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Later, Frank’s starting his third cigar of the day and sitting on the back porch of his “vacation” house, eagerly awaiting the moment he can spark up the barbecues. The cigar was hand crafted by a buddy of his in the city to the south. It has a bitter sort of taste, like a beer with too much hops, but Frank likes the idea that somebody made it with him in mind. Cubans got nothing on a smoke stick made with love. Frank’s already calculated that, if he has a cigar every two hours, the entire stash he’s been gifted will last until he’s drunk enough to pass out between the ample breasts of a stripper or two in the hammock by the edge of the woods.

The “vacation” house used to belong to somebody else, but then they disappeared. Frank had nothing to do with it. The humorless people that don’t believe in partying who oversee Frank are the ones that “relocated” whoever had this place last. It’s right in Frank’s town and he didn’t even know the motherfucker, but when it comes to the people that tell Frank what to do, he’s not surprised about any of the sneaky things they conduct in plain sight. Around the world, even.

Despite his name, Frank ‘The Facefucker’ doesn’t always make a big show out of killing people. The Tony Mantana lifestyle is fictitious, mostly. Murder is for those cartel dogs in Mexico. In America, when you operate outside the law, you kill only as a dead to last resort. Or when you’re sure nobody the earth over will miss whoever fucked with you and thought they could get away with it. People in this red neck of the world like to talk up a killing just like they do their varsity football games all the way back in high school. There’s that one touchdown people keep going on and on about, even if it’s the only one they ever got. In the real world, all that Wild West shit is the stuff of fiction. People don’t get murdered, not often at least, but plenty get beat raw and bloody, over and over. Today, on the anniversary of this country’s glorious birth, Frank and the people he does business with, the people he even likes to call his friends from time to time, they all get together and forget about what they’re doing, and instead reminisce on what they’ve done. On all the fan-fucking-tastic touchdowns they’ve scored.

“You seen the garage yet?” Rick, the one who isn’t fat and spilling beer over himself while wearing a white bathing suit that’s too tight, asks Frank.

“Well, is the garage full of what I want to see?” Frank grins, clenching the cigar between his teeth.

“Hoh yeah.” Rick, who’s hardly in his mid-twenties, smiles, nervously. “We got more on the way, too. Marv and Buzz are coming and they got a couple we can all play with now, y’know, so the girls can dance around with the sparklers and shit.”

“Alright, alright, let’s take a peek at what the stash is, man.” Frank doesn’t have a son and his little girl’s enough for him, far as kids go. Still, he likes treating the non-fat and stupid Rick special every now and then. He feels like the kid, and other young people he’s employed in the past, kind of look up to him, even if they’re a little afraid cause of all the touchdown talk everybody loves to exaggerate. Nobody’s with their families today, but that’s alright, today’s something special, just for the crew, to celebrate all the work they’ve done for close to a decade now. Frank’s crew runs a standup operation, far as those humorless people up above that keep their fingers to the strings are concerned.

“Gonna love this. We went to like ten different stores, found the biggest ones.” Frank lets Rick lead the way to the two-car garage. Town’s just down the road and it’s still probably the only house for fifteen miles that has a two-car garage.

“Say, I sure gave enough money for the best, didn’t I?”

“Of course, yeah, I’ve got that, about eighty bucks left, we couldn’t fit anymore.”

“Jeez, eighty bucks? Shoulda spent it on some whiskey or something man, don’t go bringing me back eighty bucks after I told you to spend four grand. The fuck brother?” Frank could bust the kid’s balls all day, it’s too rewarding seeing how red his face grows and how twitchy he gets.

“Alright, alright yea, I’ll have Marv and Buzz run out, get us top shelf shit.”

“I already got top shelf shit. You make them pick out some top shelf shit, then surprise them and tell them they get to keep it, that’s how you make the people that do shit for ya happy, you see?”

“Cool, cool.”

Frank follows his little apprentice into the garage and… “Holy mother of god.”