Florida Oranges
18-10-2005, 05:51
The First Strike
The news hit the criminal underworld in Florida like a boxer's jab; Santo Tulisano, the long time mob lord of the Tulisano crime family and the kingpin of the drug trade in Tampa, had finally met his death.
His fate had been an ironic one, his death caused by a natural lapse of the heart rather than by one of the thousand enemies he'd made during his thirty-year reign as a mafia chieftain. He was only sixty-four-years-old at the time of his death, and in his expiration he'd left a wife and three children behind. After all the cocaine deals, and all the blood shed on account of his line of work, Santo had been granted a merciful death. To family, it eased the pain. To everyone else, especially the innocent people who'd been exposed to the violence and bloodshed of the mafia underworld, it was sickening that he was gifted with such a painless demise.
Still, the funeral processions went on regardless of the pain Tulisano had caused the Tampa residents. A grand motorcade escorted Santo's body through Tampa to his grave, where hundreds of made men, smack pushers, brutal killers, and loving family members watched the burial in humble silence. Hours later there were still crowds bustling around Tulisano's resting place, which was eventually covered from sight by wreaths of flowers and dozens onf lit candlesticks. It was said that even Tampa's mayor and the two National Council representatives of Hillsborough County paid their respects to the fallen mob boss, though what is fact and what is fiction is largely unknown. The newspress had a field day.
Yet the passing of Don Tulisano was hardly the end of the street crime, for with his death came a multitude of fresh problems. Of his three children, two were young, headstrong men of unimaginable rage and ambition. Both wanted to replace their father as head of the Tulisano family and both would exterminate their other sibling willingly for the chance. What had once been a notoriously strong crime unit was now a house divided quickly headed for disaster; with the two potential leaders at each other's throats, there was little doubt that past enemies of the Tulisanos would take this oppurtunity to strike. The question was when and how. Slowly but surely a tension built-up in the previous decade is coming to a head, and who will survive is anyone's guess.
* * * * * *
There was a brief period of silence within the filthy, cramped garages of Orange Plus Auto; the two men, both clad in street smart clothing, watched their boss intently as he analyzed the information they'd just communicated to him. And than the cursing began.
"That fuckin' cocksucker! He thinks he can pull that shit with me? Am I fuckin' stupid?"
Martin "Marty" Tulisano, the oldest son of the late Santo Tulisano at thirty-four-years-old, slammed his oil-stained fist onto a nearby tool cart, his anger clearly in control now. He ran a hand through the tangled mass of greasy black hair on his head as if he couldn't fathom the words of his associates, than quickly turned to one of the men, his bloodshot, baggy eyes ablaze with fury,
"Do I look stupid, Tony? Do I look like a fuckin' mook to you? My own god damn brother, Tony, my own flesh and blood!" There was a slight pause, followed by incoherent mumbling. Than a simple, " Jesus Christ."
There was little the henchmen could say or do to appease their headstrong leader. What was right was right; Paul "Paulie Popeyes" Tulisano had neglected to attend his own father's funeral just to spite his older brother's play for power. Rather than accept that Marty was now the rightful Don of the Tulisano empire, Paulie was going to contest that claim every bit of the way and collapse the very foundations of the family. To add insult to injury, it had just been relayed to Marty that his audacious younger brother had doubled security at the Pink Panther, as if to issue some challenge. There was little doubt in any of the three men's minds that Marty had every right to be steamed.
Pacing back and forth briefly in his gray, dirt-stained mechanic's suit, Marty mumbled silently to himself, trying to subdue his emotions and form a rational yet timely solution. The past couple nights had taken their toll on his mind and body; Paulie's failure to appear at their own father's funeral had the oldest Tulisano worried at first. But when word on the street came back that Paulie had named himself the heir to the Tulisano empire, and he refused to return any of his brother's calls, Marty hit the cocaine and alcohol like a sack of cement. Vibrant brown eyes were now shot and baggy; a once smooth and handsome face was buried beneath a thick sheet of black stubble. Curly black hair greasy from showerless days hung in Marty's face like thick tree branches obscuring his view considerably, and the jumpsuit he was wearing hadn't moved from his body since two days previous.
The two mob goons were concerned, but Marty could care less. A decision was needed; he had to make the first move, before Paulie took things too far. With a hint of exhaustion in his deep, nasally voice, Marty finally put forth an order.
"Get Johnny G. and Rica on the phone and tell them to meet me at the "First Watch" for breakfast. We gotta sort some shit out."
The news hit the criminal underworld in Florida like a boxer's jab; Santo Tulisano, the long time mob lord of the Tulisano crime family and the kingpin of the drug trade in Tampa, had finally met his death.
His fate had been an ironic one, his death caused by a natural lapse of the heart rather than by one of the thousand enemies he'd made during his thirty-year reign as a mafia chieftain. He was only sixty-four-years-old at the time of his death, and in his expiration he'd left a wife and three children behind. After all the cocaine deals, and all the blood shed on account of his line of work, Santo had been granted a merciful death. To family, it eased the pain. To everyone else, especially the innocent people who'd been exposed to the violence and bloodshed of the mafia underworld, it was sickening that he was gifted with such a painless demise.
Still, the funeral processions went on regardless of the pain Tulisano had caused the Tampa residents. A grand motorcade escorted Santo's body through Tampa to his grave, where hundreds of made men, smack pushers, brutal killers, and loving family members watched the burial in humble silence. Hours later there were still crowds bustling around Tulisano's resting place, which was eventually covered from sight by wreaths of flowers and dozens onf lit candlesticks. It was said that even Tampa's mayor and the two National Council representatives of Hillsborough County paid their respects to the fallen mob boss, though what is fact and what is fiction is largely unknown. The newspress had a field day.
Yet the passing of Don Tulisano was hardly the end of the street crime, for with his death came a multitude of fresh problems. Of his three children, two were young, headstrong men of unimaginable rage and ambition. Both wanted to replace their father as head of the Tulisano family and both would exterminate their other sibling willingly for the chance. What had once been a notoriously strong crime unit was now a house divided quickly headed for disaster; with the two potential leaders at each other's throats, there was little doubt that past enemies of the Tulisanos would take this oppurtunity to strike. The question was when and how. Slowly but surely a tension built-up in the previous decade is coming to a head, and who will survive is anyone's guess.
* * * * * *
There was a brief period of silence within the filthy, cramped garages of Orange Plus Auto; the two men, both clad in street smart clothing, watched their boss intently as he analyzed the information they'd just communicated to him. And than the cursing began.
"That fuckin' cocksucker! He thinks he can pull that shit with me? Am I fuckin' stupid?"
Martin "Marty" Tulisano, the oldest son of the late Santo Tulisano at thirty-four-years-old, slammed his oil-stained fist onto a nearby tool cart, his anger clearly in control now. He ran a hand through the tangled mass of greasy black hair on his head as if he couldn't fathom the words of his associates, than quickly turned to one of the men, his bloodshot, baggy eyes ablaze with fury,
"Do I look stupid, Tony? Do I look like a fuckin' mook to you? My own god damn brother, Tony, my own flesh and blood!" There was a slight pause, followed by incoherent mumbling. Than a simple, " Jesus Christ."
There was little the henchmen could say or do to appease their headstrong leader. What was right was right; Paul "Paulie Popeyes" Tulisano had neglected to attend his own father's funeral just to spite his older brother's play for power. Rather than accept that Marty was now the rightful Don of the Tulisano empire, Paulie was going to contest that claim every bit of the way and collapse the very foundations of the family. To add insult to injury, it had just been relayed to Marty that his audacious younger brother had doubled security at the Pink Panther, as if to issue some challenge. There was little doubt in any of the three men's minds that Marty had every right to be steamed.
Pacing back and forth briefly in his gray, dirt-stained mechanic's suit, Marty mumbled silently to himself, trying to subdue his emotions and form a rational yet timely solution. The past couple nights had taken their toll on his mind and body; Paulie's failure to appear at their own father's funeral had the oldest Tulisano worried at first. But when word on the street came back that Paulie had named himself the heir to the Tulisano empire, and he refused to return any of his brother's calls, Marty hit the cocaine and alcohol like a sack of cement. Vibrant brown eyes were now shot and baggy; a once smooth and handsome face was buried beneath a thick sheet of black stubble. Curly black hair greasy from showerless days hung in Marty's face like thick tree branches obscuring his view considerably, and the jumpsuit he was wearing hadn't moved from his body since two days previous.
The two mob goons were concerned, but Marty could care less. A decision was needed; he had to make the first move, before Paulie took things too far. With a hint of exhaustion in his deep, nasally voice, Marty finally put forth an order.
"Get Johnny G. and Rica on the phone and tell them to meet me at the "First Watch" for breakfast. We gotta sort some shit out."