Mugbook

Technically, my first crime story, with some humor thrown in. Written a few years ago when I was watching The Sopranos.

***WARNING*** Language abounds

When the family business fell apart, a few of my relatives had a hard time adjusting to life in the digital age. For guys like my Uncle Vito Santini, going digital meant cutting the fingers off a guy until he fessed up. I wasn’t even born when Uncle Vito got pinched for being “Big Louie” Lovato’s shovel-man. According to his court testimony, he never actually killed anybody. He just dug the holes the bodies were stuck in.

So, after twenty-five years, he shows up at my apartment and wants me to teach him about computers. Says learning to use a “computer machine” is all part of his rehabilitation. Not to mention staying one hundred feet away from any store that sells shovels.

“Face what?” he says.

“Facebook,” I reply. “It’s social networking.”

“Social networking… Do I gotta piss in a cup?”

“Huh?”

“You know… The clap.”

I roll my eyes. “Uh… No, Uncle Vito… you’re thinking about… No, this is on the Internet. Social networking means—lots of people connecting with each other through the Internet.”

“Oh. The Internet. I heard a that.”

“Have you? Good. Now we’re getting somewhere.” I figure Uncle Vito had to use a computer sometime while he was in the joint. See, most Wiseguys who are sent up the river don’t really do what’s known as “hard time.” Somebody somewhere in the prison system is on the family payroll, so favors get done, and privileges are handed out like cartons of cigarettes from the back of a truck.

“Okay, type in your email address in that first line there,” I say.

“The fuck is email?”

“You don’t know what email is?”

“Look, kid... I just did twenty-five years, and all I did was dig a few holes. You’d think those Fed pricks woulda put me in witness protection. But no! So, the only mail I know anything about, was the letters from your old man tellin’ me you was a college boy and how smart you was. So, I don’t know nothin’ about no fuckin’ email!”

“Okay, Uncle Vito. Jeez, don’t get so upset.”

“Sorry, kid. I need a drink. Whatcha got around here?”

“Uh, I got some soda. Maybe an energy drink.”

“No booze? No wine? C’mon, kid. You come from a long line of Wiseguys, for Christ’s sake.”

“I don’t think you should be drinking right now. Don’t you have to check in with your PO this afternoon?”

“Alright, alright… Forgetaboutit.” Uncle Vito’s not really a bad guy. In fact, out of the twelve people in my family who are doing time, he’s the only one who got out on good behavior.

“What’s with this email?” he says.

“Email is just like getting a letter from somebody, only it’s sent electronically through communication cables and wireless signals.”

“Let me ask you somethin’? Can they wire-tap that shit?”

“Yeah. Sort of.”

“Then I don’t want nothin’ to do with no fuckin’ email.”

“Okay, then. I guess we can use one of mine just to get you logged in. Here, type this… Italian…sausage…man… the at sign… gmail dot com.”

“Ha! You’re the Italian sausage man! You been showin’ the ladies your little Italian sausage, huh?”

Santinis. Always thinking with their dicks. I have to remember not to mention anything about Internet porn, or I’ll never get him out of my apartment.

“Funny, Uncle Vito,” I say, sliding him the keyboard. “Just type it in.”

“Here, you do it.” He slides it back.

I comply to speed things along. “Alright. There. Now you have to come up with a password.”

“How about my name? Vito ‘The Shovel’ Santini.”

“No, you don’t want to use your name, because it’s too easy to steal.”

“Let me tell you somethin’… The last jamook who ripped me off, wound up in the bottom of a—“

“I don’t want to know, Uncle Vito. Look, don’t use your name. It has to be something unique, like a word or a phrase that’s easy for you to remember.”

“Okay, how about… Whack the shylock?”

“Why that?”

“Cause that’s what I shoulda did when he ratted me out… Whack the shylock.”

“Whatever. Oh, and we need to add a number to it.”

“Whack the shylock 69 times.”

“Can you remember that?”

“Absolutely.”

I can’t help but feel this is a total waste. I’m supposed to be studying for my chemistry final, which is going to be a bitch of a test. Then again… If I do help Uncle Vito, maybe he can send a few of his pals to pay my professor a visit and guarantee me an “A.”

Nah. I could never do that. My pop, God rest his soul, would turn over in his grave if he knew I was asking his brother for favors. See, Pop was the youngest of seven boys, and his older brothers kept him out of the business by sending him to trade school to be a plumber. Yeah, I know. An Italian plumber. I’ve heard all the Donkey Kong jokes.

“Alright, this is your Facebook home page, and it wants you to upload some pictures of yourself.”

“Why?”

“So other people know what you look like. People use Facebook as a way to share their lives with their friends. So, they put pictures of themselves and their families on here.”

“If I put pictures of the family on here… I’m gonna get whacked.”

“Good point. Let’s do a friend search instead.”

“You think some of my pals are on here?”

“It’s possible. Give me some names.”

“Let’s see… there’s Benny ‘The Goon’ Gorbonzo, Leo ‘The Leach’ Monitelli… No, wait… He’s still got five years. Hey, you think that stripper from Queens is on here?”

“Uncle Vito… This is getting way out of hand.”

“Hey, you’re the smart guy makin’ all the rules. I’m just sittin’ here. You know… I don’t see how this could be very popular.”

“Over 3 billion people have Facebook accounts, Uncle Vito.”

“3 billion! What a racket! We gotta get a piece of that action. Are they union?”

“No, see… The guy who started this is some uber computer nerd who may or may not have stolen the idea from a couple of his friends.”

“Stole it! He’s gotta be a Wiseguy. What’s his name?”

“It’s Zuckerberg, and he’s definitely not connected to any of the families.”

“Oh. Well, forgetaboutit. Okay, 3 billion people on here. Chances are, I’m gonna know somebody. What if it’s somebody I don’t like?”

“Well, if you’re friends with somebody, and you don’t want to be friends with them anymore, you just use the ‘unfriend’ button.”

“And, what happens then?”

“They just go away, and you don’t have to worry about them anymore.”

“GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE! He has to a Wiseguy! I gotta go find him.”

“What are you talking about, Uncle Vito? You’ll never get close to Zuckerberg. He’s like a gazillionaire.”

“Always got his crew around him, huh? I can appreciate that. Smart guy. Look, I got an idea. What about a Facebook for people like me? You know… Wiseguys? We bring people in… Offer them protection… We make a killing! We’ll call it… Mugbook. What do ya think?”

I can see the newspaper headlines now: “Mobsters Attempting Facebook Extortion Beaten by Facebook’s Former Navy Seal Security Force.”

I realize that teaching Uncle Vito about “computer machines” will never keep him from thinking about crime. Some people, no matter how hard they try, just can’t change. I mean… He wasn’t here five minutes when I saw him pocket my roommate’s gold watch.

“I… think it’s a great idea, Uncle Vito. Go with it,” I say, hoping that will get him out of my apartment.

“I knew it! See, you’re smart. Just like your old man said. Now, how do I find this Fuckerberg guy?”

“Uh… try the phonebook.”

“Phonebook. Right. Haven’t seen one of those in a while. I’ll get his address… Round up a few goombahs from the neighborhood… We’ll make him an offer—“

“Don’t say it!”

“I’m tellin’ you, kid. The family’s back in business!”