Department of Homeland Security
Case ref: DHS/NN/458489
Evidence Item ref:111/27/4
Transcript of covert recording

EP: Ernest Piccolo, President & Chief Executive Officer, Piccolo Industries
SB: Sal Buscemi, Chief Financial Officer, Piccolo Industries
BP: Patricia (Bookie) Penette, Executive Assistant to Ernest Piccolo (not present in room)


 EP: Sal, you ever take a shit, go back to the bathroom an hour later and see that shit still

 floating, looking right up at you, grinning?

SP: Not grinning, no.

EP: I don't mean literally grinning Sal, I'm not insane. I’m not your son. No offence, he’s a

great kid, he’s my nephew or something and I love him, and I know you and Maria did your best,

and by saying that I’m not suggesting you could’ve done more, although obviously you could, or

he wouldn’t be such a crazy little prick. If your Peter had asked such a question, it would not be

unreasonable to assume he was genuinely enquiring as to whether your turds were in the

habit of taunting you as he no doubt believes his do him.  But I am not your son Sal, and

I almost certainly never will be. So just humour me and answer the question – did you ever

take a shit and find it still there hours later?

SB: I guess.

EP: You guess or yes? It’s not the kind of thing a man forgets, Sal. Not a real man.

SB: Jesus H. Yes.

EP: Yes what? What yes, Sal?

SB: Yes, I’ve taken a shit and returned to the bathroom to find it still there.

EP: That’s unimpressive Sal. A man should never be defeated by his own shit.

(over intercom) Bookie, make a note for Sal’s next appraisal – Sal is to be bonus-dependant

on establishing mastery over his own excrement.

BP: I’m not sure I understand that, Mr P.

EP: Excrement, Bookie. It means shit.

BP: I understand the word, Mr P. But I prefer to believe I misheard the rest.

EP: I feel the same Bookie, I feel the same. If you need any counselling, please bill the

company – Sal, this is coming out of your bonus. Bookie, Sal is currently not in charge of his

own shit. It is dominating him, Bookie. Tell me, could you respect a man who can’t control his

shit? Who, in his own words, is terrified of his own dirty business? Could you make love to such

a man?

SB: What the hell? Don’t answer that, Bookie. Ernest for Christ’s sake, I did not say...

EP: Sal, the first step in conquering your fears is accepting them. Now I don’t mind telling you,

a man scared of his own shit repulses me. Right now you disgust me Sal, and as a lifelong

friend, cousin or whatever and colleague I feel I can tell you that and expect to have you take it

on board and deal with it. If there’s anything I can do to help you through this then just let me

know, day or night. By me, I of course mean the company. And by let me know, I mean talk to

Doc Crawford. And by day or night, I mean day – out of hours calls aren’t covered by his

standard contract and incur ad hoc payments. There’s a recession on Sal, in case you hadn’t

noticed, and Piccolo Industries has better things to do with its money than pay some slack-

assed Jew to listen to your shit-fears at 4am.

SB: Ernest, for crying out loud, Monroe Crawford is not a Jew.

EP: Let’s not bring race into this Sal, I’ve only got so many blind eyes I can turn. Bookie, you still

there?

BP: Physically yes, Mr P. But in every other sense I fled the scene some time ago.

EP: Well, turn this Goddamn thing off, this is a private conversation between old friends. I

expect better of you Bookie, I really do.

BP: I’m gone, I’m gone.

EP: I’m disappointed Bookie. Do you hear me? Are you still there? Is she still there?

SB: I don’t think so.

EP: Unbelievable. Huh?

SB: Mm.

EP: Unbelievable. Anyway, where was…oh yeah,  Sal, do you know why this is Piccolo

Industries and not Buscemi Industires?

SB: No Ern, do we have to?

EP: Have to what? What have to?

SB: Ernest, I do not have the energy for this conversation right now.

EP: Oh well, colour me brown, there’s a crap in my pants. (over intercom) Bookie?

BP: Aw Christ, Mr P, what now?

EP: Hey, let’s have less of the attitude, can we? I’m sorry I said you were dumpy if that’s what’s

got your panties in a bunch, but you need to grow up and start acting  like a Goddamn

professional, Patricia. I mean it.

BP: You didn’t call me dumpy, you asshole, you called me plain.

EP: Plain? Really? Well what’s so bad about that? Jeez, I thought I said you were dumpy.

Maybe you weren’t there. Anyway, why did I just switch this thing on again?

BP: To take my last shred of dignity and ram it up my asshole sideways?

EP: No, no, that’s not it. Okay, forget it. And cancel my four thirty.

BP: You don’t have a four thirty.

EP: Great, thanks Bookie. So, Sal. Sal, Sal. Sal. What was I saying?

SB: Sal.

EP: Yes. And no. But mainly yes. Sal, do you know why this is Piccolo Industries and not

Buscemi Industires?

SB: Because forty years ago your father got a whore to seduce my father and then

had a photographer take pictures which your father then threatened to show my mother and the

national press unless he signed over the controlling shares?

 EP: My god, you really can’t let that go, can you? Jealousy is an ugly emotion Sal, an ugly

emotion. And she was not a whore, she was a slut.

SB: Big difference.

EP: Let’s not get personal here, Sal. That’s my mother you’re talking about. Anyway, it’s Piccolo

Industries because running an organisation like this requires a man who has never returned to a

toilet to find his own physical waste still there. I’m back to shit here, by the way. Actually, in an

ideal world, it'd be a man who has never returned to a toilet period, but this is not that world Sal,

and the sooner you realise that, the better.

SB: You know what? I’m just gonna -

EP: Save it, Sal. Tell it to your shit, if you can summon up the nerve. Anyway, as I was

saying, I have never returned to a toilet to find my own shit there, mocking me. However…

(silence)

SB: What are you doing?

LE: It’s my new stance. What do you think? What does it say to you?

SB: Ernest, look at me. Are you having some sort of breakdown?

LE: I’m gonna let that go Sal, mostly because I’m quite, quite high right now.

SB: Oh, God.

EP: No, it’s a stance that says I’m in control yet compassionate. I rule the roost but at the same

time I look after my flock. Chicks dig me, men fear me. I give money to those AIDS people or

whatever but I am still welcome at the country club. I drive a Porsche but only because it really,

really wants me to. I am a man you might base a character on in Dallas. Possibly even Falcon

Crest, with the right director.

SB: Um.

LE:. Ah, Christ, where was I?

SB: By the window.

LE: Yes, thank you. Look, I can sympathise Sal, I really can. Sure, I’ve never been challenged

by my own crap, but I do find myself in a situation which is not without similarities. You

see Sal - what, why are you flinching? I’m just putting my hand on your shoulder, you fat pussy -

see Sal, I too have found myself looking at a monster of my own creation, unexpectedly defiant

and too powerful to remove with a push of a lever. Stinking and wretched, a symbol of my ability

to unwittingly empower other entities with almost supernatural levels of belligerent endurance

and universally unwelcome influence on all seven senses. That metaphorical turd, Sal, is Travis

Taylor. And his name needs to go on the list.

SB: What list?

LE: The list of people you need to kill, Sal. Did I not give you that yet?


end of transcript.

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