Vanity. Ares

beginning to use to take pictures, I heard the sound
of the front door open, I turned my head and there
was Mario Amara, strong chin, greasy hair and 5"3
worth of Napoleon complex with a grudge — He
was a Sardinian guy that myself and Rafaele had
got into a disagreement about drugs and a stolen
Art piece; which was actually by that time stolen
from another thief, funnily enough — there was a
pattern here I suppose.
It was probably the cocaine I knew I
shouldn't have gone for that second bag, but Mario
Amara just shot a revolver and a bullet hit my right
arm, I started screaming belligerently rolling on the
floor even more dazed from the concoction of
gunshot wounds and Cocaine. I along with the
camera and the Cocaine then hit the floor as blood
oozed from the top of my right arm. Mario was a
bottom feeder with slight mafia ties, and
unfortunately an old looking revolver. Rumi — the
guy that owned the apartment — and a few of the
other housemates got into a fracas with Mario and
he ended up scuttling away, apparently. They drove
me to the hospital and it seemed karma had
decided that I would need to leave Rome, which I
did, though I lived to tell the tale. And I was okay,
but I could no longer strut about Rome in the same
fashion, I even think Rafaele had swanned off to
Parma a few days before too, Rambone told me he
had got into some trouble with a few well known
criminals at the time and wanted time to clear the
air. I would often think of Rafaele Xavi, our paths
failed to meet again. Even Rambone was shook up
by the whole gunshot affair and ended up leaving
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
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