"Rainbow Randolph Gets Rolled by the Irish Mob in NYC"
It didn't happen like they show it in the movies. The door didn't explode, spilling cheap pine shrapnel into the thinly lit bachelor apartment. They took their time, nailed the windows to their swelling frames. Cut the phone line, its thin metallic nerves floating above gray construction standard carpet. A volley of quick knocks. A hoarse "Fuck off!", the crack of forged steel deadbolt. The braided drill bit peeks its snubbed nose into the room. Four bulldogs full of snarling muscle, full of Guinness and regret seep through the flimsy door frame, their leather shoulders pulsing. Tommy holds the leashes in her left fist, her right, a sift of Sweet Afton. On his knees, a meaty paw thumbing his windpipe, Randolph gasps. Tommy rambles the bruiser monologue. "This is for Spinner." The claddagh's crown snags those graying temples. [Expand] Center ice, Madison Square Garden, a cowbell echoes against waves of children. "This is for Spinner."
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