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Trouble in paradise?

 

Sure, Iím always trying to get pretty women to look at me on the beach.

I didnít develop my body just to look at in the mirror.

But I know somethingís wrong when the blond bitch grabs my arm and tells me the two men in straw hats down the beach want to kill her.

All right, so I should send her packing, but I donít.

I came to the Mediterranean because California girls got bored with me.

Iím just not the heroic type Ė and have just enough courage to accompany her to her car, which turns out to be a cherry red Porsche.

Maybe I like the idea of helping someone after being a useless piece of shit all my life, but when she tells me to get into the car, I hesitate. She has to insist, telling me those men think Iím a boyfriend of hers who ripped off the local godfather and they have come not only to get the money back, but to teach me a little respect.

If I ever felt scared before, this moment washes that fear out of me.

I jump into the seat beside hers like a piece of useless baggage as she engages the gears and left those two killers in a cloud of dust.

Where she is taking me, I donít know or care.

I feel better the farther we get from the beach, although I keep thinking of that time in Brooklyn growing up when an over made up barfly grabbed my arm on the street and begged me to save her from two local brutes who claim she gave them VD and how I stood by and did nothing while they beat the crap out of her.

I still see her pained stare in my head, snapping out of the vision only when a bullet strikes the porch windshield near my head.

She steps on the gas and steers us through streets so narrow and so crowded, I canít figure out how she missed killing a dozen people with each turn.

Then she pulls up in front of a villa with armed guards on its walls, and I have this sinking feeling the moment the doors close behind us and the men drop down to meet us.

A heavy-set man straight off the set of The Godfather steps out of the shadows and comes up to me, hugging me so suddenly I donít have time to stay back, telling me how much he appreciates my saving his daughter, and how I am going to be like a son to him and how much use I will be in his family.

I look at the girl, she only shrugs, and doesnít even say much when her father says heíll arrange everything for us, including our marriage.

This, of course, is as much a threat as a promise. But who am I to argue?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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