "Either way, Mr. Master. Your call. I'll be back around. By the way, she's in town this week." The redhead turned and left, probably knowing that I was watching her leave. I could have watched her leave all day long... The next day, I woke up at the crack of noon to find Clomanza. It wouldn't be hard, he had the face of a hockey enforcer, but only half the charm and an eighth of the intellect. He was one of the mob's more notorious enforcers. No baseball bat for him, he liked to break kneecaps with a rock. This was going to be about as much fun as skinny dipping in a lobster tank. To be continued.... |
|
| Report Post | Tip |
|
Zishla sits and listens closely to the story. Wow. Being one of the younger members of this world, I have not had the wonderful events such as these occur in my past. It is great to hear some of the old ones being brought back up for a bit of history, and some entertainment. Thank you TaskMaster. I do hope you continue to bring us various entertaining stories. :) |
|
| Reply by: Zishla at Oct 28, '08 10:08 | |
| Report Post | Tip |
|
So, before I left to go track Clomanza, I had to kick my hangover. I make this drink with cayenne, Tabasco, a raw egg, and tomato juice that tastes like Hell. Doesn't do anything, but it tastes like Hell. I had some questions running around in my head and as soon as I could, I'd get them sorted out. But now, I had to go find this bastard and take some pictures. I found my camera, a little Brownie kit I had bought about a year ago to take some pictures in another "enterprise" I was involved in. I was going to have to be fast, I could probably get off one good shot, then I'd have to split. The damn shutter was loud and the flash popped like a firecracker every time you took a picture. Not to mention that then I'd have to wind the film to the next frame to get another shot. So, I was going to have to get close to them screwing each other's brains out, take a picture, and get out of there before the big guy caught me and ripped my arms off. Just in case, I put my old .38 revolver in my pocket. So, I left and went down to the Femme Fatale club, a little joint that used to be on the corner of 5th and Main. The Feds were still busting up stills then, so you had to use a password to get into the back, where the real action, and the booze, was. This was where everyone went to have a good time. Booze, broads, cards, all the stuff Hoover was cracking down on. And, like I thought, Big Bad and Ugly was there. And, not surprisingly, a very familiar looking girl was hanging on his arm. They were all over each other. I seriously thought that they were going to go at it, right there in public. Definitely would have made my job easier. They got up and headed up the back stairwell. I had forgotten that there were private rooms for rent upstairs. Windowless rooms, at that. Shit, this was going to be difficult. Why the hell did she want a picture of her husband with another woman, anyway? I mean, what was she going to do, leave him? So what? Blackmail him? A man like Clomanza didn't have the capacity to understand blackmail. And what was a looker like her doing with a pug-ugly like him? Something smelled fishy here and it wasn't my socks. I bent down to look through the keyhole of his door and was rewarded with a doorknob right between the eyes. I woke up in the room, tied to a chair. "Kinky," I said out loud. Clomanza hit me in the face with the back of his hand. I laughed. "Who taught you to hit, Mario, your sister?" He hit me again, this time with his fist. I could feel blood trickle down my chin, but I kept egging him on. "Oh, that's right," I spat out, along with some blood, "she just taught you to fuck." He picked up a chair when the broad he was with told him to stop. "Stop it, Mario," she said. "Mister Taskmaster doesn't mean it. Do you, Mister Taskmaster?" The word "mister" came out "meester" with her Russian accent. Yeah, Russian. Not Sicilian. "That's right, comrade. Just kidding. I know he's not screwing his sister, because I am." She couldn't stop him. He hit me with the chair this time. It broke across the back of my head and the back of the chair I was sitting in. Then things went black again. I woke up, still tied to the chair. Smaller pieces of the other chair were scattered about and I could feel the dried blood on my face. "What do you want, lady?" I was getting tired of being hit, but it had served its purpose. He had hit me hard enough to clear my head and to break the wooden chair that I was sitting in. "We just want some information about your boss, Iris." Well, shit. If it wasn't the Russian Mob. Fuckers. I hate the Russian Mob. Why couldn't it have been communists? |
|
| Reply by: Taskmaster at Oct 28, '08 16:51 | |
| Report Post | Tip |
|
"You might as well have Pussy Galore over there hit me with his girl punch again, because I'm not talking," I said. Mario started toward me. I don't really know why I was still insulting him, but it was fun. "No, Mario. I'll take care of this," she said as she pulled a suitcase out from under the bed. Yeah, it was full of scalpels and syringes and shit like that. Like I said, I hate the Russian Mob. She pulled out a syringe and a little bottle. Some sort of Russian truth serum, I guess. "Come on, Mario, you gonna let her tell you what to do? What are you guys, the French mob? What a bunch of pussies. Hey Mario, how much is your sister charging nowadays? Is it more than your mom?" Mario couldn't take it. He rushed me. As he did, I finished breaking the back of the chair away from the seat and stood up, dodging him and using the chair to trip him simultaneously. He fell into the Russian chick and landed on top of her. She was cursing in Russian, I was working my arms loose, and Mario was screaming like a girl with a syringe sticking out of her chest. I freed myself just as the Russian grabbed the needle out of his chest and yelled "get him!" Genius that he was, he ran at me again. This time, I let him hit me. The force of his body pushed the broken wood from the chair into his abdomen, like a toothpick through a grape. He let out a little squeal as he pulled back and I picked up another piece of the chair and hit him over the head with it. He fell back, out cold and bleeding. "That's enough, Mister Taskmaster," the Russian lady said. She had my gun. I started laughing, uncontrollably and took a step forward. She pulled the trigger and began to yelp in pain. The .38 I used to carry hadn't worked in years. If you pulled the trigger, the mechanism sprang back and pinned your finger between the trigger and the guard. As she struggled to get the gun off of her finger, she grabbed it with her other hand and the hammer came down, catching her right between the thumb and forefinger. So now, both her hands were caught in the gun and she was bleeding. The Russian cursewords were flowing like Vodka. I looked at her suitcase and her face turned white. With the gun still attached to her hands, she made for the door. I beat her there and pushed her back onto the bed. Still chuckling, I reached down and pulled the hammer back on the pistol, freeing her hand. I released it slowly and the trigger returned to its rightful position, freeing her other hand. She stared at me like a wounded animal. I put the pistol in my pocket. "Go home. Back to mother Russia. Tell your boss that he's best staying there. Tell him that coming to Philly is certain death." I turned to leave. "Coward! Finish it!" She was yelling at me. I laughed and tossed her my old .38. "Finish it yourself," I laughed. I went back downstairs, had a drink, and went back to the office to clean up. I never saw the Russians again in Philly. |
|
| Reply by: Taskmaster at Oct 28, '08 16:51 | |
| Report Post | Tip |
|
Taskmaster finishes the story, takes a drink and looks over the people he was talking with. Three of them are asleep, one is looking at his watch, and the other is slowly making his way toward the door. Damn kids. No attention span. |
|
| Reply by: Taskmaster at Oct 28, '08 16:53 | |
| Report Post | Tip |
|
Rouses from his rest Don't mind me Boss, I was old and asleep before you started the story. I think these other bums are just following my lead. Quickly falls back into his slumber. |
|
| Reply by: Senility at Oct 28, '08 16:55 | |
| Report Post | Tip |
| Post Reply | View All Threads | Page: 1 |
How much do you want to tip for this post?
Minimum $20,000
Minimum $20,000
