Post by Guillotine (QDT) on May 18, 2019 4:25:28 GMT -5
Pastor Norman just made his rounds again. On a daily basis on this ward, he buzzes around my bed like an incontinent mosquito; shitting all over me with his cocksucking platitudes and feeding off my current state with his predatory proboscis. The personification of a saggy bumhole, this chaplain maintains his daily routine with admirable persistence – “may I pray for you, sir?” The scolded puppy melancholy he bears each time I reject his offer was getting depressing… so today I gave him his golden moment and let him babble to his invisible friend. He’s probably yip yapping to his church buddies that QDT has seen the light and is converted to their fairytale. Between you and I, though, I did once had a profound experience meditating on the Holy Scriptures on a Leeds hotel balcony as the sun came up. While my sole dabble with the pages of Big G’s “Word” provided a perfect proxy to snort a wicked line of Charlie, I am fond of that Proverbs 27:17 shiznit – Iron sharpens Iron.
All jests and bravado temporarily suspended, let me say this - Wade Moor is fuckin’ Iron. I will continue to crow 201 from the rooftops but, let’s face it, I’ve leapt from playground slapsies to the Colosseum bloodbath against the empire’s most fearsome gladiator. I’m under no illusion. The stakes aren’t lost on me. Eliminating 11 superstars, breaking Wade’s record and overthrowing the man himself was a risk. There’s no turning back this time. The Guillotine’s blade has finally been released… will I cut Wade’s head off or simply fall; crushed under the mouton of my own expectations?
This pressure doesn’t trouble me. Iron sharpens Iron indeed. Moreover, Agony sharpens Iron. Whatever Wade has put me through physically and emotionally over the last two weeks, I paradoxically feel stronger. With pain a constant companion and the inertia of hospital life inescapable, I’ve revelled in mastering my sufferings. While the doctor’s prognoses aren’t favourable and there’s whispers of MONTHS out injured, my personal outlook is friggin’ glorious.
These thoughts, though… man, these thoughts. My mind is a labyrinth right now with the Minotaur of my memories charging into all sorts of walls. The latest subconscious pestilence keeps regurgitating itself. Let me process this shit and we’ll try to make sense of it together, OK?
It’s December 10th 2006, the night before my 8th birthday. I recall Papa Giacomo being away on a business trip. Mama’s stretching and contorting to a yoga DVD downstairs. Now’s my chance. Yesterday I spied Papa putting a wrapped gift in the top drawer of the bedside cabinet. What’s the harm in a little peak? He told me the new PlayStation 3 is a total waste of time and I needed to focus but I’m sure he was only saying that to throw me off the scent. I quietly slide open the drawer. There’s the present, all shiny and auspicious. I pick it up to feel around the sides. Definitely not a PlayStation. Hang on, what’s this? As I lift up the present, a photograph is exposed underneath.
That’s Papa and me. Except I don’t remember it. And I look older here. Hang on, that’s not me…
Voice: Quixote! Get out of our drawer!
I didn’t hear Mama come up the stairs. She slaps me hard upside my head and ruthlessly drags me away from the drawer. Her eyes land upon the photo, eliciting a gasp. She quickly shuts the drawer.
Quixote: Who is that in the photo with Papa? It isn’t me.
Mama: It IS you. Now go to bed. The quicker you sleep, the quicker your birthday comes.
Quixote: That isn’t me, Mama. Who is it?
Mama: Drop this, Qui. Sleep!
I do as she says and walk down the corridor towards my bedroom. I can feel her wistful gaze lingering on me. I look back innocently. She breaks…
Mama: It’s your brother.
What?! I don’t know what to say. Brother? Like an actual brother?
Mama: His name’s Sandro. He’s 19 and he lives in Palermo, Italy.
She turns away; trying to draw this conversation to a close.
Quixote: 19? So you had him when you were 10 years old? Mama, joke’s over.
Mama: He’s not my son.
Quixote: So he’s not my brother then.
Mama: He is. Papa met a woman long before me. They never married but they did have Sandro. Then, when they broke up, things went very wrong for Sandro... but maybe this is something for your Papa to tell you. Goodnight.
Quixote: Mama, wait! If Sandro is my brother, I want to meet him. At least once. That’s fair, isn’t it?
Mama: It’s not possible.
Quixote: Why not?
The cogs in her brain are visibly turning far quicker than usual. She bites her lip awkwardly.
Mama: Sandro is in prison for… err, manslaughter.
Quixote: What’s manslaughter?
Mama: It means he… killed someone. But Quixote, it was an accident. He didn’t mean to do it.
Quixote: What happened?
Mama: You need to understand that life was hard for Sandro without your Papa. His mother didn’t teach Sandro rules or discipline or respect like we taught you. He wasn’t trained to be a gentleman. All he was trained in was ugliness, and that’s the harvest he reaped. Lie down into bed and I’ll explain.
She tucks me in, all cozy and warm.
Mama: Sandro lives in Pagliarelli Prison in Palermo. That’s where Papa’s returning from later tonight. Sandro was in high school at the time and got caught up with the wrong crowd. A drug dealer kept harassing him in the park one day. Told him that if he didn’t sell drugs to his friends at school and give him the money, he would get beaten up.
Quixote: That’s so mean.
Mama: It’s evil, is what it is. Anyway, Sandro did as he was told about three times but he knew what he was doing was wrong. So he told the drug dealer that he wouldn’t do it anymore. This drug dealer was so angry and started hitting Sandro. He got out a gun. Sandro… erm… well, he… err, he turned the gun away from his face and it accidentally went off. A bullet caught the dealer and he… err… died. So it wasn’t Sandro’s fault.
Quixote: It sounds like Sandro was really brave, standing up to that bad man, Mama.
Mama: Yes Qui, your brother Sandro was very brave. And strong. Just like you.
Except he wasn’t. He was a coward. As he explained to me when I visited him in November, over a decade since our first and then only encounter, the narrative was twisted. It turns out that Sandro was the sociopathic drug lord. A boy named Vitale Narducci was the high school student Sandro subjugated into being his mule. Vitale was the brave one and wouldn’t stand for it any longer. He brought his father’s revolver with him to scare Sandro into granting him freedom from their entanglement. A fight ensued, Sandro cocked the gun into Vitale’s temple and his finger “slipped” on the trigger. It was ruled manslaughter thanks to the best efforts of corrupt cops who’d long been protecting Sandro and his entourage, but let’s call a spade a spade. The spade that consigned Vitale Narducci to the ground was coated with the blood of murder.
My parents’ fake news surrounding my brother’s character, or lack of, characterised my childhood; though I didn’t know that at the time. Bit by bit, everything unravelled… but now’s not the time to go into that.
Suddenly, a vision of loveliness tiptoes tentatively past the nurses and up to my bed. I hope she’s come to sponge bathe me.
It’s Jenna Bauer, my beloved. My betrothed, whether she knows it or not. AW’s finest interviewer sits compassionately at my bedside. She beholds me with a mixture of pure animalistic, bend me over and tap me like a sink lust and concerned despair. She starts holding my hand but quickly pulls away.
Jenna Bauer: How ya feelin’?
Quixote: I’m feeling you, I mean good.
Jenna Baer: You’ve taken so many knocks the last few weeks. Everyone’s saying your career’s hanging by a thread. How can you be “good”?
I resent where this is going…
Quixote: Hey, last I checked, you considered me a “misogynistic psychopath”. A moniker I felt was a kinda cute come on, by the way. But explain the disparity between that and your current boo hoo concern for ol’ QDT?
Jenna Bauer: I was hasty, I’m sorry. The more I get to know you, the more I suspect I misjudged you.
Quixote: Yeah, no. Misogynistic psychopath about nails it.
Jenna Bauer: I don’t think so. My Mom said to trust my gut instinct when I look someone eye to eye. I look into your eyes and I sense honesty, integrity and kindness. You hide your true qualities behind layers of machismo and a complete unwillingness to become vulnerable.
Quixote: Hey, whatever story you gotta concoct to justify your panties getting wet for an arsehole like me. Don’t worry girl, no slut shaming here. I’ll slut celebrate your pussy.
Jenna Bauer: Ah, and there’s vulgarity – check! Another of your go-tos that you use to hide your inner depth. To steal your quote, maybe it’s my turn to “reveal the YOU you conceal!”
Quixote: Jenna, is this newfound looking for the good in me shit spurred on by the fans deciding I’m some antihero after I threw 11 big name dweebs out of the Havoc Rumble? Are you basically supporting me because I’m getting in the face of an even more morally dubious human being such as Wade Moor? It seems a bit like you’re bandwagon jumping. Not that I’m complaining. You can ride my bandwagon any time.
Jenna Bauer: That’s not it. Maybe Havoc showed your heart which I guess I hadn’t really seen before. Since I saw that heart, it’s given me perspective on some of your past behaviour. I get where you’re coming from now. Take your parents for instance. I no longer think you attacked them as an act of senseless depravity. The more I see of you, the more I’ve gotta speculate that they hurt you in some way.
I turn my head away from her, restricted uncomfortably by this neck brace. She continues appealing to me with open body language and an expression of naïve hopefulness. Damn, she’s like a dog with a bone. She’s not going to let up. If I lashed out, she’d quit it… but part of me holds back from that for some reason.
Quixote: Nope, like you said - senseless depravity.
Jenna Bauer: You and I both know that’s not true.
Quixote: Leave it alone, Jenna.
She takes a few steps backwards with hands straightened into apologetic stop signs.
Jenna Bauer: This is the last I’ll say on this – take it or leave it. If the world knew your REAL story, you could be the most beloved wrestler in this business. You would grow through their love… through MY lo…
Quixote: What did you say?
Jenna Bauer: Nothing. I’m just saying that opening your heart to people can help it mend. You’re so desperately afraid of looking weak. You don’t realise that weakness can sometimes be someone’s biggest strength.
Quixote: I’m not fucking weak and I’m not a fucking victim so cut that shit out while you’re ahead.
I didn’t intend the aggression but she seems to have taken the hint, so…
Jenna Bauer: I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here.
She turns on her heel and dashes towards the exit.
Quixote: Jenna, wait...
She leans back towards me swiftly.
Quixote: Been good to see you, alright.
Jenna Bauer: I just care about you. Sorry I crossed the line.
Quixote: I’m fine. I’m dandy. Not the DiVito sort of dandy though… that gigantic bellend.
My uncharacteristic tenderness seems to embolden and return her to dog with a bone territory.
Jenna Bauer: I don’t want to see you like this. All banged up in hospital. You’re on a slippery slope with Wade Moor. You enraged him at Havoc. I know you’re tough but this is a one-upmanship of brutality that only leads to one outcome. Look at the state of play so far. Your career is in question. Meanwhile he’s swanning around as “William” in luxury cardigans, grinning like a Cheshire cat with barely a scratch on him. Don’t get me wrong - in the ring, you have a serious shot against Moor. On pure ability, I believe in you. What I’m worried about is his proven track-record of dragging men that anger him to the depths of hell. Too many wrestlers have come out of a feud with Wade missing a part of them. He’s the virtuoso of brokenness. No one walks away from him intact, whether physically, spiritually, mentally or otherwise. I don’t want that to be you.
Quixote: Appearances can deceive, as you said yourself earlier. No doubt all my braces and bandages look bad. But the real fuckin desecration occurred in the Havoc Rumble and it was on him. Wade’s a wounded animal bearing his teeth and barking uproariously right now. No alter ego mind games or vicious sneak assaults can disguise that. When I get out of here, I’m going to put him down. It’s that simple.
Jenna Bauer: But when are you getting out? Six months from now? And at WHAT cost?
Quixote: Whatever it takes.
She begins to leave.
Jenna Bauer: I was afraid you’d say that.
Welcome to Pagliarelli Prison in the heart of Palermo, Italy. Visitation hours have just begun. Watched like a hawk by a nearby guard, Sandro Della Torre greets Papa Giacomo with a kiss on each cheek.
Sandro: Ciao Papa!
Papa Giacomo: You look mucho grande, my son.
Sandro: Better than I can say for you, mi padre.
Papa points to his blackened, swollen eye. He smiles dismissively.
Sandro: That still from Quixote’s meltdown?
Papa Giacomo: No no no. I’m well healed from that. This was courtesy of a thug in the airport bar. Let’s just say he won’t piss properly for the next few weeks.
Sandro: Fuck Qui for that by the way. Fuck him! I know I’m a broken record but if I got out of here, he’d be dead.
Papa Giacomo: I’ve always taught Quixote that his actions have consequences. This time will not be the exception. We just have to do it smart and play the long game. A gentleman doesn’t always rush in. He uses his wit and cunning.
Sandro: It seems that someone will beat you to it. I saw that William Moor signore on the TV. He is one scary mofo.
Papa Giacomo: We need to harness that. The enemy of our enemy is our friend, remember. In fact, that’s why I’ve come to you. I need you to contact Moor. I have a grenade that can hurt Quixote dramatically.
Sandro: Why don’t you do it yourself? Far more satisfying, no?
Papa Giacomo: Not in this instance. Qui worshipped you growing up. We painted a picture of you as this courageous Christ figure; standing up for what’s right and suffering for it. He betrayed us. Your betrayal will be a far sharper dagger in his back than anything his Mama or I can plant.
Sandro: You’re very skilled at painting false pictures. I love the way those Action Wrestling morons think Qui attacked you and Penny unprovoked.
Papa Giacomo: The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist!
They laugh in unison with a spiteful venom in their voices.
Papa Giacomo: Actually, this is how we’ll hit Quixote in the balls. He doesn’t want the world to see his justification. He WANTS the attack to be seen as senseless barbarism. After all, he maintains a shard of fear factor if people think he randomly hurt his own parents. Perhaps even Wade is wondering what twisted fuck he’s up against. We can help show Wade and the world that Qui’s pistol is firing blanks! His biggest fear is being exposed as weak. We can do that!
Sandro: But how?
Papa reaches into his pocket as the guard rises up in anxious vigilance. Giacomo removes a disc and passes it to his elder son.
Sandro: A DVD? Old school!
Papa Giacomo: I trust that you can get this video in the right format for our friend Mr. William Moor to employ as he wishes?
Sandro: Consider it done. But just one question – will it bother you to lose the moral high ground in the eyes of the whole world?
Papa Giacomo: That ship sailed the day those delinquents began to cheer Quixote. Ultimately… I’d rather be EVEN than be right.
Sandro nods and stands up to leave the visitation area.
All jests and bravado temporarily suspended, let me say this - Wade Moor is fuckin’ Iron. I will continue to crow 201 from the rooftops but, let’s face it, I’ve leapt from playground slapsies to the Colosseum bloodbath against the empire’s most fearsome gladiator. I’m under no illusion. The stakes aren’t lost on me. Eliminating 11 superstars, breaking Wade’s record and overthrowing the man himself was a risk. There’s no turning back this time. The Guillotine’s blade has finally been released… will I cut Wade’s head off or simply fall; crushed under the mouton of my own expectations?
This pressure doesn’t trouble me. Iron sharpens Iron indeed. Moreover, Agony sharpens Iron. Whatever Wade has put me through physically and emotionally over the last two weeks, I paradoxically feel stronger. With pain a constant companion and the inertia of hospital life inescapable, I’ve revelled in mastering my sufferings. While the doctor’s prognoses aren’t favourable and there’s whispers of MONTHS out injured, my personal outlook is friggin’ glorious.
These thoughts, though… man, these thoughts. My mind is a labyrinth right now with the Minotaur of my memories charging into all sorts of walls. The latest subconscious pestilence keeps regurgitating itself. Let me process this shit and we’ll try to make sense of it together, OK?
It’s December 10th 2006, the night before my 8th birthday. I recall Papa Giacomo being away on a business trip. Mama’s stretching and contorting to a yoga DVD downstairs. Now’s my chance. Yesterday I spied Papa putting a wrapped gift in the top drawer of the bedside cabinet. What’s the harm in a little peak? He told me the new PlayStation 3 is a total waste of time and I needed to focus but I’m sure he was only saying that to throw me off the scent. I quietly slide open the drawer. There’s the present, all shiny and auspicious. I pick it up to feel around the sides. Definitely not a PlayStation. Hang on, what’s this? As I lift up the present, a photograph is exposed underneath.
That’s Papa and me. Except I don’t remember it. And I look older here. Hang on, that’s not me…
Voice: Quixote! Get out of our drawer!
I didn’t hear Mama come up the stairs. She slaps me hard upside my head and ruthlessly drags me away from the drawer. Her eyes land upon the photo, eliciting a gasp. She quickly shuts the drawer.
Quixote: Who is that in the photo with Papa? It isn’t me.
Mama: It IS you. Now go to bed. The quicker you sleep, the quicker your birthday comes.
Quixote: That isn’t me, Mama. Who is it?
Mama: Drop this, Qui. Sleep!
I do as she says and walk down the corridor towards my bedroom. I can feel her wistful gaze lingering on me. I look back innocently. She breaks…
Mama: It’s your brother.
What?! I don’t know what to say. Brother? Like an actual brother?
Mama: His name’s Sandro. He’s 19 and he lives in Palermo, Italy.
She turns away; trying to draw this conversation to a close.
Quixote: 19? So you had him when you were 10 years old? Mama, joke’s over.
Mama: He’s not my son.
Quixote: So he’s not my brother then.
Mama: He is. Papa met a woman long before me. They never married but they did have Sandro. Then, when they broke up, things went very wrong for Sandro... but maybe this is something for your Papa to tell you. Goodnight.
Quixote: Mama, wait! If Sandro is my brother, I want to meet him. At least once. That’s fair, isn’t it?
Mama: It’s not possible.
Quixote: Why not?
The cogs in her brain are visibly turning far quicker than usual. She bites her lip awkwardly.
Mama: Sandro is in prison for… err, manslaughter.
Quixote: What’s manslaughter?
Mama: It means he… killed someone. But Quixote, it was an accident. He didn’t mean to do it.
Quixote: What happened?
Mama: You need to understand that life was hard for Sandro without your Papa. His mother didn’t teach Sandro rules or discipline or respect like we taught you. He wasn’t trained to be a gentleman. All he was trained in was ugliness, and that’s the harvest he reaped. Lie down into bed and I’ll explain.
She tucks me in, all cozy and warm.
Mama: Sandro lives in Pagliarelli Prison in Palermo. That’s where Papa’s returning from later tonight. Sandro was in high school at the time and got caught up with the wrong crowd. A drug dealer kept harassing him in the park one day. Told him that if he didn’t sell drugs to his friends at school and give him the money, he would get beaten up.
Quixote: That’s so mean.
Mama: It’s evil, is what it is. Anyway, Sandro did as he was told about three times but he knew what he was doing was wrong. So he told the drug dealer that he wouldn’t do it anymore. This drug dealer was so angry and started hitting Sandro. He got out a gun. Sandro… erm… well, he… err, he turned the gun away from his face and it accidentally went off. A bullet caught the dealer and he… err… died. So it wasn’t Sandro’s fault.
Quixote: It sounds like Sandro was really brave, standing up to that bad man, Mama.
Mama: Yes Qui, your brother Sandro was very brave. And strong. Just like you.
Except he wasn’t. He was a coward. As he explained to me when I visited him in November, over a decade since our first and then only encounter, the narrative was twisted. It turns out that Sandro was the sociopathic drug lord. A boy named Vitale Narducci was the high school student Sandro subjugated into being his mule. Vitale was the brave one and wouldn’t stand for it any longer. He brought his father’s revolver with him to scare Sandro into granting him freedom from their entanglement. A fight ensued, Sandro cocked the gun into Vitale’s temple and his finger “slipped” on the trigger. It was ruled manslaughter thanks to the best efforts of corrupt cops who’d long been protecting Sandro and his entourage, but let’s call a spade a spade. The spade that consigned Vitale Narducci to the ground was coated with the blood of murder.
My parents’ fake news surrounding my brother’s character, or lack of, characterised my childhood; though I didn’t know that at the time. Bit by bit, everything unravelled… but now’s not the time to go into that.
Suddenly, a vision of loveliness tiptoes tentatively past the nurses and up to my bed. I hope she’s come to sponge bathe me.
It’s Jenna Bauer, my beloved. My betrothed, whether she knows it or not. AW’s finest interviewer sits compassionately at my bedside. She beholds me with a mixture of pure animalistic, bend me over and tap me like a sink lust and concerned despair. She starts holding my hand but quickly pulls away.
Jenna Bauer: How ya feelin’?
Quixote: I’m feeling you, I mean good.
Jenna Baer: You’ve taken so many knocks the last few weeks. Everyone’s saying your career’s hanging by a thread. How can you be “good”?
I resent where this is going…
Quixote: Hey, last I checked, you considered me a “misogynistic psychopath”. A moniker I felt was a kinda cute come on, by the way. But explain the disparity between that and your current boo hoo concern for ol’ QDT?
Jenna Bauer: I was hasty, I’m sorry. The more I get to know you, the more I suspect I misjudged you.
Quixote: Yeah, no. Misogynistic psychopath about nails it.
Jenna Bauer: I don’t think so. My Mom said to trust my gut instinct when I look someone eye to eye. I look into your eyes and I sense honesty, integrity and kindness. You hide your true qualities behind layers of machismo and a complete unwillingness to become vulnerable.
Quixote: Hey, whatever story you gotta concoct to justify your panties getting wet for an arsehole like me. Don’t worry girl, no slut shaming here. I’ll slut celebrate your pussy.
Jenna Bauer: Ah, and there’s vulgarity – check! Another of your go-tos that you use to hide your inner depth. To steal your quote, maybe it’s my turn to “reveal the YOU you conceal!”
Quixote: Jenna, is this newfound looking for the good in me shit spurred on by the fans deciding I’m some antihero after I threw 11 big name dweebs out of the Havoc Rumble? Are you basically supporting me because I’m getting in the face of an even more morally dubious human being such as Wade Moor? It seems a bit like you’re bandwagon jumping. Not that I’m complaining. You can ride my bandwagon any time.
Jenna Bauer: That’s not it. Maybe Havoc showed your heart which I guess I hadn’t really seen before. Since I saw that heart, it’s given me perspective on some of your past behaviour. I get where you’re coming from now. Take your parents for instance. I no longer think you attacked them as an act of senseless depravity. The more I see of you, the more I’ve gotta speculate that they hurt you in some way.
I turn my head away from her, restricted uncomfortably by this neck brace. She continues appealing to me with open body language and an expression of naïve hopefulness. Damn, she’s like a dog with a bone. She’s not going to let up. If I lashed out, she’d quit it… but part of me holds back from that for some reason.
Quixote: Nope, like you said - senseless depravity.
Jenna Bauer: You and I both know that’s not true.
Quixote: Leave it alone, Jenna.
She takes a few steps backwards with hands straightened into apologetic stop signs.
Jenna Bauer: This is the last I’ll say on this – take it or leave it. If the world knew your REAL story, you could be the most beloved wrestler in this business. You would grow through their love… through MY lo…
Quixote: What did you say?
Jenna Bauer: Nothing. I’m just saying that opening your heart to people can help it mend. You’re so desperately afraid of looking weak. You don’t realise that weakness can sometimes be someone’s biggest strength.
Quixote: I’m not fucking weak and I’m not a fucking victim so cut that shit out while you’re ahead.
I didn’t intend the aggression but she seems to have taken the hint, so…
Jenna Bauer: I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here.
She turns on her heel and dashes towards the exit.
Quixote: Jenna, wait...
She leans back towards me swiftly.
Quixote: Been good to see you, alright.
Jenna Bauer: I just care about you. Sorry I crossed the line.
Quixote: I’m fine. I’m dandy. Not the DiVito sort of dandy though… that gigantic bellend.
My uncharacteristic tenderness seems to embolden and return her to dog with a bone territory.
Jenna Bauer: I don’t want to see you like this. All banged up in hospital. You’re on a slippery slope with Wade Moor. You enraged him at Havoc. I know you’re tough but this is a one-upmanship of brutality that only leads to one outcome. Look at the state of play so far. Your career is in question. Meanwhile he’s swanning around as “William” in luxury cardigans, grinning like a Cheshire cat with barely a scratch on him. Don’t get me wrong - in the ring, you have a serious shot against Moor. On pure ability, I believe in you. What I’m worried about is his proven track-record of dragging men that anger him to the depths of hell. Too many wrestlers have come out of a feud with Wade missing a part of them. He’s the virtuoso of brokenness. No one walks away from him intact, whether physically, spiritually, mentally or otherwise. I don’t want that to be you.
Quixote: Appearances can deceive, as you said yourself earlier. No doubt all my braces and bandages look bad. But the real fuckin desecration occurred in the Havoc Rumble and it was on him. Wade’s a wounded animal bearing his teeth and barking uproariously right now. No alter ego mind games or vicious sneak assaults can disguise that. When I get out of here, I’m going to put him down. It’s that simple.
Jenna Bauer: But when are you getting out? Six months from now? And at WHAT cost?
Quixote: Whatever it takes.
She begins to leave.
Jenna Bauer: I was afraid you’d say that.
Welcome to Pagliarelli Prison in the heart of Palermo, Italy. Visitation hours have just begun. Watched like a hawk by a nearby guard, Sandro Della Torre greets Papa Giacomo with a kiss on each cheek.
Sandro: Ciao Papa!
Papa Giacomo: You look mucho grande, my son.
Sandro: Better than I can say for you, mi padre.
Papa points to his blackened, swollen eye. He smiles dismissively.
Sandro: That still from Quixote’s meltdown?
Papa Giacomo: No no no. I’m well healed from that. This was courtesy of a thug in the airport bar. Let’s just say he won’t piss properly for the next few weeks.
Sandro: Fuck Qui for that by the way. Fuck him! I know I’m a broken record but if I got out of here, he’d be dead.
Papa Giacomo: I’ve always taught Quixote that his actions have consequences. This time will not be the exception. We just have to do it smart and play the long game. A gentleman doesn’t always rush in. He uses his wit and cunning.
Sandro: It seems that someone will beat you to it. I saw that William Moor signore on the TV. He is one scary mofo.
Papa Giacomo: We need to harness that. The enemy of our enemy is our friend, remember. In fact, that’s why I’ve come to you. I need you to contact Moor. I have a grenade that can hurt Quixote dramatically.
Sandro: Why don’t you do it yourself? Far more satisfying, no?
Papa Giacomo: Not in this instance. Qui worshipped you growing up. We painted a picture of you as this courageous Christ figure; standing up for what’s right and suffering for it. He betrayed us. Your betrayal will be a far sharper dagger in his back than anything his Mama or I can plant.
Sandro: You’re very skilled at painting false pictures. I love the way those Action Wrestling morons think Qui attacked you and Penny unprovoked.
Papa Giacomo: The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist!
They laugh in unison with a spiteful venom in their voices.
Papa Giacomo: Actually, this is how we’ll hit Quixote in the balls. He doesn’t want the world to see his justification. He WANTS the attack to be seen as senseless barbarism. After all, he maintains a shard of fear factor if people think he randomly hurt his own parents. Perhaps even Wade is wondering what twisted fuck he’s up against. We can help show Wade and the world that Qui’s pistol is firing blanks! His biggest fear is being exposed as weak. We can do that!
Sandro: But how?
Papa reaches into his pocket as the guard rises up in anxious vigilance. Giacomo removes a disc and passes it to his elder son.
Sandro: A DVD? Old school!
Papa Giacomo: I trust that you can get this video in the right format for our friend Mr. William Moor to employ as he wishes?
Sandro: Consider it done. But just one question – will it bother you to lose the moral high ground in the eyes of the whole world?
Papa Giacomo: That ship sailed the day those delinquents began to cheer Quixote. Ultimately… I’d rather be EVEN than be right.
Sandro nods and stands up to leave the visitation area.