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Rated: 13+ · Fiction · Crime/Gangster · #2227432
How much trouble can he get into?
I was in my own group of friends, we only did small jobs, but the amount of money that we harvested to us was all the money in the world. Our parents were glad we were no longer asking them for things, whatever we needed, we took, sometimes by force.

However, after weeks of tardiness from school, after a few weeks of us all deciding that we knew how to make money better than anything the school could teach us, they started calling my dad at home. They did not yet know who they were dealing with. All they knew was that our family had been donating to the school for 8 years, while our entire family, brothers and sisters, had graduated with honors without doing much in the way of studying. My dad did not answer the phone; first of all, he and my mother had immigrated here from south Italy and only spoke Italian, second, he considered it beneath him to answer the telephone. He had a network for that.

So the phone at our house went unanswered, but this did not stop the phone calls. One night, my sister answered, and in broken English she had said, "My father is down at the garage." It probably didn't take a lot of thinking for the principal to understand this, there were a whole group of Italians who met at a certain garage, nightly, to play cards, drink beer, and shoot dice. Playing dice wasn't considered a great game, but they learned it from Shaky Eddy and had eventually been incorporated as one of the games they would play.

The Principal started calling the garage, and every time someone answered, it was someone different. A few guys there spoke English, and would do their best to translate what the principal had wanted, into Italian. As I said, it was after a few weeks of this, that my father had finally started to respond.

At first, he responded the way he would to anybody who bothered him. Mailbox bombs, firecrackers, he had a few boys shoot off fireworks directly at his house; but the phone calls from the principal did not stop, however he started having different people from the school start calling him.

My father had finally tolerated enough of this nonsense. He had one of the men who answered the telephone in the garage for him set up a meeting; at first he wanted the meeting to be in the garage, but eventually he had settled for the meeting to take place at the principals office.

When he does come to meet the principal he comes in with three other guys with pistols in there belts and ankle holsters. One guy waits outside of the closed door meeting, directly in front of the door, the other two come in with him and stand in front of the windows. They shake hands at the door, my father noticing that the principals handshake is very light and weak, the principal has very soft and small hands, like he has never done a day of hard work in his life.

They take their seats, my father sits down in the principals chair, a nice carved wood and leather seat forcing the principal into one of the student chairs, nothing but a piece of hard plastic. He starts speaking with the principal in Italian. One of the other guys in the room translates.

His voice is very loud, and callused, with a very thick accent; very aggressively he says in Italian, "I'm told you wanted to meet me. This is a terrible inconvenience for me. Should I expect to have to come down here every week? Have you not been receiving my checks, or are my dues no longer good service to this school?"

The principal speaks in much more of a lighter tone, almost nervously says, "Well I would hate to bother as man of your stature with all of the generous donations you've made to our school over the past years. But your son has been missing a lot of classes. If this continues, he will not make it into the next grade."

A few seconds passes as this is translated. The father finally speaks again, in Italian, "My son? How dare you speak of my son! He has every right not to be brainwashed by your school. I see that you are very thick headed, and do not understand, or appreciate my generosity."

The principal, speaks again very nervously, the man guarding the window thinks he has shit himself; "Well, I have passed every one of your offspring, every one of them has been guided with the limit of the knowledge they can gain from this school. The problem is attendance, that is a state requirement."

It is translated, and the big Italian man speaks again, "I believe you cheat on your taxes. How else can a man, who does not work, afford a Porsche, if he is not stealing from the money I've allocated to your school. You're either robbing me blind, or lying to me. I will not stand for either. Every dollar I make comes from putting in work, and I suggest if you want to keep living; your cushy lifestyle, the one that I am paying for, that you assume my boys attendance. Do we understand each other?"

The principal shifts in his hard plastic seat, seeing there is no other way to do this, "Alright, so then I what? Make marks on his daily attendance if it causes inaccuracy or not. I should have this boy teach the lesson that attendance is not mandatory, I should tarnish this schools reputation?"

Once translated the Italian man nods, and adds, "I think we have an understanding. Don't bother me with this again, or you're in for more problems than those you have been presented with in the past."

The big Italian, pushes himself up using the desk to help himself up, and goes over to the window, while one of the men at the window, shuffles over to the principal holding his ankle piece, right up to the principals throat, and says, "Give me a reason. I would love one reason to make you disappear."

Then all three of the men, leave the office, and the principal never called again.

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