“Fuck i shouldn’t have done that, holy shit,” Tony says aloud as he tries to clean the blood off his hands and shirt. Point blank hallow point bullets shot out of a 9mm pistol shot 3 inches away from a mademan’s head tends to splatter a little.
He makes his way to the sewing kit in his linen closet to stitch up his hands from the altercation that happened before the shells started to clank and do their deadly dance on the pavement outside of a strip club. Tony would have called the local mob doctor to patch him up, but this is a very delicate matter, that no one needs to find out about, or it’s Tony’s head.
“He’d shoulda kept his fuckin mouth shut, that stupid prick. That’s what he fuckin gets. Made or not, i don’t give a fuck, fuck him”.
Tony argues with himself. If anyone was watching this they would say he’s losing it. Tony creeps to the garage to get his hacksaw, tarp, and shovel.
The prick who ran his mouth, and wrote checks his ass couldn’t catch is in Tony’s trunk.