The two big thugs that walk in after him are the meanest this side of the salt flats: Mickey ‘The Arms’ and Lenny ‘The Legs’ Stefano, also known around these parts as the Brothers Grim. They both walk over to a pair of forgotten crates to sit and watch as Vinny works on Wayne.
“What a mess. Look at you Truman, all dirty and bloody. Ruined your nice rags didn’t you?” Vinny kicks him hard in the ribs, and Wayne sputters and rolls over to his side. “Aw come on it was a love tap.”
“Polichiano, you fuck,” Wayne coughs out. “What the fuck did I do? I paid the bitch.”
“Manners Truman, she’s a lady.” Vinny kicks him so hard in the face his leg flies up a little too high in the air for comfort. “I think I sprained a ball thanks you. Arms, get our guest a chair. I have to walk this off.”
Mickey sets a rolling chair next to Wayne and roughly throws him into it. Lenny is right behind him and ready with rope. They tie his wrists behind the back of the chair, and stand in front of him, just looking mean.
“So why do they call you Legs? Have something to do with you wearing women’s leggings or something?” Wayne jokes through bloody teeth.
Lenny’s face hardens. He’s about a foot shorter than his brother, but he’s still nearing six foot five. He’s also a good fifty pounds lighter, but his build is not at all lanky and weak. His double-breasted pinstriped suit is pressed, and his two-tone wing tipped shoes are polished. His slick hat casts a shadow over his clean-shaven face. With a smile, he launches his right foot at Wayne and stops it centimeters before it hits him; the rest of his body is in an oriental fighting stance, with his hands clenched and near his face. Wayne flinches back so hard that the chair tips over and he lands painfully onto his tied hands.
“I see that’s a pretty accurate nickname then,” Wayne groans.
Mickey lifts him and the chair two feet up before letting them both fall to the ground. He’s a giant; his massive chest strains the buttons on his brown suit jacket, and his brown tie looks like it’s choking him with its tiny messy knot. His slacks are wrinkled at the knees from constant sitting and standing, and his black shoes are polished but murky here and there; he must have done it himself at home. His block of a head is shaven clean of all hair except for his thick brows.
“No, no, it’s ok Mickey. I can guess why they call you The Arms.” Wayne says.
“Ha, ha funny guy, a comedian, a jokester,” Vinny chuckles, letting the bottom of a long thin pipe he found tap the ground with every other step. He stops behind his henchmen and leans on it like a cane, with his right foot crossed over the left.
Vinny is a slender man and a few inches shorter then Lenny. His tailored crimson suit wraps around his body, accentuating his thin physique. His black European boots match his shirt and pocket square, and his bow tie is crimson with black polka dots. His thin face is topped with neatly parted blond hair; and his pale eyes are almost as bright as his wide smile.
“I don’t know what you did to the boss. — I don’t really care.” Vinny rests the pipe on the back of his shoulders and dangles his hands over each end as he walks nearer to Wayne. “Truman, ha. This is a very bad night for you.”
He stomps the chair between Wayne’s legs, sending him rolling backwards. Vinny skips after him, cackling and kicking the armrests to make the chair spin. He puts the pipe through the armrests across Wayne’s lap, and spins him in a wide circle until he loses his grip and falls with the pipe. Wayne crashes into the wall of a storage crate, bounces off, and rolls back toward the center of the room in slow circles.
“Ha-ha whoo, dizzy,” Vinny says. He stands and runs flat out at Wayne, bashing the pipe into his chest like a baseball bat. “Regular Joe DiMaggio, don’t you think Truman? A little higher and I would’ve had a homerun with your head.”
“Fucking skinny freak,” Wayne huffs.
“What did you call me?” Vinny asks, the playfulness in his voice suddenly replaced with malice. He drops the pipe and jumps onto Wayne’s lap, bashing his fists into every inch of his face. Grabbing Wayne’s head, he smashes his own forehead into it, making the chair lurch and move back towards Mickey and Lenny. Vinny beats his forehead so hard he gets dizzy and falls backwards off Wayne. He lands on his back laughing again.
“Men are such thugs,” a voice speaks from the door.
They all lay eyes on a gorgeous woman; even Wayne can’t keep his jaw off the floor. She’s standing in the doorway with gloved hands on either side of the frame, and her weight on one hip. Her body-hugging black gown wraps tightly around her breasts, and sparkles in the yellow light of the warehouse. The slit running up her gown reveals most of her right leg, well up her thigh, and past the end of her stockings. Her voluptuous red hair falls over one of her smoky eyes, just touching the left corner of her lush red lips. She walks over to them, hips swaying side to side, and her black heels clicking softly. She stops in front of Wayne, hands at her hips, and leans forward slightly.
“Hey there big boy, they scuffed you up something fierce didn’t they?” She laughs her best Marilyn Monroe laugh and bats her eyes at Vinny.
“Sorry boss. Um, did someone mess with the thermostat?” he says, tugging on his collar.
The woman sits delicately on Wayne’s lap, making him wince. She wraps her arms around his neck and lightly pecks his face here and there, cooing sweet things into his ear while patting his hair into a more presentable form.
“Lanet, you crazy bitch, get off me.” Thrusting his hips, Wayne knocks her off his lap and drops Lanet hard on her rear. Sitting up with her legs to one side, and supporting herself with one arm, she reaches into her purse and pulls out a snubnosed revolver.
“Big mistake bub.” The bullet digs a crater deep into his skull and his head flies back. Lanet stands and brushes herself off before the first drops of blood drip to the floor.
“Ain’t nothing like a dame!” Vinny calls out to her, jumping up and down between Lenny and Mickey. He wraps his arms around the other two men and does a little showgirl dance before stopping. “My ball still hurts.”