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M.S.R.P. II • View topic - Explanation

M.S.R.P. II

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 Post subject: Explanation
PostPosted: Sat May 06, 2006 12:08 am 
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Location: One-Hoofed Ponyland.
[font=arial]They were not the most typical couple- but like the rest, they were married inside a church, in a Church, because they loved each other so well. She was twenty one, and he was forty seven when a small church in Mexico City was filled with five people. It was him and her, the priest and the church boy, and Logan Wesley. No wedding bands were exchanged, and they wore the best clothes they could find.
Him, in a Hawaiian shirt with its hyacinths printed in the deepest blue shade that matched the ratty army pants and a pair of sandals. Her, in the classiest she could get: a white dress with red trimmings and a pair of blue suede shoes- its laces matching the deep blue shirt her husband-to-be wore. They were not their richest, but the couple was had enough to treat Logan Wesley to a massive serving of beans and ground meat swimming in hot sauce, tomatoes, and jalapeños and all the beer he could manage to slug down. It was a way to thank the boy for sticking with them through all the years they have known each other and the passport and legal citizenship documents he had procured for the female with much help from a family in New York.
The wedding, little did they know, was going to be repeated a few weeks after the girl has turned twenty eight- this time with wedding bands. After a high-carat diamond set on a platinum band found its way around the girl’s left ring finger, a high-pitched wail rang out from one of the pews inside Our Lady of the Rosary, a small church in Little Italy. Ten men, dressed in trench coats, suits, leather shoes- all the works that would make a person blend in a posh wedding setting- divided themselves among another group of four people, manhandling each person with strong grips and guns pointed right on the small of their. The screams came from beneath a white handkerchief Logan Wesley held in one large hand that covered a child’s face. It was a child, her arms and legs flailing as he was carried by the tall American male into a white sports utility vehicle that waited outside the church’s left wing that lead into a courtyard which leads into a convent. The shrieks would have been blood-curdling the way children’s screams naturally were- but the way Logan Wesley covered that man’s face held back much of his voice which made it sound like he was choking on his own fear. The ten men held down the heads of the members of the group of four atop the pews, some were even made to kiss the floor and tremble against it while roars and growls of curses flew and echoed across the walls of the Holy House. The faces of two men were pink-to-purple against the white marble floor, its red and light brown flaws and natural crack lines making an uncertain pattern on its surface as the other guests to the wedding held them down.
Silencing them with harshly whispered them seemed futile, but the cracks of pistol hammers worked like the stare of a nun on a rowdy child. The demands stopped, and one of the four as reduced her roars into sobbing against church floor.
“Agnes…” he said through the gaps of his breath, when he tried to relax his lungs with one hefty heave, “Have mercy! My daughter!”
That was the only other sound heard after the massive white chariot exited the convent, save for the chirping of the birds and the rattling of the rosary under the priest’s stole as he nervously rolled each bead with one hand as the other held an open missal on the other. His eyes cannot stay closed, and remained on the face of the bride who looked at her dashing groom- whose age was years ahead of what her age could be- as he walked from the altar and withdrew a Browning pistol from under the black pinstriped suit he wore. One hand installed a sound suppressor on its muzzle.
“My dear-“ the priest broke the silence as the clicking of the groom’s feet resounded as he addressed the woman, “…not here. Not today.”
“Not this way…” said the sobbing man on the floor. If one would only listen very closely, the beating of his heart would be heard while he spoke. “Mariano… Not this way.”

The very polished black shoes stopped in front of the man’s face.
“No,” Mariano gave a quick headshake as he looked down on the balding top of the man’s head, “…we’ve already told you Fuzilli.”
His breathing was more furious against the marble, and the large hand that trapped the back of his head pressed tighter.
“Julian,” said the Italian groom, “Let go.”
A bullet’s cartridge exited the Browning’s chamber as soon the man’s hand left the man’s head.
Erenesto Fuzilli barely had any time to catch his breath and relax his neck.
Barely had time to get up.
Blood flowed and broke the small, clear puddle of saliva on the floor and rushed to the black shoes like water snaking into a glossy dam.

The bride, dressed in a white flannel dressed lined with fine red silk and a purple velveteen ribbon on her tied back hair, turned and looked at the priest. She put a finger on her closed lips stained with a shade that matched the colour of dark, red rose petals before they wither away. No expression on her face was etched, and the glitters her nails were lightly painted with caught the coloured hits of sunshine passing through the mosaic glass decorating the walls of the small building.
Her hand found its way above the missal he held, and left a white legal-sized letter envelop on top of the page where it was opened. It was fat and heavy- almost bursting with what it contained.
“Bianca…” called out her groom.
He watched the bride in her blue suede shoes walk out of the church out of the right wing, following the small army of men with the remaining three members of the four-person party in tow, who slipped into the two Durango’s. The groom waited, and took the girl by her left elbow as he helped her into the Saab’s passenger seat. As she lifted that hand while Mariano found her elbow, the diamond shone under the sun- as bright and warm as the way the couple looked at each other as they walked to the dark green vehicle.
He was fifty four, and she was twenty eight.

He was old, and it was not first time in his life that he had received a large amount of money inside a white stationery envelope. He thought that the body on the aisle, not too many feet away from where he stood, stared up at the crucifix which served as the only witness to the murder. Jesus Christ looked down upon the body, as if He blamed Ernesto Fuzilli for the gunshot between his eyes. He looked down at the man as if He intended to shake His head and say something that starts with: You should have… to shame him for her being murdered in a place where he could be very well-protected. The watery gloss on his lip he once maintained by licking it repeatedly reflected the right, bright red colour of his blood and his eyes were large and clear behind a pair of frameless spectacles. His nails, glassy with a coating of clear polish he had his manicurist put on him for the ceremony seemed looked as if they were about to claw against the hard marble floor, fingers stiff.
Dead.
Father Gregorio Bravo, a Jesuit by name and training and a soldier of God’s will, turned on his heel and slipped the missal under one arm before opening the thick envelope. Beads of sweat started forming atop his lip, his forehead, and on his neck as he ran his thumb over its contents.
Two hundred thousand dollars.
They have been honest.
He entered his room and savoured the silence of his small parish, and for the mean time did not think of what may happen if someone finds the beady-eyed Italian swimming in his own blood in the middle of the aisle- and in front of the crucified Christ.

This would not have happened if Ernesto Fuzilli complied with their wishes. All the couple needed was for him to give up his dreams of forming another family that would compete against the other very well-established members of underworld New York. Mariano already told him- one grey afternoon, while visiting a large new warehouse from where fresh meat products were stored and transported to different restaurants in the city, the hang-out for Ernesto Fuzilli’s infant mob- that there was no more room for them, and Little Italy was getting too small for a certain faction stretching out from Manhattan and that another family establishing control would be choking the corporation’s growth. The solution, Mariano Lobos Nardi proposed, would be for the Fuzilli Syndicate to fuse its small army with the forces of Alessandro Provenzano.
Who would not know this man?
Apparently- Fuzilli did not, and he did not know the consequences that came with it. Nardi and his associates were very understanding and patient with explaining this certain power they were about to smash their head against if they pursue this dream of cementing control on Little Italy. Three days after the warehouse visit from the tall Italian man, he started noticing the decrease of the number of men inside his warehouse. Although the labourers’ numbers were stable- from the drivers, the butchers, the delivery men, the checkers, and quality control people- the more significant men started to vanish. The warehouse felt less secure, and company started feeling a bit more coldly for the idealistic young boss. Even his wife, who managed the meat trade of the warehouse, who was not supposed to even involve herself with her husband’s business, started noticing the thinning of the numbers among her husband’s men. She was not dumb. Who would need ex-military men, gun aficionados, a few accountants and pimps and women who looked too plastic and made-up as workers for a company that distributed meat? Rumours even confirmed her beliefs that her husband was entering a certain business venture she only saw on television (being American), and a bit of star complex actually jived her on to play the silent housewife that was very much expected of her. Like Diane Keaton to Al Pacino. Like Edi Falco to James Gandolfini. Clarissa Fuzilli did not feel what Sharon Stone was to Robert DeNiro. She preferred the silent, suffering, but very much knowing wife and mother to her mobster husband and his child. She enjoyed it, and the thrill of working in a meat distribution company fronting the headquarters of a small mafia powered her to passion for work.
When she started to notice the decrease in the numbers of the other workers inside the warehouse, she too had vanished, and later found herself in conversation with an Italian male she never saw before.
His name was Julian Coroza. It only took them a couple of days to hit it off- and it only took Clarissa a few days to know that the men who was once under the payroll and protection of her husband, Ernesto, had moved on to greener pastures after being convinced by recruiters who seemed to have littered the front of the Fuzilli meat house in barely a week.
She did not come back home, and only had one favour to ask when a very nice couple- a young woman and a very well-chiselled older, tall Italian male who seemed to like speaking for the silent girl- convinced her that she would double her earnings and her business would grow if she agreed to let themhandle her with the guarantee of their experience in running businesses in New York.
Clarissa Fuzilli believed them and they agreed to do the favour for her.
For the Nardi couple, it would be such a small and very easy price to pay for what they want.

After a week- Ernesto Fuzilli and his daughter was invited to the renewal of Mariano and Bianca Nardi’s marriage vows in a small local church. The sense of exclusivity the scented white and red invitation carried with it made him forget his worries for a while that he took a day to prepare for this event. Wedding made his young soul excited. There was something about being witness to vows that made him feel giddy and fluffy on the inside. Plus, this was an opportunity to solidify and tighten his ties to another mob.
If he only knew that this mob was no ordinary, run-of-the-mill mafia, he would have thought twice.
He did not know that after this event, he will not have any more chance to regret the actions he took- and that his wife would find it very easy to forget him as long as their daughter makes it back to the warehouse, safe and sound.
He did not know, that after this event, his wife would exercise a power over the meat distribution company with a new man who had better connections and ties that would serve as the aphrodisiac to a relationship that would merge the Fuzilli Syndicate with a strong regime whose existence he never knew due to the lack of research and too much youthful vigour. His ignorance was spread among him and three other men, who were left alive and cannot be spared because of their skills as bodyguards and gunmen to Mr. Fuzilli- and there they were like the others who would rather be on greener pastures than to admit loyalty to an Italian immigrant who was only trying to fulfil his dream, Hollywood or personal, to rule a small army of men that would resemble the Mafia.

Too bad he moved. Too persistent.

Requests:
- A dead Ernesto Fuzilli
- The silence of Fr. Gregorio Bravo, SJ after paying the judging staffer the two hundred thousand dollars bribe
- A warehouse in Little Italy with the meat distribution business in it
- Clarissa Fuzilli, top class manager
- Workers of the meat distribution facility
[15] Labourers
[5] Quality Control Meat Checkers
[4] Top Security Guards
[6] Top Accountants
[20] Top Class Gunmen
[15] Top Class Bodyguards

Note:
Might have went over the top with my requests, but I think I have made the takeover very clear and precise with a brief detail and explanation on what went on behind the scenes while Ernesto Fuzilli was busy building his regime. The gunmen I have used for this event have long been established as Provenzano gunpeople. The high number of gunpeople and bodyguard requests is explained by the piece itself. Mariano and Bianca Nardi’s faction did not only take over a warehouse- but also a whole posse of gangster wannabes. I know this sucks. Slap me for it- and please be patient with reading this small piece. I tried.[/font]

_________________
The Provenzano Family


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 Post subject:
PostPosted: Sat May 06, 2006 3:46 am 
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Joined: Sat Apr 29, 2006 12:09 am
Posts: 51
Requests:
- A dead Ernesto Fuzilli - I guess
- The silence of Fr. Gregorio Bravo, SJ after paying the judging staffer the two hundred thousand dollars bribe - Pay me in ten seconds or you go to jail.
- A warehouse in Little Italy with the meat distribution business in it- Not in Little Italy, pick somewhere it'd fit.
- Clarissa Fuzilli, top class manager - Yep
- Workers of the meat distribution facility
[15] Labourers - All 15
[5] Quality Control Meat Checkers - All 5
[4] Top Security Guards - All 4
[6] Top Accountants - 3
[20] Top Class Gunmen - 10
[15] Top Class Bodyguards - 5


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