Whitey's Snow

          Here's a real fairy tale...

          The Queen, see... in those days, he reigned over the whole of MoHo.  The gayborhood, as it was known.  Protection, sure - but with a soft touch.  If you didn't pay on time...  then you got a bit more time.  Maybe a broken window, if he had a bad day.  Whatever - it worked.

          Then there's Whitey.  One of the Queen's own.  Upstart little tranny capo.  Eventually has the op.  So he's a real 'made' man now.  But having a dick turns him into one.  Decides he wants a bigger piece of the action - and thinks coke's the way to go.  He gets his crew onside, no problem.  Bunch of little guys: Knuckles, Blades, Spanners, Axe, Nails, Teeth and Ironshoes - all done up in their cute suits like a row of skittles.  Harmless-looking you'd think - but you wouldn't have wanted to try 'em for size.

          'Why'd they call you Ironshoes, Ironshoes?'

          'I specialise in footwear for swimmers.'

          You get the idea.  Squeak like mice - stamp like a herd of fuckin' rhinos.  Forget the windows - they went for the bones.  Heigh-ho!

          So... before you can say 'nice bag', the 'hood's adrift in Whitey's snow. People start getting over-confident - telling the Queen he'll just have to wait, José.  Billing him for window repairs.  That kind of thing.  And although the Queen's patient and understanding for a boss, there's a limit.  There's only so many days he's gonna look in that mirror before realising the truth: he ain't the fairest any more.  Fairness don't come into it now.  Something's gotta give.

          So he hatches this plan.  Play Whitey at his own game.  Disguised in a frock, he takes Whitey a gift - some yay of his own.  Makes like he's a new boy, schmoozing his way in.

          'Here, gorgeous... give it a try.  Give some to the pee-wees, too.  Party-time, guys.  See how good this is.'

          Except this is cut with something special.  A generous dose of ol' Mr Blue!  And Whitey's so tickled he falls for it flat.  One snort each and the midgets are amped - out of their pants and bouncing Whitey around the walls like a friggin' basketball.  They look like little hammers the way their handles are sticking out.  As for Whitey... he gets so horny he busts his stitches and the thing flies off like a wiener from a pop-gun - straight out the window and down to the street.  Well... the dog's are hungry in that part of town.  What can I say?

          The Queen snuck out and left 'em to it - leaving the rest of the baggie for dessert.  They were going all day, the papers said - right 'til the last one was boned to death.

          That Queen!  A king among 'em, I tell ya.

          The moral of the story?

          Never fuck the boss.

          And if you want to get ahead - don't get a dick.