This story is about these things and people:
Dough
My best friend, Ray
Me, Vinnie Fasolati
— and:
Dough.
Yes, dough is in there twice. The story begins and ends with dough — as in money. You see, money makes the world go ‘round. It’s the basis for everything, resolves everything, and is the tonic for everything. How much dough you’ve got defines what you’re worth — dough determines your status: If you’re rich, you’re important; if you’re poor, you’re a nobody.
The Beatles? Beatles Shmeatles. They sang “I don’t care too much for money, money can’t buy me love.” And yet they all have more money than you can shake a stick at. They’re either filthy rich or they’re dead, and you don’t need money when you’re dead. You’ve got to get it, and flaunt it, while you’re still alive. I wonder how much money the “fab four” made from singing they didn’t care too much about it? Did they decline any of it? I doubt it. It doesn’t look that way.
Anyway, about Ray; my best old ex-friend Ray. He thought the same way I did about money. But I never stole dough from him. Not literally, anyway. Friends? They’re not worth the time and trouble. They’ll turn on you and take what’s yours.
If not for Ray, I’d be hobnobbing with billionaires; even rubbing shoulders with Paul McCartney. We’d have a good laugh over his stupid song about not caring much for money while sipping Dom Perignon and downing buckets of white truffles. We would share inside information on sure-fire investments and how to avoid paying taxes — after all, why should we be forced to subsidize the socialistic agendas of the do-gooders when we can avoid it?
And if not for that unreasonable and impractical detective who refused my bribe, I wouldn’t be stuck here in this prison with a bunch of lamebrains and gutter scum.
I’ve still got my dough, though — except for the small fortune I had to pay my greedy defense attorney, who couldn’t even get me off. What a shyster! Due to his negligence, that jealous jury found me guilty, and then the grouchy old judge gave me life in prison. At least my lawyer kept me from getting life without parole with his malarkey about me being remorseful, and that I was obviously temporarily insane when I made sure Ray got what he deserved.
They’re the ones who are insane.
My accountant knows where the dough is buried, though (not literally buried, but safely stored in offshore banks and in convenient no-questions-asked financial institutions). I’ll find a way to direct some of that into the right hands so I can get my wrongful conviction overturned — as I said, Ray only got what he deserved; I shouldn’t be blamed for what he brought on himself. Basically, he committed suicide when he stole from me.
When I get out, I’ll get the last laugh with that judge and jury, and detective, too — they’ll be sorry they ever crossed Vinnie Fasolati! And I’ll make sure there will be no proof that I had anything to do with their unfortunate “accidents.” Ha! I can’t wait!
But wait, who’s this guy coming into my cell? How does he know my name? And where did he get that shiv?
… It’s all over for me, now; I won’t need my money anymore. Who will get it? Oh! My accountant — he’s paid this guy to ... just like I paid him to get rid of Ray.
Read or download (free PDFs) other of my writings here.