Normally, I would not dream of arguin’ with Nunzio, as I not only am inclined to lose, it only gives him an excuse to prolong and embellish upon whatever half-baked theory he is emotin’ upon. This time, however, I feels compelled to take umbrage with his assertions.
“Cousin,” I sez, “can you look around at our fellow unfortunates and tell me honestly that you can’t tell who comes from where without committin’ such blatant perjury that even the most bought judge would have to call youse on it?”
I mean, shorn and frocked as we are, it is still pretty easy to spot who the players are and where they’re comin’ from. The Flie brothers have that well muscled, robust glow of health what only comes from puttin’ so many hours a day into farm work that doin’ time in the army has to look like a resort vacation to them. Bee, with or without hair, looks like a fledgling geek, and as for the Spyder broad … well, givin’ a wolf a poodle cut doesn’t make it look like a show dog, just like a pissed off wolf! It was clear to me that wherever that junior sociopath went to school, it couldn’t have been more than a block or two from the alma mother what gave Nunzio and me our head start on the other head bashers in the Mob.
As usually occurs, however, just when it looks like I’m gonna finally win an argument with Nunzio, somethin’ intervenes to change the subject.
“Do you believe this?” the tough broad spits … literally … lettin’ fly with an impressive jet of fluid from between her teeth to punctuate her anger. “Military Law! It’s bad enough that we have to put up with these haircuts and flaky uniforms, but now we have to sit through lectures on crud like Military Law! When are they gonna get around to teaching us something about fighting?”