Mulcher Mike. 1,900 From mobster to farmer in one giant step. (standard:drama, 9032 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 21 2020	Views/Reads: 1427/1019	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Mike, a longtime mobster is picked for a strange, apparently honest, task of running a mob farm. On the way there he picks up a runaway child. The local Sheriff can’t find her parents, so Mike uses her to aid his cover.

Mike Morello had never spoken directly to Don Vittorio, not in his
twenty-six years in the mob. Now the Don had requested the enforcer's 
presence.  The leg-breaker was beside himself with worry, mentally 
going over his actions for the past few years. It never occurred to him 
that he hadn't screwed up in some way.  Don Vittorio was known for his 
ass-chewing, which sometimes involved baseball bats and pulled 
fingernails; not for his compliments. 

At 6' 5" and 300 lbs,  Morello was a very large man.  That size alone
tended to make his job easy. When Mike walked into a welsher's 
presence, grabbed him by the collar with one hand and lifted the man 
off the ground, he almost always collected the money owed his boss. 

“Have a seat, young man,” Don Vittorio ordered.  The big man sat at a
large desk in a fancy office disguised behind the facade of a 
meat-packing plant.  The place was a front for taxes, also handy for 
mixing people-parts with the hamburger. 

“Our organization has taken possession of a farm in the wilds of
Virginia. The former owner owed money to our social club and decided to 
give us his business instead. It was an ‘offer he could not refuse' 
type of thing.” Don Vittorio smiled. “I want you to run it. Your job is 
to make that farm a paying proposition for us.” 

"I don't know nothing about that kinda stuff,” Mike had to admit. “What
I gotta grow, anyways?” 

“Don't make no difference to me.  Anything you want, as long as you make
it pay. Maybe you can hire a farmer to help?” the Don said. “You'll 
think of  something. Look it over and tell us how much money you need 
to set it up. I don't want to leave a paper-trail back here, so we'll 
use your money and I'll reimburse you in cash.” 

So now the collector became a farmer. The first thing he did was go down
to Virginia to scope it out. 

*** 

“Where can I find the Anderson Farm?” Mike asked a long-haired kid
pumping gas into the mobster's Cadillac. 

A one-pump station in the general area of the farm, the business looked
like something out of the early twentieth-century.  The only thing 
modern seemed to be a soft-drink machine sitting in front of the shack. 
 Rusty vehicles parked behind and around the station looked like autos 
from the twenties. 

The station attendant thought for a moment, visibly mulling it over in
his cloudy mind. 

“I don't really believe ya can get there from here,” he told Mike.
“Ya'see it's roun' where that ol' tree done fell down last week on 
route tweny-fo-er. Ain't been done moved yet.” 

A small voice came from behind the cold-drink machine. "I can show you,
mister, if you want.” 

All eyes swung in that direction. 

At first, Mike didn't see anyone. Finally, a small dirty hand came out
from behind the machine, followed by a skinny barefoot girl in dirty 
t-shirt and filthy torn jeans.  She looked to be eight or 
ten-years-old. 

“You done breakin' in'ta my machine agin'?  I kick you young ass.” The
attendant ran over, raising his foot to do just that. His kick missed 
since, by that time, Mike was holding him off the ground by the back of 
the neck. 

“Lem'me go,” the pimpled teenager yelled, struggling. “She done bust in
it twice now.  She surely did.” 

“Shut up,” Mike ordered.  He tucked a ten-spot into the guy's overall
pocket and tossed him back through the open door of the office.  
Brushing dirty hands on his sports coat, the mobster turned to the 


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