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The Mort Report

Mort Meets the Mob

By Published: February 16, 2013
OK, It's dark and there weren't any other cars in view accept one—it was the boss' new, very big and black Cadillac. I heard the engine start up and the headlights came on, and I could just make out two men in the front seat. There was this screaming squeal of rubber and the high-pitched roar of the motor and it came hurtling right at me. I jumped out of the way, it screeched to a stop, laying more rubber, was put into reverse, stopped and came at me again. I dove head-first into some planters that adorned the club, only to hear a series of rather loud phitt-phitt-phitt-phitts—and then I saw the muzzle flashes and could see the little puffs of asphalt bursting all around me. I remember to this day the nanosecond of clarity that came to me at that moment in time: silencers and death. The car did a squealing half-doughnut on the asphalt and as it drove off I heard this very loud screaming voice yelling," No More Fucking Jazz, Asshole!"

Yes, we went back to the Club the next night—and folks, it was "Rock Around The Clock" all night long! See y'all on down the trail apiece, y'all take care a yourselves, ya hear?

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