“Gonna watch a movie to calm down...” He spoke, not even realising his lisp evaporating into thin air, left hand holding the remote and the right with his cellphone-intending to fondle and finish it off summore as he flicked on the tele, making sure to switch the channel as to not watch faggy celebrity gossip-
CLICK!
“You mess wit’ my gang, and you’re heads’ be cut off.”
“Da fuck is this?” He slanged subconsciously, mirroring the accent of the stubby short actor, no more than 5ft as he gave a stereotypical portrayal of a middle-aged, Italian Mafia boss.
Clenching his phone, palms actually thickening and expanding more fitting of a grown up as the phone gained wear and tear, cracks surfacing due to the increased strength of the man as well as the fact that his phone degraded in quality-much like the many duplicates he now apparently had for the sake of illegal business in the underground world.
Though the cops couldn’t stop em’ anyway if they tried.
His once slender fingers contorted the remote like a revolver, thickening like rolls of sausages as spaghetti and hefty amounts of Italian meals was his portion. He ad’ to be taken care of if he were to inherit his company for generations. No more memories of a rising fashion entrepreneur but rather, a family legacy blessing.
His arms swelled at the thought of maintaining the family, suddenly recalling all of his “employees” swearing under the oath of “Gustav Guns”, not even realising the trickery as they became inducted as his minions.
The old Mark widened his eyes on that, shocked at his dirty-hand tactics and the foreign reality of those memories. Fighting against his heart which actually relished upon that, struggling to do so as he pushed against the trigger, the remote gaining a metallic texture as it pushed out at the front-developing rounds and rounds of bullets as he-
“Or their heads’ be cut off-“
BANG!
“Whose STUPID idea was to have dis anyway?”
Firing a single bullet directly at the middle television screen. Precisely and accurately as though he be using firearms his whole life, a menacing glare stayed on his face, intending to sue and assassinate those hollywood queers that be makin’ fun of the Gustavs-
“GUSTAVS?!!” His voice creaked and deepened, a deep ring of an exact replica-well much deeper and accented-of the actor of Italian Boss’s voice echoed against his throat, vocal chords already shifting cinematically as it rung in his head, almost like a “menacing but hot, sugar daddy” -not that he would ever admit it.
The flamboyant side of him took over briefly, dropping the gun as it hit a “CLINK!” On the floor before momentarily turning to the right and noticing the cracked phone as an involuntary reflex caused him to-
FLICK!
“Got Extras in the drawers.”
His voice rung on its own, the sexiness of it melting the old Mark unwittingly as he leaned back against the sofa, not even spotting the sides compressing itself and the top elevating
into a typical casual black leathered office chair, well polished with shoe shine daily-as though someone is personally hired to keep it spick and span.
Sinking back onto the comfy, yet professional office chair. Head originally leaning at the top, slowly descending as his spine compressed itself. Leaning lower and lower as his clothes layered themselves at the bottom as though the boss was a kid wearing his gay uncle’s clothes.
Lowering below half the size, lowered to a stature of a leprechaun as the lean flexibility he once had bulked up into muscle mixed with fat, as strips of hair coated his arms, pits, lower bits, and torso. Biceps flexing in all his midget glory as they toughen up to those of a real man, shoulders widening as though they are begging to wear a suit, Feet growing a couple of sizes larger as they strain against the shoe size he is currently wearing.
A gust of wind lifted up from his tummy. His hairy gut was exposed for him to see, patting on it, recalling all those luxurious meals he devoured feverishly when he used to do Italian boxing, all those fucking shorties got nuthin’ on em’.
The new thickened man developed a lazy mixture of pecs and moobs, retired-with thighs and buttocks thickening due to overly sitting in his chair. “Still got da triggah though, if anyone betrays da mafia...”
Mark’s specs fell onto the table top. Vision originally blurred, clearing up as he visualised two picture frame being erected from each lens.
As they materialised into existence, an image of a heavily stereotypical middle aged mafia man with a teenage Italian girl, dressed spoilt and rich, and a sleazy looking asian in his 30s doing a stupid cocky pose. Holding her and the torso of the really tall man, the boss recognised she being his daughter and he being his prized henchmen.
“Aye look like dis?”
With that realisation, the excess sizes of his clothes contracted back sizes smaller. Pressing against his round tummy, a row of buttons down the middle struggling to stay fitting in with his excess weight. Ironing into crisp as the sleeves extended themselves and curled onto their arms as they formed an office buttoned down, finally popping off with a large collar which seemed to engulf any upper layer.
As the other lens shift and contort into a new shape, the skinny jeans, with no due respect, got sliced off into “shorts”, his height had wonders as his pants turned into an expensive, obviously Italian-made, dark blue suit trousers. The gold remained in place but polished itself with wonders as it loosened itself according to his new weight.
Thighs and butt nicely filling up the less-tight clothes he is now wearing, not a showoff or anything-but the ladies are already attracted to his gruff boss attitude al’ready, the surprise came come later. Throbbing below, the once prized butt-fucker now expanded and shrunk into a thick solid beer can, ready for those hookers to drink his italian beverage. No fags allowed though...speaking of fags.
“Can’t believe those faggots wear pink N blue as though they go ta’gether...”
As more thoughts of his new biased Homophobia surface into his brain, the undersized boots lowered down to the level of loafers...which was their fate. With a vanishing of laces and an open view at the top, black socks turning into a rich navy blue like his pants as he left his black loafers there as they get polished definitely with shoeshine.
His watch-barely fitting the tight huge wrist of those gruffly-accentuated boss hands, snapped as the straps snaked up around his neck N collar as it snaked down and knotted itself into existence, hands carefully tying itself up into a Perfect Pratt’s knot like his perfectionist attitude in getting the job done-no sloppy jobs in the mafia OR THEIR HEADS BE CUT OFF.
The remaining facial features of the watch grew out new straps, those of a Gold Rolex as said feature -which told the time- reshaped itself into a boxing glove...a unique face which was dear but NOT QUEER to him.
Men like sports, that’s a fact. Cept’ for those queers. Holding his collar, as the grey formal suit jacket button up at the first two rows of his tummy-trying to conceal it before he lets it loose on the ladies wanting a sugar daddy-he knows the REAL chicks that dig that, and not the dykes that turn em’ away. Putting away the back collar underneath the white collar, it shifted to a similar navy blue as the manager side of the growing Italian is nearly in control.
The panel erected itself, showing HIM in the middle next to two boxers. Holding the boxing champion trophy like a proud manager-yet not smiling and remaining stoic so nobody could question him. That was his life outside crime, a full front with occasional business smiles, and evil grins-perversion and malice, as memories pile up more over the receding Mark’s head...he couldn’t help but agree.
“Aye look like dis...”
Saying with certainty, neck thickened and shortened like a pig, already supporting his gruff, accented, sugar daddy voice box. Head moulding and inflating up, much larger, squared and specialised, chin curling into a butt, a cleft complimenting his jaw as it became clean shaven. His lips sneered arrogantly, as the smell of smoke his once despised was now a delicacy to him.
“This ere’ be me office, I can do whateva I wan ta’!”
His nose plumped out huge and round, bloated with the smell of smoke, tooting out ash-scattering from his upper lip to the sunken sides of his middle aged cheeks, aggravating his Italian brown fur as it POOFED out a long, full length moustache that causes the ladies to go “Mama mia!” Accentuated and styled up curls, rounding at intervals perfectly like the stache of game character with a similar name ta his.
“Gonna fuckin’ sue that plumber.”
Earlobes detaching themselves as the sounds of bullets being fired on screen brings sweet melodies to him. Eyebrows frowning as those strips thicken quick, colour taking on a permanent oak brown like his stache and now even his hair. The old Mark could barely recall himself, actually, he couldn’t give a shit bout’ that fag, no use tryin’ when Gustav wad in charge. Gustav always wins, even if it means playin’ dirty.
His trendy spikes softened, specially at the top where they seemed to be...unnatural. The backs grew up evenly as the side burns reach down beyond the side of the ears. Combed, brushed and shampooed daily, the top bit departed from his scalp as a material held it in its place on the Boss’s head, combed neatly to the side as a blow dryer fluffed the left side of his toupee-concealing the ten caterpillar strands which was his hair, underneath his wig.
‘Age does get to ya, but Boss ain’t gonna be retirin’ for a long while.’
Licking his lips before smiling up mild-whites, sharpening up in carnality and somewhat damaged due to his irresistible craving for smoke and manliness, gotta reaffirm his strength always-specially now that he’s completed his second half of his dangerous life.
Eyes yellowing admist light brown pupils, a sign of corruption and an amber representing wealth. His skin became slightly lighter, while being rubbed with olive oil and an aged maturity, wrinkles forming over his forehead and crows feet at the side of his eyes. The father loved that malicious, matured look it gave him, specially when his pride and money is on the line, oh money~.
The sides of his cheek curled up even further with every greedy thought, as specs of gold coated the tooth next to his right top fang, his prized lady sucker.
A cigar materialized in the palm of his pouchy hand, as he grinned evilly, placing that cigar in between his lips, absorbing the masculinity and foreign taste of Relishing the corruption of the gay liberal artist within him, as the new middle aged sugar daddy takes hold.
Smirking, laying back in his boss chair, the king of the mafia underworld and capitalist overworld, Italian Mafia Boss Marion Gustav, puffed out a hefty amount of smoke around his office. Shifting the fashionable pink walls to red burgundy, brown mahogany floors shifting to black marble, his own boss table as other trinkets in the room shifted as well.
Mannequins to statues of himself and gorgeous Italian mama ladies in which he cant wait to grope at night at da bar, gripping the air and rotating his fingers back and forth as though he’s gripping an invisible D-Cup. Clothing racks to aquariums and luxurious plants, paintings of the wall becoming a self centered of himself towering down at his employees. His own table melted into pure platinum, he was very rich after all-so he gots ta flaunt it.
Kicking back his stubby feet onto the top of the counter, dipping his tenth cigar into the ash tray as his gold enveloped office telephone rang and vibrated-Only for outsider uses. Swiftly grabbing the handle and bringing it to his ear, a deep Bostonian-Italian accent ringing forth to his caller.
“Youse call’ed da boss?”