The trouble is, I got indicted for selling smack. Actually, I wasn’t the one pushing. This kid, named Enrique Henderson, was selling the horse, and he was paying me protection money for it all the while. Now the boss, Mr. Spirochete, he really frowns on the selling of narcotics, you know? He had started an edict—you deal, you die. Two behind the ear, just like that.

In addition to Mr. Spirochete’s wrath, I was also facing a heavy prison sentence: Fifty years behind bars, if convicted.

The thing is, I’d have gladly done my time. I’d have gladly taken my lumps like a champion but I know the boss, the head honcho, Mr. Spirochete, would’ve had me whacked anyway—even if he had to have somebody behind bars do the deed to me

I had no other decision that day; I turned state’s evidence. I gave Mr. Rockwell, my proposed FBI handler, a jingle. I told him yes, I would absolutely be interested in testifying against the old man, Mr. Spirochete. The most ruthless La Cosa Nostra boss in New York City.

“Great,” Mr. Rockwell tells me, via the telephone. Come to our offices on Friday; we’ll discuss your new identity, Mr. Graffingnare.”

Friday. That’s two weeks away. A long frigging time, when you’ve got a blood-thirsty mafia clan on your hide. So I decided to rent this here house, in upstate New York. I am renting it from this long-haired looking hippy peacenik, a frigging baby boomer communist.

The street I am living on is nice and residential. You don’t hear a whole lot of noise. Even the dogs are quiet, on my block. But danger always lurks.

Every once in awhile, I walk over towards the window, to see who it is, walking past my house.

But one time, I was in the crapper, reading the National Geographic, learning some fantastic things about volcanoes, and aborigines, when I hear this knock on the frigging door: Loud, authoritative. This scumbag knocker sounds like he means business. So I buckle my pants up and make a run for the door. All this time, I’m holding my 9 MM silenced Beretta, thinking all the while, This is it. That dog Mr. Spirochete finally caught up to me, somehow. How the hell he did, I hadn’t the faintest clue. I had been checking for tails my whole ride upstate. I made sure nobody suspicious was following me.

Anyway, I look out the kitchen curtain, and I see these little girl scouts, cute as buttons, standing in front of my door.

“Hi, mister,” the upbeat girl scout standing closest to the store said to me. “Care to buy some cookies?”

Now at this time, I’m holding the gun behind my back. And what was I to do? Under ordinary circumstances, I’d love to oblige these two cute young girls. But I can’t just throw my gun on the floor, and reach for my wallet. So I smile at the girls and I say, “Thank you very much for the offer, but I can’t have any cookies. I’m a diabetic. Those cookies of yours might kill me.” So I slam the door on these girls. And believe you me, dear reader, my heart is now beating two hundred frigging beats a minute. I’m really stinking nervous. Here I am, thinking I’m about to face it off against Mr. Spirochete’s men—like “Shotgun” Joey and Louie “The Killer.” I’d go into explaining how they got their nicknames, but I think you’re bright enough to put two and two together.

Anyway, my feathers rankled, I made my way for the couch. I sit down on the couch, and I start reading the newspaper.

What a terrible frigging place the world is becoming, I think, as I read about all the murders, sexual abuse, and crooked politicians in The Daily Eagle.

And as I’m reading the newspaper, I almost pinch myself: There’s yet again another knock on my door. Accordingly, I make yet again another run for the front door. I look out the kitchen window, and I see these two guys holding bicycles standing in front of my house, dressed in conservative-looking business suits. That’s definitely not The Shotgun or Louie the Killer, I think, as I open the door.

These two religious cuckoo birds were all smiles, after I had opened up.

“Hi, there,” one of them said. “A beautiful day today, isn’t it?”

The second one jumped in. He didn’t mince words. “I’m here to tell you about Joseph Smith, and his prophetic message, which is soon to be fulfilled.”

Well, hell. I didn’t feel like chewing the fat with these two wimpy-looking fellows. “Sorry,” I said,”But I’m already a baptized Catholic,” before slamming the door in both their faces.

So I go lay down on the bed for a little while and, before you know it, I’m catching some Z’s. Yet again, however, I’m awakened by a startling knock on the stinking door.

Silenced Barretta in hand, I made my way for the front door, and as I peeked out the window, I saw something that made my heart sink: This big fat specimen, with dark black hair, wearing a dark suit and a red tie, knocking on my door. Bang, bang, bang. In addition to the dangerous-looking goon, I notice the car behind him: A spit-shiny Mercedes-Benz, from the 60’s, no doubt about it.

This is it, George. Life or death. Him or me, I think, as I open the door, take aim of the Beretta and pop a hollow-pointed bullet into the fat slob’s forehead. After he drops to the ground, I peer around outside, scanning the neighborhood. Ain’t nobody out there. No witnesses. Thank God.

And then, with all my might, I drag the whale inside my house, his blood making a trail from the welcoming mat all the way inside my humble abode.

I grabbed the mat and chucked it into the trash can. I’ll take care of that later.

Feeling victorious, I just stood there, looking down at my would-be assassin. This sorry excuse for a human being.

Who sent him, I thought. Mr. Spirochete. The Shotgun? The Killer? Or was he a zip? Check for his I.D., dummy, I remember thinking.

With a lot of effort, I kick the chubby assassin over, so he is facing the carpet. I reach for the wallet, in the back of his pants. I flip it open, and I see the name “Chuck Whitfield.”

“Chuck Whitefield,” I say aloud. “What the—?” I don’t know no Chuck Whitefield.

So as I stand there, befuddled, bemused, all that stuff, I noticed this thing, this piece of cardboard paper, sticking out of the assassin’s front jacket pocket.

I reach for it.

And didn’t I feel like the biggest scumbag on the planet, when I read what it said on the pamphlet jutting from Mr. would-be killer’s jacket pocket.

Vote to re-elect Chuck Whitfield as county commissioner, the pamphlet said.

By Jack Bristow

Twitter: @jackbristow18