PERPETUATION!
Ah so, said the monkey,
as he scurried up the tree.
You'll give me two,
if I return you three?
Yes said the snake,
as he slithered right beside.
I promise and swear:
By the legs that I hide.
The monkey was shrewd;
he really thought he knew!
A snake has no legs,
I'll take him for a few.
So he scooped up the bucks,
and went upon his way.
Laughing, and joking ,
As he spent and spent all day.
Up popped the snake,
a smirk upon his face.
Its time to repay,
or I'll have a little taste,
I'll bake you and stew you,
I like my monkey pie
So give me my money
for I never, never lie!
The monkey just chuckled,
swinging way up high.
Laughing, and heckling ;
You never tell no lies?
Where are those legs,
the ones you say you hide?
I'll not repay you,
I took you for a ride!
Not a cent will you get,
and this I guarantee,
Said the monkey to the snake,
as he swung from tree to tree.
The snake waited patiently,
curled upon the ground.
As the gleeful monkey,
jumped and flew around.
Then the cagey monkey,
in his jesting haste,
grabbed a broken branch and
to the ground he raced...
Ah, so! said the rabbit,
as he hopped a round the tree,
You'll give me two,
if I return you three?
Yes said the snake,
As he picked his gleaming teeth...,
I promise and swear
by my little, hidden feet!
The rabbit was shrewd,
he thought he really knew.
A snake has no feet,
I'll take him for a few...

The mob wars raged for years and after the end finally came, 1934 saw a new Godfather seated firmly at the head of a vast table. On this table lay a feast consisting of prostitution, gambling, hijacking, political corruption, loan sharking, murder, interstate trucking, union organization and last, but not least... the horrific corruption of souls...

While Salvatore "Charley Lucky" Luciano expounded on the fact that he would not assume the title Boss of Bosses, he demanded the respect. Theft from conversion became his catch phrase of the day. Using the stolen visions and dreams of Maranzano, he was producing what would become the most powerful criminal organization ever to corrupt the planet. With his very first bite he consumed the souls of his first victims as Tutti De Tutti Capo...

The strong stench of sour bath-tub gin, stale cigarette smoke, and dried sweat, which reeked throughout the enormous bedroom, stirred Louise from a deep sleep. Sluggishly sitting up, she adjusted her vision to the bright rays of the sun as it cast it's shafts of light through the parted red velvet draperies. Focusing on the particles of dust that danced a trapeze in and out of this disharmonious mixture of life and death, she pulled the satin coverlet over her head. With each mornings sun came the reminder of the dreaded days wait for evenings return.

Harry, it was in the darkness of the night, consorting with hi-rollers congesting the gambling tables of the Mount Kisko Cabaret -- a joint "Charlie Lucky" now controlled -- that Lou's life reveled. Bedecked in her finest, a bejeweled cigarette holder laced between her fingers, she could whip up a smile, flash her golden brown eyes, and stare down even the most hardened fellows in a heart beat. Here she was, entirely at home amongst the overpowering fragrances of the ladies of the night as they mixed and mingled with the onion and garlic of the obnoxious wiseguys.

Last night she was very much alive: making a "C" note entertaining Dominic. "Big Dom" was a player in a world of games. He had recently "come into" some heavy cash, and when he had it, he spent it; last night he had it... she got it -- along with her normal hang-over. A knock at the door announced her maids arrival with her breakfast: an elixir consisting of tomato juice with garlic, salt, Tabasco sauce, and a hard roll.

"Good mornin' Lou, last nigh' you got a phone call from yo brother Frank." She said as she placed the morning tray upon the bed. "I didn' wanna botha you wid it, bein' that you was wid that man Big Dom. He's one sharp, heavy looted man... an he's sure enough got sumthin for you!"

"You just mind your own business and get this room cleaned up and ready for tonight." Lou directed in a civil yet commanding tone. "I will be wearing my black dress... The one with the sequins and my white mink stole. Make sure they are clean!"

'How long had it been since she had spoke to Frank?' she thought to herself. Boy had things changed. 'Who would have thought my life would become what it is. If Pop had only'... She interrupted her thought and reached for the phone. Dialing, she began to think of the day years ago when she was informed by phone through Franky that her father had been kidnapped...

....in a dark, cold room, on a bare mattress, Antonio had lay in deep thought. After the shoot out at his place, he was hog tied, blind folded, and taken to a seedy location -- presumably a safe house used by the traitors to the family. He had realized decisions were being made as to his future... which he knew didn't look so bright. Overpowering the dominion of his mind, memories, long since buried, leapt from the deep dark past into the deep dark present of his thoughts: Friends killed, lives ruined, rumors of Louise living in a world of prostitution; Eddy and Franky loan sharking. He had been more than an unwilling active participant in "This Thing Of Ours": He had wallowed in it's muck and slime in piggish delight, standing tall on the porch of his mansion, proudly dressed in his finest attire, all paid for by souls of the deceased -- past, present, and future-- squealing in delight as his property and cash grew in leaps and bounds. He was sure he would now pay the price for his transgressions and those of his ancestors. Flashing in and out of these streams of thought coursing from the headwaters of his deepest subconscious were the questions of denial that hammered home the reality of his situation...

'What day was it? How long have I been here? Why me? Haven't I done everything correct? I didn't ask for this heritage. I knew what I wanted in life. I worked hard for it. Should I take the bla...'

A scraping sound of the outer door as it was pushed open checked his thoughts. Tensing his bound hands, he strove to listen for sounds that would identify his caller. A thought streaked across his mind: 'It's Mickey Two Shoes returning, not to check up on him, but to end his life!'

The commotion and noise coming from the outside alerted him to the fact that whom ever was on the opposite side of his locked cell, he was not alone. Rattling of keys in a lock and the metallic clicking of it's removal notified Antonio of the next event... the door to his cell slowly creaked open and a flash of blinding light, eternal in it's pursuit of revelation, rushed forth, illuminating the silent chamber of horrors that had become Antonio's prison of the mind -- as well as the body.

While Antonio, blinking away the pitch black that coated his eyes, desperately sought to access the identities of the subjects of his terror, a silent, silhouette of a large figure blocked the sudden, brilliant invasion. With his cell cast once more into pervasive darkness, he pushed aside mounting panic and questioned the specter in his most demanding tone:

"Who the Hell are you?"

The figure entered the room and proceeded to undo the ropes that bound Antonio. He was lifted and shoved towards the light that poured once more through the opening. Antonio, with slow, deliberate steps, moved towards the irradiated portal of life, abandoning death to wait, laughing in the dark, for his return...

Francis "Franky" Dicanio, the next in line for the Dicanio throne, sat at an immaculate roll top desk reconciling his records in his office in Ravenswood, Queens. Other than his ink well and leather bound ledgers, the only other visible items upon his desk were ten orderly stacks of worn, well circulated bank notes. Nearly four-thousand dollars in various denominations were the fruits of last nights collections. With twenty large on the streets the vig was coming in steadily. His book was growing and it seemed it would approach thirty large by next month. After concluding his chore, he picked up a bundle of twenties and counted out eight hundred dollars into two piles. He then placed each pile into separate envelopes and sealed them. Arising from the desk, he slipped on his suit jacket and placed the secured packages in his inside pocket.

This was the mob's share of his business and the pay off he made regularly to the police at the 114th precinct in Queens. He was quiet aware of the fact that no one operated without the sanction of the underworld and the protection of local law enforcement. Heading towards the front door, he reached down, opened a carved walnut humidifier he kept on a coffee table, and grasped a handful of Havana cigars. Placing them in the breast pocket of his jacket, he opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Franky then strolled to the stair landing, his tall, clean cut figure draped in a simple business suit, inexpensive overcoat, and plain fedora. Plucking one of the cigars from his pocket, he took his engraved silver cutter out, nipped the end off, stuck it in the corner of his mouth, and chomped down on it. He then descended the stairs to the cleaning establishment he used as a front.

One of the few luxuries Franky indulged in were his cigars and you hardly ever saw him with out one poking out of the corner of his mouth. It would be clamped between his brilliant white teeth, hardly moving, even when he spoke. His passion for these emblems of success, combined with his crew-cut, provoked an image of a young drill sergeant with a wise guy attitude.

Two police officers riding in a marked car pulled up to the curb in front of the three story building. Exiting the vehicle, they approached the doorway in the structure that read: "Dicanio's Cleaners". Though dressed in custom tailored uniforms and strutting about with an arrogance that was hard to miss, they were a comical duo: One was extremely tall and thin, the other short and dumpy. But the laughter ceased when ever they spoke -- having the dubious distinction of law enforcement officers with mob connections, they could shut you down in a heart beat. Upon entering the establishment they tapped a bell announcing their arrival.

Franky stepped through the draped doorway that led from the stairs to the front room. Seeing the cops standing at the counter, he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved one of the envelopes. He handed it to the taller of the two youthful police officers.

"How's it going Fitz," he entreated as he chewed and rotated the hand-rolled cigar in his mouth.

"Better with this," Fitz replied tapping on the package. "Seems like your business is doing fine."

"Yea it is, but it could be better."

"Well you know as well as we what the situation is. The word on the street has it your in line for Flushing! The Old Man got plans for you. He just got back from Chicago. Went to meet with Big Al and Batters."

"Well I don't know about that. You guys have an ear to the ground. Listen, there's an extra five for you to split if I get that new territory! Gabish?"

"OK. We'll spread the word."

With that, they turned and left the shop.

Franky was preparing to leave when the phone rang. He reached and picked up the phone. "Yello." He gruffly spat into the mouth piece.

"Hi there," Louise's voice rattled through the line. "What's going on?"

"Listen," Franky said in a calm voice as he removed the burning stub from his mouth. I don't want to frighten you, but...."

Louise, experiencing the second deja'vu of that morning, fell silent. She could not answer.

"WE MADE TWO LARGE LAST WEEK! ISN'T THAT GREAT?... Lou, did you hear me? We made two large, and I heard that I'm in line for Fatso's Flushing book!"

Louise, wrenched from her nightmare, clutched the phone tightly in her grasp. Fatso! That $%^&^%$ fat slob, Fatso! Rumers circulating after her father's kidnapping placed Fatso in the very center of the situation! And, though it was hard to even contemplate, Pepe! No, it could not be! But, she thought to herself, if I ever hear that he was involved.... She shuddered and forced herself to answer Franky in an excited voice.

In little Italy, the traffic was in full swing. As vendors conducted business so did the mob. On Mullberry Street, down the corner from the Social Club, a group of loud racketeers, wearing suits, fedoras, and pinkie rings, performed their morning ritual of life. As each soldier approached the intersection, they would seek out the next highest ranking member, lightly grasp him with their arms, and place a kiss upon his cheek. This ceremony was repeated in a pecking order until all ranking members received their morning's respect.

It was a sight that made young street hoods envious of this thing of ours. Just to see a two hundred and fifty pound enforcer, bedecked in his finest, offer his respect to a five foot three, hundred and fifty pounder dressed in simple attire, sent tremors of awe coercing through the veins of aspiring criminals. This view of loyalty, friendship, and tradition provoked an imagery of fealty in it's purest sense. What truly lurked within this seemingly orderly society was ambition, greed, selfishness, and terror. The La Costa Nostra enforced it's ways with brutal efficiency: The very soldier whom placed a kiss in deference in the morning, could plant the kiss of amorta in the evening -- with as much ease.

The figure of a tall, young gentleman, clothed in simple business suit, with a cigar stabbing out of the corner of his mouth, advanced down the street towards the busy congregation. He stepped from the pavement to the curb with purpose. As he neared the soldiers, capos, and associates swarming the corner, the assembly parted way allowing him access to the hub of activity. Within this nucleus, a group of wiseguys surrounded a pock-marked racketeer with a scar coursing down his cheek. A "King-Bee" in spring exhibiting a show of aristocracy, patiently absorbing the God-like respect showered by his "working" soldiers of the hand.

Deliberately staring into the clear, fierce eyes of the emperor of organized crime, Franky slowly walked forward.

The Don was startled by the sudden appearence of Franky: he looked so much like Antonio! The Don instantly recollected the sight of Antonio as he passed through the door way, his eyes darting about, searching the dingy room as Fat Freddy moved next to Two Shoes. He remembered Antonio's look of shock when he realized Fat Freddy was in on the take-over. He then recalled the total horror on his face when he realized that Pauly Ham stood in the doorway, jacket removed, pointing towards a lonely chair in front of him and his two associates seated upon a threadbare sofa. Antonio just shook his head as if attempting to shake himself clean of a nightmare as he turned towards the seat...

...Antonio thought he recognized one of the three men whom sat on the couch, but couldn't place the scarred and cratered face. The only thing he was sure he could recognize were the heavy caliber weapons of death and enforcement perched in nests of leather worn by each. Intimidated, he gently sat in the wobbly wooden seat.

Barely above a whisper, the pocked-marked face spoke. "Eh, Antonio, how you feeling, da treatin you right?"

"Just fine, I'm all right."

"Ya know, we don' wanna do ya, we wanna help ya."

"Help me with what?" Antonio demanded, concealing the fear and anxiety bubbling deep within the pit of his stomach.

"Weez got diz problem. I'm da new guy on da block an I'm callin in da notes ta all dem places in Queens dat waz set up wid our bananas, gabish? Evry body is doin somthin. It's time for you to divvy up. You can do da right thing or you can sleep wid da fishes. Its up ta you."

With out a moments hesitation, Antonio, shocked at the implications of such a request, blurted out -- like a group of Louisiana bull frogs jumping from a swamp; greasy, to quick to catch -- the words: "You can @#%# your self!"

For what seemed an eternity, silently, the expressionless soldiers of the hand gazed upon Antonio's defiant facade with indifference. Then, abruptly, the peaceful volcano violently erupted. Spouting out a time tested reason for immediate death... "You ain't got no respect," in a blur, he pulled the shiny revolver from it's birth, cocked the hammer, and fired a shot that creased Antonio's skull.

Dazed, ears ringing, Antonio fought to retain his position in the chair as the howling shape spit out a pledge: "Who da hell do ya dink you are? I'll kill you ya @#%$^%$#@ idiot! That's what I dink I'm gonna do, I dink I'm gonna blow your $%^&%#@$ brains out myself! From now on you don't pea wid out asking us! You got dat? Da guy on my left is Lou Parrilli, he's gonna set up da books an collect fa us. You just sign dem papers he brings! Maybe you can keep ya place on the Island, but if ya mess wid us we'll kill you an dat son of yours! Ya got dat?...

With that, he turned, motioned to the others it was time to leave, and walked to the door. The two wise-guys got up and followed. Before exiting the door, they whispered something to Fat Freddy and left. Freddy shut the door, went to his overcoat and, as Antonio watched in horror, removed a large pair of metal shears from an outer pocket.

Petrified, Antonio attempted to rise from his chair but seemed to be frozen in his living nightmare: "Hey what do you... you... need those for..." , a distant, shrill voice, cried out with dread. He could clearly see Pauly grabbing someone's left arm, could hear screams of pain as fingers plopped to the floor, convulsing with apprehension, fear and hope; alive, wriggling, one with a wedding band still attached -- it's design vaguely familiar. He could feel pain as if the appendages that moved upon the bloody floor were his. Then, the screaming stopped and he floated along a river of wet blackness...

An enormous and determined mobster stepped in front of Franky, planted his feet widely, and remained there until the Don gave a nod, then he allowed him acess to pay his respects.

"I hope that you are well, Don Luciano."  Franky spoke, jaw tightly locked down, gripping the smoldering object that permeated the atmosphere surrounding the mob. "My father sends his respect." He then removed the burning cigar and planted a kiss on either side of the Don's face.

Suddenly, the Don's steely visage transformed and the poignant, incapable facade that lured many a brave, powerful racketeer to his death addressed Franky. "The old man doing all right in retirement?..."

It was more of a statement than a question.

Replacing the cigar to it's resting place, Franky answered the Don in a voice that cracked under the strain of his agony.

"If it wasn't for his left hand he would be fine. Losing all of his property did not harm him as much as the loss of his fingers. With them went his pride. He sees his wounds as a badge of disgrace..."

It became obvious that Franky had to force himself to continue when he removed his cigar from his mouth, threw it on the ground, and crushed it as one would terminate the life of a filthy cockroach.

"...I tell him all the time how you are helping me recover our wealth, but he just drops his head and tears fall from his face. I just do not understand."

Grasping the Don's hand in his, Francis gathered his composure and spoke in a proud, deferential voice.

"Don Luciano, you have blessed our family. Your assistance has brought our honor back. If there is anything we can do, just ask."

With his respects paid, Francis Franky Dicanio, son of Antonio, son of Alphonso, placed a kiss on the Don's diamond pinkie ring, turned on his heels, and strolled towards his brothers of the hand...

Off to the side, flanked by his sons, Joe-Pep and Carmine -- who wore silk, double breasted, pin-striped suits -- stood a modestly attired Pepe.

Inviting Franky over with a "Hey Francis, how ya doin?" He moved forward to accept a peck on his cheek.

"Pretty good Pepe. Boy how your sons have grown! They look as sharp as five dollar razors. I got something for you, he remarked, as he reached into his inside pocket to retrieve the remaining envelope. Handing it over, he grilled Pepe for the latest "word on the street"...

Harry, from what I was told, to the wiseguy, street news was the most rapid avenue for the dispatching of information... and for the dispatching of retribution! Faster and more complete then the daily newspaper, the word supplied all of the details, facts and intelligence a mobster needed. Rather then spending the time to read a paper, one received the latest news by milling around the corner. In fact, the only reason most racketeers purchased a newspaper was for the daily sports page and racing forms. The Mafia's main source of solid revenue and opportunity was the business of gambling and loan sharking. They went hand in hand. A business owner, house wife, truck driver, or even a bank president would borrow money to finance a deal, purchase something, or more then likely pay off a debt - usually from losses due to gambling! When they were unable to repay the weekly vig (interest), the mob did not repossess the items, foreclose on the property, or take them to court; they beat the heck out of them; took over their companies; or intimidated them into turning over information that would enable them to commit crimes which satisfied the debt ten times over.

Joe-Pep glanced at the flashy, expensive watch strapped to his wrist. It was almost time to pick Jeanette up from school and bring her to Lou's sister Anna. He relished this position of responsibility and respect.

Over the past five years, Joe-Pep had grown fond of his charge, though lately his feelings towards her began to confuse him. Whenever he was with Jean he could not help but to inform her of (his) the news of the day. When she sat close beside him, paying ardent attention to each word that recklessly erupted from his ceaseless mouth, an unfamiliar and uncomfortable sensation swept his very being.

"Let me tell ya, I'm gonna be da top guy in town one day! Hell, I'm already collecting and I got a five-hundred dollar book!" He would exclaim, transforming his voice to fit the image he envisioned.

"Wow, really? THAT'S A LOT OF MONEY!" She would exclaim. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

"I got twenty or more!" He would brag, head thrown back, camel cigarette dangling from his lips.

Sliding closer to her Knight in Shining Armor, Jean would gaze into his gray-blue Sicilian eye's, mesmerized with awe as she continued her questions...

Viewing his father in deep conversation with Franky, Joe accidentally employed his crowing voice to abruptly interrupt him: "Hey, Pepe. Yo! Pepe! I GOTTA GO GET JEAN!"

Pepe furiously looked towards the direction of the impertinent voice and recognized his son. His contorted mask of indignation dissolved, replaced by an illustration of fatherly adoration mixed with parental consternation.

"When did you lose your respect?" He spat across the mass of bodies between himself and Joe-Pep. "Are you to old to call me Pop?"

Silence.

"You watch your mouth. You hear me!?"

Embarrassed, Joe responded with a nod of his head, turned--snatching his brother Carmine in the process--and swiftly traversed the breadth of the throng cramming the intersection.