*Beep* *Beep* *Beep*
The flip side of having a cell phone is that it never lets you sleep properly.
“Hello”, a deep setting official sounding voice boomed like a thunder from the other side. The Boss.
“Good Morning Sir”, I said in my sleep induced stupor. In fact, I had the instinct to hang up the phone and then hit back to sleep. But, I would have done it, if it was any other man on the other side, but here it was my boss.
“I have a job for you”
“I want you to implant ‘The Mark’ “
“What? On whom?”
“Yes, ‘The Mark’ on Christine tomorrow, at her wedding”
“You heard me right, Christine, tomorrow, the usual fare”
If there were to be a pseudonym for the word 'erratic', it would be Mafia.


Plush Armani suits, grotesque Gabbana gowns, well polished leather shoes, you name it, and they had it all. The Church itself was huge. Decorated in intense flair and choicest linen and flowers. The scents of multiple perfumes dominated the olfactory cells. Chauffeur driven cars stopped at the entrance, many of them being black Rolls-Royce or a Mercedes Benz. These mafia bosses had a unique characteristic. They fight all throughout the year, kill people, take revenge but in the end, talk like childhood friends in marriages. Bang Bang first and Kiss Kiss later, great policy.

“Willy! My son, come here once”.
“Willy” the name itself sounded silly, I would have hit anyone square on the head for calling me that, but considering that it was my boss and I had to dance to his tune.
“This is Willy, my primary Hit boy and a very reliable friend of mine”, he said introducing me to a few bald headed morons presumably his aides in business. A few sweaty handshakes later, as I started wiping my palm inside my pockets The Boss came and whispered into the ear,
“Do your job, naughty boy. Get drunk and hit the town”
It would have been a normal Boss-Employee privilege if not for the early morning's call. I nodded my head, signaling that I have understood his signal. Pleased, he moved his huge, greasy butt from my line of sight. I went on, to proceed on my work.

“William!” She cried out, holding me in a tight hug.
“Darling, you look gorgeous! Surely, someone is damn lucky!”
She was dressed in a flowing white wedding gown. A white laced hat was like an adjective to her whole wedding attire, plus a red rose on the hat, did wonders. If not for being in a wedding full of the Mafia bosses and intricate bastards, I had enough heat inside me to elope with her, even without her consent.
“Thanks!” She said, breaking my thought.
“Chritie, would you talk to me in private for a minute? I have a surprise for you” I said in the most unassuming way possible.
“Sure, I would love to! Let’s see what tricks you have under your sleeve!” and blindly followed me, like a six year old would do, after seeing a man with a chocolate.
Let me tell you an interesting fact about Christian weddings. The bride is easily accessible to all, not like their counterparts in other religions, stiff and painted like a sacred Hindu cow.

Dressed in a three piece myself, I walked in an air of confidence with a “would-be-another-man’s-wife” on my side (a beautiful one that one). A few old mistresses turned their heads in confusion, but apart from that I didn’t make much of a commotion. Deep down in the Church’s hallway, the dressing rooms were situated. We took the first one to the left, a machine gun trotting equally machine resembling guard passed by our room. After brief exchange of ‘no problem’ signals from the bride, he was a contended man. Christine, shut the door, giving us some privacy.

I looked around. Rich colors of tapestry over dominated the room which had a girly ‘avatar’ thanks to its pink colored walls. A lavish bed spread in the middle of the room. A perfect setting, for an unsettling job to be done.

“What my surprise?” Christine asked, leaning onto me.
“The Mark” I said I said in a deep voice, sadism personified.
“What?” She exclaimed in horror. And after one strong blow right beside her eye, she fell down, unconscious.
Before I proceed to do my sinister job, let me tell all you people, frying the fat of your buttocks for reading an excerpt from my life. What’s The Mark?

Many years ago, when these fuckin’ cross breed Italian mafia bosses started fighting over land and drugs, they raised a kind of virtual battlefield. Every piece of shit owned by one Boss had his rivals name written all over it in blood, and their bodies buried six feet inside in the filthiest backyard possible. Over the gradual passage of time, these Bosses also started expanding their thinking capacities apart from their bullion reserves, not to mention their cholesterol reserves too, resulting to a scenario in which, a war could be started and the Boss could not be eliminated. This led to a very fragile situation, what happens when two dozen hyenas fight for a dead crow? A Fuckfest. Hence, the pack had to be brushed off for safety reasons. After all the law couldn’t hide all the bribes from these stinking tax evaders for long, as people having brains are still alive!

Then came the invention of the century, an invention freshly out of a sadistic aide of the biggest boss of those times. The Mark. The ideology behind the Mark was simple, do not kill your rival, just label him with your name, in letters so big, that even a blind beggar could recognize his name. Now, you might be thinking my dear fellas, why couldn’t the poor old fag live with his rivals name on?. The theory is simple, would anyone of you walk with ‘I am a Pussy’ written all over your face, smeared in big black letters? No. The same is the case with these skunk bummed meat heads; they valued their pride more than their life, and treasure their name than their other possessions. Imagine a ‘ball’ less life my dear fellas, that would be a gross underestimate for the life of pride for our bosses. Welcome, to the invention, which suddenly replaced the ‘CocknCola’ of the traditional Mafia families.

The Mark is a simple device. It looks like an ordinary rubber stamp, but it’s much more deadlier. Made of stainless steel and tempered with great precision, the Mark has razor sharp edges (much sharper that is) Shaped in such a way that it formed the skeleton of the name of the Boss, whose name is to be implanted on a menial soul. The edges were sharp to and were 3mm long, which mean ultimate penetration and permanent defamation. But here comes the best part, The Mark, is first dipped in concentrated Sulphuric Acid and then stamped on the victim, so that the acid works from the inside penetrating more skin and thereby increasing the area of damage, externally and internally. If not for the acid, the Mark would fade away over the passage of time, which meant certain death. A ‘Marked’ person, was left to die a painless death or was insulted and separated from the tribe, if he tried to come in the society. So many of them chose the former.
The Mark was a symbol of possession, ownership and power. It was the absolute stamp of royality, which meant it had no substitute and no backdrops.

I slowly dipped the Mark, in the bottle of acid I was carrying. Christine lay unconscious on the bed in her beautiful dress. If not for being a part of the Church, I would have done the ‘unholy’ job, with regards to Adam and Eve. I dipped the Mark three times, and carefully took it over to Christine’s forehead. And with one forceful blow, I planted it on her forehead. It penetrated 3mm, possibly breaking a part of her skull. The Mark surfaced almost immediately, first in a pale red color, which later transformed into a morbid black color, letting out little fumes of burnt skin. For the sudden blow, Christine jumped out from the bed. I was shocked. She cried out, making a ruckus. I slapped her twice and looked for my escape. What’s more dangerous than a person under tremendous shock fighting on one side and three hundred odd fully loaded expert body guards? I could raise hell.

Before I could make an escape, ten men armed with different kinds of guns, of all shapes and sizes surrounded me. I had enough brains in me to use Christine as bait. “One more word Motherfuckers, I promise six bullets will be in her fuckin brains before you can even think”.

Two Minutes Later:

Given the delicate situation I was in, I couldn’t move. So couldn’t the foolish bastards. Then like a ray of hope, The Boss entered.
“What the Fuck is happening here? Ow! Willy?”
“Boss, I have done the job you have asked me to”
“It was you who called me earlier this morning asking me to Mark Christine, did you forget?”
“This son of a Bitch is lying. Kill Him”
“Another word, Her vagina will be full of bullets Boss, cool down”
“When the hell did I order you?”
In a confident manner, I took out my phone, a shining Nokia, and opened recently received calls list, and threw the phone to my Boss.
“You fooling me huh? The last fuckin call you received was from a lousy bitch named Thora, where is my name?”
“Thora? I talked to her yesterday, you must be joking right?”
Boss threw the phone back to me. I didn’t take/make any calls in the last fucking 12 hours!
Before I could protest, 10 different guns went to work, and the rest I do not remember.
As I was going away from my body, I saw Christian Cuppola, my Boss, crying over his only daughter Christine Cuppola, whose forehead had the name ‘Cuppola’ etched all over. She was now considered to be worthless.

And the call I received in the morning?
I guess it never happened at all. Talk about a nightmare.


Apologies again for the high filth content. My next story would surely be different! Do comment :D

Note: "The Mark" does not exist and is purely a creation out of my imagination, so is the rest of the story! And as an avid follower of my blog, Mohammed asked me whether this post was inspired from the movie "RocknRolla". Well the answer is No, this story was not inspired from anything, a pure fictional work. The title has a meaning, which I shall explain in the comments section of the blog later tonight. And as for a few grammatical mistakes, I will correct them soon, as I posted this story in the first draft itself, with minimal editing.