The capo di tutti capi, the mafioso boss known only as The Gordfather, slowly sipped a flaming sambucca as he gazed knowingly around the highly polished antique mahogany table in his lavish home in swanky North Queensferry. The assembled bosses of the warring Scottish families shifted uneasily. They’d come to pay their respects to the Gordfather knowing that, if they refused, they might not be around long enough to get another invitation.. A chair stood ominously vacant where Annie “bell” Goldie of the once-powerful Tory mob would have sat had she not come down with a mysterious illness.
“There has been much unpleasantness between our families in recent times’, said the Gordfather finally, “Too much blood has been shed, too much business lost, too many friends gone”. The Gordfather’s eyes mostened as he looked at the ceiling. “For does not Wendy Alexander sleep with the fishes?” The bosses eyed each other nervously. Bendy Wendy been the old man’s favourite.
“But Gordfather”, piped “Bugsy” Salmond, “no one wants peace more than I. I seek only to promote the interests of my family. But Pretty Boy Murphy here and his wise guys have big eyes and have shown me much disrespect. They wrecked our new protection racket, the local income tax. They whacked my bag man, Sonny Boy Swinney over the futures trust scam. These guys is sick in the head, Gordfather, there isn’t nuthin’ you can do with them”.
“Enough”, said the Gordfather his hushed voice full of menace.”I know that my boys can get a little excitable. But we now have a common enemy now. The People”.
“The who?” muttereed Tavish “Terror” Scott from behind the solid silver fruit bowl.
“The People, dumb ass. We’re getting heat from public opinion over the parliamentary payola and our property deals...”
“Just tell me whre they are, Gordfather”, interrupted The Grey Man “and I’ll make them dead”.
“Do not speak unless I tell you to”, barked the Gordfather, ”or you join Wendy! The public has a beef with all of us and they’re going to cut off our big pensions, our second and third homes. Our big cars. Our free flat screen televisions. Even our porno movies. Who is going to pay for them now? We gotta work together on this or we’re all whacked.”
“Ok Gordfather”, said Salmond. “You give us back the five hundred big ones that you are taking out of our stash in the next financial year. Then we can all be family.”
A dark cloud crossed over the Gordfather’s craggy, lived-in face. “Ok, my friend. Deal. I’ll do the drop personal. But first, we will kiss on it’. The capos froze. They knew it could only be the kiss of death, from the Gordfather.