A Comedy of Errors

For whatever reason, the lights in Little Azerbaijan seemed to exist only to accentuate the shadows. The old brick buildings' folded in on the narrow backstreet like the high and narrow walls of a cathedral. A slithering sound made the Bulgarian shriek and reach for her handy form of self defence - a hot glue gun.

The Bulgarian continued to chew her gum, though with an ever increasing sense of trepidation, until she had assured herself that it was only a cat, a rain stick, the wind.

That's definitely the sound wind makes, the Bulgarian told herself. She took one last glance around before continuing down the alley until the faded bronze numbers she was looking for were found.

To the outside world, the building probably didn't look like much. It was a non-descript, five story brick building in the inner city, much like every other building on the block, or in any other city for that matter. The Bulgarian imagined it had once been an office of some sorts at the turn of the century, judging from the weathered texture and colour of the brick. She imagined the office had once belonged to a European immigrant, who ran a successful business as perhaps a butcher, a tailor, or a restaurant owner. But as the city expanded and big business moved in, the European would have had no choice but to shut down and return to Europe, where he would once again have to stand in line for a piece of bread. The thought made the Bulgarian sad.

But what the building lacked in cosmetic appeal was offset by the patrons' ability to militate themselves.

Which brings us to why the Bulgarian was at this particular building.

Approaching a heavy door emblazoned with a sign saying, Employees only - Violators will be prosecuted, the Bulgarian took one last glance around before giving the door three good knocks. A giant of a man, dressed in a fine pine stripe suit answered. From inside, the Bulgarian heard a crash! and then a swift crunch! overlapping the trance music, which was going on about "connecting like Tetris".

"Name?" the man asked.

The Bulgarian racked her brain in an effort to remember what that word meant. She was saved however, when a man who looked like a tanned, leathery Jack Palance came up and greeted her with a warm smile and rapid Bulgarian pleasantries.

"Don't worry, Gambol," the man told the bouncer. "She's an old friend." The Bulgarian was promptly whisked inside where the only source of light here was from a strobe light and the glow of the ghastly black light murals decorating the walls. The patrons were splattered with neon shades of white, green, pink, teal and every other neon equivalent of the colours imaginable. Even the Bulgarians' usual robins' egg coloured hair was now glowing a bright shade of purple. Two men who were both splattered with radiant green paint were brawling on a thin metal suspension; it reminded the Bulgarian of Fight Club.

"How have you been, darling?" the man asked the Bulgarian in her native tongue.

"Good," she replied. "I'm very excited to have come to America."

"And the rest of the Ivan's?" the man asked. "No, never mind. Save it for Maroni."

The Bulgarian chortled. "The rest of the family is doing well. We've started expanding into the northern parts of Japan, you know, by the Russian border."

"Good to hear," the man said as he led the Bulgarian up a spiral metal staircase that led to a large and private patio of sorts above all the action. A long table was set up with about twenty other men; capos, soldiers, the consigliore, the Bulgarian assumed was who they were. They were tightly packed around the table, some gambling over the betted winner of the current brawl going on down below. Some were playing King's Cup. The exception was to a man, whose face was obscured by his popped collar. His feet were up on the table. He wasn't talking or moving. He was sleeping, or at least it looked that way to the Bulgarian. But how anyone could sleep through this ruckus, escaped her.

The man who accompanied the Bulgarian was whisked away by some of the men betting over the fight below. The Bulgarian was left standing alone for a brief moment, before she was flanked by a much tanner, yet wholesomely handsome man with salt & pepper hair.

"Tatiana," the man grinned as he reached out for a hug. "Haven't seen you in ages. How've you been? Is that new hair? Must be, last time I saw you it was pink," he chuckled.

"Kolko mi lipsvash, Maroni," the Bulgarian answered. The man known as Maroni gestured to a chair positioned next to a slick-looking Sicilian.

"You can tell me all about the Ivan's when we get started here," Maroni told the Bulgarian, who simply drew a blank. Maroni then chuckled. "You have no idea what I'm saying, do you? Language was never my strong point. Thank God for Stanislav though, huh?" he laughed. Stanislav returned to the Bulgarian known as Tatiana before whispering in her ear. She giggled.

Maroni took his seat as the Boss at the head of the table. Stanislav was crouched beside the Bulgarian, and as Maroni started off on his little schpiel, Stanislav would whisper a quick translation into the Bulgarians' ear.

Maroni paused mid-sentence however and let out an irritated sigh. His eyes rolled towards the sleeping character. "Joker," he asked firmly, "are you listening?"

"Nope," was the characters’ reply from behind his collar.

"Well, this concerns all of us."

"Alright," the character said, slightly adjusting his head. The fellow on his right, a sculpted man with dark hair and thin glasses that sat upon his high cheekbones gave his friend a firm smack on the shoulder. The character, in a startled movement, grabbed a pencil in front of him with one hand while the other gripped the other mans' collar, the sharpened pencil held offensively close to his head. There was a moment of tension and then a collective sigh as the character lowered the pencil and let go of the man with the glasses.

But what struck the Bulgarian immediately about the character was his makeup, or war paint or whatever it was supposed to be; but then again, it wasn't as if it was particularly difficult to miss. The glowing white base, cracked roughly and caked into fine lines was like a beacon in the sea of only bright splatterings. His eyes were carelessly smudged with black, which made him look like a panda bear. His lips were painted with red in the grizzly shape of a Chelsea Grin. The Bulgarian wondered what he could possibly be hiding under all that makeup.

"Now then," Maroni said, "now that that's been settled, I'd like to introduce our new associate." He gave a cordial gesture towards the Bulgarian, seated near the opposite end of the table. "This is Tatiana Antonov. She's from Bulgaria, and for the last, oh, eight or so years, she's been working for the Blindfold Ivan's".

"What does she do?" asked a Chechen.

"She's a hustler," Maroni answered. "The fake hair doesn't pay for itself. You name it, she's got it. She was one of the top earners for the Ivan's in Bulgaria."

"What's with the er, little man whispering in her ear over there?" the character asked.
Maroni sighed as he swivelled his chair from side to side. "Stanislav is acting as her translator until she learns English."

Most men at the table grew wide eyes at that comment. There was one indignant comment asking, "Why the fuck did you hire a bitch who can't even speak our language? And you expect her to make money for us?!" However, to the character known as "Joker", his eyes lit up. "You mean, she can't understand a single word we're saying?"

"Yes," Maroni answered reluctantly. Joker turned to the Bulgarian.

"Shit. Piss. Fuck. Cunt. Cocksucker. Motherfucker. Tits. Asshole. AIDS. Rape. Fag." The Bulgarian was whispering to Stanislav, so the Joker had to yell at the Bulgarian to get her attention. She looked benignly at him as he grinned a devilish grin and said to her,

"You're a slut. You simply reek of Chlamydia. "

"Joker, don't," his friend said to him in a low voice.

Joker scoffed. "Oh please, what is she gunna do? Strangle me with her fake hair?"

"She has a glue gun," Stanislav said. The men gibed.

"A hot glue gun."

"Please, can we get back on track, fella's?" Maroni barked. The men wisely turned their attention back to him as he composed himself. "Now, as I've already mentioned, Tatiana here is from the Blindfold Ivan's and in answer to your inquiries regarding her abilities in a new country; I wouldn't have had her brought here if I wasn't sure that she could contribute to the Family. My hope is that with her here, we can monopolize on, particularly, the cities' junkies, after the Batman has left almost no one to buy from. Which means more money for us and less for the small timers and, of course - the Padovanni's," he growled. A grumble rose from the men.

"Those god-damned Padovanni's have been in this city for too long. They're nothing but a bunch of small-time punks who got too big for their britches. They need a good swift kick-in-the-ass back to Pickering- or whatever other Canadian hick town they come from."

"And how exactly do you propose we do that?" the Chechen asked.

"My consigliore and I are in talks with what remains of the Falcone family, who also want the Padovanni's taken out of the picture. Our short-term hope is that they'll get clumsy and be caught by the Batman and the Commissioner. Our long-term hope is that we can just murder the sons-of-bitches and be done with it." The men rolled their eyes with doubt.

"I know it doesn't sound like best plan, but we're still in the works," Maroni said assuringly. "Trust me, boys. Have I ever let you down before? I'll call up our friends in Chicago; see if we can get a couple soldiers down here."

"And until then?" the Chechen asked.

"We'll just keep doing what we do best. Dr. Crane," Maroni said, turning his attention to the bespectacled man sitting beside Joker. "I understand you've been working on a variant of your fear hallucinogen, one that the Batman isn't immune to."

"That's right, sir," the man known as Dr. Crane replied. "I'm also working to see if I can keep it in a crystallized form for easier means of transport."

"Good. As soon as you're done, I want to be the first to know. Not a Capo, me."
Dr. Crane nodded.

"Joker," Maroni hollered at the man with the clown makeup, who turned to Maroni in an amiable manner. "Don't bring any attention to yourself," Maroni said firmly.

"I'll try, but I can't promise anything."

"Stanislav, I want you and Ilya -" he gestured towards the Chechen - "to pay a little visit to that Meikle fellow. Asap."

Stanislav nodded sharply. Maroni said a few more words before abruptly dismissing the company.

"Ms. Antonov, you should surely get to know the way around your new city," Stanislav said to Tatiana in rapid Bulgarian as they rose from their seats and made their way towards the staircase.

"Probably," the Bulgarian chuckled. She then stopped and smirked; the Joker, followed by his friend Dr. Crane, were just about to descend when they two parties rubbed past each other. Tatiana extended a hand to stop the Joker as her other hand reached inside her bag. "Ah, ah, ah," she chided. She withdrew the hot glue gun. The Joker stared at her with a cocky leer for a few seconds before Tatiana said a few words to him in Bulgarian. The gun rose to the Joker's face.

Stanislav leaned forward and asked the Joker, "Stream or spray?"