Posted on Thu Jan 4th, 2018 @ 10:50pm by Unawakened Alfonzo Siciliano
Location: Baja, Mexico
"In this country, you gotta make the money first.
Then when you get the money, you get the power.
Then when you get the power, then you get the women."
- Tony Montana; Scarface (1983)
“.. you got cops, right? You got cops running around and shooting little black kids random. Random. And they call me, the bad guy.” Salvador Siciliano on a folding chair at a dull grey table, his orange jumpsuit being the little bit of color in the otherwise monochromatic greyscale of cinder block and steel. Across from him, well dressed and smart in appearance, Nigel Welsh of BBC News Hour.
“Bah, *BLEEP* it.” Salvador continued, his language censored by the program. He drew up his cuffed wrists and casting a dismissive hand toward a well-dressed interviewer. “I don't need to tell you that. It’s the same everywhere. The world is going to shit, my friend. I just try and make life a little easier for the little guy and take'a look what what they do? *BLEEP*ing stunod over here, sittin' in ass *BLEEP* New York pulling on my braciole. ”
We want our bad guys to be all the way bad, ya’know? Some sort of wicked pit of corruption that is absent of any reason or moral compass.
We like things nice and easy but they seldom are. Take that preacher, you know the one, “God Hates Fags” and all of that cunty nonsense.
Back during the civil rights era -- Jim Crow and all that? -- that fuck was one of the few lawyers representing Blacks. Not only that, he
worked for free and had a measurable impact on the Civil Rights movement. Loves Racial equality but hates Orientation equality, its fuckin’
madness -- but it's also reality. It’s complicated. That is my old man .. complicated. As long as you say a thing, phrase them in a way to get
people on your side, then you can do what you want.
My old man killed 15 people that they know of. He is in Sing Sing Federal fuck-you-in-the-ass Prison with the Son of Sam, The Rosenbergs,
and that Mutie who burned down half of Queens in the 80s. He’s a bastard locked away with dangerous people .. and he gets bags of fan mail
Salvador Siciliano could’a been mayor of New York, if he wanted to take a pay cut.
“Ay oh, Nige, I ain’t saying I am some angel, ya understand?” again he rose his bound wrists and pointed beyond the wall beside him, “But there are far worse crooks than me beyond the gates of this joint. Bankers and Politicians stealing from the pensions of old ladies, Companies that pay themselves all kinds of money but don't give their employees shit. See, on the outside it was guys like me who would step in ‘oh you need some money for the holidays. here you go’ or ‘old lady so-and-so, they shut your gas off. here lemme fix that.’ So what if some pieces of shit met and end? I never got nobody that didn’t need gettin’, ya understand?”
Salvador leaned back in his chair and used his bound wrists to slick back the receding gray hairs on his head.He seemed pretty proud of himself in that moment, the populist rhetoric that he used to gloss over his own misgivings.
When Salvador spoke again his English became muted and was instead dubbed by a smooth-voiced Spanish speaker. As Salvador started into the British interviewer about the state of American prison system and non-violent drug offenders, the transmission was switched over to a Futbol match between Argentina and Brazil.
Alfonso Siciliano, gangster’s son touching the twilight of his teenage years, had clicked the new-program over to sports. Though he didn’t voice any such opinions, it was clear by the look on his face that he was through with it. He slipped the plastic-wrap covered remote control back into its holster under the bar.
It was late afternoon, Baja Mexico -- an off-season for many tourists but enough locals to keep the young man’s bar afloat. Well, local patrons and some other .. less-than-savory connections. Hector, a thin dark-skinned Spaniard, had been watching the program while occasionally taking small sips from a shot of tequila. He would, from time to time, study Alfonso from a single bright blue eye while its partner, dull and milky in color, remained straight ahead.
“Your papi, jefe.” Hector said of the senior Siciliano as he another sip of the tequila. “A great man. Passionate. I followed his-like in the Revolution.” He motioned with the shot glass to his burned face and spoiled eye.
“My father is a cunt.” Alfonso replied taking a case of Tecate brand beer up onto the bartop, opening it and stocking the ice chest. “And the guy you lost your eye for..” he said glancing at him, “.. that got your face burned up like a piece of bacon? He was a cunt too.”
“Ey papa..” Hector said with a slight nod, “maybe yes, maybe no ..” He eyed the remained of his shot with his good eye, “.. but the truth, jefe, nothing traps more men than pussy. With populist pig shit or without.” He took down the what was left of the shot and slapped it down onto the bar top by the rim. He ran his thin fingers through his stringy hair and slipped on a black Stetson.
“You know what they call you, jefe?” Hector said came up off the stool, adjusting the sizable belt buckle which held up faded jeans. “The brujas in the village? Cesar Negro.”
“Black Caesar.” Alfonso translated. He shrugged giving a bit of an eye-roll. “What the fuck does that even mean?”
Hector smiled, “Don't know, papa. Maybe your hair..” he looked around the dark tavern, “.. maybe this place..” he looked back. “Maybe something we can’t see. Something the bruja see in you? Don't know.”
“Fuck those hillbilly bastards.” Alfonso would comment turning his back to Hector and stocking the liquor shelf behind him. “Hector, I am gonna need some extra girls this weekend. My gut at the resort is telling me Phi-Delta-something or other is holding their.” when he turned back toward Hector he was gone. The young man’s words trailed off. “.. holding their winter break.” He shook his head and turned back to the liquor. “Black Caesar” he scoffed, “.. I need to get back to Jersey.”