rackofbadcds | lucky lucky me, I can live in luxury...

The next scene fuzzed to life on the television. The blurry screen had yet to adjust itself, but one could make out a man sitting in a chair in the center of the moment. A few seconds passed as details became clearer and clearer. Finally, it was Joe Barbaro sitting in that chair. But it wasn't hard to figure out something was wrong with him. His usual boisterousness and pep, two default traits of the man, were completely gone from his expression and body language. A glass of bourbon sat between his hands as he leaned over. He stared at the floor with strange eyes that looked like they hadn't been closed in a week.

For half a minute nothing happens. Joe drinks. Bing Crosby plays faintly from nowhere. But then finally you hear footsteps, and a voice like Woody fucking Woodpecker.

"Hey, Joe! Joey!"

A boy hustles into the camera's "view". He's not much older than 17, and clearly a wannabe gangster. Joe's vacant stare stays on the floor.

"Rise and shine, Joe! Heh heh! What are we doin' today, huh!? Cruisin' for girls? Scoping out Greaser turf?"

Another couple of seconds passes. The kid looks at Joe eagerly, though Joe still doesn't look back. Finally Joe takes another drink, and when he brings the glass down from him lips he finally says something.

"Go home, Marty."

Now it's Marty's turn to stare.

"Aw, why? Come on, Joe. I'll shine your shoes again, I'll--I'll clean your car! I could clean your car. Come on. Gimme anything, please?"

"Go home, kid. Your mom probably needs you. Get outta here."

Marty paused. Then he darts to Joe's other side and leans forward. "Hey... what's the matter?"

He tried to get a better look at Joe's face, but suddenly the elder's lifeless expression twisted like something jabbed him in the stomach. He jerked away. Marty straightened up in suprise.

"What's the use?"

"Whaddaya mean...?"

"I'm a fuck-up, kid. There's no use in me doin' anything." Joe keeps talking. Inexplicably, a small hole started opening up in Marty's chest. "I get it, alright? Everything I do gets my friends either in trouble, in the clink, dead, or all of the above." The hole gets bigger. Marty's skin slowly turns white. "I'm a jinx. Nobody's gotta fuckin' tell me twice. You're better off, Marty. Everybody's better off. You, Henry, Vito... none 'a this woulda happened without me. None of this would have..."

Joe's voice starts to crack, and he can't finish. Blood pours down Marty's chest now. He's a moving, talking corpse.

"But Joe..."

"I'm sorry."

"You're my hero, Joe."

"I'm SO sorry."

"Joe Barbaro can't do anything wrong."

"I'm so sorry, Marty. I'm so sorry... "

Joe hides his face in his hand. The scene slowly fades to black as he quietly starts to cry.