“Take a good look at her, yeah? That’s my little girl.” Frank holds his phone in the air like the picture is the shining beacon of pride that it is. “She goes ‘daddy, why do you want a picture of me for?’ and I told her ‘because you are the most special, beautiful girl in the whole world and I want everybody I meet to know it!’ then she said ‘but dad, I know I’m the most beautiful girl in the world, I just don’t want the paparazzi to find me and bother me like the Kardashians.’ Now I admit, she probably got that attitude from her cunt of a mother and all that trash TV she watches, but she’s cute, right?”
Frank ‘The Facefucker’ Billiard shows off the picture of his seven-year-old daughter playing softball on his disposable flip phone. The majority of his friends and business associates know that he had to actually make an effort to take a legitimate picture of his daughter and then continuously transfer it to each burner after he replaces the old phone every other week. The others don't know any better, and they believe Frank to be the humble leader he claims to be. They are the good old boys that don’t think too hard, who he puts this whole show on for. The beer, burgers, strippers and a crystal clear pool that was green and stagnant as all hell just two weeks before, it’s all in the spirit of celebrating this dear country’s independence.
“Cute, Frankie, but not the kind of girl you’d catch me showing off on my phone, huh?” Ricky Catoni laughs and swigs his half full can of Eagle Pilsner, spilling a little on his hairy belly that’s as round as an exercise ball. The other three men who’ve looked at the picture, Tanner, Dill and the other Rick all raise their eyebrows at him like Ricky just shit himself. It takes Ricky a moment to realize what he’s said a second before Frank is on him.
“I show you a picture of my little girl and,” Frank’s raising his hands, pursing his lips and squinting his eyes as if the smaller and more rat like he forces his face to appear, the more likely he’ll be able to figure out what the fuck he’s just heard. “You go straight to thinking ‘bout pussy, yeah? We’ve got strippers coming that are so starved for a bump and a bonus that they’ll lick the skin off your nuts, but you go frothing at the mouth when I say I got something to show you? When I pull up a picture of my daughter?”
Ricky should know better because unlike the other three bozos, he’s witnessed Frank break a man’s collar bone with a tire iron and then tear that same poor SOB’s skull half in half by trying to wedge it into his mouth. He’s seen Frank light candy and cash skimmer’s heads on fire and then kick in the jaws of disloyal pups that think they can go carrying out misdeeds in the name of his organization; the Corksville County branch of the people that really run North Carolina and all the lonely back roads and shy towns of this entire country. They don’t call him Frank ‘The Facefucker’ for nothing. Forget the belt, he never aims below the neck.
“I was just saying, I was just joking that...” Frank grabs the curly locks of hair on either side of Ricky’s head and pulls him down because Frank’s only 5’7 and he likes to look people straight in the eyes. Ricky spilled gasoline earlier while helping to set up the fire pit and now that, intermixed with chlorine, fumes between the faces of the two men.
“You’re a real lovely son of a bitch, but you can’t always joke, Ricky, you can’t always joke, especially when you’re a fat, hairy, clown.” Frank erupts into piggish laughter, rustles Ricky’s hair and then playfully shoves him away. He holds the picture of his daughter up in the air. Friends and business associates of Frank are sprawled out in lawn chairs by the pool, while others play bocce ball in the grass and a couple guys are comparing bull shooters by the fire pit; a massive pyramid of neatly stacked firewood soaking in the gasoline. “It’s family, fellas. Family that keeps your soul pure no matter how much blood and shit you gotta swim through.”