The Ole Shakedown

The ole Shakedown


Suck.

Puff.

The black smoke filled his lungs, as he sucked on his cigarette. Like a ghetto squad during KFC Happy hours, the blackness poured into him, filling him out completely, as he suckled on his cancer stick. His luscious lips enveloped the brown and white cylinder, like a mixed dick. And with a large huff, he puffed all the smog out, right in the face of the goy in the trunk before him.

He was done playing now. He. The hairiest, greasiest greaseball in the whole town. The spaghetti sucker motherfucker. The indisputable don of the city.

Sinatra.

And what Sinatra says (get it?), will be done. And if not, ...

The don leaned down towards his goonie.

Alright, small time, you know why you're in this mess?

The worm before him, a little nobody in Sinatras family called Luigi Pastafari, whimpered with fear, struggling to talk.

I-I-I don't know, sir! I swear, I don't know!

Sinatra took his cigarette out of his mouth and rubbed in onto the goons cheek. He was screaming in pain.

Aaaaah, please, Big daddy, I dont know!

Don't fucking play dumb with me, Luigi, ya mook. You know exactly what you did. And if you know, whats good for ya, you better tell me right now, or else, you will be swallowing something much hairier, capiche?

Sinatra grabbed his zipper, and started lowering it slowly.

No, please, don't give me your cannoli cannon, please! I say everything, please! I was the one, that lost your shipment of bootleg fidget spinners to the pigs! I just couldn't stop spinning it, when they frisked me! The fidge is life! My internal autistic screeching stopped, I could think clearly for once! It's an addiction, I need help, I...

Sinatra let go of his pants.

Wait, that was you?! Oh, you little, motherfucking hairball, you meatball Luigi fucktard, you niggerloving porch monkey fucker, I will fucking...

Niggah niggah niggah niggah niggah niggah niggah

I'm 100% niggah

NIGGAH NIGGAH NIGGAH NIGGAH NIGGAH NIGGAH NIGGAH

I'm 200% niggah

Just as Sinatra was about to strangle Luigi, his ringtone went off.

Oh, hold up, I gotta answer this one. Just a moment!

Angered, Sinatra grabbed his Iphone 8 so fast out of his pocket, the spaghetti in it nearly fell out. He pressed the green button and held it against the hairy bush coming out of his ear.

WHAT?! Oh, oh oh, hey Misa, baby girl! Sorry, I didn't know it was you. I would never yell at my little girl. Yeah, daddy is sorry, honey. What do you want now, sweetie banana pie? Uhuh, yeah, I understand. Okay, listen, if your little house nigger makes you trouble, just give him some more watermelon seeds. And if that doesn't work, just whip his lazy brown ass. The negro should know, that if a beautiful honorary aryan girl tells him to suck KFC sauce of her massive futa cock, he should be grateful for the opportunity. Yeah, nobody disrespects my little girl, you tell him that, Misa darling! And if he still bothers you, just throw him out. Daddy Sinatra will buy you a new one. Yeah, I'll just send Guiseppe in the ghetto to grab some black shit off the street, don't worry. Of course I'll do that for you, my little Kit Kat queen, you're daddys favourite little nig-nog after all. Yeah, yeah, daddy loves ya, my nubian puddin pop princess. Okay, bye bye, smooches, bitches!

Don Sinatra put his spaghetti sauce covered phone back in his pocket and focused on Luigi in his trunk again.

Okay, where were we? Ah right, your massive screw-ups. I mean, as if it wasn't bad enough, that you lost an entire shipment of fidget spinners, FIDGET SPINNERS, the greatest achievement of human kind since the inventions of canned bread and clan robes, but you also insult me with lies!

I never lied to you, boss!

You come to me, on the day, my daughters mixtape gets dropped, you ask a favor of me, you don't bring me cummies, you don't even call me daddy. You offer me no respeck. And worst yet, when my beautiful daughter came in, clothed only in her birthday suit, showing off all her naked nigger futa glory, you DARE, you have the utter balls to say the dreaded question to her.

What, if she is a trap?

HOW DARE YOU SAY IT AGAIN?! MY MISA IS NOT A TRAP!

But traps are gay...

TRAPS ARE NOT GAY!! NOBODY CALLS MY DAUGHTER GAY! That's it, I'm done with you.

Sinatra suddenly grabbed Luigi by his meatball ears and pressed the wettest, juiciest kiss of death on his lips, that any mobster has ever delivered. His lips pressed so hard against Luigis, that his slimy, tomato sauce covered tongue pierced the wobs leathery mouth like a bullet through a hood rat. It slapped against the moist gums and rubbed all over the rows of gold teeth with platinum and cum stains on them. Like a tentacle of a certain moist individual inside a japanese school girl, Sinatras tongue continued to do loopings and played xylophone on the guineas fake teeth.

Luigi was torn apart. On the one hand, he knew exactly, what this gesture meant for him. The end. No more eating pepperoni straight from the cob. No more beating up hookers, if they don't continue sucking, even though, he nutted. No more force-feeding pecorino down black sluts gullets, until their brown guts ballooned into chocolate basketballs.

No more fun.

But, on the other hand, this was a side of his boss, he has never seen before. He always feared him, like everyone else. The respect he had for him was oozing out of his shriveled up dick every time he saw him. He was a lion, a wolf, a meatball pasta pizza, and most important of all

a daddy.

A BIG daddy.

A daddy so big and sugary, that every girl, he came across, wanted to be his girl. After all, why settle for a boring regular deadbeat daddy with gold grills, when you could have a 23 year old daddy with the voice of a 50 year old swing singer?

Up until this moment, Luigi thought, Sinatras magic only affected the chicas, but now, with his cocky tongue down his throat and his bulbous lips nearly crushing his jaw, he was feeling it too.

He was feeling it so hard, it's like his name was Mr. Krabs.

The noodle in his pants was going crazy. It was getting pumped full of so much sauce, it was transforming into a canneloni. With every second that passed, he got harder, sweatier, moister. His balls were resembling melons, full of excitement and lust, ready to burst into a ragnarok of nut juices and shadder the very existence of his heterosexuality. Luigis pants were getting tighter than a rope on a nigger neck. He was ready. Ready to embrace his end, just to feel his daddys lips a little longer on his. And right, when he was finna bus a nut...

Sinatra let go of him.

His big, strong hand were sweeping over Luigis cheeks a final time, as they left his face. The little ginzo fell back down inside the trunk, tears streaming out of his eyes. Sinatras cold, loveless stare hit his eyes and he said

No homo, though.

No, onegai, Sinatra-senpai!

The don closed the trunk and sealed Luigi away forever.

Sinatra walked to the front of the car and leaned on the window of the driver seat, where an incredibly pasty, brown-haired guy said. The aura he exuded simply reeked of whorishness.

Okay, Mr. White, dump the faggot in the usual spot.

Will be done, Mr. Sinatra, one trip to the Domino meat factory. Oh, and, when we're already speaking, I wanted to ask you, if you wanted to collab with...

NO, I don't want to fucking Coca collab with you, you raggedy-ass cracker! Now get outta here!

The dirty white trash immediately took off. Sinatra threw his cigarette on the asphalt and walked towards the nearby bridge. The wind blew over his black pinstripe suit, as he leaned on the bridge railing. The dim sun shined on his black fedora. If he wasn't a gangster, he would look like a complete tool with it, but since he is, it only enhanced his swag.

There he stood now, the whole city at his fingertips. Every bitch and cuck wanted him to be their daddy. Every negro bowed at his black oxfords and offered their inferior timbs as tribute. Every gook, sandrat and jap cowered in fear, when he drove by in his pimped out Cadillac Town Sedan lowrider. He dominated the streets, casinos, spaghetti eating contests and rap studios.

But, he also remembered his humble beginnings. Back, when he had just started, a pathetic foot soldier in the KKKmafia. Even they were in the garbage business, wasting porch monkeys, everyday. Back, when he had to whore himself out for super chat donations just to get by. Every day the same small jobs: tieing the nooses for the daily lynchings, washing the blood and cum out of the white robes, whipping the coal chimps up for the banana races. But, through those years, he learned everything he needed to know. And once the grand wizard Moon Man had to go into hiding for „Hate speech" on Youtube and the KKKmafia resettled, he began building his family, his Sinatra clan. He began recruiting, everybody from the toughest goombahs to the most limb-wristed white trash (aka. The white Youtuber), everybody joined him. Bigtime and smalltime hustlers, commie crushers, garbage humans, his family grew everyday. Of course, every new member became an honorary italian. Daddy Sinatra had no mooks in his ranks. And, with his new power and fame, and his new status as a made man, came the girls. Through all the hoes, that were simply attracted to his daddy charm, was one girl, that was special to him. One girl, with a light oreo complexion, that truly felt like...his girl.

His daughter.

So, he popped her true nig-nog daddy and took her in as his own. Every other girl became secondary to him. He only had eyes for Misa, his little pumkin spice latte pie. Truly, there was nothing, that could get him down now...

Niggah niggah niggah niggah niggah niggah niggah

I'm 100% niggah

Ugh, which little cuntstain is it now?

Once again grasping inside his pocket, fumbling through all the mum's spaghetti, he took his phone out and held it against his cunt-shaped ear.

Yeah, who is it? Oh, hi Guiseppe. Yeah, I know, that pussy was tight, what do ya want? What I'm doing? Oh, you know, the usual stuff, shylock business, message jobs, talking shit about german Spongebob, what are you doing? Yeah? Good to hear, stick one up her for me, ya hear? So, why were you calling me?

WHAT?!

They don't want to pay?! I'll be right there. Yeah, and send...him there as well. Keep him ready for my signal. Yeah, I know, it's harsh, but nobody, NOBODY skimms me out on MY DOUGH! Give him some potatoes and keep him in the car, I'm going now.

Sinatra hung up and started walking. Nobody made a fool out of him. NOBODY. And that was going go be a harsh lesson a certain chink will have to learn soon.

After an uneventful ten minutes of walking through hobo riddled alleys and smelly ghettos, Sinatra arrived at his destination. A dirty laundry, with stupid chinese letters above the door. The windows were covered with Limp Bizkit posters and crusty noodles. Right in front of the door was a car, a Lincoln continental, Sinatras car. The great goombah walked to the back seat and knocked on the window. As it was lowered, he stuck his head in and started talking to the hulking figure on the seat.

Ah, good to see ya, my little nougat bar. Ready for some action?

POTATO!

Yeah, yeah, potato, listen, when I give you the signal...

POTATO!

The massive figure took one of the many potatoes on the seat next to him and threw it at Sinatras long, crooked nose.

POTATO!

Oh, Mama mia, listen to me! When I snap my fingers, you rush into that shop there, understood?

BWEKFAST!

Listen, you little shit, if you don't come, when I call you, I'll take your fidget spinner away! Do you want that?

No, pwease, daddy, me not want!

Good. So keep on eye on that door, little guy, okay?

Potato.

Sinatra took his head out of the car and walked to the door. With a kick harder than Derek Vinyard curb-stomping carjacking niggers, he swung the dirty metal door open.

Daddys in the house, bitches!

Inside, around two dozen chinky eyes were turning towards him. Chinks, japs and nips in front of washing machines, stuffing them full with coolie hats and paper towels, were focusing on the pimp ass daddy in the door frame. With an unmatchable swagger in his gait, he walked through the aisles of coin eating washers towards the counter and threw kissie hands at the monkey faces surrounding him.

Hey, Miss Ching-Chong, nice outfit, where did you get that, the local sweatshop? Yo, Ling-Ling, eating some bad rice, lately, or is it eating you?

Their slitty eyes were getting slittier and slittier, as Sinatra walked past them. The few young girls in the washing salon however, were getting very excited. The neon stripes in their hair were standing up and they held their short skirts and thigh-high stocking down, as to not flash their moistness towards their new western daddy.

(Daddy-sama-senpai...)

As he reached the counter and leaned on it with his magnificent elbow, a figure emerged from the door behind it and started yelling.

Who be slamming door in my rashing saron?

The gookiest, most cunt-eyed asian ever walked up to the counter and stared into Sinatras eyes. His bronze skin shined in the light of the cheap lamp hanging from the ceiling.

Who ale you, mothelfuckel, what you doing in my shop?

Sinatra raised one eyebrow in surprise.

Really, you don't recognize me...

He looked at the name tag on his chest.

...Chlis Walski?

Yeah, I know, who you ale, Sinatla, muddafuckaaa! We have no business anymole!

Really? Because I'm pretty sure, your payments are overdue, you know that, right?

We have no business anymore, gleaseball, we hele have new plotection! Leal hald niggels! You ale out, muddafucka! Oul new boys ale busy in the backloom! You bettel back of to youl little noodle land, befole I have to call them!

Oh, is that so?

With a swift movement, Sinatra raised one arm in the air and snapped them.

WOMP

The distant sound of a car door being ripped open could be heard and heavy foot steps were noticeably getting louder.

Louder.

LOUDER.

And suddenly, the entrance door got ripped open.

OOGA BOOGA, WHERE DA WHITE WOMEN AT?

A gigantic brute rushed through the broken door. A massive, pasty figure with a bike helmet on his deformed head, streams of drool dripping out of his saggy lips. His arms were like basketballs stuffed under a skin rack and his chewed up shirt displayed „I have downs, please be patient with me". His face was covered in a black substance and he carried a large violin case under his arm. As he raced to the counter, all the gooklandians jumped out of the way screaming, jumping on the washing machines and cowering on the walls. Like an albino rhinoceros, he threw washers out of the way.

Nothing could stop him from reaching his daddy.

As he reached the counter, and Chlis cowered in fear under it, Sinatra patted his bulbous cheek.

Say hello to my little friend, Chlis: The Irate Bear, or, as I like to call him, downs Bane.

Slowly, the chink looked over the counter into the face of the monstrosity in front of him.

W-w-why he have minstlel face?

Oh, that? When I found him in the ghetto as a baby, he was cracking niglet heads open on the pavement. Since then, he thinks, he's black, so we paint his face with shoe polish, to make him feel better. When we wipe it off, he goes into a downy rage, so it's best, if you don't touch him.

Bear growled at Chlis and he ducked back down again. Sinatra took the violin case from him and walked behind the counter towards the backdoor.

Now, if you excuse me, gentlemen, I have some business to attend to.

Before opening the door, he placed the case down, opened it and took the weapon in it out. It was a beautiful Thompson submachine gun with a modified  state of the art fidget spinner clip and trigger for autistic uses. He stood back up and took a deep breath.

He was ready.

Sinatra kicked the door down and took aim. The entire backroom was covered in crates and crates of counterfeit KFC buckets and unauthentic watermelons. Cages with monkeys rattling the bars were sitting atop of them, throwing their feces around like a BLM protest. The entire room was filled with the stench of melanin, emitting from the table in the middle, where they sat. A herd of filthy, smelly, spear-chucking negroids, clad in baggy jerseys and pants around their feet, with grills so big, not even their massive droopy lips could cover them. The trap music was so loud, had they not covered their large elephant ears with beanies, they would have fallen off.

Before they could reach for their gats, or even utter a single „Wuss poppin B", Sinatra spun the fidget trigger and thousands of rounds of miniature fidget spinner bullets were fired out of his gun. As he was mowing down the nig-nogs, he was singing a little song to himself.

All the other nigs,

with the pumped up timbs,

you better run, better run,

outrun my gun.

All the other nigs,

with the pumped up timbs,

you better run, better run,

faster than my spinner.

As the magazine was emptied, Sinatra stopped spinning. All the chimps were laying on the floor, fidgets embedded in their monkey torsos, laying a pool of their own grape-flavoured blood. The last one alive was reaching his hand out and could only wheeze out a last

Check out...my...soundcloud...

before falling back on the floor.

Well, looks like my work here is done.

Sinatra walked back out of the backdoor and placed his fidget spinner tommy gun back in its case. As he walked past the counter, Chlis fell to the ground before him and bowed.

Oh, honourable chail man Sinatla, we will nevel be late with our payments evel again. Please forgive us.

Sinatra looked down to him.

You are forgiven, Jet Li.

Sinatra continued walking towards the exit. Irate Bear was busy chewing a wet cumrag he pulled out of one washer.

Mmmh, moist.

Come on Bear, we're leaving, they learned their lesson.

Bear threw his rag away and followed Sinatra. All other asians in the salon were bowing now as well, showing their newly found respect and fear for the italian daddy of the town.

Ooooh, all hail Sinatra-sama! All hail Sinatra-sama!

As Sinatra opened the door of his car and was about to enter, a young jap woman stormed out of the salon and yelled after him.

Wait, senpai, don't leave me!

Sinatra stopped moving and turned around.

Will I ever see you again, Sinatra-senpai?

The don simply smiled and said

Your daddy will always be there.

Swing baby!



JAK (Cyrillus Crower), 2017