The Carnival (955 hits)
Category: NoneLabels: The_Malleys
Rating: 2 on 20 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Axolotl (View user info) at 2006-06-15 10:41:30 EDT
Willy Malley looked hopeful as he walked into John Malley's office in Newark, stepping in to see John and Brecher looking at a computer screen. "You wanted to see me, bro?"
"Yes," John said, still looking at the screen. "Mike told me you were looking for an assignment within the family?"
"It would be nice, yes, I would," Willy said.
"Our brother Peter doesn't want to hear this, but we need to get Pat Coyle," John said, looking up at Willy. "My contacts tell me he's on the Jersey Shore, down by Tom's River. Go down there and do some investigation. Here..."
John pulled a .38-caliber pistol and silencer out of his desk and handed them to Willy, who took them enthusiastically, hiding them in his jacket.
"Be careful, Willy," John cautioned. "Don't get the family in trouble. See Virgil for some more information before you leave."
"Thank you, John!" Willy said graciously, stepping out of the office.
"Do you think it's safe?" Brecher questioned.
"I trust him," John replied confidently.
* * *
On the shimmering Barnegat Bay, jet skis and motorboats buzzed excitedly around. It was the end of a glorious, hot summer, and Pat Coyle was stuck sitting in a café in Seaside Heights, miles away from his home. The Jersey Shore had seemed the safest place to go, but he still looked over his shoulder at every turn.
Pat opened up his laptop computer, one of the few things he had taken from his West New York apartment after escaping the murderous wrath of John Malley. He opened up a Word document and began writing in his journal. One day, when he had served the FBI and was in the Witness Protection Program, he could get his memoirs published. Life As A Jersey Mobster could be the title, or something along those lines.
"Monday, September 26th," he typed, mouthing the words as he struck the keys perfectly. "Tomorrow, I will have been in hiding for seven weeks. Seven weeks without my dog. Seven weeks without Peter. Seven weeks without my family. I haven't had any contact with the Sullivan Family since that night on Garrett Mountain, but I haven't had any contact with the FBI either. I'm invisible, as far as everyone is concerned."
Pat looked out across the bay to Tom's River far across the water. "It's a nice feeling sometimes, to know that nobody knows who you are. But seven weeks is an awfully long time when you had friends back where you were. They say you can never go back home, and it's hurting me."
"I spend my days at the beach, or working at the Staples here." Pat wrote. "They don't do a background check, so as far as everyone's concerned I'm just a forty-two year old loser with a shitty job."
Pat looked up toward Seaside Heights, where the Ferris wheels and rollercoasters of the Jersey boardwalks rose above the skyline, the beach's neverending summer carnival. Turning back to his computer, Pat wrote, "Well, it's better than being a killer, anyway."
* * *
It was the last Friday in September, and Michael Brecher and Raymond Ventry were sitting patiently in a waiting room in one of the tallest buildings in Jersey City. The large office building on Hudson was the home of Carlo Dimiglio's family, and from the waiting room Michael and Raymond could see a picturesque view of downtown Manhattan.
"Grew up there," Michael said, looking out at New York City. "Up in the Bronx, anyway. Moved to Jersey in 7th grade, I remember it being such a change."
"I've been Paterson all my life," Raymond said, looking at his reflection in a large gilded mirror off to the side. "Still got my summer tan, though."
"I don't tan," Brecher replied. "I burn." Raymond smiled, and then suddenly realized he was touching the armrest. He jerked quickly, standing up and holding his hand out like it was leprous.
"Say, you don't happen to have a bathroom, do you?" Raymond asked the receptionist. The strict-looking woman pointed at a restroom sign and Raymond rushed down toward the hallway to wash his hands.
"They'll be dry!" Brecher cajoled as Raymond walked purposefully toward the restrooms. "It'll be awkward shaking Don Dimiglio's hand!"
The office door opened and Paul Ciceri stepped out, looking like a professional soldier with his crew cut and elegant jacket. Paul caught Mike's eye, and Mike stood up to shake his hand. "You here for Dimiglio too?" Mike asked.
"Me and Tony Delgado," Paul said. "Not Carmine, I don't think Godfather Dimiglio trusts him enough. Did you bring Raymond Ventry?"
Raymond walked back out of the bathrooms, his hands red from scrubbing. "Hey, Paul," he said enthusiastically, shaking Paul's hand. "Is the good-looking guy ready for us?"
"Let's go in," Paul said, with a trace of foreboding in his voice. Raymond clapped his hands and walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Michael Brecher, stepping into Godfather Dimiglio's office.
The office was a large, spacious room with a pure white rug that Michael felt guilty stepping across. The sterile, clean environment was heaven to Raymond Ventry, who walked over to where Carlo Dimiglio was sitting and shook his hand vigorously. Paul Ciceri and Antonio Delgado sat on a couch before Don Dimiglio's desk, and beckoned Raymond and Michael to join them.
Dimiglio leaned back in his chair, his thin white beard mingling with the fluffy hair of his rabbit he held in his lap. Raymond gulped as he sat back on the couch, realizing Dimiglio's hands weren't as clean as he had thought. Raymond, Ciceri, Brecher and Delgado held their breath waiting for Dimiglio's orders.
"Michael," Dimiglio said slowly. Brecher's ears perked up, but Dimiglio turned toward an adjacent door, out of which a tall, light-haired familiar man was walking. Raymond and Brecher froze, turning coldly numb. Michael Sullivan, the son of the late Jackie, was in the room, looking as much of the shrewd businessman as he had ever been, but with a murderous glint in his pupils.
"For those of you who do not know, this is Michael Sullivan," Dimiglio introduced. "He will be working with our family, as I hope we can foster a degree of cooperation between the Italian and Irish in New Jersey."
"We were cooperating under Carmine Galantro," Paul Ciceri questioned. "Why hasn't he been included in these talks?"
"Carmine is of a new breed of businessman," Dimiglio replied. "He is unable to deal with threats to the family, namely the Sullivans. John Malley is a dangerous man. He and his designs in Union City have been hurting us financially..."
"What do you propose we do about John Malley?" Antonio Delgado asked in interest.
"I have a bullet in this gun saved for John Malley's heart," Michael Sullivan said calmly, feeling inside his coat and grasping a hidden pistol. "And another for Donald McMichael. My brother's killers, who desecrated my father to secure their own power."
"Michael will be more than happy to kill Malley and McMichael," Dimiglio said. "But he cannot do it alone. Antonio Delgado and Paul Ciceri have given over their support—is this correct?"
"Yes, Godfather," Antonio said eagerly. Paul merely nodded his head, looking nauseous.
"We certainly do not want to provoke a war between our families," Dimiglio said concedingly. "All we need is the help of two loyal administrators—you, Raymond Ventry, and Michael Brecher. Find out John Malley's schedule, his whereabouts, and deliver the information to Michael Sullivan."
"What do we get out of this?" Raymond asked.
"Fifty thousand dollars for starters," Michael Sullivan answered, his voice all the more monotone and cruel. "The control of the Sullivan family after John Malley and Don McMichael vacate their positions."
"This would destroy us," Michael Brecher said in soft protest. "We would go to civil war, crew against crew...and Virgil O'Duinen would accede command of the family if John died..."
"Virgil is weak," Raymond mused.
"Does he have balls?" Dimiglio pressed.
"Not enough to take power if Malley and McMichael met a tragic end," Raymond replied. Antonio smiled coolly, and Paul leaned back, closing his eyes.
"Can I count on your support?" Dimiglio asked. "To avenge the death of Johnny-boy Sullivan, and to remove these usurpers? Raymond, Michael? You will be my most loyal associates, and you will be remembered as the men who brought lasting peace to New Jersey."
"Godfather," Raymond said, standing up and shaking Dimiglio's outstretched hand. He bent to kiss his fingers, but turned back after a sudden flash of fear. "My gunman, Dan McCourt, he listens to me no matter what," Raymond continued. "I can pledge his support as well. He'd jump into a river if I asked him. Don McMichael's picking up a payment at my house in Paterson next week..."
"Brecher?" Michael Sullivan asked. "Can we depend on you?"
"To kill John Malley, my boss?" Michael Brecher said slowly.
"I would kill him personally, for my brother and father. You would give me an opportune time, help me find my target. Your hands would be clean." Sullivan finished this with a discreet look at Raymond's dry, scoured hands.
"If I say no, will you let me out alive?"
"No. But we want your voluntary support. Don't make me kill you, Michael."
Michael Brecher cleared his throat and said, "Godfather Dimiglio, you have my support."
"It is settled," Dimiglio said, contentedly stroking his rabbit. "I will give you your commission shortly. Until then, stay safe, and keep this our secret. Raymond, Michael, future generations will thank you."
"Thank you, godfather," Raymond said, bowing awkwardly to Carlo Dimiglio. Raymond and Michael left the office, and continued down through the lobby of the building. Michael felt hollow as he went down the elevator. Fear swelled his body, making him feel like his blood was boiling.
His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he quickly grabbed it. Michael checked the display...it was a text from Paul Ciceri's number. Michael read it, and relief spread through him, a cool mist against smoldering wood.
"You're not alone, Mike. The rest are traitors, but Carmine and I support John Malley. Do not give Dimiglio or Sullivan any information, and beware of Raymond Ventry. Call me when you are safe. Paul."
"Just my wife," Michael said, replacing his phone. "Wants to know how it went."
"Nice of her," Raymond said, a tone of discontent in his voice that suggested a nonexistent love life. "How is Joanne anyway?"
"She's been doing good," Michael said as they stepped out of the elevator.
* * *
Paddy Kelly crossed the Haledon Avenue bridge out of Prospect Park, Don McMichael in the passenger's seat. The poor section of the city of Paterson lay before them down Lafayette Street off to the left, and Paddy warily checked for the pistol in his holster.
"Did you see the face on that Russian—Ilyich?" McMichael asked his driver and bodyguard with a chuckle. "When you threatened to run his face over with the lawnmower he was using?"
"Yeah, Donnie, that was pretty sick," Paddy said, grinning. "I'm turning up Mercer?"
"Mercer. One block up," McMichael answered. "How about that dumb fucking bitch in Hawthorne, when I took out my gun and pointed it at her fucking cat? How classic was that?"
"Ray's house is here?" Paddy asked at the corner of Franklin and Mercer. "Doesn't look like too good a neighborhood. Shit...they've got a memorial marker right over there..."
"Raymond likes danger," McMichael said, blowing his horn and looking out the window. He nodded silently to a group of black teenagers a few yards away, conversing with one another in hushed tones.
They had been doing collections in Wayne and Hawthorne that Saturday afternoon, and were just stopping by Raymond Ventry's to pick up money for the hit on Emilio Pierro. John Broadus and Alex Collins were both in McMichael's crew, and they were eagerly awaiting the forty thousand dollars in reward for Pierro's murder.
Raymond lived in a well-tended house on the corner with a wide porch. As Don McMichael's gaze traveled up toward the lawn, the door opened and Raymond's right-hand man, Dan McCourt, stepped out. He was carrying a large duffel bag, which he patted with a stupid grin.
"That wouldn't happen to be for us, would it?" McMichael called out. The teenagers looked on in interest as Dan McCourt opened the bag up and pulled out a wad of hundred-dollar bills bound together tightly.
"Raymond says Vito Lucarno sends his thanks," Dan McCourt said.
Don reached out to grab the bag as Dan walked closer, holding out the prize. Paddy Kelly turned around and looked out the passenger window toward McCourt, and said, "Is there a cut for us and our troubles?"
Dan McCourt gave the bag to Don McMichael with a big smile, and looked up and winked. In an instant, a light-haired man walked briskly up to the driver's side window, drew a .22-caliber semiautomatic from his jeans waistband and aimed into Paddy Kelly's window.
The man fired into the car, holding his gun in both hands, shattering the glass and shooting Paddy Kelly three times through his head. Paddy slumped in his seat, blood streaming down his face, and Don McMichael clutched the bag to his chest as though to protect himself. He looked out the open window and saw a horrifically unwelcome face.
It was the vengeful, righteous face of Michael Sullivan, who's brother Don McMichael had conspired to kill. The son of the late Boss Jackie. He was alive, well, and out of exile, pointing a live gun across McMichael's defender's dead body.
With a roar, Don McMichael heaved the bag at Michael Sullivan the moment he pulled the trigger. The heavy sack of money knocked the pistol off balance, and Paddy Kelly's corpse took another shot to the head. Don lunged across the seat and maneuvering his feet, slammed on the brakes as Sullivan shoved the bag away and set the gun at the back of McMichael's neck.
Michael Sullivan fired, shattering the passenger's side window. Dan McCourt fearfully ran back inside Raymond Ventry's house while the teenagers gestured in concern toward the car. McMichael gunned the engine and went tearing up Mercer Street, Sullivan being dragged along.
"This isn't over—" Michael Sullivan hissed, tumbling out of the window and slamming into the asphalt street. McMichael drove down to the Passaic River, and disappeared out of sight. Raymond Ventry looked out the window of his house at Michael Sullivan, picking himself up off the ground, and cursed quietly to himself.
* * *
John Malley and Carmine Galantro shook hands as Don Gambetta looked on. They were in the Gambetta Family's East Village Office on 2nd Avenue and 8th Street, a deceptively small building. Malley and Galantro had called the meeting to ask the all-powerful Gambetta for his support.
"I've known Dimiglio for a long time," Gambetta said. "He is not an understanding man. Although your families were agreeable on the Union City real estate deals, Carlo Dimiglio feels it as an intrusion into his personal space."
"We're in an alliance," John Malley said. "Carmine and I, we're cooperating now."
"Behind your boss' back?" Gambetta asked curiously.
"It's unavoidable." Carmine said pointedly. "You know what the good-looking guy is like. We feel it's justifiable for the sake of peace."
"Acceptable. Now, about Jersey City..."
* * *
"So is your dad really a mobster for a living?" Jeffrey Nolan asked, wrapping an arm tightly around Alexa's abdomen as they watched Lost in the Malley household in Ridgewood on a cool Wednesday night in October.
"Don't call him that, Jeff," Alexa said, slipping her fingers between his. "He's a real businessman, he does real estate. He's in New York City tonight with his company discussing a deal or something."
"With friends like Don McMichael?" Jeff said excitedly. "How great would it be to be powerful enough that you didn't have to take shit from anyone, to just walk where you pleased..."
"Stop it, Jeff," Alexa said, slightly annoyed. "We don't have to talk about my dad every second of the day. Mr. McMichael is a nice man. When my brother crashed his car, McMichael helped with his insurance deposit."
"Probably a broken kneecap behind that," Jeff said authoritatively.
"Jesus, Jeff," Alexa said, pulling away from him. She got up off the couch and walked away toward the kitchen, leaving Jeff alone on the couch.
http://www.ubersite.com/u/Axolotl/l/the_malleys
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I'm doing a series about a stick figure gentleman by the name of Sampson, who enjoying killing people with swords. This is a very basic rampage animation I did back in October when I got the program.
User Reviews
Submitted by c1ndy (user info) at 2006-06-22 16:32:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
+2 the little animation thing.
Submitted by BobLobla (user info) at 2006-06-22 16:25:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Awesomeness, again.
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-06-15 23:14:16 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I will put up some more animations tomorrow.
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-06-15 23:14:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Weeps
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-06-15 22:37:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I hope you don't expect me to read this in my enibb... eeenerbi...
enenebira... drunken state.
Good shit, you YOUNG PUNK. (punk in the good way. . .)
Submitted by extacy_red (user info) at 2006-06-15 22:30:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
aww this is that mob shit i dont like.
you have severely discrushed my happy
i hope a angry kitten lands on your face
but im not one to break a probably deserving streak, i onbly read the first sentence and was like wattitii
Submitted by extacy_red (user info) at 2006-06-15 22:29:10 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
becxause i like carnivaals. now its time to read. i had sex in a ferris whell once, on of the closed container majigger nigger things
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-06-15 17:48:53 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by shitfuck (user info) at 2006-06-15 14:12:17 (#)
Ranking: 2
That's abrasive!
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Yo momma foo'
Submitted by c1ndy (user info) at 2006-06-15 14:37:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2006-06-15 11:27:43 (#)
Ranking: 2
the stick people pwn
Submitted by shitfuck (user info) at 2006-06-15 14:12:17 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
That's abrasive!
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-06-15 12:46:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
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Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2006-06-15 11:27:43 (#)
Ranking: 2
the stick people pwn
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The thing is, I downloaded a bunch of new stick figures like bloodstains, real-looking guns, and better characters, so this looks weird to me now...
Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2006-06-15 11:27:43 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
the stick people pwn
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-06-15 11:17:05 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by TigerLilly (user info) at 2006-06-15 11:09:54 (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
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whooooooooooo
Submitted by TigerLilly (user info) at 2006-06-15 11:09:54 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-06-15 10:54:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Not to give away any endings, though.
Don McMichael will be through a few more assassination attempts, but he'll survive to the last episode.
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-06-15 10:53:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by MyNameIsTim (user info) at 2006-06-15 10:51:02 (#)
Ranking: 2
i hope the moral at the end is going to be "all criminals are the same."
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3rd season moral - Keep your loyalties
4th season moral - All criminals are the same/violence only creates more pain
Final season moral - The only escape from crime is to turn against it
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-06-15 10:51:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Doodles (user info) at 2006-06-15 10:47:17 (#)
Ranking: 2
I'm in the process of making a full length stick figure cowboy porn.
So far, I hae the cowboy walking.
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I'm making one where a guy gets mad because someone's talking on the phone in a restaurant.
He pins the phone to his face with a carving knife and shoots him in the head. Then, he steals a police officer's hat.
Submitted by MyNameIsTim (user info) at 2006-06-15 10:51:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
i hope the moral at the end is going to be "all criminals are the same."
Submitted by Doodles (user info) at 2006-06-15 10:47:17 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I'm in the process of making a full length stick figure cowboy porn.
So far, I hae the cowboy walking.
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-06-15 10:41:53 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Looks a bit small...