Vito Schillaci

I now present the last page of my Mafia novel ‘Vito Schillaci’. Though critical response was muted when first published in 1987, the mafia did visit my home and beat my grandmother into a coma. I always felt vindicated by their violence. Enjoy!



Flann O’Coonassa

Page 344 of 344

…..buttabing, buttabang, bing-bang, bong-bing, eh?” said Vito.
“He’s right,” replied Tony, rising from his chair and beginning a slow-clap that would quickly gather pace until every crook in the assembly was applauding and cheering. No mobster had ever spoken such eloquence and truth. Grown murderers wept openly. Excited hoodlums fired their weapons into the air (much to the chagrin and death of some upstairs tenants).

Hush was only restored when Don Luigi rose slowly from his seat, chewing a mouthful of salami. Like a Roman emperor deliberating on a gladiator’s faith, nobody ever knew the Don’s mind. He walked to Vito and eyeballed him Italianly. All around fell silent.

The Don lifted his hand and smacked Vito’s cheek playfully, but with enough force to leave an imprint from which a palm reader could easily ply their trade. He then pinched the same cheek with the force of a disgruntled lobster, causing Vito’s eyes to water. Lastly, the Don kissed Vito asexually on the lips for a minute and a half.

“What am I gonna do with this guy, eh? You mamaluke, you.” said The Don.

Crippling tension was once again replaced with rapturous applause and cheering.

“Vito’s words,” continued the Don, “have brought peace to the five families. As head of the Luciano family, and leader of this council, I vow that I shall not break the peace that we have created here today.”
“Here, here!,” cried Harry the Homicider, a good-natured homicidal maniac from the west side. Don Luigi immediately took out a revolver and shot Harry in the face eight times (he had to reload after the first six bullets).

“A man who interrupts another man when he’s talking about peace?” said Don Luigi. “Such a man has no respect. And I cannot respect a man who shows no respect in such situations as the one described just moments ago. Such disrespect is not to be respected. But nor is it to be disrespected, because that would makes us hypocrites. Capiche?”
“Wise words, Godfather,” said Tony.

After the removal of Harry’s carcass from the hall, each mobster queued single-file to pinch Vito’s cheek and kiss him asexually on the lips. When all had paid their respects, Vito’s mouth was dripping with the saliva of fifty men and his cheek bone was fractured in four places. Regardless, his expression never flickered.

“And to think,” said the Don, placing a friendly arm around Vito’s shoulders, “I once thought this guy was an undercover cop.” The Don melted into convulsions of laughter. Everyone else followed suit, until the loud crackle of a walkie-talkie quietened the assembly.

“Come in Delta Bravo,” came a muffled voice from Vito’s pocket. “Delta Bravo, this is Charlie One. Hello? Calling Vito. Hellooooo. Come on Vito, it’s me, Mike, down at the precinct. Want to grab a brewskie tonight? Come on buddy, The Policeman’s Ball only comes around once a year? And it’s the ten year anniversary of our graduation. You know, from the academy? The police academy, I mean? I don’t know why I said that. What other academies have you graduated from, eh? Come on buddy, come for a beer tonight. You’ve been working too hard lately. As an undercover cop. Yep, the old undercover cop-aroony. Doin the copin. Under the old cover-aroonies. Hello, Vito? You there? Oh wait…shit, are you doing that Mafia counsel thing tonight? Cough if you can’t talk.”

Vito coughed, but it was too late.

“Eh, eh, eh,” he remonstrated as several goons seized him and unburdened him of some fresh salami he’d been hoping to bite into. Tony frisked Vito’s pin-striped suit, removing from various pockets the culprit walkie-talkie, a police badge, a gun, a membership card for the police sport & social club, a wallet containing a picture of Vito in his police uniform with the caption ‘Cop of the Year 1984’, and a standard issue police truncheon.

“It’s not what it looks like,” said Vito.
“I loved you like a son,” said Don Luigi.
“We only met forty minutes ago,” answered Vito.
“Well it feels longer. And your disrespect? It cuts me. Cuts me deep in the buttabalingas. And now I have to kill you.”

Vito smiled.

“No, you won’t kill me Don Luigi. You know why? Because deep down, I see good in you. I see a man whose heart beats with the love of…”

Don Luigi took out his revolver and shot Vito in the face fifteen times (two reloads). His carcass was found in the East river by a police-trained beaver. The beaver gnawed away over a kilogram of flesh from Vito’s neck and chin before his handler arrived on the scene, leading to the permanent termination of the disastrous Police Beaver program.

The NYPD tried to find homes for the sixty odd beavers in their charge, but most were too battle-hardened and disturbed to be reintegrated successfully into the wild, or beaver sanctuaries. Most were euthanised with pitchforks or sold to glue farms, but two escaped into the city sewers and briefly terrorised lower Manhattan before they were shot and killed by an off-duty Canadian Mounty outside a pizzeria in Little Italy.


(dedicated to every beaver who died in the line of duty during the existence of the Police Beaver program)

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Rant by is licensed under a Creative Commons License. Copyright © 2009 Flann O'Coonassa