STORY

The Godfather

The Don woke up in a place he didn’t recognize. Right away, he figured he wasn’t supposed to know it. He realized he was dead. He remembered the shooting, the funeral, and how Guido Scalitto never paid up—typical cheapskate. Maybe Guido’s son would fix that. The details of his burial were hazy. He had no idea where he was or why he wasn’t still dead, and he decided not to dwell on it.

The smell of garlic and tomatoes simmering filled the hot air, drawing even the saddest souls closer. In Hell’s version of a kitchen, the Don now stood over a pot, more comfortable with a wooden spoon than a gun. It was strange. In life, respect came easily, but not here. Maybe that’s why he cooked with the same drive he once used to run the Family. If it earned him a bit of dignity, he’d take it. He told himself he wasn’t giving in to Satan, but deep down, he knew he was. Spaghetti became his daily masterpiece, a skill he only learned after death. He didn’t have the power he once did, especially compared to the Boss here, but he did what he could. There was some pride in that, even if it was all he had left.

Each day brings a new ritual, as Paul Revere and the Raiders strike up their eternal set as the house band, their famous rhythms a ticket to hellish residency. The Don heart his heart into bowls of pasta crafted for those condemned. At least, they could have good food. Whether their presence was just or merely a cosmic error remains a decision left to divine arbitration, while the rest of the damned linger in resigned eternity.

The Don’s dinners always left the kitchen looking and smelling amazing. But by the time they reached the House, a demon had breathed on them, turning them into a burnt mess. It took the Don a while to realize what was happening, and it made him furious. Sure, Satan was more powerful, but he wasn’t about to let some low-level demon ruin his signature dish. He figured he’d have to get someone to take care of the problem.

"Wot is this shit?” John Lennon asked.

"Smells like my autopsy room", James Dean said.

Don heard all about this, of course. He was still the Don, and Satan wanted him to hear about it. It made the Don livid. He told his kitchen helpers, “I want those two to be made quiet”. His helpers understood what he meant, but he was just another lost soul in the depths of Hell.

What he said was clear. Since removing the cotton from his mouth, the Don was speaking very clearly. Not very bright, just very clearly.

“Uh, Donnie, that might be a little damn tricky, being as they’re already dead,” one of his helpers, Jeffrey Dahmer, told him.

“Eh, stupido, I don’t plan.. I say what I want done, and it gets done. It’s about respect and honor. Don’t got that, don’t gotta nothing”, the Don yelled at him.

Dahmer didn’t like being yelled at. He thought that the next spaghetti might contain some out-of-the-ordinary ingredients in it. Perhaps some very different, unique meatballs. They’d be a little crunchy, but this was Hell. Then he’d tell the demons they were meant for Satan. The Don would get a big dose of pain and be burned raw. Satan was Satan, but he was fussy about his dinner.

When Manson dropped into Hell for a visit, he’d order a slice of liver and maybe some barbecued ribs. Dahmer would give the heart to Manson to keep him happy. “This is overdone. I want mine fresh off the rack. You know that.” Yeah, but Dahmer was one of the few who wasn’t afraid of Manson and what he’d do when he died. that. That was Satan’s problem. This talent of coming and going to Hell was a natural part of him. Manson’s guards, armed, were afraid of him. They wanted to set up a fake prison break so they could kill him. They didn’t know what his capability was; only that he had it. Even the Demons kept their distance from him when he’d come down. Only the Big Palooka, Satan, would even come near him, and then none too closely. Manson tried his stare on Satan on the first trip down, and Satan just giggled at him. Satan gave Manson the creeps. Manson gave Satan the willies, but Satan couldn't admit it, or Manson might become the Devil be the Devil when he died.

When the Don first arrived in Hell, everything changed in an instant. Satan himself met him at the Gates of Hell. The Don, for all his worldliness, didn’t have a clue about this world. He thought of himself as the God of his world. Maybe he was, but this wasn’t his world; it was Satan’s. Satan looked the Don over and started laughing. This stunned the Don. No one laughed at him, no one showed him disrespect. Yet, he didn’t seem to be able to think of any way to do anything about it. What a strange feeling.

“Welcome to Hell! You’re going to meet up with a lot of old friends and a lot of old enemies. Better watch your ass, old man. No one here is going to watch it for you. That’s not true, but I like lying to you. I like lying to God. I’m making you the Chef in Hell’s Kitchen. Then, I’m going to ruin everything you make. Your reputation is going to Hell in a handbasket. A little joke I like to tell. Laugh, you little shit!!”

The Don found himself laughing. He had never laughed in his entire life. He found that he feared this Satan, another feeling he had never had. He didn't think he was going to like Hell. Satan then told him, “Oh, and yank those cotton balls out of your mouth, or I’ll have them ripped out through your ass, which you better watch down here.” The house band was singing some whiny song as an Indian about how the white man stole everything from them. There were three people seated at the table. He waited for one of them to pull his chair for respect. The one on his left was a tall, gaunt man. He looked like poseccitti that had been left out in the hot sun for a couple of weeks. The one in the middle looked okay, although he looked at the Don with a smirk and a look of amusement in his eyes. In the world, that alone would have gotten him hit. The third guy was a monster. He had no face. The eyes were just holes, and so was the nose. It was like someone had skinned his face. The Don waited for one of them to pull out his chair, and the other two to stand as a sign of respect. He didn't know how long he stood there since Hell was an eternity, and time didn't exist. It couldn't have stood too long since the band was whining about the Indians. He didn't know that when Paul Revere and the Raiders featured Mark Lindsey, 'Indian Reservation was all the time Hell, if it bothered them so much, why didn't they go on the warpath or whatever damn thing did they do? Didn't the Don and his fellow Sicilians steal it off the white eyes?

The Don was beginning to get impatient when the gaunt man said,"Hey, sweet-buns, pull up a chair and have a seat. You can sit next to me." The smirking guy smirked even more. That pissed the Don off even more. Was he being made the butt of a joke? He soon learned not to say butt around the gaunt man, Rock Hudson. The guy with the smirk was on Lennon. He was amused by everything. He wouldn't have been amused if he'd known that Yoko Ono was also going to be in Hell as the second act with her screeching. The third guy, Mr. No-face, was James Dean. Dean lost his face when he flew through the windshield of his car. He couldn't see anything and couldn't smell too much, but he could talk.

"Oh. I don't know. I got me away from what's her name, I got what I wanted, "Lennon responded.

"Well, so, you got a name?", Rock asked the Don.

What? This asshole doesn't know who I am?, the Don thought. Well,maybe not. He wasn't one of us; he was one of them. "I'm the Don, a 'Man of Respect'. I'm a simple man with simple

needs, but I have great influence if you know what I mean", the Don replied. "Yeah, man, whatever. You're in Hell, though. Here comes the food."Dean said.

The Don was filled with pride. It was his spaghetti. He'd find a way to casually mention that it was his unbeatable recipe. He did it with pride but also with modesty. His heart almost stopped! This was a burned mess. How could that be? Spaghetti didn't burn. It was like Twinkies. How could it?

"It looks like Yoko's cooking. It looks a little like what came up when she got sick on saki", Lennon remarked.

"Well, I can't see it, and I can't smell it, but barely smell it. It smells a little like the autopsy room. Well, what the Hell, it's all we're gonna get, so let's dig in", Dean said.

The Don took one bite and tossed it back up. The other three glanced at him. Lennon spoke for them when he said, “It’s alright, bloke. You can scrape it up and toss it in the next pot”.

"Hey, gumbino, what happened to that guy’s face?" the Don asked.

"Wot face?", Lennon asked.

"Okay, Lennon, it's getting a little old. I lost it in the accident that put me here, if you need to know, you old prick", Dean replied.

"Sweet Mary, even we never thoughta that one. I like it", the Don, told Dean.

"That's nice, Mr. Chef."

"Thank you", the Don said.

"I was smartin' off, you old prick", Dean told him.

"Ah, I see. In the other life, you wouldn't have dared to say that to me." the Don replied.

"Like Hell I wouldn't have."

"E's daft. E'd a done it", Lennon said.

"He'd have been a dead man", the Don responded. He didn't like the way this was going. Death was Hell.

"I am a dead man, you goofy, old coot!", Dean yelled.

The Don got up and left with as much dignity as he could. He was thinking, what the Hell kind of world was this when a faceless man could get away with disrespecting a Don? At least he ruled the kitchen, for all that meant. He decided to go there and see if that tattooed guy was gone. The Don didn't know fear, but this guy was teaching him the meaning. The cannibal would probably still be there, though. Who knows what he ate? He found the cannibal eating meat. The Don was curious but not that curious. He saw that the tattooed guy was gone. That was a relief. "Hey! Where'd Manson go?" the Don asked Dahmer.

"Back", Dahmer replied.

"Back? Back where?"

"To his cell, I guess. No place else he can go."

"He went back to his cell? How can he do that? I can't go back to my house and my respect."

"Look, man, I don't give a rat's ass about your respect. Okay? All I know is Manson comes and goes."

"How?"

"How? How the Hell would I know? He comes and goes as he wants."

"I would like to go back too. So how come he can and I can't?", The Don asked.

"You want to go back? You're dead. If you go back, you go back to a box buried in the ground. Man, that's creepy", Dahmer shuddered.

"Then how come the freak gets to go back to his cell?"

"Because he ain't dead! God wants him in Hell, and he'll put him here when he dies, but he won't strike him dead, or whatever it is he does. Manson just laughs and stays alive. God must figure if the government won't kill him and Manson won't kill himself off, then he ain't going to do it either. On the other hand, since God wants Manson in Hell, why would he stop him from coming here?

"Why does he allow him to go back?"

"I already told you. Manson ain't dead. There is no time in infinity, man. Manson comes and goes back, and no one back there knows it. Pretty cool, huh?"

"I want to go back to my house, and my respect", the Don said again.

"Tell you what you do. Take it up with Satan. The thing of it is, Satan doesn't have any respect for you. He doesn't have respect for God, so who the Hell are you? He doesn't respect himself, even. You go whining

to him, and you might end up on latrine duty, wiping asses with your hands, you're going to a lower circle of Hell."

The Don entered his kitchen, wondering what you had to do to go there if Dahmer was here. That's how he thought of it. His. At least here, he was in charge. He saw that the tattooed, crazy man wasn't there, and, for once, the other crazy guy wasn't there either. The Don let out a sigh, but shouldn't have. Moments later, Dahmer came running, all happy and excited. “Guess who’s coming to dinner? Guess.”

"Who?

"Nope. That's a band. No, I don't know where Morrison is. Guess again."

"I was asking who. I'm not playing a guessing game with you", the Don said. The Don didn't like the things that came out of this guy's mouth. For that matter, he didn't like what went into his mouth either. This guy was plain disgusting.

"Okay, I'll tell you. Satan himself, that's who. I mean, wow! That's quite an honor,sort of", Dahmer told the Don.

"Honor. Finally, I get respect."

"Respect? Hell no! Satan doesn't respect anybody. He doesn't even respect himself. If I were you, I'd dump that respect shit and play it as cool as you can. Don't be throwin' one of them Italian hissy fits. Not with Satan wants."

"Well, he is a person of 'influence', as I was", the Don said.

"Influence? What the Hell are you talking about, 'influence'? He has power, that's what he has. Raw, overwhelming, damn near unchecked power. Influence, my ass. Man, you must have watched way too many Mafia movies. Satan's going to eat your spaghetti. Sorry, man, I really. am. That stuff ain't for shit, know what I mean? Really sorry,” Dahmer said with a smirk.

Satan appeared at the House, an unusual occurrence. Satan was a busy spirit, screaming at his demons to increase their quotas and arguing with that Other One about who was winning. That Satan was going to lose in the end didn’t matter. It was the game that counted. Satan was way ahead in numbers. Of course, the odds were all in His favor, humans being what they were. Satan knew. He should have made them pets and been done with it. Now he was hearing rumors of some especially bad slop on the menu at the House, and decided to check it out personally. His sudden appearance unnerved everyone, including the demons. Demons they were, but they were still deathly afraid of the Devil. The Lost Souls were petrified of him. Never knew when he might send them. to a worse part of Hell. Satan wasn’t sitting in the no-smoking section. He was always smoking himself all over. Also, there wasn’t a no-smoking section. It bothered some of the Lost Souls, but that was the point. He was served a huge plate of spaghetti. It looked wonderful and smelled wonderful. He tasted, and the taste was miraculous. That was a word only he was allowed to say or even think. He took a bite and smiled, what passed for a smile with him. Everyone started to relax.

They looked at their plates at good spaghetti. They all took a bite, and it was wonderful. A sense of joy ran through the place. Satan sat still for a moment, then let out a scream heard clear to the Pearly Gates, where St.Peter smiled. Always good to hear Satan screaming. Made his day. Satan roared up from his table, throwing fear around like confetti at a parade. The demons wanted to leave, but were too afraid to. Lennon and one of the demons were trying to hide behind one another, with Lennon almost wishing he were back with Yoko. James Dean couldn't see, popping his eyeball out like when he popped his windshield out with his face, but he could smell. Man, Satan smelled like- like death warmed over. Rock Hudson suddenly got a tight asshole. He hadn’t had that since he was ten. In front of him appeared the Don, in his apron and a spatula in one hand and a glass of bad French wine in the other. The Don was bewildered at how he was standing in front of his stove, and now was at the House. He looked at Satan, and Satan looked at him.

“You! You made this spaghetti?” Satan asked.

“Yes-”, the Don began to say.

“I know that, you asshole! I know everything down here! This is the best food I’ve eaten here since I don’t know when. You cook for me or for everyone? Careful how you answer that.” The Don, despite himself, got all puffed up at this. Finally, some respect and honor. Finally He sent the Don to a higher level of Hell. He was going to Level 3 as the sausage cleaner. He would be cleaning the intestines by sucking out the contents. The Don, his dignity ruffled, asked why. “Don, it’s not business, it’s personal.”

No one will ever kill me, they wouldn't dare Carmine Galante

Capitalism is the legitimate racket of the ruling class. Al Capone

Wherever there's opportunity, the mafia will be there. Johnny Kelly

Guilt is the mafia of the mind.

Robert Mandel



The myths die hard, especially within the Mafia. Robert D. McFadden

There is no rule of law until the Mafia needs lawyers. Stephen Holmes

The same liberty that protects me also protects members of the Mafia. Barbara Amie

Hell, I'm not saying I'm an angel, but when it came to dirty tricks I couldn't hold a candle to the Irish Mafia. Jimmy Hoffa

Desperation is like stealing from the Mafia: you stand a good chance of attracting the wrong attention. Douglas Horton

Work harder, work longer, and earn less because the mafia needs your money. Gerald Celente

It was dangerous to hit the wrong kid in my neighborhood, because a lot of the guys I played with had fathers in the Mafia. Tim Robbins

Black Mafia. If they don't understand that, they ain't gangsta. I just watched TV and Bill Parcells kissed two or three of them boys...it's a Mafia thing. Lil Wayne

Cool thing about Fidel Castro is that the CIA and the mafia - which are both terrible organizations that tried to murder him again and again - haven't succeeded. Ian Svenonius