Some nights I miss the good old days; back when people had respect for others. Respect for themselves. Respect for their families. Not these kids. Not these Gotti wannabes. Von Dutch cap pulled to the side, baggy jogging suit by FUBU. For Us By Us. It’s a black thing. They don’t want us buying it and wearing it. We’re fucking Italian.

Now, this kid had the gall to look back at his friends and laugh, like I was some big joke. He stopped laughing when my meaty fist landed in his side, leaving him bent over.

“Hard to laugh with a ruptured kidney, ain’t it kid.” Then I followed it up with a knee to the bridge of the nose. He hit the floor like a sack of potatoes.

“Eww brooke my noose,” he screamed in a whinny accusatory squeal, balled up in pain. No shit, I heard the damn thing crack.

His friends weren’t much smarter than their smart-mouth friend. Like lemmings racing towards Mt. Rusty, his five pals got up from the table. One of them was packing heat, and they were all tall. This was going to be fun.