The Halifax Conspiracy
Connor Valentine; November 10, 2010
I make a few phone calls in search of some work with one of the local 'families.' Having worked with members of the Irish persuasion in the past I lean in that direction. Finally I'm pointed in the direction of the O` Malley clan. I set up a meeting with thug and cousin of Boss Rory O'Malley.
I arrive at local pub, "Mac Tiernins" to find three scruffy lookin' fellas that fit what I would believe an Irish mobster to look like. The fella who talks first never introduces himself but speaks with a thick accent. In fact it reminds me of me dear ol da so many years ago.
I assume this is Seamus. He says I check out and that if this goes well he`ll have more for me later. He hears I'm good at throwin' my wheight arount and wants ta know how `eavy I am.
I smile and nod. He says that a little bar down the street has been having an issue with what appears to be two small time wops looking to impress the local Italian family and get into their business. He wants me to make sure they know this area belongs to them and wants me to make me own attempt at making an impression.
He says he doesn't want them dead and asks if i ever played ball as a boy. This time I beam and tell him I'm a real home run hitter.
So for the next few nights I hang out at "Mac Tiernins" until one night a pair of very Italian looking fellows in track suits and slicked back hair saunter in.
As they approach the bar the older fellow bar-tending (I assume this to be Mr. Mac Tiernin) says with an Irish accent:
"I told ya boys, I aint got no money, I already pay da O'Malleys for der services, I dont need pretection from da likes of you too!"
The thinner of the two starts with a heavy New York draw:
"Listen old man, we're not hea ta make trouble for ya, we just want you to know that our associates could really give ya the protection ya need.... I mean it'd be a shame if dis place... say, I dunno, burnt to da ground"
He chuckles and turns to his friend.
"wouldnt ya say Tommy?"
Tommy smiles and scoops an empty glass up off the bar and hurls into the shelves of bottles behind Mac Tiernin. By now the bar has cleared out and its just he four of us. I keep my head down and continue to stare into my glass of Jameson.
The first guy looks my way and says "Well?"
I ignore him.
Tommy says "Hey we're talkin ta you pal!"
"Éirinn go Bách"
"IRELAND FOREVER YOU GREASY FUCK" I scream as I bury my glass in Tommy's right eye. As he goes down his buddy fumbles for something in his waste band (I assume a gun) but he's too slow.
"HA HAAAA!" I yell as my bat comes from next to me and wings him across the nose breaking it to shit and nearly taking it off. The pasta sucking asshole goes down and as he falls I pluck his weapon from his waste band. 9mm, nice.
Tommy scrambles to his feet clutching his face. blood and glass between his fingers. He whips the gun from his own pants and as he fires I smash the gat from his hand like a ball off a tee.
"Going, Going, GONE!" the gun slides across the floor and I'm sure every bone in his hand is DESTROYED. He screams and his buddy comes to.
"Hey get your crybaby-fuck friend and get out. I better never see you pukes here again, got it?"
Tommy's buddy nods and grabs Tommy by he collar and pulls him along as he heads for the door.
I look to MacTiernan as the pair stumble out.
"there, that should do it. If those jackasses show back up let Seamus know. We'll fix it."
I contact Seamus's people and let them know the job is done. Pleased with myself I head home... And realize at some point I cracked my bat...damn. Guess I'll order an aluminum one this time. Oh and apparently I took a bullet in the leg, GREAT!. I dig it out when i get home and stick it in my wallet. Never know when I'll see Tommy again and I'm sure hes gonna want his bullet back.
Upon hearing that Tommy "Pigman" Vincetti's is now sucking his dinners through a straw at St. Martins, Seamus tells you he's "int'rested in sponsrin' yer upcoming baseball career," and invites you to meet him, MacTiernan and a few dozen of his friends and brothers for celebratory drinks.
You wake up the next evening still drunk and praying to God that your memories of making out with Rory's dog of a sister-in-law are inaccurate - a brown paper bag full of hundreds in the bathroom sink at the very least confirms that if they were, such indiscretions didn't effect the boss's decision to pay you, so you think you're in good shape. You crawl into the shower and try to wash off the scent of whiskey, blood and bar smoke.
When you stumble out, you find you have a voice mail.
"Valentine. Trotski here... so I heard from a little bird that Angelo Vincetti - you know that dickhead working for Lorenzo Giovanni in Jersey - he's been asking around about some smartass motherfucker with a baseball bat who did his brother wrong last night.
Now, comrade, I'm not going to insinuate that this particular incident of baseball-related injury can be ascribed to you, but I thought I might want to pass the word along. Scratch your back, is how you say it? You're a smart man, so I think your can put the pieces together.
Also... could you do something about Stalin's car soon, friend? He's quite hurt in the buttocks still and I'm tire of listening to him cry.
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