Chapter Seven:  Their Big Sale, and The Pricks With The Big Green Trucks

     About a week later, Nick and Natch, down near the water, scouring the area for new stores being opened, or the trash containers of the pricks with the big green trucks.  The sun was strong, bouncing off the windows of the tall buildings, a blinding flash of reflected light, the skies blue, one cloud, puffy, skidded across the far horizon.

     Natch watched the cloud disappear, fade into the big nothing of the blue sky and lost himself in thought.  I need a haircut, the fuckin' sideburns too long and I gotta' get laid.  Since we took this job, Nick and I, we ain't been really bustin' loose with the womens and I think I gotta' nail some pussy pretty fuckin' soon.  He also had another thought:

     "You know, Nick, we could sell alotta' weed walkin' around down here.  Looka' all the dirt bags hangin' over by the pier."

     "You think so?"  He might be right.

     "Yeah, I think we hook up with that crazy assed Mexican dude, the one we buy from and tell him we're done bein' on the wholesale side of things."

     "And if the Paco prick thinks, well, fuck those guys?"

     "That's an interesting question.  I think we hang Paco out a tenth story window by his fuckin' feet until he decides, geez, maybe these two fuckers got a point there."

     "Why don't we drop in on Paco this afternoon?"

     "Now you're talkin' my language."  Natch smiled, he loved hangin' with Nick, and he loved this gig they scored and now he loved it even more since they figured they could score some heavy quantity of weed out here.  Now, all I gotta' do today to make it perfect is get my balls waxed by some hot little tomato.



     And at that very minute, a hot little tomato was waxing a set of balls in Miami.



     As they walked, enjoying the sunshine, thinking, hey, it's getting on towards fuckin' lunch, they came across a spot, which at one time last week was empty, and now somebody is hammerin' away, puttin' up a small building.  Looks like it might be a deli, or coffee shop or some kinda' thing like that, Nick thought.

     They stopped, watched a middle aged fella, a cigar in his mouth, bent over a saw horse, cutting a pretty big hunk of fuckin' wood in half.  Natch watched a bit more then walked up to the guy.




      At the same time, the Vice President of Sales, for the pricks with the big green trucks, sored up big time, jumped in his car and decided, crap, lemme' go downtown and see for myself why we're loosin' stops and why we no longer have a sales team down there.



     "Hey buddy, whattaya' doin' here, makin' a store or something?"  Natch spoke, the guy with the cigar kept sawing, the noise pretty loud, the saw dust spinning in a small eddy due to the breeze coming around the corner.  The sawing finished, the board cut in half, the guy placed the tool down and looked at Natch, removing the stogie from his mouth.

     "Yeah."

     "So, when you're done, whattaya' gonna' do with all the fuckin' garbage?"

     "Why you need to know?"

     "Well, for one fuckin' thing, we ARE the garbage men in this area and for another thing, we are the guys gonna' pick up your garbage.  You got that?"  Natch wondering, this guy a dummy or something?

     "Yeah?"  The guy spit some stogie juice to the floor.

     "Good."  Nick stepped over the door frame, sidestepped the stogie juice and smiled at the guy, who didn't smile back, Nick thinking, what the fuck is wrong with this gamoke?

     "I'll have the can delivered tomorrow."  Natch, smiling.

     "What's it gonna' cost me?"

     "Whatever it is, you'll pay it."

     "I don't get to know?"

     "Stop breakin' my balls.  I have no fuckin 'clue what it costs, but since we are the ONLY fuckin' deal in town, you'll pay what it is."  Fuck this guy, Nick smiled.

      "Yeah?"

     "Yeah, now stop dancing.  We'll make sure you pay the right price, no games, no stupid contracts like those pricks with the big green fuckin trucks, just a handshake, me and you, we got a fuckin' deal."  Natch extended his hand.

     "You won't hurt me with the price?"

     "It's gonna' be a good price, no pain."  This sales stuff is fuckin' hard, Natch thinking.

     "Maybe I should ask around."

     "Go ahead, ask around all you want, talk to the guy across the street, the fuckin' guy next door and the guy other there, they are all happy, smilin' customers."

     Not totally true, Nick.

     "I don't need no can until I open."

     "You can get a fuckin can right now, looka' all the shit on the floor here."

     "The sawdust?"

     "Listen, buddy, we ain't got all fuckin day jerkin' around, the can is coming tomorrow, a two yard, no big deal, the smallest one we got and you will be fuckin' happy."  Natch patted the guy on his back.

     "I guess so."

     "No guessin' about it Roscoe, the can is comin tomorrow, you'll be smilin' in a big way."

     "Rocco."

     "It don't fuckin' matter."

     "What's this place gonna be?"  Nick looking around, shit he seems like a nice enough guy, this that and the other thing considered.

     "Deli, coffee shop."

     "No shit.  That's fuckin' great and listen what I'm gonna do.  I'll put the word out to all my fuckin' drivers, they gonna' stop here for their fuckin' coffee and when they wanna have fuckin' lunch"  How I'm gonna' do that is fuckin' impossible, almost all our routes are miles away, we ain't breakin' off route to get coffee at this jerkoff's place.  Nick sorta' smiled at the guy, the guy sorta' smiled back.

     "You would do that?"

     "Without a fuckin' doubt."

     Big smiles all around, hand shakes and Nick and Natch took off, heading towards the piers where they hoped to find Paco and score some major fuckin' weed.



     They did score some major fuckin weed, Paco was happy to be of service.  Quickly, though, Nick and Natch figured, what the fuck, why we gotta' buy this shit offa' Paco, we're his biggest customer, we need to find our own wholesale guy.

     They spent some time doing their homework, don't tell Natch it was homework, but they did find a pretty reliable source of heavy weight weed, and this source, this fella' well, they found out this guy could also score some serious shit.  And the serious shit was where they figured the large money was.

     After a while, when they were moving more serious shit than the source of the serious shit, Nick figured, fuck that guy.  We ought to head down to Mexico and hook ourselves up.  A fairly important guy in the trash business knew a guy and he knew the guy they needed to talk to about a direct line to Nick and Natch for the pretty serious shit.

     It took months, months of hard work, both for the trash business and for their own enterprise, but the wheels started turning and pretty soon, Nick and Natch were quite the team for the trash stuff and quite the team for the serious shit.



     Joseph was in his office, an espresso being delivered by the awesome ass wagging secretary, as he sat across from a fairly important guy in the trash business.

     "Those two kids, guys, they set things straight with those pricks with the big green trucks.  Nobody tossin' beefs around, and besides, they are kickin' up some pretty serious money.

     Joseph smiled, he always smiled when he knew he had come up with a very well thought out, very well executed (pardon the expression) plan.  "Yes, they should be salesmen of the year."



     The Regional Sales Manager for the Pricks With the Big Green Trucks had other ideas, wondering, who are these two guys scared the crap outta' my trainees?  And besides which, they got no right scaring the shit out of my regular customers, we are loosing stops to those two clowns.  More stops than we can count, contract or no, these people don't give a rats ass, and well, can you blame them, these two thugs come in, terrify the owner and bingo!, another lost stop.  Not that we had a lot of work down here anyway, but we looked at it like it was growing thing, we would grow with it.

     The Pricks With the Big Green Trucks were down to two lousy routes remaining, both only running into town three days a week.  The big, REAL BIG, executives at the Home Office (those pencil pushing assholes, he thought) had said on more than one occasion hey straighten that crap out or we don't need a Regional Sales Manager for a two bit operation we got there now.

     His green company car, a small two door something, cruised along a side street, radio on, listening to some talk radio crap, not really paying attention, these cheap bastards don't even put FM radio in this hunk of shit, forget altogether satellite radio.

     "Hey!"  There they were, the two guys, and shit, ain't that our last stop on this street?  The Regional Sales Manager for the Pricks With the Big Green Trucks pulled his car to the curb, shut it down and exited.  He hit the sidewalk at a pretty fast clip, and reached the two, ahem, salesmen, thinking to himself, what?, no company shirt?

     "Hey fellas!"

     Nick and Natch stop, Nick turning around, eyeing the guy.  Fellas?

     Natch spun around, also thinking, fellas?, what the fuck is fellas?

     "You need somethin' Mac?"  Nick, looka' this guy, and holy shit, he's got one of them douche bag shirts on, another sales puke from the pricks with the big green trucks.

     "What the fuck you want, get outta' here.  We tossed the other two assholes out, now what, we gotta' toss you too?"  Natch rapidly approaching the Regional Sales Manager, the Regional Sales Manager not exactly sure of himself at this moment, took a step back.

     "You people have been-"

     "Shut up."  Nick poked him in the chest.

     "Hey, no rough stuff."  These guy might be insane.

     "Didn't he just tell you to shut the fuck up?"  Natch poked him in the chest.

     "Can we have a conversation?"  Maybe I should run like Hell, that short one looks dangerously crazy.

     "No, fuck you, no conversation, get the fuck outta' here before we gotta' toss your fat ass in the fuckin' river."  Nick poked him again, thinking, looka' this fat fuck, got a fuckin' belly roll the size of a beach ball.

     Natch placed his arm around the guys shoulder, curling it around his neck.

     "Look, lets be reasonable, my friend is gonna' choke the shit out of you, you don't hit the fuckin' road."

     It did, at that moment, occur to the Regional Sales Manager for the Pricks With the Big Green Trucks, that he might have made a very big mistake.  He also realized, to his horror, that he really had to pee.

     "Look, fellas-"

     "Again with the fellas shit?  Hey, we ain't fellas, not to you, and not to anybody you ever met in your entire fuckin' life."

     The Regional Sales Manager began to feel a slight leakage from his very, at this minute, turtle like penis.  Holy Crap he thought, if I pee my pants, Jesus, I don't wanna' be here if that happens.

     "Dick Head, my friend here wants you to do something."  Natch squeezed the guy a bit, his arm around the chubby neck.  The guy, unfamiliar with conversations which were conducted in this fashion, was all ears.

     "You got a phone shit head?"  Nick smiled at Natch.

     Natch backed up, walking the guy backwards and together they all entered Vito's Pizza Parlor, all walking backwards.

     "Yes, I have a phone."  The guy was now beyond the point of peeing his pants, he was approaching the point where his blood pressure had reached a pretty high spike, as a slow urine leak ran down his pants leg.

     "Call your office, call your boss, the big fuckin' boss."

     "I don't know-"

     "You think this is some kinda' potsy game?  Call the office, you tell them you wanna' speak to the biggest big boss."

     "He's in Arizona."

     "They got fuckin' phones in Arizona asshole?  Call him before my friend here snaps your fuckin' turkey neck you fat bastard.  And when you do, you tell that big boss, you tell him, hustlin' trash for scum bags like you ain't your deal no more, you fuckin' quit.  Can you do that?  Can you do that before my friend rips your fat fuckin' lungs out?"

     "Hey you pissed your pants!  Jesus, what a douche bag!"  Natch smiled, aroma of urine was working it's way up.

     The Regional Sales Manager for the Pricks With the Big Green Trucks made the call, said the things we was told to say, and with tears in his eyes, quit, shut the phone off and slumped into a chair in Vito's Pizza Parlor.

     "Vito, give this guy a slice and a diet Coke."

     "Gimme' your wallet asshole."  Nick reached into the guys pants and removed the billfold.

     Nick pulled the guy's drivers license, his social security card and his company paid credit card.  Nick stuffed the wallet with sixty bucks of his own, and gave it back to the guy.

     "So we unnerstand each other.  I got your stuff, all I ever need to run you down and choke the shit out of you, you ever show up around here again."  Nick smiled as Vito passed, placing the slice and Diet Coke in front of the ex-Regional Sales Manager for the Pricks With the Big Green Trucks.

     "You got a car around here?"

     "Yeah."

     "Where fuck face?"

     "Up the block, the little one, the green compact car."

     "Don't be lookin' for it.  Take the money I just gave you and get yourself a fuckin' cab, you got it?"  Nick patted the guy on the back.

     "Can I eat the slice before I leave?"

     "Yeah, don't waste fuckin food, then wash yourself up, you smell like shit, and get the fuck outta' town."

     Which the ex-Regional Sales Manager for the Pricks With the Big Green Trucks did, very happy to be leaving town in one piece, but still very much alive.



     Nick and Natch stole the little green car, Natch wondering who the fuck gives people cars like this shit box to drive?



     After a while they arrived at a certain place, a place they were doing some business with, and this place could take a car apart and sell off the parts very nicely, no fuckin' questions asked.  Nick and Natch get a few hundred from the guy who said :  "where the fuck you get this piece of shit?, smiling as he handed them the money......


Next Chapter Eight:  NOT SO FUNNY..



    

Chapter Six:  Did God Invent Mosquitoes?

     Monday morning came, Nick and Natch dressed well, golf shirts (who the fuck plays golf anyway), nice slacks, a crease to shave with, shined shoes, close shaves and big smiles.  The sun was bright, glinting through the trees then bobbing and weaving around the tall buildings in the Big City as they drove into town.  They headed over to the west side, thinking, well, this is where those fucks are workin' our routes and this is where they are gonna' find out it ain't nice to fuck around with serious guys, especially two guys who will rip your fuckin' lungs out.

     The traffic was light, they were cruising the streets and up and down, slipping in and out of shadows, each lost to their own thoughts, thinking, well, where the fuck are those guys?  After a while they would find out where the fuck were those guys.

     Nick kept his eyes on the road, taking only quick looks at the storefronts and big buildings, looking for the salesmen.  He was thinking how lucky we are to be in this position and how they would make sure Joseph and the fairly important guys in the trash business would never regret giving them this big chance.  He took a quick look at Natch, his eyes glued to the streets, looking, Nick thinking he's tops, this buddy of mine, a solid citizen, no bullshit kinda' guy, a wrecking crew rolled up into one incredible fuckin' experience.

     "Hey, you believe in God?"  Natch wondered why that thought popped in his head.

     "Which one?"  Nick thinking, what, he's getting sappy?

     "What?  Whattaya' mean which one?"

     "Well, there's the Ghost guy, then you got Junior, the kid from Israel, that Spanish kid, Jesus, the  Old Man, the big guy, the beezer who began the whole thing."

     "From what I remember, they are all the same thing, the same one, three guys rolled into a God kinda' guy.  That's why, They, Him, are God."  Not so bad there Nick.

     Natch thought about it for a minute and it occurred to him, well, maybe there's something to this God stuff.

    " So, do you think God invented Mosquitoes?  Because if He-"

     "Mosquitoes?  What the fuck you talkin' about?"

     "What, I stutter?  Mosquitoes, pretty simple."  Natch looked up at the tall buildings.  "Let's say it summer and you got yourself a vodka on the rocks, you're sittin' with your main squeeze, she's wearing this fuck me bikini, the one made with fuckin' dental floss, and you got your free hand playin' with that Lotus Flower down there and WHAM!, a fuckin' mosquito, big enough to have fuckin license plates, bites the shit out of her.  She jumps up, freaked out and you're left standin' there holdin' your dick."  This shit happened to me, so I know what the fuck I'm talkin' about.

     "Maybe, Natch, that's why he invented the fuckin' things."  Nick thinking, wow, he's got some imagination.

     "Do me a favor, turn left at the corner, there's a good coffee spot on the next block, and WAIT--, looka' its them, the fuckin' pricks from the outfit the big green fuckin' trucks!"

     "Holy Christ!"

     Nick swerved left, cutting off a few cars coming in the opposite direction, parked the car the wrong way, and on the sidewalk, as he and Natch jumped out of the car.

     The two salesmen from those pricks with the big green trucks, both rookies in the business, both recent graduates from college, both with pretty strong brain power and both thinking, well, this trash things is a good thing and we are getting out foot in the door.  In front in them they saw the long road filled with big dreams. 

     They did not see the two man tornado which was about to explode into their lives.

     The first rookie, Gary, wearing his nice golf shirt with the emblem of the pricks with the big green trucks on his chest, spotted the two guys hustling down the street towards them.

     The second rookie, Scott, also wearing a golf shirt with the emblem of the pricks with the big green trucks on his chest, stopped short as he also noticed the two men heading their way, and Scott thought, wow, those two guys don't look too happy, I wonder where they are going?

     Where they were going was right there.

     "Hold up there, asshole!"  Nick spoke, throwing his voice across the twenty yards separating them.

     "What?  Asshole?"  Gary stopped walking, yanked a hold of Scott's shirt stopping him in his tracks, putting a little dent in the golf shirt with the emblem of the pricks with the big green trucks.  "Excuse me?"

     "Shut up."  Natch closed the distance quickly, then joined by Nick.

     "So, do we know you fellas?"  Scott was a bit nervous, wondering, I once heard stories about the trash business in this city, and maybe they weren't exactly stories.

     'I told you to shut up.  What the Hell you guys doin', walking around town, with those faggy shirts on, interfering with our business here?"

     "I thought this was a free country."  Gary thought it actually was.

     "Yeah, and I'm free to punch your fuckin' lights out.  Now listen to me you two.  Go back to the pricks with the big green fuckin' trucks and you tell them to get the Hell outta' fuckin' town before the shit hits the fan, you two being the fuckin' shit."  Nick smiled, not a ha ha smile, but a smile saying, you two geeks wanna' live beyond lunch hour?

     "Yeah, and don't let me catch you two pukes around town no more, and especially with them douche bag shirts on.  Hit the fuckin' road."  Natch poked Gary in the chest with his finger, Gary backing up.

     Nick and Natch watched the two guys from the pricks with the big green trucks turned and slowly walked away, rounding the corner.

     Both Scott and Gary got the message and they did hit the road.  They went back to the pricks with the big green trucks and said, what, this trash thing ain't exactly what we thought it was, so if you don't mind, we quit.

      By this time, Natch had tossed their business cards into the trash, he and Nick thinking, well, that's the end of that horseshit.

     Actually that wasn't the end of that horseshit, as the pricks with the big green trucks weren't exactly overjoyed when their two rookie salesmen both quit the same day.  Some body was going to ask a few questions.

Next week:  Chapter Seven:  Their Big Sale, and the Pricks With the Big, Green Trucks




    

Chapter Five:     Salesmen Of The Fucking Year

     Nick and Natch waited outside the office of the Old Man.  Natch was pacing, he paced when he was nervous and he was very fuckin' nervous.  What the Hell does the Old Man want, ain't we done the right thing, kickin' up the do-re-me enough?  Maybe those selfish pricks want more?

     "Sit down, you're makin' me dizzy."

     "This is bullshit.  They call us to come up and then they make us fuckin' wait, what, we're two fuckin' school girls waitin' for our first date?"  He sat on a small, wooden chair and began to tap his hands on his leg.  Tap, tap, tap, keeping time to the nervous jitters racing through his system.  "This chair is as comfortable as a piece of fuckin' lumpy wood."

     The door opened, they both jumped to their feet, eyes locked on Joseph.

     "Come inside."  Joseph turned and re-entered his office, Nick and Natch following.

     The Old Man rose as they entered, walking around his desk and came face to face with Nick and Natch, Natch thinking, should I kiss his fuckin' ring, does he even have a fuckin' ring?

     The Old Man extended his hand, Natch thinking, hey, no fuckin' ring; Nick shook hands, then turned and shook with Joseph.  Natch, a few beads of perspiration on his brow, shook hands with the Old Man and Joseph.

     The Old Man walked to his desk, and sat, Joseph beside him, Nick and Natch on two rickety chairs in front of the desk.

     "We have heard a lot about you." 

     "Well, sir, if this is about that guy, the one downtown-"  Natch wiped some sweat form his neck, thinking to himself, they heard about the fuckin guy we hung his feet out the apartment window.

     "A guy downtown?"  The Old Man gazed at Joseph, who shrugged, thinking, I heard about tossing some clown through the rear window of a bus, but this is something else I never hear.  He leaned back, the chair creaking, thinking, please Pop, don't get that flea bag Rosemarie in here with some coffee, we ain't got all day.

     "Its nothing sirs, sir...nothing."  Nick kicked Natch in the shin.  Natch began tapping his hands on his pants leg.

     "What's that noise?  A tap?"  The Old Man looked around.

     "Natch, stop with the fuckin tappin will ya'?"  Joseph smiled at Natch, thinking the kid's a bit antsy, which of course he was, more than somewhat.

     "Look, you two guys got some good reps around here, people say you are straight shooters and solid citizens, serious people."  The Old Man leaned back, thinking, I could use a cupa' coffee.

     As good luck would have it, Rosemarie was currently sound asleep in the coffee room, her snoring a shrill reminder the Old Man was still in charge around here.

     "Thank you, sir...sirs."  Nick thinking, what's up, they gonna' do what?

      "We have an opportunity for two guys, guys like yourselves, for a special job.  My son will explain it to you."  The Old Man stood, patted Joseph on the back and left, thinking, hey, where the fuck is Rosemarie?

     Joseph waited until the Old Man cleared the room, the door closing.

     "We are having a serious problem.  On the West Side, up and down, two guys representing that big national outfit, those pricks with the big green trucks, they are trying to steal out work, and taking new work right from under our noses."

     "Mother fuckers."  Natch wanted in the worst way to wipe his sweaty hands on his pants, but was terrified of touching them with his hands.  He started bouncing his left food, up and down, a jerky motion.

     "How can we help, sir?"  Nick turned, his eyes glaring at Natch.  Natch stopped jerking his leg.

     "We are going to promote both of you to Sales Managers."  Big smile.

     "No shit?  I mean, wow, thanks."  Natch got himself a little red in the face.

     "We want you guys to canvas the area, cover it completely, make sure those dick heads from the pricks with the big green fuckin' trucks, they don't get any new business.  And be sure to let them know, they can't be stealing our customers.

     "When do we start.  I mean, we'd like to get on it right away."  Nick smiled, thinking, this is very big shit indeed.

     It was big shit, and the shit would get even bigger.

    

Chapter Four:      Two Fairly Important Guys In The Trash Business

     They sat in the very small, very sparse office of the Old Man.  Just a wooden desk, one window which overlooked the garage, four chairs, two of which had just been taken out of the coffee room to accommodate the meeting about to take place.  Joseph sat next to the Old Man, sorta' behind, though not yet DIRECTLY behind the desk.  He watched as the Old Man's sorta' secretary walked in with two coffees, Joseph thinking, Christ, she's four hundred years old, look at those hairy assed legs, hey lady, they invented razor blades about a hundred years ago.

     "Grazie, Rosemarie."  The Old Man smiled.

     "Prego."  She finished placing the cups and with a small flatulation, which jolted Joseph, made the Old Man laugh, Rosemarie departed.

     Joseph took a sip of the hot, bitter coffee, what, this crap was made three days ago?  When I take over the coffee will be fresh, and maybe, what the Hell, an espresso machine, and sorry Rosemarie, you are toast.  How can I handle the stress of running these very big businesses, settle beefs and make money when I got this cave woman serving soured up coffee?

     The door to the office opened, and with Rosemarie leading the way, then tripping, the heel of her left shoe snapping off, the two fairly important guys in the trash business came in, shook hands with the Old Man, nodded to Joseph, which caused a slight steam up on his part. We'll see about that shit later he thought to himself.  All four watched as Rosemarie struggled to her feet, righted herself and more or less waddled, hopped out of the room as she released some additional methane.

     "How are you, Pete, Nunzio, all is well at home?"

     "Yeah, the dip shit wife is drivin' me fuckin looney, but she cooks up a storm, so I keep the beefs to a minimum."  The first fairly important guy in the trash business spoke, this being Pete.

     "Things are good, the fat cow, Angela, is knocked up again, so this time she better be cookin' up a fuckin' boy son, otherwise she's gonna' end up washin' dishes at the dinner in Hell.  Either way all is okay, and other than what we came up here to speak on."  Nunzio smiled, removed his trademark cheap cigar and lit up, the putrid smoke drifting across Pete, the Old Man and Joseph.

     "So, we got this problem."

     "Yeah, it's sorta' located in the part of town where we operate, but I can see the day when those national fucks expand all over the fuckin' place, leavin' us workin' stiffs beggin' for scraps."  Pete inhaled a lungful of stogie smoke, coughed and gave Nuzio the evil eye.

     Joseph stood, placed his coffe cup on the desk and walked to the window, opening it, waving away some of the stink and smoke from the two bit cigar dangling form Nunzio's fat fuckin' lips.

     "They got two salesmen runnin' around shovin' contracts under the noses of our customers and they're the first ones at any new work, how the fuck they know that is beyond me."  Nunzio, watching Joseph very carefully, thinking is this scum bag making fun of my cigar?

     The Old Man sat back thinking, trying to see a light in this darkness.  These national guys, they got a ton of fuckin' money, they can throw money and people at everything.  How do we beat that?

      "You fellas still got those two kids runnin' around, the head bangers?"  Joseph finished the horrible coffee, thinking I should toss this crap and Rosemarie out the fuckin' window.

     "Yeah, that one Nick and the fuckin' wack job they call Natch."  Pete thinkin', hey, maybe there is a way.

     "This is what I think.  Pop, listen.  Send those guys up here.  We talk for a while, then I hire them, both of them, make em' salesmen.  It's their job to rustle up new customers, stay on top of what's going on, and to generally make life fuckin' miserable for the salesmen from the other guys, those pricks with the big green fuckin' trucks.

     There followed a brief discussion, Nunzio wanted to make sure the two sales pukes they were hiring would sell not only for the Old Man's crew, but all the outfits.  The Old Man assured Nunzio and Pete that would be the case.

     Smiles all around, and very shortly all four were wrapped around some very large steaks and a very "in" steakhouse, which later would become notorious, with a few bottles of very nice wine.

     Two days later Nick and Natch were summoned to come up and sit with Joseph.

Chapter Three:     NICK AND NATCH:

     John Collins, sixth grade teacher, remembers Nick:  "the kid was, a, excuse the expression, a real dick head."

     Peter Sloan, seventh grade teacher, remembers Natch:  How should I put this, let me just say that, ah, er, well, he was a special boy, liked throwing his weight around, caused a lot of trouble, and, I'm sorry to say, he broke my nose."

     Nick, real name Nicola Tedesco, the only child of Angelo and Maria.  Angelo was a driver for one of the trash outfits, did a pretty good job, loved his wine and from time to time beat the crap out of Maria.  Slights were imagined, wine was consumed in great quantities and regrets, shit I coulda' owned this damn company, and sure enough, Maria would ask him to please do this or do that, don't talk to loud, whatever, and slam!, his fist, her head.

     For years, as he grew up, Nick thought, was absolutely certain, the way you treated women was with an open palm, slammed against a cheek. This lead Nick to many interesting encounters with girls in school, various trips to the Principals office, threats of law suits, and by the time he was in eleventh grade, they somehow figured out a way to give Nick a diploma and out the door he went.

     Angelo was quite proud, Nick being the first in the family to finish, more or less, High School.

     Nick got a low leveL job working on the back of a trash truck, making pennies, throwing eight to nine tons of garbage each and every day, six days a week.  Nick said to himself, this ain't too bad, I get to be outside all day, I'm gettin' exercise, and what the fuck, that new word he just discovered, fuck!, the money ain't so bad.

     After a while Nick's penchant for violence would come into play, and on one occasion, he was watched, by a fairly important person in the business, turn a guy upside down and dump him into a four cubic yard container.   The guy was unhappy with the service he was getting, unhappy with the price he was paying and he wanted to change to a different trash hauler.  After a while the guy changed his mind.

     This kid, he's got some fuckin' potential, the fairly important guy in the business thought, as he watched the performance.  Why I think we could use a fella like this for various things up and around town, things which otherwise might cause some agita.  So to prevent some things up and around town, things which otherwise might cause some agita, Nick was spoken to, and they kept their eyes on him.  Each day, after the route truck came into the garage, the fairly important guy in the business would snatch Nick up and drive around town.  They would talk about business, and what to do to protect business, and how to dispose of bodies, how to torture a guy who's tossin' unfounded beefs around, and to generally prosper and become an upstanding member of the community.

     About this time, THE GUY!, nursing a bullet wound in his shoulder had decided well, it's time we hit the road, cure up this big hole I got here, and don't it seem nice this Florida place?  There was many a sad eyeball as THE GUY said his goodbyes, well not everyone, a fella who happened to park the bullet in THE GUY's shoulder was not all that broken up.

     After a while, Nick came to the attention of the Old Man, who in turn brought Nick to the attention of his son, Joseph, the Old Man having big plans for Joseph and this Nick guy would be a large boost to those plans should some agita be up and about town.

     Nick continued to work on the trash truck, but everyone knew, do not fuck with this kid, he's got a fairly important guy in the business watching out for him, should agita be up and about around town.  After a while, Nick wanted to stop working on the back of the truck.  They said, okay, it's time you learned how to drive, since that is a very important part of the trash business, this driving thing.  He quickly became the youngest driver in the Old Man's fleet, a relief driver, so he got to work not all the time, which Nick thought, fuck!, this ain't so fuckin' bad.

     During the times when he wasn't driving the trash truck, or being driven around by a fairly important guy in the business, Nick joined a gym and spent his days working out.  He noticed, quite early on, that babes, hard bodied babes, also spent time in the gym.  He also spent some time thinking about slammin' them around and figured there's no edge in it for me, unless they start runnin' their mouth, then fuck it, slap city.  The babes, the hard bodied babes took note of Nick, he was, after all, good looking, dark hair and eyes, and after a while a pretty hard body himself.

     Nick learned about sex from the fairly important guy in the business, not sure if everything he was taught was the right thing, but that blow job thing, though, that was pretty tremendous.  Maybe, he thought, one of these hard bodies would love to clamp one on the old shooter for me, and fuck, she'd probably enjoy it more than me.  So with his fairly distorted view of sex and love, taught to him by the fairly important guy in the business, Nick moved on, and did for a very long time have quite a sex life.

     For his nineteenth birthday, the fairly important guy in the business bought Nick a pinky ring.



     Natch, on the other hand, was raised by an insane mother, Elena, a psycho born in Sicily, who figured any son of mine has got to go to church every morning, get on his knees and confess his sins and beg God for forgiveness.  Natch had a few other ideas, which lead to some agita up and around the household, the Colangelo household.  Beatings, religious based beatings, were a regular occurrence, especially when demented Elena found out, much to her dismay, that Natch, her pride and joy, was walking in the front door of church in the morning, and walking out the back door two minutes later.

     Natch had discovered some guys who didn't also like to go to church, and whatever else, maybe some were supposed to go to work, so they gathered near an old run down gas station, the owner Vito, Vito who, nobody knew was taking numbers, working for that racket in town, which was soon "acquired" by a fairly important guy in the trash business.  On more than one occasion, the young Natch was confronted by folks who wanted to know what was in the little satchel he carried on the bus.

     "None a yer fuckin' business."

     One thing lead to another, words were exchanged, and one of the guys ended up being tossed, head first, through the rear window of the bus.  His two friends realized they had missed their stop and quickly exited the bus.  The  driver, a cousin to another fairly important guy in the business, told his cousin and shortly thereafter Vito's prized numbers runner was noticed.

     "We'll keep an eye on that little jerk off and see what develops."

     What developed was a violence prone, very strong, knock around guy, with no idea what life had in store for him, other than runnin' these numbers slips on the fuckin' bus, which I ain't too much fond of too much any more.



     A pretty nice restaurant, a place where a fella who was mighty tired up from running the trash business could wrap himself around a large plate of pasta, or some other thing, to warm his soul and fortify his being.  Wine, which the saying goes, goes with everything, went well with the tired up guys wrapping themselves around a large bowl of Al-dente pasta.

     It was raining outside, a crappy day for the guys working the trucks, not so crappy for the guys not working the trucks, but who were mighty tired up anyway.  Two fellas, one a fairly important guy in the trash business, the other, another fairly important guy in the trash business, had settled in on a fairly important date with Rigatoni, Broccoli Rabbe and Sausage.  Garlic and Olive Oil was clinging to the pasta, a sweet smelling meal to help some guys who were fairly important in the trash business relax away from the stress and strain of running those trash businesses.

     "This is good."  Big smile, watching the other guy.

     "This fuckin' guy can cook, looka' that sausage!"  What's he lookin' at?

     All was good, however, the meal passed without any dust ups, since the potential for beefs being tossed around was always there when two fairly important guys in the trash business got together.

     They discussed things in general, the state of the business, the fact that outfit, you know, the one with the big green fuckin' trucks, those national guys, was startin' to nosey around town, causing some grief to the two fairly important guys in the trash business.

     They decided to sit with the Old Man, and now with his son, Joseph, an up and comer in the trash business, more than fairly important.

     Nick ran into, literally, Natch, pulling out of a grocery store, backing into Natch's car, placing a pretty nifty dent in the front bumper.  Doors were opened, temperatures rose, face to face, but somehow they figured they were both sorta' involved with the trash business, more or less.  Nick smiled, shook hands with Natch, Natch telling him "forget the fuckin' bumper."

     Two weeks later they met at the gym, Nick eyeing a very hard bodied blonde with some sorta' pants on made him think they were fuckin' spray painted on her, Christ, looka' them fuckin' tights.  He had a vision of this girl, a hot bicycle, some cold water and well, he thought, none of ya' fuckin' business what happened next.

     "Hey, how you doin'?"

     Nick turned, there, smiling, was the crazy fuck who busted up my fuckin' bumper.

     "Hey, how you doin'?"  Nick smiled, Natch moved closer and they shook hands.

     Natch took a peek at the girl, the hardest hard body, and spoke to himself, man, I could fuck that right now, and she'd love every fuckin' minute of it.

     "You come here, to work out?"  Natch thinking, he's got a pretty hard body himself, must get a lot of pussy.

     "Yeah, three times a week, gotta' keep the shit nice and tight, the babes dig it.  Wanna touch this bicep?"

     "Not today, not never.  I don't like touchin other guys, you know, maybe those other guys get funny ideas, not ha-ha funny, but funny ideas."  This guy, he ain't a fugazy is he?

     "Whoa, I anin't no fugazy, Natch, was just tryin' to show you what the fuck happens when you work out all the time."  This guy, he ain't too solid I think in the head, a few rough edges.  "So, lemme ask ya, where'd you get the Natch from?"

     "I was working with Vito, down at the gas station, runnin' them slips downtown, and every time he asks me to so something, and do it fuckin' quick, I said, sure, natch, it's done.  Natch."  Big smile on Natch's face.  "So Vito down at the gas station started callin' me Natch and it stuck."

     Nick thought, gee, this fella is pretty handy, I heard a story about him tossin' some jerk off through a bus window,.  Maybe we can team up and do a little business, he's a solid citizen in all ways according to Vito, and a straight shooter.

     So they did team up.  The became a dynamic fuckin' duo of immense proportions.  When they weren't doing their normal jobs, they began doing "not normal" jobs.  Little things, breaking and entering, knockin off a mailman or two down town on social security check day; they got their hands on some "reefer" and sold some of it around town, both swearing to each other, we will never touch this shit, which they never did.

     They were very respectful, always kicking up part of what they scored to the fairly important guys in the trash business, who passed some of that good stuff over to the Old Man, who gave some to Joseph.


Next Week:  Chapter Four:  TWO FAIRLY IMPORTANT GUYS IN THE TRASH BUSINESS.

    

CHAPTER  TWO:  WAR MIGHT BE HELL

   The Old Man worked hard, harder than most.  Some got a bit jealous, and that festered for a while.  His business grew, faster than the others, he was a bunch more aggressive than the others, he made acquaintances, people who controlled the community, people who nobody spoke about in public.  The Big City grew, and with it, the Old Man's business, the others trailed along.  Soon, the Old Man had the lion's share; the others had nice, well run organizations, they all made money, tons of money, raised their families, prospered and that seed, the vague idea, that envy took root.

     They, as a course of business, competed with the big boys, the National Brands, and in most cases came out on top, they were agile, the big boys bogged down with red tape, unwilling to do to the independents what the independents were doing to them.  The few remaining small timers were driven out of town, Ben Stein, the last of the lot, his hands stapled to the wall of his garage, his testicles attached to electrodes, finally with tears in his eyes, signed over his routes and the end of what had been a home grown business had arrived.

     The Old Man became powerful.  His contacts were like fingers touching many aspects of the Big City.  Tension arose.  Freddy Nococscia, himself just liberating one of the final no "fellas" routes, eyed the money and power residing with the Old Man.  He's got the goods, he's got the fuckin' town tied up and most of what we got is either crumbs he tosses away, or the little bits he lets slip through his fingers.  This, he thought, is bullshit.

     Fair is fair Freddy thought.

     Some of the others sided with Freddy, some with the Old Man, and for the next months and almost a year, the war to settle things once and for all was waged.

     Trucks were burned, buildings firebombed, a few guys, leading citizens in the trash business, somehow disappeared.  Wives and children were sent away to keep them safe.

     September rolled around, things were not good. Disruptions in service were causing large headaches to the politicians in town, many of whom were on the pad with the Old Man and his associates.  The citizens of the Big City were up in arms, and finally, the Mayor, his back to the wall, called a meeting, him and his corrupt deputies, and Phony Police chief with the Old Man and a few of his associates.

     "We got the people yellin' at us, we can't walk the fuckin' streets, people tossin' rotten food and tomatoes at us, I gotta' run to the fuckin' dry cleaners twice a day."

     "Mister Mayor, this is a situation not of our making."  The Old Man said, thinking, we pay you enough to BUY the fuckin' dry cleaners, stop the horseshit.

     "Well, you gotta' do something.  The streets are startin' to smell, the fuckin' restaurants, a few of which we own together, got garbage stacked likes bales of smelly cotton in front of the joints."

     "We will bring it to an end."  With that said, the Old Man stood, smiled, doffed his hat, slipped a small envelope to the Mayor, as he and his associates left the building.

     They went back to a safe house, somewhere near the water, an old, empty building, which one day would be a big, gleaming office tower, the Old Man's trash compactor in the basement.

     "Fuckin' Freddy's gone too fuckin' far."  Nunzio, an up and comer, spoke, a fat stogie in his big mouth.

     "This has to be settled, the crooks in City Hall are gettin' nervous, we can't have crooks gettin' nervous, they are apt to do stupid things."  The Old Man said.

     They sat, espresso was poured, Anisette sipped, a plan was hatched to end this war and bring, as the Old Man said, peace to the valley, so we can get back to doing what we do best.  They all knew what that was and they all smiled.

     They had a guy,a guy they used to settle big beefs, quietly, the beef going away pretty fast.  This guy, all six feet, three inches of him, sometimes drove a trash truck for the Old Man, but mostly hung out at the garage waiting for his number to be called.  They called his number.  This would be a big special they told him, a very special, very big deal.

     They explained to the guy what needed to be done.  He grasped the meaning and set about to finally cure the itch which had been driving everyone fuckin' nuts:  Freddy Nososcia.

     He recruited two helpers, the men who would later on father two very well established top earners, and "special assistants", Nick and Natch.

     The two men, dressed like cops, the uniforms stolen right under the nose of the Phony Police Chief, the bogus cops drove around town, looking for one of Freddy's trucks.  The guy, The Guy, waited, trailing the two "cops" as they cruised the streets, and finally, down near the water, a route truck, KING SANITATION, Freddy's outfit, backing up to a trash can, near the shipping office of some ocean line.

     The two "cops" rolled up behind the truck, and using the stolen police car, turned on the bubble light on the roof.  The KING SANITATION truck slowed down, the driver thinking, what the fuck, don't we pay off these clowns?  Not these.

    Using the bullhorn:  "STEP OUT OF THE TRUCK!"  The "cop" smiled, turned to his partner, these dumb shits have no fuckin' idea.

     The driver shut down the engine and slowly opened the look, looking at the police car.  "This better be good."

     The driver of the phony police car, the man who would one day become Nick's father, exited the car and walked over to the driver.  The other "cop" stepped out of the car, but stayed back, his hand on his pistol.

     "What's the beef, officer?"

     "Shut up."

     "Whoa, what the fuck?"

     "Who owns this truck?"

     "What, you from fuckin' Mars, yo don't know who belongs to this truck?"

     "Listen dip shit, we ain't got a lotta' time.  We got reports you guys sellin' dope outta' the back of this truck."

     "You're crazy.  We ain't got no dope."

     "We're gonna' find the fuck out."

     "I'm gonna' radio the boss,let him come down here, maybe you don't know who the fuck he is, Freddy Nocoscia?"

     "Yeah, get Freddy down here."

     The driver went back to the truck, sat down, grabbed the radio, got Freddy, told him what was happening, and Freddy never one to let moss grow on his stones, took off.  At the same time, The Guy rolled to a stop behind the truck.  The driver, tossing the radio onto the seat, slid out of the cab.  The route helper, sitting in the passenger seat was yanked out of it, The Guy stabbing him in the heart, then dragging his body to the rear of the truck, dumping the body into the hopper.

     The driver was thinking two thoughts, wait till these fucks run smack into Freddy, and second, where the Hell is Jose?  The driver found out where the Hell Jose was, having just landed there himself, his heart punctured, his lifeless body tossed into the hopper as well.

     Benny rolled up, eyed the two cops, not seeing The Guy, who was now standing on the side of the KING SANITATION truck.

     "Hey!  Assh-"  The bullet slammed into Freddy's mouth, teeth flying, the shot tumbled around, cascading into his brain, severing nerve endings, blood exploding from the wound.  The two "Cops" dragged Freddy to the rear of the truck, and tossed him inside as well, joining his workers in a union of repose.  The man who would one day be Natch's father, ripped off his police uniform, jumped into the KING SANITATION truck and drove away, the sweep blade in the hopper gliding the three stiffs into the rear of the truck, mixing well with the collected trash.

     The KING SANITATION truck was taken to the waters edge, a pier on the west side.  The hopper was raised, and the blade pushed out the accumulated trash, which included Freddy and his two employees into the river, the current taking the entire mess, bodies included, upstream, as the mass of stuff slowly sunk beneath the waves.

     The KING SANITATION truck was taken to the Old Man's shop, where quickly it was taken apart, bolt by bolt, steel beam and steel beam, and turned into spare parts.

     About a week later, with peace in the valley, papers were signed, and KING SANITATION was split apart, acquired by the other owners.  A large dinner was held to celebrate, everyone was happy, peace had returned, and Freddy was fish food, which everyone enjoyed, since on the menu that night was fresh seafood.


Next:  CHAPTER THREE:  NICK AND NATCH.



    

'SALESMEN OF THE F.....G YEAR'

Chapter One:  IN THE BEGINNING

     This stuff happened before the other stuff:

     They came in waves, it seemed the hordes were crashing along the gates of Paradise, leaving their homelands empty.  Thousands, hundreds of thousands left.  They came from Ireland, they came from Italy, Poland, Eastern Europe, England, Spain, all points East and West.  The great portal was flung open and the immigrants flooded ashore, each with a dream, each with hope in their hearts and eyes, each coming to this land of freedom, where it was said the streets were paved with gold.

     They landed in New York, in enclaves, in little hovels, families jammed together in small spaces and they set out to make their mark upon the world, this exciting and terrifying new world.  Some left the bustling city, moving away, trying to find space, to find room to grow and prosper.

     Many came to the Next Big City.  Those who would, after a time, form themselves into a group, and with this group would forge a sprawling enterprise, a business like no other, controlled by these men, sons of Italy.  They worked hard, seven days a week, struggling to build businesses, the carting of refuse.  They conspired to drive out of the city other organizations, pushing them aside, their onrush of hard work and the imposition of fear drove all before them.  After a while they were the masters of their craft, controlling a small but growing industry.

     Then, friction.

     The great unsettling, a war, the fight over rights and territories, the struggle to live and expand, the infighting, men died, businesses were smashed one atop another.

     One man, later to be known as The Big Fella, later The Old Man, he saw the way and he worked hard to make the others see his wisdom.  They were crooks, gangsters, they knew that, but he taught them to survive by working together, keep outsiders out, divide up and settle disputes with a meal and some wine.

     Prosperity came, the lived well, they protected their little corner of the world, and slowly seeped into the outskirts, the suburbs, the bedroom communities which would rise up from the ashes of the inner cities.  The Old Man discovered Havens Cove and saw what was happening in Silver Shores, a housing development on a barrier island just across the bay from Havens Cove and Finchville.  And he liked what he saw and he went to the man, and said, Listen, we like this, what you are doing here and we want to buy some of these fine homes."

     Mr. Havens, the builder, smiled, thinking to himself, look at this guy, can't hardly speak good English, what does he know about this stuff?  Maybe, he thought, I can shake this guy down and whoever he is tied in with.  He took their money and proceeded to do what swindlers do with money and soon the Old Man was mighty sored up at Havens.

     On a Friday afternoon, the Old Man and his "assistant" rode up to Silver Shores, maybe a week before the infamous gate was to be built to keep the riff-raff out, much to the displeasure of the citizens of Havens Cove and Finchville.  It was raining, it was cold, a dark sky, grey clouds scuttling across the horizon, the sea a steel color, waves pounding the shore.

     They found Mister Havens in his garage.  They quickly explained to him the error of his ways, and Mister havens was fast to understand.  Maybe it was his scrotum encased in a metal clamp that produced the desired effect, but shortly the deed to the entire Silver Shores, lock, stock and scrotum was signed over.

     Not to leave any stone not turned, The Old Man and his "assistant" decided the very best place for Mister Havens would be at the end of a rope, hanging from one of the cheap cross beams in the garage, a suicide note on the hood of his car.  With the garage door closed, the cold body of Mister havens absorbing enough Carbon Monoxide to kill the entire population of Finchville, the Old Man and his "assistant" left, headed back to their Big city and brought big, exciting news to the other fellas  in the trash business.

     "We work hard all week, running these mighty big outfits, settling beefs, keepin' other guys out of our way, we need a place to relax after the strenuous work we do, and I have found the perfect spot.

     Within a few months, the fellas, all owners and operators of the special businesses, moved their families into the cheap homes along the water at Silver Shores, all the while cursing the cheesy workmanship, thinking, we're crooks, but that Havens guy musta' been a bigger crook, looka' these paper thin walls.  Why, if I was torturing somebody, shit, everyone would hear.

     Repairs were made to the houses, torture was kept to a minimum, but when employed, was relatively quiet.  The infamous gate was erected.  That guy in the black suit, white shirt, bolo tie, wide brim hat, delivered the gate.  He smiled at the Old Man before driving away, thinking, I have a mighty big beef with these guys, and when the time is right, I'll come back to settle things up.

     He sure did.