What would Gotti think, his underboss with a shiner?” “Hey, Bo,” I taunted, “you’d better ice that eye. It was then that I noticed the small mouse under his left eye. He mumbled something about being too tired to move and sunk further into his chair. It must’ve been quite the sight.Īs John repaired to the kitchen and began dinner preparations - tonight it was to be veal scapollini - I turned to “The Bull” and announced my intentions to go shower. When John finally returned from the video store, he was taken aback, as he took in our two forms - shirtless muscled and tattooed men, sweating profusely, and sprawled out on conference room chairs, all the while giggling like two recalcitrant schoolchildren. Back and forth, forward and back, to one side of the room and then the other, lunging and retreating, we engaged in a pugilistic Samba - “Dancing with the Mob’s Star Witness,” if you will, complete with HRT “judges.”Īnd so it went, for some twenty minutes or so, and to the bemusement of our HRT security detail. “Okay, I got you.”įor the next minute or so, we engaged in what can only be described as the boxer’s dance. “Okay, Bo,” he managed through tortured breaths. I felt his nose and cheek meet my glove and watched as his head snapped back, hearing him grunt. I sprung forward, throwing a clipped combination, pummeling his torso and connecting flush with his face. The HRT guys who were now keenly aware of the obvious blood sport spectacle about to commence in front of them chuckled aloud.
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