This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Bridge” Down in the Dirt, v196 (the 6/22 Issue) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology The Final Frontier the Down in the Dirt May-August 2022 issues collection book		get the 420 page May-August 2022 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Running Out of Time the 2022 poetry, flash fiction, prose, & art collection anthology		get the one-of-a-kind poetry, flash fiction, prose, artwork & photography collection anthology as a 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Fateful Fettucine

Mike Rader

    Don Niccolò Ambrosio Lorenzo De Luca, Il Capo dei Capi, the boss of the bosses, swaggered into the restaurant. His arrival sent a ripple of fear around the room.
    De Luca’s bodyguards cleared a path to his reserved table. Two remained by the entrance, one posted on either side, while the others took up different vantage points to protect their master. Their loyalty to De Luca was matched only by their brutality to his enemies.
    The godfather of godfathers waited for the cringing waiter to pull a chair from the table. Slowly he settled his bulk onto the chair. His fat beringed fingers stroked the tablecloth in anticipation of the meal to come. He observed the terror on the faces of the restaurant staff. His staff now! It was a year to the day that he had strangled the owner, the old Don Carlo, with his own bare hands.
    De Luca did not need to order. In this restaurant, his favorite meal was well-known. And even though the chef was the deceased Don Carlo’s son, De Luca expected his meal to be ready quickly and cooked to a standard of excellence.
    Curiously, De Luca’s palate was that of a man of grace and education. His childhood in the gutters of Napoli was long behind him. Now his taste buds were tuned to perfection. Should any ingredient lack freshness or flavor, his vengeance would be swift.
    The chef himself set the steaming meal before De Luca. Bowing low, he retreated to his kitchen, his hatred barely concealed.
    De Luca’s reptilian gaze surveyed the boneless chicken breasts, meticulously trimmed in 2-inch strips, nestling with the julienned prosciutto on a bed of home-made fettucine, topped with crumbled goat’s cheese and minced fresh tarragon. Cruelty always sharpened De Luca’s appetite. He stabbed his fork into the fettucine, relishing the aroma of chicken, prosciutto, dried apricots, shallots, and crushed red pepper. Death was the last thing on the godfather’s mind.
    He twirled his fork, lifting a mouthful to his coarse thick lips and savored the taste.
    De Luca gave a sigh of pleasure. Even the removal of his enemies’ fingernails could not satisfy as much.
    And then he gaped down at his bowl. His eyes widened. A gasp escaped his lips.
    The meal was shifting before his vision.
    The topping slid to one side, pushed away by the rapidly stirring pasta.
    It wasn’t possible!
    Slowly —
    Emerging through the chopped walnuts and chicken pieces —
    As though it had a life of its own —
    One single strand of fettucine was rising —
    Higher —
    Higher —
    Higher!
    De Luca let out a wail of horror. His fork dropped to the floor. His bodyguards dashed forward. Too late!
    The strand of fettucine moved with the speed of a cobra, wrapping itself around De Luca’s thick neck. Its grip tightened.
    De Luca started choking to death.
    The other patrons were screaming. A table was upended. Chairs crashed. People fled.
    Another strand rose, latching itself to the first, tightening, tightening. Perspiration broke out on the mobster’s forehead, on his bright red cheeks.
    “Madre di Dio!” he croaked, his fingers wildly tearing, clawing at the fettucine. But the pasta had the strength of steel. It coiled around and around his neck like high tensile wire. The pressure on his throat grew intense.
    Still more strands of fettucine rose, snaking up to capture De Luca’s neck in a fierce new attack.
    There came a crunching sound as he ground his teeth to slivers.
    Something snapped in his throat.
    He toppled from the chair, more fettucine looping itself around his struggling body. The godfather writhed in silent agony as the fettucine lacerated his neck, ripped away skin, sliced into his carotid arteries, sending streams of blood pouring down his shirtfront.
    His bodyguards watched helplessly. One crossed himself, turned and ran. The others followed.
    And then De Luca was still, his white silk suit drenched in his own blood.
    Slowly, the fettucine unwound itself, returning quietly to the bowl and slipping back among the other contents. A crumb of goat’s cheese toppled back into place. All was still. Revenge had been served.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...