Advice

Tony had been at the job far longer than most. Considerably longer than his predecessors, of which he had personally witnessed the demise of over two dozen in the span of a decade. Longevity, however, wasn't the name of the game here. Sooner or later your number came up. Regardless of whether or not you kept head down, asked no questions, did what you were told, or begged for mercy. All of that was well-intentioned, yet ultimately useless advice.

It's not exactly like he had any alternative options. Porto Vista wasn't a town rife with opportunity. If you weren't one of the fortunate few to break out and away, then you were absorbed into the system. Don Acerbi's system. There were no exceptions, just countless forks in the road leading to -- literal -- dead ends.

In a rare stroke of "luck", Tony was spared from the fate of becoming a mule, foot soldier, or even hitman. Instead, at the age of 10, he began working as an assistant in kitchen of the Don's personal food taster. Part cook, part guinea pig - it was the food taster's job to make sure that Don Acerbi's meals were poison-free and fit for consumption. Most lasted on average around six months.

Tony, on the other hand, had held the job for 10 years (and counting) after Guiseppe, the previous food taster, succumbed to a tainted batch of Tiramisu. However, Tony had not escaped unscathed over the years. He had experienced his fair share of crippling stomach cramps and vomitting. One time, he was even in a coma for a week. Somehow, he always managed to continue. It earned him the nickname L'uomo di ferro, the Iron Man, for his "iron" consitution and the play on his first name. Porto Vista mafiosis weren't exactly known for their literacy.

But this time, this time it looked like Tony's number might be up. Lying on the hospital gurney, slipping in and out of consciousness, he went through the mental checklist that he had cultivated throughout the years. From the simple and obvious, "Does it look and smell ok?" to the less-obvious, poison-specific characteristics that he had taught himself.

A wry smile crossed his face as he thought of an old black and white comedy film, in which the main character, a heavyset slapstick buffoon, stumbles out of a restaurant grasping his stomach and pleads to patrons entering the restaurant, "Non mangiare il pollo!"

Don't eat the chicken. Pollo alla parmigiana. Fuck.

Tony's eyes fluttered closed as he drifted off again. Breathing slow, but steady, he added that gem to the seemingly endless list of well-intentioned, but ultimately useless advice.