Meanwhile, in a dimly lit restaurant in Miami, two mobsters who may or may not of been of Italian descent (it’s impossible to say without engaging in un-work ethnic stereotyping) sat in a corner booth, feasting on spaghetti but do keep in mind they may have only liked spaghetti because it is a delicious dish enjoyed by all and not because they were Italians because again, their ethnicity was never confirmed.
“You got the stuff, Rocko?” Carmine asked. Just because Carmine was named Carmine and Rocko was named Rocko does not mean they were Italians. Seriously. Get some diversity training, because you’re worse than Hitler.
“Maybe I got the stuff,” Rocko replied. “You got the money?”
Carmine plopped a briefcase down on the table and opened it to reveal rows upon rows of crisp stacks of green bills. “Yeah, I’ve got the money.”
Rocko tossed Carmine a paper bag. “Then I got the stuff.”
Carmine opened up the bag and examined the contents. “Mama Mia! That’s a-spicey meat-a-ball!” No one knew what a man not confirmed to be an Italian would say such a thing.
“You want to count the money?” Carmine asked. “Make sure it’s all there?”
“Nah,” Rocko replied. “Do I look like I’m worried you’d cheat me? Fahgeddaboudit.”
Then again, he might have said “Forget about it” as a non-Italian would say.
Suddenly, the front door to the restaurant was kicked in, a ridiculous move since it was unlocked and the establishment was open to the public. Perhaps the FBI agent in charge did it for dramatic effect.
“FBI!” Sharon shouted out of fear that her “FBI” hat and “FBI” jacket did not make the point properly. “Hands where I can see ‘em!”
A crew of agents with guns drawn stormed into the restaurant and surrounded the men who were most likely not Italians.
“Why are you harassing us, copper?” Carmine asked.
“Yeah,” Rocko said. “We’re just a couple of legitimate businessmen enjoying a tasty lunch over here. Oh!”
“I’ll see about that,” Sharon said as she dumped the contents of the bag out on the table. Soon, the surface was covered with thick, shiny dildos, each a different color of the rainbow.”
“How long did you think you’d be able to import black market cooter stuffers under our nose, Rocko?” Sharon asked.
“Those aren’t mine!” Rocko said. “Those could be anyone’s black market cooter stuffers! Honest!”
“Bah, tell it to the judge,” Sharon said before turning to her agents. “Take ‘em away, boys.”
As the men who, again, were most likely not Italians, were hauled off in cuffs, a television set over the bar caught Sharon’s attention. The volume was down, but there was a photo of Bishop on screen. Underneath the photo were the words, “Toilet Killer Investigator Dead.”
Sharon felt a chill consume her. Her hand trembled as she dialed up her boss at the Miami Bureau. “Hello sir…uh huh…is it true? Oh…oh no….yes….right but….oh my God…no…no…I…I can’t believe it…I…sir? I’m sorry sir, but I’m going to need some time off…yes…right…OK then…thank you for understanding.”
Bookshelf Battle 