The Creation of Frankie Carrozza

The First Conquest

'Furthermore, I don't understand why you wouldn't just accept three single-litre bottles.' Trevor placed a hand on her shoulder to quell her and guide her back towards the table. 'It seems to me to be the same thing.'
'It isn't the same, Hamilton!' she argued testily. 'It isn't the same, and you know it.'

Frankie sat on the edge of the wooden picnic table in the yard of the pub, used come summer for patrons to drink themselves sober under the sun. He felt the cool caress of the wind ripple against his skin, slipping a brave hand down his neckline to cup his ribs. There was very little to the back courtyard but several tables, benches, cushioned bar stools with ripped upholstery, wooden barrels, and empty kegs, chipped flagstones, painted watering cans stuffed with flowers, and faded bunting and multicoloured lights strung from wooden rafters. Just beyond a little rusty gate was a smaller garden surrounded by a canopy of trees and submerged in understory. In the centre of the little garden, hidden somewhat by the depth of a dip, a crooked, battered bandstand protruded starkly from the shadows, wrapped in dying fairy lights that caused for it to glow ghostly and eerily in the dark. It was picturesque when the moon was permitted to take a peek at such an obscure spot from time to time, but in the unaccompanied dark, it appeared to be a giant and grotesque birdcage.
Carrozza struck a match to the end of his cigarette and inhaled deeply. His eyes swept up the steps leading back into the pub, almost concealed by the ivy engorging the entire wall on either side.
This is entirely necessary to the overall scheme, isn't it? he pondered wistfully. And the outcome of the grand master plan is surely plausible, isn't it? Yes, Father had gone down as a romantic fable in this very school and had made a name for himself. It would be a victory to do the very same to cease his chiding, though, we are setting out ambitiously to exceed his great reputation. I shall not be forgotten about. My reign will never cease. The utterance of my name will never end. My saga will linger forever. And come the end, when we've seen it all through, perhaps I may become louder than that profound and deafening silence left behind by Patrick's absence. I must only become the most renowned Carrozza. I will not only join the others on a simple sports team, snatching at an ephemeral shred of shared glory that truly does not solely belong to me; only a name etched onto a plaque propped up in the hallway alongside every other rugby player, oarsman, or cricketer recognised for their efforts until another all the more younger comes along. I must rise kingly to become worthy of being honoured the most out of all the boys, to achieve praise and glory that sets me apart. I will become exalted, exchanging seconds of commendation for an eternity of it. I will be as distinguished as the earmark in a book; a sharp wrinkle too stubborn to be removed from the page of a book so beloved that the crease remains overtime due to being revisited.
There are additional purposes behind the cause, other than the tempting notion of surpassing Father's highly regarded reputation—once as bright as a bonfire, but now a sizzle due to fizzle out soon enough, only brought up in passing at galas or garden parties by guests who were past alumni, socialites, or tedious ministers—which included adorning the walls as a fixture, and I intend to do so. It will be rather thrilling, Frankie mused, exhaling a chimney of smoke through his lips and looking towards the lanterns swaying tipsily in the wind. And if there is to be a boy on the throne, if they can achieve such a feat, then why not me? Why not I? There are few who can deny that I can rarely be bested at what I do, may my talents be one day renowned far and wide. Most days, I excel without barely even trying. I have seen grown men unnerved by me before I swept the very bravest of them off their feet. Why not do something I enjoy rather rigorously, and use it to the best of my advantage? Now that is something I've always committed myself to: the rigorous indulging of pleasurable pursuits. Let us be honest with ourselves, Frankie Carrozza, now that we are safely within our own company. You engorge on the seven deadly sins until your bellyful, similar to how the couth would dine on cheeses and wines in France. It is a game. It has always been a game, forcing the other into submission and defeat. And now that these musings shan't be uttered aloud, we can politely admit without fear of besmirching ourself with egotism, that our competitive spirit does enjoy winning, and this would be the greatest game of all.
It was this last thought that coaxed him into pushing back the shoulder of his denim jacket and hiking up the mustard-coloured t-shirt beneath, taking a long pull of his drink as he watched Martin Healy descend down the steps and brush aside the foliage to enter the courtyard.
'Why did you want to come out here, anyway?' Martin asked as he approached, kicking up stones and sucking on the end of his cigarette through the corner of his mouth. 'There is a perfectly good ashtray made out of the entire floor of that bar inside, you know.'
'Not enough racket and too much noise,' Carrozza replied, dropping his head back against his shoulders to look towards the stars.
Yes, I can do this. This is what I'm proficient at: the hedonistic exploration and exploitation of gratification, dare, and victory. Look at him, Frankie thought, as his eyes scrutinised the boy's build as it swaggered towards him. Look at his structure, his growing mass, his gangly and strapping limbs unsure what to do with themselves, making him seem as though his torso hasn't gotten used to such long appendages sprouting from it. His dark widow's peak gives him a rugged and Gaelic quality. His bumbling gracelessness is endearing, like a man trapped inside the stricture imposed by the last of his boyishness, struggling, fighting, and stretching to get out of the structure of his slowly-growing shell like an impatient butterfly prematurely punching through its cocoon. That deep bucolic accent ... he hails from a place that understands only the most fundamental view of the world and such things like marriage, rules, boring morals, stilted emotions, regressed masculinity, and unwavering sexuality. His country rearing now abolished, it seems to me, considering the divulges of his indulges. This is a boy whom I'll find years from now in a pub one Sunday after a drive through the countryside with his Mrs. and the two sprogs, eating Sunday dinners as he bellows and fumes at the match on the television screen over his pint of bitter and cigarette. He will be balding and quietly unhappy, no longer so mediocrely fetching.
'You're quite gifted on the pitch, Carrozza. That is a comment about your sportsmanship that I've heard being repeated about across all the games you participate in, according to the rest of those lads,' Martin said as he stopped before him. If the boy moved any closer, Frankie could enclose him his legs around him like a Venus flytrap due to his sitting arrangement.
Martin was nervous and his eyes not meet his; he busied himself rubbing the back of his jet black hair and darting his glance towards the sounds fleeting through the night. He was like a doe, shivering beneath the aim of the hunter. Frankie felt a smirk split his lips, enjoying his timidness. He wouldn't have to waste much time luring him into the trap.
'Come to me,' Frankie ordered quietly, rediscovering his confidence. This was a test. The situation could play out into several scenarios, either successfully or disastrously, now that it fell into the hands of Martin Healy to direct the outcome ... if the cod will take the bait or not. From inside, he could hear Hamilton still hammering violently upon the muffled keys of the piano.
'Wh-what?' Martin stuttered, but Frankie only erected himself up into a more rigid sitting position. 'Why? What for?'
'Come here. Come closer to me.' Carrozza finished the rest of his drink in one gulp and carelessly hurled it aside, causing Martin to flinch from it shattering against a wooden bucket. However, the boy stepped towards him, his eyelids narrowed with curiosity.
He was near enough to be touched now. It is the first touch that one must most wary of and precise about as it was most important—where to touch them, how to touch them, and at what pace must all be taken into consideration. You cannot scare them off by being too eager or too reluctant; you must show them that protection is but only a breath away, here inside your arms.
Martin was several years older than him, so perhaps he'd be showing him old ropes he was all too familiar with. Still, Frankie reached forward and took his hip to tug him nearer.
'What ... what do you think you're doing, Carrozza?' Martin whispered thickly, swallowing with difficulty and quickly licking his drying lips.
'Something you want me to do because you aren't brazen enough for it.' He latched fingers around the nape of the boy, soon to be a man, and forced his head down so he could put his lips to the neck.
Healy reclined backwards a little at first, but his touch caused for his head to writhe against his, for his tongue to loll, and for his eyes to tumble into the back of his skull, drawing out long sighs until their mouths joined together, injecting an potent poison of enticement through lips and tongues. Martin's kiss was uncertain and fearful until he was encouraged by Carrozza's surefooted approach. He could hear little more than the moans of the wind, the sounds of the kiss, and the heavy breathing rising from the lungs of the two boys. From inside, rowdy laughter leaked out like the hubbub of a menagerie slipping through the flap of circus tent.
Healy was fearless now, bold, inspired, and as admirably demanding as Carrozza had seen him be on the field as he drew him off the table by the hips. They stumbled across the yard until his back whacked off the whitewashed wall of the shed and Martin pressed his body against him, smashing a crate of empty bottles and plunging a foot through a wooden pallet, scattering a shrieking cat.
Their lips parted just enough for Healy to rest his forehead against his chest, panting heavily and gripping fistfuls of Frankie's jacket and shaking his head, ruminating as he did battle with his conflicting thoughts. 'What—what am I doing? What are we doing? We were just talking about rugby and about—'
'What's it matter? Just don't think about it so much. You'll hurt yourself,' Frankie murmured, lifting his head to trail kisses down his cheek towards his mouth. 'It's riveting all the same, is it not?'
Famished, Martin smothered his mouth with his own as Frankie grabbed him by the braces over his white shirt and pushed him towards the little garden conjoined at the bottom of the yard. They broke apart to hop the rusted fence before racing towards the shimmering bandstand with grins and chuckles replacing one another on their mouths, the boys glowing like will-o'-the-wisps between the trees before being swallowed up by shadows.
Leaping up the steps into the teal-coloured bandstand, he put his back to the railing and hooked his elbows around the metal bars that had been painted scarlet, turning to share a laugh with Healy. It was one that lasted mere seconds, as the other boy had lunged at him to bury his face in his neck. As tingling sensations zapped his throat, Frankie gazed around the little garden, listening to the insects chirping and the owls hooting, and breathing steadily again as he inclined his head when needed to accommodate Healy, feeling immensely devious. Martin considered him, Frankie, to be the leman he was taking from rather than giving, believing this to be the conquest of Carrozza, unaware that he'd played directly into the boy's hands until he was as malleable as putty. The tug of war would be won by a competent commander controlling a very great hand and a very good wrench. Roles ought to be reversed, as well as rightful places appointed. The idea that the older boy believed such a farce was almost laughable ... or pitiful. And so the pawn takes the knight across the board before transitioning into royalty.
Frankie's hand was roving now, wandering its own adventure, never needing to be coaxed by anything more than sheer whim. As it lowered, his quarry released a moan to show his willing good faith before reaffirming his lips under his ear, running his fingers through the limp curls of Frankie's hair and gyrating his hips against his as he whispered broken words. 'I ... I didn't realise
you were ... this way inclined, Carrozza.'
Just as Moses separated the Red Sea, the sound of Frankie's fingers parting Martin's zip broke the silence. 'We attend an all-boys boarding school, Healy, with Marjorie Devereux's Academy on the far side of town in Windsor. After three tequilas or so, everyone and their mother is easily inclined some way or another to pass the boredom ... something in the nature, I believe.' Frankie could feel his smile widen into a softer brother of Trevor Hamilton's sinister grin as Martin pivoted eager thrusts of his crotch against him. 'This shall be discreet, Healy. No one else who participates in such rambunctious escapades shall hear a whisper of this illicit affair, you understand.'
'Yes, of course, Carrozza. I promise,' Martin whispered quickly. Frankie had a feeling that it was vocalised at such a speed so as to make him hurry up his hand rather than to exhibit his loyalty over keeping the dalliance unspoken about. He understood that those involved inside the exclusive circle of Martin's salacious secret would be in the knowhow before the night's end; Healy would be boasting to them until dawn cracked the skies as though Frankie Carrozza was some sort of country trophy lass he'd mounted at one of those hillside barn dances he was fond of attending. Regardless, his was what he intended. Everyone loves a secret, Frankie understood, and most especially, everyone loved telling them when it belonged to another. Frankie, however, felt he was one of the very few exceptions when it came to keeping secrets precious, and had made friends with three other deviators. With a glass of wine in hand, his mother had always told him that he was the best at keeping secrets ... to the point that his smile always made her feel inferior and aware that she would never truly come to know or understand all of him. He was even better at hiding things—under loose floorboards, secret compartments in bookshelves, camouflaged cubbies he'd cut into walls, and hollowed books—and he kept his thoughts shrouded most of all in the darker corners of his mind.
They exchanged positions so that Martin had his back to a pole before Frankie slipped his hand into the slot in his trousers like an explorer venturing a certain cave of wonder in One Thousand and One Nights. Grasping ahold, the boy instantly gasped and shuddered from his touch so violently that Frankie gasped along with him, fearing the explosive end before he'd even truly begun.
Oh. Frankie smirked, enjoying the successes he'd contrived. His eyes were almost wondrous and as round as his marvelling mouth, a slight hint of the bustling, moustached, and mad scientist in his expression, awed from being upon the brink of a miraculous, revolutionary, and scientific revelation of confirming the human soul. Yes, perhaps I do hold all of the power. If I just conduct my mind in an assertive manner, placing a firm grasp on confidence and dominance, all of those around me shrink and shiver into pitiful, pleading toys in my hands for me to play with. If I were to slip my hand up their naked back, I could make their mouth speak like puppets to exclaim all the things I want spoken. Perhaps I could even crush them beneath my feet, if I so wish. What a study! This is sublime ... euphoric, even. This is a game I could happily play as competitor, and I could easily play it quite well till dark, and on through until the black is kissed by the pink of dawn, no matter what extreme consequences are due to unfold with it; after all, there is a certain enthralment when the bold are daring and the repercussions are severe.
Healy began to tremble from legs permeating the first spasms of pleasure. He was whispering religious expressions mixed with enthusiastic profanities, muffled in his pants, demanding to be exalted and exonerated by his saviour, the Lord above. His lips parted into a wondrous circle and his eyes became fraught with desire, looking as though he was in pain and simultaneously begging for clemency, dazzled by constellations and a hundred supernovas that exploded across his irises.
'I'm going to ... I'm about to ...' Healy breathed, quickening his hips as Frankie accelerated the speed of his own hand.
Restraint, Frankie mused. He is mine to execute mercy upon, if I so wish. And so Carrozza insouciantly demanded that the boy brought about his own personal ecstasy, ordering him to lose control. 'Now. For me,' he commanded sternly, slipping his thumb into Healy's warm and wet mouth until his lips enclosed around it, just as his body convulsed from an earth-shattering implosion in his loins. After a grunt, a groan, a whimper, and a hoarse whine struggling at the bottom of his throat, the captain fell against him, limp, spent, and lost to the after-effects of rapture conjured by that certain magic delivered from his groin. It might have brought pools of tears to a more artistic soul, but he was a country brute, so perhaps the misty eyes were only from the baring of his shame and enjoyment, having bathed in such sordid and unspeakable pleasures that always racked those sort of repressed folk with Christian guilt. It was that, the pitiful humiliation following the look of bliss on Healy's face, which brought potent and profound sensations to Carrozza, much more overwhelming than reaching his own physical climax in the act. When you're responsible for bringing someone to that otherworldly place, that enchanting realm where they lose themselves completely, obliterating their wits and senses from them, untethering them to relieve them from the heavy weight of duty encumbering their bodies, and catapulting them out of the universe away from regimented monotony to forget themselves and all their niggling worries for a few precious seconds, which certify's a certain inexplicable element of ownership over the receiver at the hands of the giver.
Crowned as lawbreaker once obtaining his immunity from the prosecutions of the prefects, he had set out this tonight to establish his throne as a lawmaker by claiming another title. His holy grail was a trinity of things: imperviousness from punishment was his crown, the reverence that came from his rugby boots and oar was his throne and sceptre, and his lore was the song of his name sung above all others, heralding his arrival and departure.
His conquest pressed against him in the form of a boy waiting for the strength to return in his thighs now that his power had been drained and absorbed. Carrozza was victorious.
'Healy,' Frankie whispered delicately against his ear, still retaining a tight hold to his preciousness between his legs, 'you're due soon to step down from captaincy to focus on your studies, aren't you? I have a name to put forward as a candidate for your replacement, and I'll tell you the reasons why you ought to consider him.'
The following Monday, as Frankie was carelessly stuffing a disgruntled jotter and earmarked textbooks into his satchel to leave lessons with a mind crammed by notions and notes on fascism, his hands dug through the clutter to touch the fabric lying curled at the bottom like a dead snake.
'What's this?' he'd asked Healy the other night, when his fingers had reached around to feel it hanging from out of his back pocket before he tugged it out to get a better look at it.
'It's a scarf,' Healy had replied, beginning to redden slightly. 'I've been meaning to get rid of it actually. We used to wear them in our back pockets where I'm from ... to secretly show those who'd recognise it that we're members of this ... aberrant club.'
'Can I have it?' Frankie had asked, stretching out the murky green material embellished with dark skulls, so as to wring it tight in his hands and scrutinise it with a squinted eye, his teeth digging into bottom lip as he mused over it.
As he was exiting the classroom, slipping his shirt from out of his jumper until it spilled like a duck's tail, Cedric Bucks Buckley caught up with him. As always, his vibrant orange hair emerged ahead of him to betray his identify as he dug his fingers into Carrozza's ribs.
'Oi, matey! Oi!' he shrieked, as they begun wrestling one another, grappling heads into headlocks before slinging arms around each other's shoulders and marching up the corridor with the Valentine twins in toe.
'You ginger giant!' Frankie scoffed, massaging the muscles under his armpit, where the stretch towards his shoulders had hurt him. 'I swear, every day you grow considerably taller. Is there a rack in the college somewhere that you're being stretched out on that I don't know about?'
'Yes, actually. Fiona ... the secretary's bed.' Cedric grinned, sticking his tongue between his teeth. 'And furthermore, I'll have you know that I'm strawberry blonde, not ginger!'
'You're too much of a filthy fiend for you to even dare associate yourself with a characteristic that sounds like a sugary dessert, Cedric,' Frankie declared, redirecting their route down a corridor to smoke a cigarette in the disused classroom during their break. 'Aside from that, you also forget that not only do I know the tales of all your dawns and dusks too well, I've also seen the true colour of that fiery hedge above your genitals in the changing rooms and when you streaked starkers across the Commons.'
'Making sure we were getting a good eyeful, were we?' Cedric replied, nudging him with his shoulder repetitively.
'No harm, pal, but I'd rather jump into an actual bonfire than that one between your legs, Bucks.'
'The lady doth protest too much, methinks!' Bucks exclaimed loftily as he helped Frankie pull his satchel on properly. 'Spot of cricket today, you think, Cozza?'
'It is a possibility, old fellow. After all, I do need to beat that smarmy smirk off Jeremy Belvedere's face and I am either going to do that by winning gloriously against him or with my very own cricket bat.' Frankie's eyes narrowed as their band of boys flooded around them, cackling, caterwauling, singing crude tunes, and acting the brute.
As they meandered down the corridor as a battalion, forcing the other pupils to separate like a flow of fish scattered by larger predators and flowing down either side of them closer to the walls, the boys laughed at the expense of that snivelling Belvedere, making gruesome jokes and insinuating plans of framing him for murder or handing him over to a terrorist group like the IRA or the Euskadi Ta Askatasuna.
'Alright, Carrozza?'
Frankie lifted his head upwards from giggling grimly along with the idea of Belvedere being relieved of his kneecaps in some country lane to see Martin Healy nodding his head in his direction, sucking in on his bottom lip as his eyelid fluttered into the shadow of a wink. Frankie halted in his tracks for a second as the older boy strutted passed with his own convoy of friends.
'Just a moment, lads. Healy, a second?' Frankie called as he retraced his steps. He and Martin parted from their own respective groups to meet in the empty middle ground—no man's land. Martin was grinning down at him from his extra inches of height with his hands stuffed into his pockets, rocking on the balls of his feet with a strained and somewhat embarrassed smile.
'I put your name forward, Carrozza. You're being consid—' Martin begun.
'I thought I made myself clear that night about being discreet?' Frankie's eyes flared from a glare. There is something wonderfully sleazy in seeing that I hold claim to his shame in his eyes.
'Oh ... I ... I just thought I'd say hello to you, is all.'
'Then don't think. When have you ever said hello or cheerio to me when the terrain isn't the pitch at a match or at practice? Do not wink. Do not say hello. We enjoyed ourselves, some more than others, and that was that. It was a one-time occasion,' Frankie whispered coldly, a tone as unbending as titanium.
'Two times.' Martin smiled unevenly.
'The last!' Frankie all but hissed and the boy's smile faltered until it faded entirely. He isn't fit to be captain, Frankie realised, as captains oughtn't quiver and cower beneath my quiet wrath. 'Well, Healy, I hope you got what you came for from it and I shall see you around ... by which I mean any chance meetings between each other on the pitch or in the hallways.'
'I thought'—Healy rubbed the back of his head awkwardly—'I thought we'd see each other around ... again.'
'I'm sorry but you thought wrong, my country boy,' Frankie replied, pursing his lips and looking to him bewilderedly. 'I take my candidacy for captaincy very seriously. I cannot be seen as being selected due to favouritism.' Only Magdalenism, Frankie thought bitterly, ignoring the hypocriticalness. 'I want to be considered due to my aptitude for the role, not because you and I have suddenly become so pally. What do you believe that moment was? What did you think would happen afterwards? That we would cuddle and romantically feed one another bites from our spoons over candlelight? I do hope you haven't overstretched yourself and purchased a corsage for when you plan to ask me to the winter formal. Be careful when playing with balls on the field, Healy, or you might find yourself scoring in the wrong net.'
'Very well, if that is how you see it.'
'It is.'
'About your application for captaincy over the team—'
'Do you plan to retract it?' Frankie demanded, stepping closer.
'Quite the contrary. You made a compelling case. As the other boys squabble amongst themselves over the title, the appropriate action to take to ensure allegiance remains amongst them would be to select the individual set apart outside of their social circle beyond the green and whom is most capable for the job,' Healy remarked. 'Despite our differences of opinion over whether we'd like to see our friendship venture out from being acquaintances, I can still agree with you that you're more than adequate for the position. Above all else, I still have the best intentions for this team at heart ... whilst it is still mine, anyhow.'
'Well, I thank you for your consideration.' He left the older boy to watching him leave, unable to stifle the triumphant grin splitting his cheeks.
Cedric Buckley was carefully scrutinising the encounter. That silent ginger giant, so reserved that his face shifted into enthusiastic expressions less often than stone did, was always all the more watchful and perceptive than the rest of his boys, who could be quite gullible and easy prey to manipulation, as pliable as wet clay for him to sculpt how he saw fit. Judging by the slight squint in his eyelids, Frankie quickly suspected that Bucks had discerned what he had done and what he was planning to do.
Buckley knew Carrozza most of all, having grown quite close to him, learning and accepting hidden dispositions that he'd gradually discovered lurking in the other boy over the two years of their being in Eton together. He'd met him a handful of times across his childhood before they had enrolled at Eton, due to their parents being friends, but they'd cemented a strong brotherhood when the pair had punched their way through the boys of Stowe School over a disagreement at a rugby match between the two competing establishments. With bloody noses, bruised knuckles, and busted lips, they'd shook hands outside the headmaster's office over the first of nth fights they'd be paired together in. Although Bucks was the only member out of their friends to often question Frankie's motives, he was also easily silenced as he believed in loyalty as strongly as the next veteran. Cedric was also the only boy bold and clever enough to disapprove of Frankie's unnatural relationship with Trevor Hamilton.
'But Carrozza, what is the nature of the friendship?' Cedric would ask for the umpteenth as they lounged in a bedroom, a field, a library, or a pub together.
'You and I have asked this of me many times and the answer remains inexplicable to this day. If I was to attempt to answer it ... I would begin by saying that although there may be brotherly love there, there is also brotherly loathing, and like a brother for whom you feel both capricious fondness and dislike for, it is your brother they remain ... you cannot emancipate yourself from your siblings,' Frankie replied, almost rehearsed. 'It sways upon a balance ... a set of scales between encouraging competitiveness and intense rivalry. He is my nemesis and my confidant, my most faithful companion and my most untrustworthy partner in crime.'
Before Frankie could return to his friends, a small first-year student materialised in front of him as though sprung from a magician's hat.
'For you, Frankie Carrozza, sir. Trevor Hamilton wanted this delivered to you,' the boy squeaked before scooting along his way. One of Hamilton's little birdies, no doubt.
Curious, Frankie unfolded the note to reveal the embellished handwriting belonging to Hamilton, as pretty as scrollwork and written in ink as black as the poison that rotted the heart and soul of its author. He began to read the eloquent words:

My little birdies have been whispering. Their lively tweets tell me that Martin Healy has been championing your name in the election to convince the rest of the rugby team that you are the appropriate choice to succeed him due to your conduction on the field, your father's highly regarded legacy (which will inspire sponsorship from the promotion of his son), your outsider's perspective, and all else we rehearsed. And so it begins. Well done, my handsome Judas, my brutal Brutus.
Let it all be ours in revelry.

Feeling eyes falling on him as heavy as a mantle, Frankie glanced down the hallway towards the bottom of a stone arcade. The end of the corridor was filled with grey daylight, spilling in through the open passageway like mist, and in one of the alcoves, dressed in a long black drape jacket, stood Trevor Hamilton, peering out the side of it like a gracious gargoyle. The two boys locked eyes and shared sly smiles before briefly rubbing knuckles up their forehead and brushing fingers across the bridges of their noses to perform an old signal from childhood, signing their agreement, now willing to carry out intentions full of the utmost cruelty, if needed, in the ascension to their throne to settle in for the beginning of a very long reign.

Above all others, Frankie began to muse, losing himself to reverie, there arises one primary purpose, both little and large, that rouses the desire behind this corrupt endeavour for a crown: this crusade is mine and mine alone.