Don

18

Previously on His Forever Night Stand...

Once he had made the necessary calls and changed into some attire that was not glitter and blood-soaked, he sat down.

"Vedi l'accaduto era ..."

(See what had happened was...)

Francesco got comfortable. This would take a while.

Two days earlier...

Two solid outlines, tripped through the woods of Sicily.

One of those outlines suddenly stopped, causing the other to go toppling over.

"Time out! Time out!" Pierto panted, throwing his hands out.

DiAngelo glared at Pierto, panting himself, the new scrapes adding stripes to his skin.

He'd just as well be a tiger at this rate.

"What...asshole?"

"Too...tired. Let's stop. Just... for the

... night."

DiAngelo swallowed breathlessly, his glare intensifying.

"Should've kept it in...your pants...dick...head."

"I'm too tired...to argue. I'm too tired...to speak...English. "

And it was true. Pierto was so exhausted that he has to revert to his native language to conserve energy, even though he was fluent.

At this revelation, DiAngelo promptly punched his brother in the eye and passed out.

°°°

The bear c****d it's head curiously at the two blobs. He didn't suppose they were food, but... what really wasn't food?

He could go for some fish and berries, but with a meal like this in front of him, why wait?

He nudged one of the blobs with his paw.

The blob looked up and screamed.

His food typically didn't scream, and he preferred it that way. He lumbered off to the stream pompously to eat fish that didn't scream like girl blobs.

"Cosa c'è di sbagliato con te, manichino?" Pierto groaned.

(What's wrong with you dummy?)

"O-Orso!"

(B-Bear!)

Pierto hopped up. He didn't f**k with bears; he f**k with a lot of things, but no bears.

"Dove?!"

(Where?!)

"Su!"

(There!)

Pierto rolled his lips into his mouth, picking up a heavy log, swinging wildly and widely in the direction DiAngelo pointed.

"L'ho preso?"

(Did I get him?)

A pained groan resounded through the forest.

"Mi hai, è piccola cagna!" He cried in pain, a tear trekking his face.

(You got me, you little b***h!)

"È troppo tardi per chiedere scusa?" Pietro asked sheepishly, his pitch going up at the word sorry.

(Is it too late to say sorry?)

"Sì, Justin Bieber, avete preso troppo della mia pelle a chiedere scusa."

(Yes, Justin Bieber, you took too much of my skin to say sorry.)

"Beh, mi dispiace comunque."

(Well, sorry anyway.)

DiAngelo's eye twitched.

He launched himself at Pierto with a war cry, shoving his face and knees into the grass, yelling, "Erba Gusto, cagna!"

(Taste grass, b***h!)

That accounted for the grass stain and some of the blood.

°°°

Six hours before Franceso's house...

The middle of the plaza was a horrible place to pass out, but DiAngelo did it anyway.

They were literally, being trampled by the crowd. It was if the too well over six feet men were invisible in light of the new store.

Another high heeled boot, crashed down on Pierto's head, making him squeal in pain.

The brothers had been making a host of girly sounds that day.

A warm dripping creeped down his neck.

He touched his head, pulling back his hand to find it painted red.

He had to get help.

Soon.

Dragging, DiAngelo along the concrete, some one elses silettos impaled his hand.

He let a silent scream, the pain too much to even make noise, glaring at the woman.

He made a note of her face, and the name of the designer.

She and Gucci would die when he got hold of medical assisance and a proper artillery.

°°°

Finally, many footprints on his later, Pierto got them to the new store, where the pink shoe was twirling the sign and throwing glitter on passersby.

With all the damage high heels had been doing to him today, he figured it was time for them to give back.

"Scusi?" The shoe looked down at him with no eyes.

That's just creepy, Pierto thought.

"Hai un telefono?"

The shoe nodded it's head enthusatically(Were shoes boys or girls? or were they unisex?), Holding up a finger.

Piertro sighed in relief a bit too quickly when the shoe went into it's purse.

"Grazie Di--"

The shoe pulled out some glitter and showered them. At his angry face, the shoe threw another handful of glitter, as if that would make it better.

But no, making it sparkle does not make it better.

Particuarally in cases where blood was involved.

"Morirai, scarpa." he nodded solemly. "Morirai."

(You will die, Shoe. You will die.)

The shoe pointed to itself, but Pierto just made a fist, and pointed right back at it, dragging DiAngelo, casting an immature but deadly death glare over his shoulder.

Hailing a taxi, He punched the driver with all his might, letting his pudgy face hit the concrete.

"Siamo spiacenti ma non mi dispiace, cagna."

(Sorry not sorry, b***h)

He drove away, putting his friends address into the GPS and speeding down the road.

That was the rest of the blood, and of course, the glitter.

°°°

"Perché non basta utilizzare il telefono in macchina?"

(Why didn't you just use the phone in the car?)

Pierto blanched. Why hadn't he used the phone in the car?

He hit DiAngelo in the head.

"Imbecille!"

(Dummy!)

DiAngelo started with a punch. "Qualunque cosa mi stai rimproverando, l'avete fatto. Ero incosciente."

(Whatever you're blaming for is you're fault. I was unconcious.)

"Quindi sei davvero stupidi," Franceso scoffed.

(So you're actually dumber)

DiAngelo moaned in agreement.

"Wow," Franceso shook his head in disbelif "Scemo e più scemo. Che coppia."

(Dumb and Dumber. What a pair)

"Mi offende che!" DiAngelo moaned.

(I resent that!)

"Sta 'zitto!" The two men called in unison.

(Shut up!)

DiAngelo wondered how this got turned around on the half-dead guy.

Then he wondered why the world didn't turn blue, or orange, or purple, or some other colorful color before you passed out.

Before he could ask, his world turned black.

Not even navy blue.