Don’t eat the sausage.

That’s what the Godfather told his closest friends who came into his Italian restaurant.

Nobody ate the sausage.

The last time his goombahs ignored his advice he had to tell them he chopped up his cousin and put him in the gravy.

I told you not to eat the sausage, the Godfather said.

It took some brass to self-identify as the Godfather but that’s what he did. Nobody complained or called him out probably because except for him and a handful of pals no official Mafia chapter existed anymore where he lived. So the boss could call himself whatever he wanted.

Sitting at a table for two in the back of the restaurant, the Godfather popped a grape into his mouth. He took a sip from a glass of his favorite red wine he got for free from one of several guys in the neighborhood who still produced the high-test homemade vino. Chewing his grape, he didn’t even look at Vic when the wannabe gangster and bundle of nerves sitting across from him made his pitch.

I want to one day be the capo di tutti fruitti, Viv said.

The Godfather laughed so hard he spit grape skin on Vic’s nose.

You want to be a friend of ours?

Yeah, I mean, yes, Godfather, I mean si, si, a friend of yours. I seen all the mob movies. I sing along real loud to Volare on the radio with all the windows down on my used Caddy. And, look here, I got a Frank Sinatra tattoo on my arm.

Frank looks like Mr. Rogers wearing a fedora, the Godfather said.

The tattooist apologized for giving me the wrong face and made it worse trying to fix it.

Putting on a cheap pair of reading glasses, the Godfather stared at the piece of paper Vic handed him.

Your application says you hold black belts in several assassination arts, the Godfather said.

I’m an elite mail-order correspondence school-trained killer, Vic said.

You send them the money and they send you the belts?

I had to buy my own belts.

Vic raised his shirt.

Look, I’m wearing one right now.

To hold up your pants, the Godfather said.

Vic looked down, embarrassed.

If we accept you in the family we give you a black belt, a black pair of shoes, a new black double-breasted suit, a black shirt and a white tie to hold up our crime family honor.

Vic wrinkled his nose.

I’ll look like Sal.

Funny you should mention that jadrool, the Godfather said, using the Italian word for loser.

Sal muscled in on my pizza business, Vic said.

The Godfather slammed his hand on the restaurant table.

Mr. Salvatore “Muscles” Marinara, also known as Sal, owes us money for gambling debts he incurred before he left his wife Betsy and ran off to Las Vegas with that dental hygienist. Now he’s back like nothing happened. We want our money in our pocket and his garbanzo beans on a spit. You think you can do that for us?

What do you want me to do with Sal’s body?

Bring him to us. We’re cooking up a big vat of gravy to sell to Big Bob who opened up that illegal Booze and Burgers joint. Business is booming and he’s running out of fresh meat. We’ll run Sal through the wood chipper, grind him up real good, then add him to the secret sauce.

Like what happened to your cousin?

Don’t worry about my cousin. Worry about hitting Sal. You know what happens if you miss.

I go into the gravy.

You’re not as dumb as you look, chooch.