Hey, kiddos. Apologies for the tardiness of this week’s “Classic.” We’ve barely been home at all since Thursday morning, and were not home at all Thursday night when the story was meant to be published. But enough excuses, let’s just get to the story. This is one of the first ones where a joke from the intro made a direct appearance in the story, a concept that would follow us all of our days. It’s also the first story I wrote after a very odd weekend visitor I encountered while visiting Lisa and Roxie at their college. I make reference to this visitor and encounter in the outro, but it is only important in light of the story that is coming next week… You’ll see.
Anyway, it’s time for beddy-bye, so I’m just gonna let the original introduction speak for itself from here on out. Sorry again for the delay!
Subject: BOB THE HYPNOTIST (story #6)
Date: Mon, 11 Apr 94 21:03:06 EDT
BRO-MAN’S STORY OF THE WEEK
Well, here we are, another week, another story. Isn’t this a great club?
This week’s story deals with a subject not often breached in polite conversation. Pregnant women, people with heart conditions, and little children named Rufus should avoid reading this week’s tale.
BOB THE HYPNOTIST
Once upon a time, there was a hypnotist named Bob. He was a very good hypnotist, and he got alot of jobs. Not entertaining people or anything, oh no! Bob was a hypnotist for the mob. A typical encounter with Bob might go as follows:
It is a rainy Thursday evening. Frankie Spaducci is walking down the street when a small man in a tweed coat steps out of an alley (the man is wearing more than just a tweed coat, obviously, but that is the identifying mark that I, the author, have decided to provide you, the reader, with). Frankie stops and eyes the man suspiciously.
“Who are you?” he says, letting his hand wander into his jacket to feel for his .38 special (that’s a gun, by the way. I could have just said “to feel for his gun,” but doesn’t it add something to use a specific name?).
“I am . . . Bob.” says the little man in the tweed coat (see how you instantly make that connection because of the identifying mark I provided you with?).
“Yeah?” says Frankie, unaware of just who Bob is.
“Yeah,” Bob replies, and takes a step forward, “And Don Spaghetti doesn’t like the way you been makin’ the moves on his business.” (I realize tha details her are a bit sketchy, but it’s only an example, after all, it’s not like you need to know specifics.)
“Yeah?” says Frankie, unaware that tha’s the same thing he said last time.
“Yeah,” says Bob, “so he sent me to take care of you.”
At this, Frankie laughs. It is an evil laugh. A laugh that would send chills down your spine. Then he pulls out his gun. I mean, his .38 special. His face grows cold. “And what’s to stop me from blowin’ your ugly mug all over the pavement right now!?” he snaps.
“Well,” says Bob, “for one thing, you are getting very sleepy.”
“Geez,” says Frankie, dropping the gun, “I’m really tired.”
“Yeah,” says Bob, “I know how that can be. Here, you better come with me and you can jump in the river.”
“Okay.” says Frankie.
So, as you can see, Bob was very good at what he did. By the way, don’t ask why the example was in present tense and the rest of the story is in the past. Just don’t do it.
So, one day, Don Carlucci called Bob into his office and said, “Bob.”
And Bob said “What.”
So the Don said, “My kid Cosmo is having a birthday party this weekend, and would like very much for you to entertain the guests.”
And Bob said “Okay.”
Sorry, I didn’t feel like spending too much time on that scene. It was really just a set-up anyway to get us to the next scene, so let’s move along, huh?
So, that Thursday, Bob went to the Don’s house. He performed some rudimentary acts of hypnotism before the crowd (there was a bid crowd there, it was the Don’s kid after all, and nobody says no to the Don). The afternoon was progressing just fine when, all of a sudden, a big black limosine drove past the house. “Wow,” someone said, “look at the limosine.”
About ten minutes later, a Ford Pinto drove by, but nobody said anything.
Then, just as it was getting dark, the limo came back, passed the house, backed up to check the address on the mailbox, and then parked across the street. Three big, burly men got out and pulled machine guns from inside their jackets. (They were wearing really big jackets.) They opened fire on the crowd. Everybody ducked behind tables and a massive shoot out ensued. Before long, two of the big, burly men were dead. Almost everybody else was okay, except for a pregnant woman, a man with a heart condition, and small child named Rufus who go caught in the cross-fire.
“You’ll never take me alive!” the remaining big, burly man shouted from behind a bush.
“Well, DUH!” the Don shouted back.
“Let me handle this, Don.” said Bob.
“Okay,” said the Don.
“Hey!” Bob shouted to the big, burly man.
“You talkin’ to me?” the big, burly man shouted back.
“Yeah,” said Bob.
“Oh,” said the big, burly man, “I thought you might be talking to someone else.”
“Nope,” said Bob, “I was talking to you.”
“Oh,” said the big, burly man, “well, whaddya want?”
“Well, you’re getting very sleepy!” said Bob.
“Geez,” said the big, burly man, “I’m really tired.”
Needless to say, everything was resolved after that and the party went off without a hitch. Later on that evening, Bob caught the Don’s kid, Cosmo, picking his nose, but he didn’t tell anybody, because that’s a subject not often breached in polite conversation.
Well, there you have it. Apologies for not writing a story about a drunk fellow who shows up on the doorstep wanting someone to call a cab for him, but . . . . Well, maybe some other time.