Find Big Fat Fanny Fast Read online

  Find Big Fat Fanny Fast

  By Joe Bruno

  Published by Joe Bruno on Smashwords

  Copyright Joe Bruno, 2010

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Find Big Fat Fanny Fast

  CHAPTER 1

  Big Fat Fanny 1985

  Mock Duck surveyed the task at hand and it was a huge task indeed. Mock Duck, all five-foot one-inch and a hundred and twenty pounds of him, was next in line to be the Mayor of Chinatown in downtown Manhattan. But his boss Hung Far Low presently held that position and was not likely to die soon, unless somebody caused him to die. And that's where Big Fat Fanny would come in handy.

  Word had reached Mock Duck that Big Fat Fanny, in addition to whacking people for Tony B. Bentimova, mob boss of Little Italy, sometimes did a little freelance work on the side. So Mock Duck had now put himself in the position to pay Big Fat Fanny in inches, — five inches to be exact, for work to be de later, that he would pay her for in cold hard cash. That is, if he could convince all six-foot, six-inches and six hundred and sixty pounds of her to take the job.

  As fate would have it, Mock Duck was now prone on top of Big Fat Fanny, in her Mulberry Street apartment, trying to figure out how in the Great Wall of China's name he was going to penetrate her, when her entryway was hidden by over six hundred pounds of ripe, rolling blubber.

  Mock Duck aimed his manhood towards where he estimated Big Fat Fanny's prize would be, and thrust inward.

  Nothing. It was like pounding his pud into a huge marshmallow.

  Mock Duck plunged forward again. Still with no success.

  After about a half a dozen futile attempts, Mock Duck thought he slipped into something.

  “Am I in?” he said.

  Big Fat Fanny blew a huge pink bubblegum bubble, popped it, then rolled her gorgeous green eyes. “No, you're not in. Move over two inches to the left.”

  Mock Duck slithered over to the left and made another stab at it.

  Big Fat Fanny blew and popped another bubble. “No you moron. My left. Not your left.”

  Mock Duck slithered a few inches the other way and jabbed again. “Am I in now?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Get off me. I have an idea.”

  Mock Duck slithered off Big Fat Fanny, like he was sliding down a ski slope, and tried to steady himself on unsteady legs.

  Big Fat Fanny rolled off the side of the bed. She stood tall and very wide.

  With her bleached-blond, beehive hairdo piled high on her head, Big Fat Fanny looked like a cartoon character on steroids. To put things in perspective, one of her giant breasts was approximately the size of Mock Duck's chest. Expanded.

  Big Fat Fanny blew, then popped another bubble. “Now do what I say and we'll get this show on the road.”

  “Anything for you doll,” Mock Duck said.

  Big Fat Fanny pointed a fat forefinger at the bed. “Lie down on your back.”

  Mock Duck stared at the bed like it was a snake pit. “You want me to lie down on my back?”

  Big Fat Fanny rolled her eyes and smiled. “That's right hon. Do what I say and I'll take you right up to heaven.”

  Mock Duck gulped. “Ok. But how about we make a couple of stops along the way.”

  “Just do what I say.”

  Mock Duck positioned his back onto the bed, like he was laying into his coffin. “I'm ready. What's the plan?”

  “Leave it to me,” Big Fat Fanny said.

  Mock Duck squirmed. “What choice do I have?”

  She smiled brightly. “None. Now close your eyes.”

  Mock Duck felt his heart beat faster. “Close my eyes?”

  “Yes, Dearie,” she said, blowing and popping another bubble. “Close them tight and I'll tell you when to open them.”

  Mock Duck closed his eyes and prayed to Buddha it was not the last time he would do so.

  Big Fat Fanny backed off from the bed, one slow step at a time, until her rear end touched the far wall.

  Then like a sprinter pushing off the blocks, she surged forward, then jumped.

  Mock Duck's eyes opened an instant before Big Fat Fanny belly-flopped right onto his chest, pancaking him tight into the box spring and freaking mattress.

  Big Fat Fanny heard bones cracking. Then a faint whistle emanated from Mock Duck's lips, like air escaping from a punctured balloon.

  His eyes rolled in his head. Then stopped, staring straight up at Big Fat Fanny.

  Big Fat Fanny blew a bubble, popped it, then put an ear to Mock Duck's chest. She heard a faint heart beat.

  The Chinaman bastard was still alive.

  Like an angry bull, Big Fat Fanny rushed back to the wall. She pushed off with her right hand, sprang forward and pounced on Mock Duck's chest again. Blood spilled from his mouth and nose, and he made a gurgling sound like he was drowning.

  Face to face with her flattened foe, Big Fat Fanny pushed down hard with all six hundred and sixty pounds, grabbing both sides of the bed for additional leverage.

  More bones cracked. Mock Duck's face turned white and blood oozed from his ears.

  Big Fat Fanny pressed down harder and screamed, “Die, you Chinaman bastard!”

  Mock Duck's tired eyes implored. Then realizing mercy was not forthcoming, Mock Duck summoned his last bit of strength and spit a wad of blood into Big Fat Fanny's face.

  She screamed like a hyena, then wiped the blood from her face with the back of her hand. “That's it! Now you made me mad.”

  She rolled off the side of the bed, turned her back on Mock Duck and slowly paced a few feet away. More angry than the last time someone beat her to the last meatball at the dining room table, she put herself in slow reverse. When her back reached the bed, she flopped backwards, not on Mock Duck's chest, but this time in a sitting position, right onto his face.

  Mock Duck's nose was now tucked tightly into the crack of Big Fat Fanny's butt, which was not a pretty sight, especially from Mock Duck's point of view.

  Big Fat Fanny rocked slowly back and forth, blowing and popping bubble after bubble.

  Sensing the kill was near, she pushed her rear end down with all her mammoth strength, onto Mock Duck's mug.

  Almost bored, Big Fat Fanny stared at the clock on the wall. She inhaled and blew a huge bubble, then waited until the second hand had circled the clock twice.

  Figuring the deed was now done, she burst the bubble, which was now the size of her head, and slowly extracted her rear end off Mock Duck's face.

  To say Mock Duck had a shit-eating grin on his face was not far from the truth, but the simple truth was, Mock Duck was indeed now dead.

  Big Fat Fanny picked up the phone and dialed her friendly neighborhood carting service. The two men who showed up were the size of National Football League interior lineman.

  After she greased their palms with a few thousand scarolas, the two men carted Mock Duck over to the local morgue.

  The wet one in the East River.

  All in all, it was just another day at the office for Big Fat Fanny.

  CHAPTER 2

  Sally B

  Antonio Salvatore Giuseppe Bentimova was born in New York City, the son of an Italian from Sicily and a nice neighborhood girl from New York's Little Ital
y. Years before Tony B's birth, his father, Salvatore Giuseppe Antonio Bentimova, was a Mob captain in Palermo, a tidy little hamlet in the northwest end of Sicily, under the rule of the infamous Don Vito Cascio Ferro. Ferro, who had perfected the shakedown as an art form, was arrested sixty-nine times for various crimes. He was tried for all these crimes, but was always acquitted. For some strange reason, all witnesses against Ferro suddenly got amnesia, or downright disappeared from the face of the earth. Hey, things happen.

  In 1929, Don Vito Cascio Ferro finally met his match when he was arrested by Cesare Mori, Prefect and chief administrative official of Sicily. Mori had been appointed by Italian Dictator and all around nice guy Benito “Il Duce” Mussolini. This was the beginning of very bad time for the good old Mafia in Sicily.

  Mori made himself a constant pain in the neck to the Sicilian Mafia. He used torture like children used toys. He laid siege to entire towns, taking woman and children hostages, to get members of the Mafia to come clean as to their whereabouts. All in all, from 1924-29, Mori was responsible for over eleven thousand arrests, just in the town of Palermo alone.

  Hell of a guy.

  When Mori arrested Don Vito Cascio Ferro, it was actually for a crime Ferro had absolutely nothing to do with. After a dubious trail, Ferro, then 69, was sentenced to 50 years in jail. He did not pass Go and did not collect the customary $200.

  Afraid of getting the same fate as his pal Don Vito Cascio Ferro, Salvatore Giuseppe Antonio Bentimova hopped a slow boat to New York City, to escape the wrath of Mussolini, Mori and any other Italian whose last name started with the letter “M.”

  There “Sally Boy” Bentimova, as he was called, established himself as a big shot in the Italian-American mob.

  Because of the infamous and useless Volstead Act enacted in 1919, Prohibition was still in full swing in 1930 when Sally Boy finally set foot on American soil. Sally Boy made a minor mint transporting illegal hooch from rum ships outside the twelve-mile limit, to fast cabin cruisers, to trucks, which sped into the heart of New York City. Rumor had it that New York City alone had over thirty thousand speakeasies and Sally Boy's boys supplied the booze to a good number of them.

  In 1933, the Volstead Act was repealed, so Sally Boy, in the spirit of good old American entrepreneurism, insinuated himself into other enterprising businesses, like gambling, shylocking and a little harlotry, which is a fancy word for pimping women; sometimes right on the streets and sometimes in a whore house located in the Lower East Side of Manhattan.

  Sally Boy told people many times, “Hey, I didn't invent prostitution. So if somebody's got to do it, why not me? And my girls are clean. I make them see a doctor four times a year, whether they need to or not.”

  Sally Boy, now firmly ensconced in Little Italy, finally met himself a nice Italian-American girl, who happened not to be a hooker. Her name was Dria Paola Pescatore, named after a famous Italian actress, who wasn't a hooker either.

  Dria's parents were from Naples and they didn't particularly care for the vulgar, and intellectually inferior Sicilians. But after a little arm-twisting, and after Sally Boy greased Dria's father with a few thousand fazools, Mr. Pescatore finally saw the light and that light was lit all around Little Italy in the glow of cold hard cash.

  The marriage between Sally Boy Bentimova and Dria Paola Pescatore was made and summarily consummated in 1935. The result was Antonio Salvatore Giuseppe Bentimova – a.k.a Tony B.

  As we will see, the apple did not fall too far from the rotten tree.

  CHAPTER 3

  Tony B

  From the time he could breathe, Tony B was not a very nice boy. In fact, he was such not a nice boy, his parents decided to stop having children altogether. As a result, Tony B grew up an only child.

  Being an only child had its advantages and its disadvantages. One of the disadvantages was not having a sister he could peek at through a hole in the bathroom wall he surely would have drilled if he had had a sister in the first place. Another disadvantage of being an only child was not having a younger brother he could smack around a little bit, when Tony B was not having such a very good day. Cracking people around always lifted Tony B's spirits.

  Tony B brooded about these things many times, but when he did brood, he straightened himself out real quick by thinking about all the advantages he had of being an only child.

  Like not having to fight anyone, other than his mother, for the last meatball on the dining room table at Sunday dinner. He knew better than to mess with his violent father, but Mama Dria got forked in the hand many times when she dared try to stab the last meatball on the serving plate.

  Once, when little Tony B speared his mother with a fork going after the last meatball, his father laughed and thought it was cute that his son had established himself as a tough guy at such an early age. Tony B's mother laughed too, but through clenched teeth, knowing full well the only reason she even had a chance to get the last meatball, was because her husband's belly was too full for him to stuff another morsel down his fat freaking throat.

  Being an only child also meant Tony B got all the allowance money he needed from his old man, who had no other children to suck him dry.

  A dollar here, a dollar there, and maybe a twenty or two, stolen from a huge roll of bills, his father always left on his nightstand before he went to bed at night. Like clockwork, the roll of cash was there at beddy-bye time, right next to his keys, a book of matches and a pack of Chesterfields. This act of larceny was quite easy to do, since his parents slept in separate bedrooms, an arrangement made to ensure Tony B would continue to be their only child.

  Tony B got the idea to steal his old man's stash in a curious way. One night, Tony B accidentally caught his mother clipping a few twenties from his father's roll, while the old man was snoring like a polar bear in heat. Rather than rat mom out to pop and be the cause of her getting a few teeth loosened, or maybe missing altogether, Tony B made it clear to her, in no uncertain terms, that he and he alone, each and every night, had the first shot at his father's cash. No questions asked. If mom wanted to risk a second cut, that was entirely up to her. But she was on her own as far as that was concerned. Tony B also promised his mother he'd keep his mouth shut about the whole damn situation, including her corrupting her young son by exhibiting the worse case of bad example.

  Tony B figured if his father found out about the thievery, at most he'd get a crack in the face. While mom would wind up being carried into Beekman Downtown Emergency on a stretcher. Tony B understood at a very young age, not being an canary can sometimes be a very good thing.

  Some kids are good at sports. Some kids are good at school. Tony B was good at neither. His parents skipped the public school route and enrolled Tony B into Transfiguration Catholic Grammar School, at 29 Mott Street, one block east of Mulberry. While in the third grade, Tony B realized he could garner some neat perks if he could con his teachers into letting him become an altar boy. The nuns and priests at Transfiguration didn't realize that letting Tony B become an altar boy was like giving Willie Sutton a teller job at the Bowery Savings Bank. But Tony B put on his best studious and Pius act, and eventually convinced the clerics that he would indeed be a good candidate for altar boy-hood, which made the saints' statues in Transfiguration Church next door to the school cringe in dismay.

  So Tony B studied his Latin: “Ad Deum qui lai te fe cot, uven tutem mayum.”

  BLA, BLA, BLA, BLA, BLA, BLA, BLA...........

  That was basically the extent of what you had to learn to become an altar boy.

  Obviously, Tony B did not take up the added responsibilities of being an altar boy for strictly humanitarian, or divine reasons. Nobody in their right mind would want to get up at six in the morning and trudge through the dark, on cold and blistery days, just to serve the seven o'clock mass for a bunch of shapeless old ladies, with black draperies on their bodies and black clodhoppers on their feet.

  No, the object of Tony B's madness was that he now had an endless suppl
y of cheap, red wine, he could pilfer from the rectory, under the righteous noses of the good fathers, who were half asleep themselves at seven in the morning.

  In fact, Tony B repeatedly volunteered to serve the early mass for exactly that reason. By the time the 7:45 and 8:30 masses took place, the priests were already wide awake and more likely to notice that a bottle, or two of wine was missing from the rectory wine cabinet.

  This was especially true of Father Quincy, who Tony B thought was one step above a broken-down bum on the Bowery.

  Countless times, while Tony B poured wine into Father Quincy's chalice during Mass, the priest would grab Tony B's hand and force it downward saying, “Now there boy, stop pouring the wine as if it were medicine.” Only after the Chalice had reached his desired level of wine did father Quincy release his vice-like grip on Tony B's hand.

  So when it was Father Quincy who served the seven o'clock Mass, Tony B was in his own form of heaven. Tony B always arrived before everyone, with a duffel bag filled with his cassock and surplice, that he changed into as soon as he arrived, say at around 6:30 am. Then before the priest assigned to the seven o'clock Mass could stumble into the Sacristy, and while the Sacristan was busy lighting candles by the altar, Tony B went into full wine-copping mode.

  Tony B, with the help of little Richie Ratface Rambone, had months before snatched the wine cabinet key and had a copy made. So all Tony B had to do, when the coast was clear, was open the lock on the wine cabinet, remove a quart bottle and stuff it into his duffel bag, before anyone was any the wiser.

  One bottle would never be missed, but if Tony B had gotten greedy and stolen two or more bottles at the same time, someone might have caught on to his scheme. With one bottle missing, even if some dopey priest noticed, he would think it had been taken by another priest, for his late night escapades; whatever, wherever and with whomever they might be. Tony B knew all too well, the priests at Transfiguration Church, to one extent or another, were all alcoholics. So maybe by stealing a bottle of wine, he was actually doing them a favor.