Monday, 6 September 2010

The Dolmio Family

All UK readers with a TV should know the Dolmio Family. The family of puppets crop up on adverts trying to flog their pasta sauces under the frankly annoying catchphrase "When's your Dolmio Day?" For this short story, I played with the idea of this innocent looking family secretly being a Mafioso heavyweight organisation, much like the Corleone Family in The Godfather movies. See what you think.

“...and profits are down by 12%. However you spin it, it's been a bad six months. This Grossman figlio di puttana is overtaking us Papa!”

Papa Dolmio took a sip of Strega whilst studying his son closely. It was hopeless, he thought. Carlo could never become the Papa of the household. Not with his temper, and his reluctance to let his head overrule his heart. And over such trivial things! He settled back down into his seat before speaking.

“ son, you are not thinking. A little competition is no bad thing, especially when its in the form of a famous figure. My child...when we fund every bookmakers in the region, every casino in the country, and we have countless police chiefs in our pockets...finances are not a problem. This is a little problem, no more.”

Carlo exhaled his cigar smoke and looked at his father intensely.

“Let's drop the facade, Papa! Ditch the fuckin' pasta sauce shit, and go underground. We can do it – you know we can, you've just said how we can! Let's get into narcotics! It's a sure-fire quick buck, and we both know that the Ravanelli family are interested in working with us on a deal.”

“That will never happen whilst I am alive, child. A true Sicilian does not engage in such means, regardless of profits. For harming Italianos...Signor Fabrizio is no friend of mine.”

“Papa, our family is a laughing stock. The television adverts, where we pretend to be happy clappy fuckin' goofballs. The fact that we sponsor “This fuckin' Morning”. Does a true Sicilian degrade themselves, constantly, on fuckin' television just to pretend to be legit? Huh? Not narcotics? Fine – but alcohol, tobacco, pornography. Let's make a fuckin' statement Papa – make those bastardos respect our motherfuckin' name!”

Papa Dolmio stood up, gently, but then turned his back on his son. It was a dismissal. After a silent moment that felt like a lifetime, Papa began to speak, slowly and patiently.

“My child, how you mock me. I started with nothing, and now look where we are...I have built the Dolmio empire up to stand strong long after I have departed, whilst never compromising on our name and our good reputation...and this is how you treat me. I shall simply make this Grossman an offer he can't refuse, and that shall be the end of it. Tell Gattuso to get the car – I am ready to go home now.”

But Loyd Grossman refused the offer. Rebuked the Dolmio family, a choice that a man can only make once. Papa Dolmio's second offer came a few weeks later. Grossman had been for a swim, and was drying his torso with a towel when he opened the door. “It's your Dolmio Day, Loyd!” said Gattuso, firing the shotgun before Loyd could react. There was no time to feel fear, or pain. Loyd was thrown back against the door. He was dead before his body hit the ground.

Patrick Campbell, 2010

No comments:

Post a Comment