A Moll Married to the Mob

Hot shit on a roll! I've been living in sin for weeks and didn't even know it!

As astounding as that may sound to you, good people, it came as even more of a shock to yours truly. And when I found out about it, an even bigger shock. It turns out Felchyana, the kindly Russian toothpick whose apartment I've been staying in is not married at all. Not technically, anyway, her husband having died recently. Not too recently, mind you, the coroner is estimating about two or three months gone by, I imagine they do that mostly by the kind of smell he makes.

The details are hard to glean, since Felchyana's English is a little shabby and I have a poor ear for details, but as near as I can figure it he was involved with a non-Italian mafia in some fashion and it did not lead to the expected 40-years-then-retirement. They found him in the shape of an ottoman in a warehouse down by the waterfront. Apparently a lot of mob enemies have been made into furniture and stored there, or sold to black market furniture buyers who have had the savings passed on to them. I was half intrigued to get a stool pigeon recliner, but I can't even afford my own place right now, so where would I put it?

This is all a side dish of the story, of course, the real issue being that I've been living in sin with an unmarried woman for weeks now. It was all innocent when I was a homeless vagrant living in the house of a Russian mob wife, but now people are going to think something fishy is going on. I won't have that, I tell you.

So I proposed to Felchyana yesterday, and her response was to bring me a jar of mustard. We will need work on that communication gap. After I broke it down with graphs, crude pictures, and a viewing of The Wedding Singer, she nodded, which I assume means we'll be getting married.

I should be the happiest man on the face of the earth. As you may know, Felchyana is a beautiful rose, not like Rose Kennedy in the later days, and as kind and loving a woman as anyone could ask for. She would easily be the most attractive and least mouthy of any Rok Finger wife, and more than a penniless shmoe like me could even hope for. But I can't stop to congratulate myself, and it looks stupid when you try to shake your own hand anyway. I have to decide when we're going to get married, how to pay for all of it, where I will live in the meantime, and how to communicate all this to her without making her run away.

Still, if I may take a minute of time to bask in the glow of love, it is probably the happiest day of my life. Well, there's been a lot of upheaval and nervousness, worry about what people are saying behind my back, and I tripped going up the steps into work this morning and busted my lip open. That all puts a bit of a damper on it. The happiest day, no, but it ranks very high. The fifth—no, too high. The ninth or tenth happiest day of my life. Let me do some quick calculations…

I have determined it is between the fourteenth and twenty-sixth happiest day of my life, with a margin of error of four days. We'll estimate a mean happiest day of my life at twenty-and-a-halfth day.

Once the plans are firmly locked into place, paid for, and living accommodations are covered, I will probably start into dreamy lighter-than-air feeling of love. But first there's a lot of toiling ahead. I suppose explaining this to Felchyana will require at least one more viewing of The Wedding Singer as well.

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