Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > First of the Gang to Die
Well...there's not really a lot of rape in this,but I suppose there's a bit of sexual contact that could be categorized as unwanted...perhaps.
You'll see. Read on, my dears.
If you can't tell, the title is meant to be sarcastic.
xo lorna
First Of The Gang To Die
Due
Everyday Is Like Sunday
Frank was cooking at the stove.
The bare metal pan sizzled and hissed as Frank prepared his meal of ratatouille with shavings of parmesan. Frank, since the tender age of twelve, had abandoned the presence of meat in his diet.
"Nearly ready, baby?" James called from the dining room, folding his paper in his lap. He was in a very good mood this evening. The Los Angeles Times had blamed the recent murder of three New Jersey men on an Irish-American gang downtown.
That had made James laugh. Certainly gave a swift kick to the ego of the man who had flirted with his fiance last Sunday night.
Beneath that jubilant mood, however, lay a feeling James Stephen Romano did not often acknowledge; worry. He'd heard it through the grapevine that Way had planned a little visit to the Romano household. James was not anxious for himself-he could take that cocky prick any time-but he had seen the sick look the dago bastard had implemented whilst talking to the twenty two year old. He wanted to fuck the boy; that much had been obvious.
However light the mood was at the time, that was all about to change.
"Yes," Frank answered, sprinkling some oregano into the pan. He had to be careful and discreet whilst doing so; James didn't like him using Italian ingredients. "It should be-"
RRRRRING.
Dammit, that fucking doorbell was gonna get it one of these days.
"I'll get it," announced James.
Frank nodded and returned to his cooking. He didn't really like making all the meals, nor was he particularly good at it, but James was out of the house most of the time and left Frank to take care of the household chores in their rather tight, pokey one-bedroom apartment.
Besides that fact, James and the rest of his little company struggled to make toast.
Frank was thrown out of his little daydream by the shouting in the doorway that was identified as Frank's fiance.
"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE, YOU FUCKING GINZO CUNT-"
"Now, now, James, no need to curse. You were fully informed I was going to pay you and Frank a visit."
There it was, that smooth velvety voice that has swirled around Frank Iero's head over the past week.
"I DON'T GIVE A FUCK, YOU DON'T FUCKING-"
"Get off of me."
Those simple three words,uttered with vengeance and rage, did far more damage than James' screeching. Romano immediately shut up and grittted his teeth.
"Fine. Whatever. Get in."
Frank heard the squeak and plod of smart dress shoes drag across the floor. That was one of the first things Frank had ever noticed when he began dating James six years ago; the formality of the dress of gangsters. Baggy pants and chains were simply facades-James, along with every other gangland criminal in organized crime wore a different suit every day. And cuff links. And cologne.
I have mentioned previously my impressions on people with suits.
He quickly drained the pan and threw it in the sink.
"Frank. How lovely to see you again."
He looked similarly to what he had at the race-the same raven locks and monochrome suit. He was still flanked by the pale skinny guy and the man with the outlandish hairstyle, but more associates followed. Frank did notice Way looked more tired, more annoyed, more cranky perhaps-still, his constant manner retained.
There was a lot more associates than there had been last week. Frank suddenly felt a little scared.
"Hello," Frank replied, wondering whether he should be on first-names basis with his lover's enemy. He decided against it. "Hello again, Mister Way."
"Frank, shut up and go away," barked James. "This doesn't concern you."
Then, without any notification or warning, all members of the Way tribe began to laugh. Bitterly, cruelly, and without humour.
Gerard smirked. "Actually, it does." He turned to his friends and muttered the most loved and hated phrase in the gangster's dictionary. "Capogierme. Get them."
Frank watched in horror as his fiance was grabbed by several men and forced onto the ground. Snaps and cracks assured him that bones were easy to break.
While drinking in the scene, the boy with the brown hair-who couldn't have been much older than Frank-was binding Frank's wrists with leather and shuffling him along their cramped corridor-he could hear James up ahead, spitting and swearing into Gerard's face.
"Si cazzo figa," he growled. "Bastardo orrible!Io ti ucciderò se è l'ultima cosa che faccio!"
"Shut up," another grunted in English as the men made their way to the main bedroom.
Frank was too terrified to speak now; he was forced into a chair and blindfolded, his hands behind his back. He could hear the steady, rasping breaths of James, somewhere in the dark.
"Good evening, James," Way announced, a smile in his voice. "How are we doing?"
"Listen, you motherfucker," James said evenly. "What the fuck are you doing here? And what the fuck are you doing with my fucking fiance?"
Frank bit his lip and shivered violently.
"You see, my dear James." He began, skimming the room in his black patent shoes, drawing near Frank. "Rather recently-"
Whispers. In Italian.
"-Thank you, Michael. On the thirteenth of October, nineteen-thirty-three, you took the lives of three innocent men." The last five syllables rang within the room, laced with anger, an undertone of venom."You-or your little party-killed my uncle, my cousin and Evan Ricci." He paused and breathed deeply, calming himself before the storm. A hand was placed on the boy's shoulder. "Do you know who that was?"
No answer.
"I said, do you know who that was, you goddamn piece of shit?"
His voice was louder now, and Frank swore before God he wasn't the only one who jumped in surprise. The double swear sounded strangely...seductive on the Italian-American's lips.
"No." James was talkig now. "I don't know. I don't care."
"He was my husband, you fucking bastard," the words were tight and forced, like water being wung painfully from a cloth."You shot him, and he was my fucking husband!" Deep breath. "My husband for five fucking years, and you took him from me."
Frank willed James to apologize, to say sorry.
He didn't.
"He wasn't meant to be involved in this. Like Frank." Suddenly James stiffened."You know, the way you told me Frank wasn't involved in this, that you'd kill me in a second if I touched him, disrespected him, et cetera, et cetera?" All pacing ceased. Frank was concentrating on squinting his eyes behind the blindfold, knees clicking together. "And yet, you killed my husband, and you are still...alive."
"Look," James started. "I didn't know it was him. I'm sorry."
"As you should be, cunt."
"Yeah." He shifted. "But Way...be rational here. Don't take him. Please. I need him. It was an accident, I'm sorry. Collateral damage, you know how it is. But please." Frank was moved by the fact that James was crying, a sight seldom seen. Of course, Frank couldn't see, but the sound was glorious. "Please don't kill my baby."
A hand was now resting on Frank's shoulder. Unlike the previous, this hand was light and soothing. A finger twirled one chocolate strand of hair at Frank's nape.
"Oh, he won't die." A chuckle. "I think we can all agree here this boy is too pretty to be killed." The hand trailed lightly at the back of his neck. "Yes...I can certainly see why you fell for him, Romano.But I will take him from you. He will be mine."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Everyone bar myself, Frank, James, Raymond and Michael, please leave." A door swung open and complete silence followed the exit of the clan. "Now," he murmured to the darkened room. "Shall we begin?"
"What the fuck-"
"I don't remember asking you a goddamned thing, Romano," Way said as if he was stating the weather. "That happened to be rhetorical.You know what that means, right?"
"Yeah."
"Good, I hate explaining things to men of lower intellectual standard. Michael-take the fold off Frank."
The fold fell from Frank's eyes with nimble fingers, and the room was thrown into view. Way was sitting in a chair, opposite the bed, and James was about ten paces away, also bound in a chair. The two usual suspects stood by him.
Gerard knelt before Frank, stooping down below him, one hand on his knee and the other caressing his cheek.
"Don't touch him-"
"Michael."
Michael punched James straight across the face. Several teeth snapped and scattered across the floor.
"Thank you," he whispered softly, now more absorbed in Frank's features, working his way up to his chocolate hair. "Frank, you really are beautiful. Ragazzo bella," he scarely more than whispered. A pause. "Your eyes are angelic."
"Stop it, I'm fucking warning you-"
Another crunch. Frank flinched.
"Shh, baby, don't be scared," Gerard murmured, tracing the curve of Frank's lips. "I won't hurt you."
"Will you hurt him?" He tried to blink the tears away.
"James? Maybe," he continued, standing up and taking off his jacket. "If he continues to irritate me in such a way."
He threw the garment onto the bed, and sat on the edge of said furniture.
"Michael,untie him."
Frank's wrists were released, but he sat dumbstruck nonetheless. He wondered what in fuck's name he should do-to help James or to escape, or to attack this guy?
Or maybe just stay sitting. Sitting could work.
"Frank, I need you to do something for me," he purred from the bed. "I need you to come over here."
Frank found his legs walking over to him. His mouth was bone dry; his tongue had slid down his throat.
"Are you watching this, Romano?" He drawled, pulling Frank closer, rubbing the soft of his hip. The gangster noticed Frank was bone thin. "Are you watching your enemy seduce your fiance?"
"You fuckin dago ginzo bastard-"
A third crunch. Bad move, James.
"Make sure his eyes are wide open," Gerard instructed, his eyes still set on Frank, who was now chest-to-chest with Way. "Use tape if you have to. I want him to see this."
See what?
You'll see. Read on, my dears.
If you can't tell, the title is meant to be sarcastic.
xo lorna
First Of The Gang To Die
Due
Everyday Is Like Sunday
Frank was cooking at the stove.
The bare metal pan sizzled and hissed as Frank prepared his meal of ratatouille with shavings of parmesan. Frank, since the tender age of twelve, had abandoned the presence of meat in his diet.
"Nearly ready, baby?" James called from the dining room, folding his paper in his lap. He was in a very good mood this evening. The Los Angeles Times had blamed the recent murder of three New Jersey men on an Irish-American gang downtown.
That had made James laugh. Certainly gave a swift kick to the ego of the man who had flirted with his fiance last Sunday night.
Beneath that jubilant mood, however, lay a feeling James Stephen Romano did not often acknowledge; worry. He'd heard it through the grapevine that Way had planned a little visit to the Romano household. James was not anxious for himself-he could take that cocky prick any time-but he had seen the sick look the dago bastard had implemented whilst talking to the twenty two year old. He wanted to fuck the boy; that much had been obvious.
However light the mood was at the time, that was all about to change.
"Yes," Frank answered, sprinkling some oregano into the pan. He had to be careful and discreet whilst doing so; James didn't like him using Italian ingredients. "It should be-"
RRRRRING.
Dammit, that fucking doorbell was gonna get it one of these days.
"I'll get it," announced James.
Frank nodded and returned to his cooking. He didn't really like making all the meals, nor was he particularly good at it, but James was out of the house most of the time and left Frank to take care of the household chores in their rather tight, pokey one-bedroom apartment.
Besides that fact, James and the rest of his little company struggled to make toast.
Frank was thrown out of his little daydream by the shouting in the doorway that was identified as Frank's fiance.
"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE, YOU FUCKING GINZO CUNT-"
"Now, now, James, no need to curse. You were fully informed I was going to pay you and Frank a visit."
There it was, that smooth velvety voice that has swirled around Frank Iero's head over the past week.
"I DON'T GIVE A FUCK, YOU DON'T FUCKING-"
"Get off of me."
Those simple three words,uttered with vengeance and rage, did far more damage than James' screeching. Romano immediately shut up and grittted his teeth.
"Fine. Whatever. Get in."
Frank heard the squeak and plod of smart dress shoes drag across the floor. That was one of the first things Frank had ever noticed when he began dating James six years ago; the formality of the dress of gangsters. Baggy pants and chains were simply facades-James, along with every other gangland criminal in organized crime wore a different suit every day. And cuff links. And cologne.
I have mentioned previously my impressions on people with suits.
He quickly drained the pan and threw it in the sink.
"Frank. How lovely to see you again."
He looked similarly to what he had at the race-the same raven locks and monochrome suit. He was still flanked by the pale skinny guy and the man with the outlandish hairstyle, but more associates followed. Frank did notice Way looked more tired, more annoyed, more cranky perhaps-still, his constant manner retained.
There was a lot more associates than there had been last week. Frank suddenly felt a little scared.
"Hello," Frank replied, wondering whether he should be on first-names basis with his lover's enemy. He decided against it. "Hello again, Mister Way."
"Frank, shut up and go away," barked James. "This doesn't concern you."
Then, without any notification or warning, all members of the Way tribe began to laugh. Bitterly, cruelly, and without humour.
Gerard smirked. "Actually, it does." He turned to his friends and muttered the most loved and hated phrase in the gangster's dictionary. "Capogierme. Get them."
Frank watched in horror as his fiance was grabbed by several men and forced onto the ground. Snaps and cracks assured him that bones were easy to break.
While drinking in the scene, the boy with the brown hair-who couldn't have been much older than Frank-was binding Frank's wrists with leather and shuffling him along their cramped corridor-he could hear James up ahead, spitting and swearing into Gerard's face.
"Si cazzo figa," he growled. "Bastardo orrible!Io ti ucciderò se è l'ultima cosa che faccio!"
"Shut up," another grunted in English as the men made their way to the main bedroom.
Frank was too terrified to speak now; he was forced into a chair and blindfolded, his hands behind his back. He could hear the steady, rasping breaths of James, somewhere in the dark.
"Good evening, James," Way announced, a smile in his voice. "How are we doing?"
"Listen, you motherfucker," James said evenly. "What the fuck are you doing here? And what the fuck are you doing with my fucking fiance?"
Frank bit his lip and shivered violently.
"You see, my dear James." He began, skimming the room in his black patent shoes, drawing near Frank. "Rather recently-"
Whispers. In Italian.
"-Thank you, Michael. On the thirteenth of October, nineteen-thirty-three, you took the lives of three innocent men." The last five syllables rang within the room, laced with anger, an undertone of venom."You-or your little party-killed my uncle, my cousin and Evan Ricci." He paused and breathed deeply, calming himself before the storm. A hand was placed on the boy's shoulder. "Do you know who that was?"
No answer.
"I said, do you know who that was, you goddamn piece of shit?"
His voice was louder now, and Frank swore before God he wasn't the only one who jumped in surprise. The double swear sounded strangely...seductive on the Italian-American's lips.
"No." James was talkig now. "I don't know. I don't care."
"He was my husband, you fucking bastard," the words were tight and forced, like water being wung painfully from a cloth."You shot him, and he was my fucking husband!" Deep breath. "My husband for five fucking years, and you took him from me."
Frank willed James to apologize, to say sorry.
He didn't.
"He wasn't meant to be involved in this. Like Frank." Suddenly James stiffened."You know, the way you told me Frank wasn't involved in this, that you'd kill me in a second if I touched him, disrespected him, et cetera, et cetera?" All pacing ceased. Frank was concentrating on squinting his eyes behind the blindfold, knees clicking together. "And yet, you killed my husband, and you are still...alive."
"Look," James started. "I didn't know it was him. I'm sorry."
"As you should be, cunt."
"Yeah." He shifted. "But Way...be rational here. Don't take him. Please. I need him. It was an accident, I'm sorry. Collateral damage, you know how it is. But please." Frank was moved by the fact that James was crying, a sight seldom seen. Of course, Frank couldn't see, but the sound was glorious. "Please don't kill my baby."
A hand was now resting on Frank's shoulder. Unlike the previous, this hand was light and soothing. A finger twirled one chocolate strand of hair at Frank's nape.
"Oh, he won't die." A chuckle. "I think we can all agree here this boy is too pretty to be killed." The hand trailed lightly at the back of his neck. "Yes...I can certainly see why you fell for him, Romano.But I will take him from you. He will be mine."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Everyone bar myself, Frank, James, Raymond and Michael, please leave." A door swung open and complete silence followed the exit of the clan. "Now," he murmured to the darkened room. "Shall we begin?"
"What the fuck-"
"I don't remember asking you a goddamned thing, Romano," Way said as if he was stating the weather. "That happened to be rhetorical.You know what that means, right?"
"Yeah."
"Good, I hate explaining things to men of lower intellectual standard. Michael-take the fold off Frank."
The fold fell from Frank's eyes with nimble fingers, and the room was thrown into view. Way was sitting in a chair, opposite the bed, and James was about ten paces away, also bound in a chair. The two usual suspects stood by him.
Gerard knelt before Frank, stooping down below him, one hand on his knee and the other caressing his cheek.
"Don't touch him-"
"Michael."
Michael punched James straight across the face. Several teeth snapped and scattered across the floor.
"Thank you," he whispered softly, now more absorbed in Frank's features, working his way up to his chocolate hair. "Frank, you really are beautiful. Ragazzo bella," he scarely more than whispered. A pause. "Your eyes are angelic."
"Stop it, I'm fucking warning you-"
Another crunch. Frank flinched.
"Shh, baby, don't be scared," Gerard murmured, tracing the curve of Frank's lips. "I won't hurt you."
"Will you hurt him?" He tried to blink the tears away.
"James? Maybe," he continued, standing up and taking off his jacket. "If he continues to irritate me in such a way."
He threw the garment onto the bed, and sat on the edge of said furniture.
"Michael,untie him."
Frank's wrists were released, but he sat dumbstruck nonetheless. He wondered what in fuck's name he should do-to help James or to escape, or to attack this guy?
Or maybe just stay sitting. Sitting could work.
"Frank, I need you to do something for me," he purred from the bed. "I need you to come over here."
Frank found his legs walking over to him. His mouth was bone dry; his tongue had slid down his throat.
"Are you watching this, Romano?" He drawled, pulling Frank closer, rubbing the soft of his hip. The gangster noticed Frank was bone thin. "Are you watching your enemy seduce your fiance?"
"You fuckin dago ginzo bastard-"
A third crunch. Bad move, James.
"Make sure his eyes are wide open," Gerard instructed, his eyes still set on Frank, who was now chest-to-chest with Way. "Use tape if you have to. I want him to see this."
See what?
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