Chapter Text
Melone collapsed on the floor in a puddle of blood. Pesci rushed over to check his pulse and confirmed that he was just unconscious. Who would’ve guessed that eating nearly three whole pounds of van candy could trigger a sugar crash? How was Melone supposed to know the friendly van man had cooked those delicious sweets in his basement [which was definitely not a meth lab]? Nope, no meth here; there was just an unholy amount of sugar. In fact, there was so much sugar that simply breathing the air around his house was enough to turn even the most well-mannered kid into a sugar-high speed demon.
Illuso stood up. “I don’t wanna deal with this shit.”
“Here’s a thought,” Prosciutto began, “Why don’t we go out to eat?” “WE CAN’T AFFORD-” “How about Chick-fil-A?” Pesci suggested excitedly, cutting Ghiaccio off. “It’s Sunday, you fucking mammoni. Chick-fil-A’s closed.” Illuso sighed.
The three continued bickering. Meanwhile, Prosciutto sat in thought, contemplating whether or not to take these dumbasses to Olive Garden, potentially risking his discount.
“Applebee’s.”
Everyone sat in silence and shock, all turning to face Formaggio, who had been unusually quiet this whole time. None of them had ever been to Applebee’s in their entire fucking lives, and thus this unusual option had every last one of them quaking in their thongs…
The gang sat in an awkward silence, the tension in the air was almost as thicc as Pesci’s neck. Many thoughts were running through their minds: What kind of food do they even fucking serve? Are their fries as soggy as McDonald’s fries? What size bra does Risotto wear? Is their Spalite as painful? I gotta take a shit… Why the fuck is no one talking?
Just then, Prosciutto spoke up. “Isn’t that one of those redneck places?” “I refuse to breath the same air as those truck fuckers.” Ghiaccio added, to which Illuso crossed his arms and nodded in agreement. “I don’t think we should judge the food just because they get intimate with automobiles…” said Pesci. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure we’ve all seen that cyan bitch from the Cars movies.”
…
Prosciutto once again broke the crippling silence. “How about we all just go to Applebee’s and try to forget about whatever the fuck Formaggio just fucking said out of his fucking mouth, which was clearly a desperate attempt to hide the fact that he’s a feeble-minded little closeted gay with a dick covered in motor oil.” “Agreed.” the entire gang said in perfect sync as Formaggio faded away as if he just got fucking Thanos snapped into an oblivion.
Prosciutto calmly went to go grab his “man bag”, which was definitely not just a Louis Vuitton handbag that he found in the men’s section, which someone accidentally added “wo” just before the “men’s”, a common mistake. The rest of the gang scrambled for the La Squadra family minivan like a hoard of hyperactive ten year olds on their way to the fabulous rat casino. Melone, who was still on the floor, didn’t even budge, not even after several grown-ass men trampled over his ass. Prosciutto could hear them yelling while he fixed his make-up.
“SHOTGUN!” “WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU FIND THAT, GHIACCIO!?” “UP YOUR ASS AND MAKE A LEFT!” Followed by gunshots, several swears, and a few more ancient vine references.
Hamlet sighed. “This job was a fucking mistake.”