The Mafia's Conman

Prologue: Walking Lines

Prologue: Walking Lines

   Steady... Steady...

   I chanted the words over and over again like I was possessed by them, pretending like the tips of my fingers weren't going blue as I somewhat desperately tried to keep my two feet within the taped line on the floor, small giggles seeping past my lips until I had no choice but to clasp a cold hand over my stupid mouth until I could shut the hell up.

   Idiotically, I enjoyed the game I was playing — if it could even be called a game. I called it, through my hard work and experience, "Walk the Line."

   Sure, to the uncultured and uncivilized, it might sound dumb and childish, but in my humble opinion, it was anything but. If fact, if I do say so myself, it's the best game ever made. It was simple, even to the poor uneducated brains of those reading (boom, roasted), which consisted of two basic directions. First, drugs are required — or alcohol, your preference — and you must diligently consume it until a tentative cop pulls you over on charges of intoxication. A DUI, mind you. Next, the self - righteous police officer must take you out of your car — stay with me here, the next part is crucial — and make you place a tape line on the floor before telling you in a strong overbearing voice, "Walk in a straight line with one foot in front of the other."

   Though, admittedly, as great as it sounds, I wouldn't recommend it to those faint of heart. Or those with a felony record— police folk tend to be corrupt when it comes to turning in the self-imposed.

   However, after multiple attempts at not swaying and completing the three-yard marathon course, the young cop seemed to have had enough of my meaningless shenanigans as he lifted me up with clammy hands, cooly flipping me around to place a pair of sleek handcuffs on me. Oo, kinky!

   I think I'm drunk.

   The thought hit me like a two-pound boulder, and the copper, who's name I would refuse to ask, pushed me into his car; crouching my head down with his hand to avoid a lawsuit if I clanked my head against the roof.

   Panic flared through my veins, coursing down to my gut and into my wobbly feet, rocking me where I stood. Crap! He's taking me to the pound house!

   And with the image of being chained in a small kennel with a collar around my neck and me pathetically going "woof woof", my intoxicated mind seemed to sober up within seconds, desperately trying to stop the word from spinning as my head fought with itself, accumulating the stray strand of strength within me to trash out of the man's weak hold, throwing a violent kick to his groin and shin. Ha, bastard.

   Though the action had less effect than I had anticipated. Admittedly I was expecting a grand show of groans, a bit of drool and some vibrant cursing as he would fall to the ground, clutching his injuries like a child and beg for a bandaid— you know, like a normal fucking human being.

   Oh. My. God. He probably wasn't even human.

   That seems the only logical explanation here.

   Instead however, the resilient man whipped out a gun— taser, mind me— and pointed it dead center on my chest, the accurate aim making my heart pitter-platter.

   I watched a flicker of a grimace grace his features with a triumphant smirk, not saying a word as he shifted uncomfortably, average expressions vivid on his face.