[ WP ] The Mafia calls Pest Control about `` taking out some rats . ''

The bald man stood before a gaggle of Italians and Irishmen, straightening his red tie as he glanced about. A dank bar clogged in a haze of smoke, with a briefcase of money sitting on the table as each party eyed the other. An older man, with slicked back gray hair spoke up first, `` We got this rat problem you see,'' he said fumbling with his hands, his thick Irish accent breaking the staring contest. `` We got these rats you see, we need taken care of.'' The bald stranger did n't say anything, mobsters again shifted uncomfortably waiting for a response. `` See buddy,'' an American accent chimed in, `` These rats are causing us serious problems. Running amok and making our business look shotty. Putting a black mark on all our reputations. For a week or so now, they've infiltrated the deepest parts of our infrastructure. We few here are the only ones who know about the problem. We need this problem taken care of real quiet like,'' again silence. As the men sat after another period of silence, one of them finally slid the briefcase forward. Unlatching it, the bald man peeked inside before gently closing it again. He wiped his gloves on the leather couch before he stood up. He pulled a.45 caliber pistol from the inside of his suit as he towered over the party. Many of the hosts sat back when the bald man did so, expressing concern. One of the Italians spoke up, his voice shaken, `` Friend. Why the pistol?'' Many other men and bodyguards reached for their own weapons. After what seemed an eternity, the bald man spoke up, `` You said you need someone taken care of.'' His deep voice flowed like gravel on a country road. `` Friend, we needed these pest rats in our building taken care of. You see they moved in about a week ago and have been scaring off patrons to our bar.'' Returning his pistol, the bald man grabbed the briefcase. `` You called the wrong number.''
