Suck My Click
Montespertoli. The Caprona estate and its territory are characterized by low, open hills, where the dry, breezy darkness settles in a vaguely unsettling fashion. Barone Alessandro De Gianluigi Caprona's supple, corpulent hands exude warmth as they fiercely grasp my face; they smell of rosewater and violets. His audacious smile is cancerous.
The man has been a thorn in my family's paw for many seasons now. We've tolerated his presence. Ours is a merciful house, unlike the Capronas, those dogs. Where he had once shit gold into our hands -- steaming piles that would make Louis XIV drool with avarice -- his loyalties have since shifted like so much sediment in a glass bowl. Our generosity is exhausted. I've been sent to teach this man a lesson.
We tumble across the stone terrace, struggling desperately for my weapon, a .38 special that Alessandro pushed from my hand with surprising quickness as I shot his miserable and ineffectual security detail. The diverted barrel fired a misaimed blast through the young guard's black leather boot, piercing the ankle and sending him to the ground awkwardly on his right wrist.
The fat Alessandro pins me with his mass, the gun beyond my reach, and he sears me with a brutal cross to the face. His strength is incredible; I realize, then and there, that I am outclassed. Horrified, I tear uncontrollably at his silk shirt.
I know I will die tonight.
The terrace is formed of Tuscan galestro, an indiginous rock that characterizes many of Chianti Classico's best vineyards. He gestures extravagantly over a pile of fist-size stones resting atop the thick wall. He's saying something, but his words are distant echoes. I notice specks of my own blood on his fist as he cocks it back and slams it again into my face.
As the blinding white pain clears I see him standing above me, clutching one of the stones, weighing its comfortable heft. And before I can lift my hands to stop him, he rams it violently into my head, crushing my left eye socket...
The man has been a thorn in my family's paw for many seasons now. We've tolerated his presence. Ours is a merciful house, unlike the Capronas, those dogs. Where he had once shit gold into our hands -- steaming piles that would make Louis XIV drool with avarice -- his loyalties have since shifted like so much sediment in a glass bowl. Our generosity is exhausted. I've been sent to teach this man a lesson.
We tumble across the stone terrace, struggling desperately for my weapon, a .38 special that Alessandro pushed from my hand with surprising quickness as I shot his miserable and ineffectual security detail. The diverted barrel fired a misaimed blast through the young guard's black leather boot, piercing the ankle and sending him to the ground awkwardly on his right wrist.
The fat Alessandro pins me with his mass, the gun beyond my reach, and he sears me with a brutal cross to the face. His strength is incredible; I realize, then and there, that I am outclassed. Horrified, I tear uncontrollably at his silk shirt.
I know I will die tonight.
The terrace is formed of Tuscan galestro, an indiginous rock that characterizes many of Chianti Classico's best vineyards. He gestures extravagantly over a pile of fist-size stones resting atop the thick wall. He's saying something, but his words are distant echoes. I notice specks of my own blood on his fist as he cocks it back and slams it again into my face.
As the blinding white pain clears I see him standing above me, clutching one of the stones, weighing its comfortable heft. And before I can lift my hands to stop him, he rams it violently into my head, crushing my left eye socket...
posted by Jeweled Accumulation at 6:00 PM
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