Don Inferno Illustrated

By Jug Brown

A well-meaning group of gifted friends, a wily investor, and a vain business mogul find humorous and bizarre challenges in the unique environment of Portland, Oregon, and the Northwest. Local self-help culture collides with the demeaning manipulations of local politics and business, when a homeless teen center begins to turn into a “stocking pen” for breeders at a Northwest polygamous cult. A manipulative, sleep-deprived tyrant attempts to change his ways through New Age therapy and seeks to immortalize himself by commissioning a self-aggrandizing opera. DON INFERNO is the second book of the Chickenboy Trilogy. Now featuring illustrations by Stewart Thomas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jug Brown
• Release date: Jul 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476473802

Book preview

Prologue

Run! Don’t stop, Marty screamed at himself. Barefoot in the worst neighborhood of Portland, in the freezing night, and naked except for a dirty blanket, he staggered into an alley to catch his breath. Leaning against an overflowing dumpster, he panted, head hung low. Broken glass and garbage littered the ground. He knew Don Figlio and his goons were coming for him, even though he hadn’t seen them for blocks and blocks, he knew. They kept coming. Figlio walking calmly, Marty running for his life. Surely he must have outdistanced them and lost them by now? Surely it was safe here in this filthy alley. He crept into the darkness and crouched in the shadow of the dumpster, waiting for morning light and safety. Then a cough, a whisper, a rough laugh, and footsteps entered the alley. He pushed back into the darkness. Onward they came. A flashlight spotlighted him in its beam, and they advanced. A voice, Don Figlio’s now spoke to Marty. It sounded cruel, ironic, almost playful: What’s my name?

Marty awoke in a panic, his pajamas soaked with sweat, barely able to breath. The same nightmare, night after night. He stared at the light fixture above his bed, tried to will himself to calmness, and realized: I need help.

1

Marty Mantuna, known to his many close friends as Marty Martini, lay nearly naked on his back in the adult-sized crib, clad only in an adult cotton diaper, with oversized diaper pins each bearing the smiling face of a teddy bear painted inside a pink heart. Clutching an oversized baby rattle waving the other hand in the air, laughing hysterically as several people tickled him.

He let himself go and enjoyed the sensation of gentle loving hands tickling and fondling him safely, as if he were an infant. One woman was kissing the top of his head and cooing to him. Another held his feet. Every one in the room was talking baby talk to him, and Marty was using only infant sounds in return. Marty knew if he peed—it was OK—it would quickly be taken care of with a loving diaper change.

This was all part of Marty’s reversion therapy session at Back to the Crib, a program using a technique called Rebabying, designed for healing childhood wounds. After finishing Back to the Crib, Marty was moving up to Back to the Playpen, the next step in his age regression. In the next step he would play as a two year old with other reverted adults, watched over constantly by the many adult volunteer graduates of the four-step program. The third step: Swingset, Games, and Friends, was for the five to eight-year-old self. The final step was: Your Higher Purpose.

Dr. Raymond Clincher, the psychologist/trainer who developed the program, had one firm rule: He never counseled a graduate after the program ended. Everyone needs to figure their own lives out, without getting too attached to any one therapist or type of therapy.

Dr. Ray had developed a touch for finding the correct healing for an astonishingly wide array of people. Dr. Ray said "people must understand themselves as reverted infants, with infant motivations and reactions, without the filter of adult schooling, culture, and adult sophistication.

If you want to continue being big babies after this is over, it’s a free country, go ahead, I wouldn’t dream of stopping you—but don’t ask me to make your friggin’ play dates. He always gave a you are on your own speech in his final words to every graduating group.

His mixed and scholarly biography included some extremely heavy personal exploration. His academics showed him to be a genius, and his hunger for personal growth led him everywhere in the world from the Jung Institute in Switzerland into the depths of the Peruvian jungle to spend time with tribal shamans, drinking their ritual medicine in a dark hut.

Marty’s tickling session ended. Everyone was relieved that he didn’t soil or wet himself. It was nearly time for Marty’s simple graduation ceremony from Back to the Crib to the next step. He was going to have his diaper changed one last time by the trainers. Then he was going to be handed his own shorts and underpants. He would ceremoniously pull his pants up himself, and promise to try to make it to the toilet, although a mistake would be happily accepted.

The moment of truth arrived. Diaper-less behind a towel screen, Marty quickly put on his new shorts and underpants and stepped out. Doctor Ray rang a gong; the thundering bass sound filled the room. The therapy session was officially over. Ray hugged everyone, Marty hugged everyone, everyone hugged everyone. And nobody talked any more baby talk.

Marty walked out of Doctor Ray’s office in a residential neighborhood in the West Portland Hills into a drizzling midwinter storm. It was 37 degrees. He hunkered into his anorak and ran to his Lexus, opening the locks remotely. He turned the ignition on and consulted his iphone. In an hour he was scheduled for his Hung Pa Tuen lesson, a rare Chinese martial arts form, currently the rage, also known as the Way of the Possum. Students at the dojo learned 80 different ways to kick a man in the balls or kneecaps from a position on the ground.

This class was almost Marty’s last item in today’s calendar. Tonight, he was scheduled for a session in an isolation tank. Tomorrow he had acupuncture, a scented detoxifying milk bath, a Thai massage, and group primal scream.

He was looking forward to the upcoming Painted Warrior Tribe weekend drumming and dancing retreat, where male and female participants wore body paint and loincloths or grass skirts all weekend long and gave themselves caveman names.

Marty was a man determined to recover from his public humiliation. During a recent gathering at the enormous mansion of Dionysius Granorius, Don Figlio, a powerful local businessman, threatened Marty in front of all the guests and poured a gallon of Marty’s Maca concoction over Marty’s head. When Don Figlio had Marty cowering in fear, he made Marty say his name. Don Feel-yo. Don Feel-yo, Don Feel-yo, he screamed. Apparently, Marty had mispronounced his name.

In the days following his humiliation, which he had re-lived many times over, Marty retreated and devised his plan. Whatever therapy it took, he would undertake it. He cut back his very full social calendar. Therapy and understanding himself became his mission. He pursued it first with a vengeance, then with positive energy and even glee. He was going to get through this. He had entered into the realm of his deepest fears, and he now saw himself clearly. He did not hate, and he had no time for blame.

Marty could easily afford to attend therapy all day long if he chose, thanks to the wholesale cosmetics and shampoo business he started in his 30’s, while living in Los Angeles. When he took the company public in 2005, before the crash, the shares sold out in 15 minutes. In an instant, he went from being half a million in debt and renting in a dangerous neighborhood, to riches galore. He immediately sold his options and moved to the West Hills in Portland, to be closer to his mother and his sisters.

Marty’s most beneficial therapy, however, was gleaned from his new friendship with Hudson Cairn. The two often sat together, without talking, and Hudson played his bible like it was a Steinway grand, sending Marty into a trance. Marty dialed Hudson’s number. It rang a few times before Hudson answered.

Hudson.

Maaaarty Marrrrtiiiiniii. Hudson replied in a pretty fair Oprah impersonation.

Got time to hang out? I have Hung Pa Tuen in an hour. You home?

Ahhh. The inscrutable way of the playing dead possum. How very empowering for you, Meester Martini, Mr. kicker of the balls. I’m at Carolyn’s. The only thing I’m doing later is painting a room over at the No Strings Attached Homeless Teen Drop-In Center. It’s opening in five days, man, wanna meet now? he said.

I still don’t believe that Figlio got connected as the contractor to your nonprofit corporation to help homeless teens. What a fucked up coincidence! Marty said.

I know, I know, Figlio poured the beer over your head my man. You keep bringing it up. said Hudson.

Brad insisted we hire Figlio, but I think it’s gonna work out anyway. Figlio’s never there. And don’t forget, Figlio found this great house two blocks away from where I live at Carolyn’s. Brad Mart got federal and private funding so fast it was ridiculous. I thought that kind of stuff takes years. He turned around and made me and Puffi directors of the whole thing. Very cool, my friend, and the pay is excellent. continued Hudson.

Hudson, hold it a second. I have to stop you. I’m sorry. I just now realized I was unconsciously engaging you in this therapy I’ve been studying win which they train us to repeat over and over our obsessive thoughts, on and on , without changing the rant, without analysis, and without any attempt to heal the wounds or grow beyond the hurt. Supposedly, it activates personal growth, but I suspect that it’s just turning me into a boring asshole. I gotta drop out. This shit doesn’t work. I’m looking into a new deprogramming therapy involving electric aversion shocks administered during a functional MRI session. It sounds promising. Hudson, thank you so much. You’ve been very kind, putting up with me these past few months.

I deserve a medal for putting up with you.

I love ya, you big goof. said Marty, I’ll come by for a few minutes, see ya soon.

2

Holy crap. Don Figlio growled with canine menace at the knock at the door. He straightened up from the drafting table filled with architectural plans for a parking garage Figmono Construction was set to start on next week. He took a highlighter pen to a set of numbers representing the dimensions and strength of some steel beams: those responsible for holding each of the concrete floors up. The numbers are all wrong, he howled to himself. He slowly walked to the door.

What is it? he barked roughly at the door.

The door opened a crack, and his new maid barely poked the tip of her hat inside. How many for lunch, sir.

Just me and Luca, ready in ten minutes, call me.

The door closed, and Figlio bent back to his plans, stuffed with anger at the negligence and sloppiness of the engineer who drafted these plans. The fool wrote in substandard dimensions of critical steel parts responsible for holding up hundreds of thousands of pounds. This incompetent was about 30 seconds away from receiving a well-deserved verbal ass-reaming from a very dangerous man. That would be Donaldo Figlio, Italian immigrant, U.S. citizen for 30 years, a self-made man who loved opera and culture, despite his early brutish upbringing.

Only the foolhardy made jokes at his expense or called him by the common American nickname, plain old Don. He insisted on being called Don Figlio by everyone—as a show of respect, mind you—an honor reserved for a great man. Few refused to grant him the Southern European courtesy of calling him Don Figlio. Those who sniggered, chortled, or balked at granting this simple honorific became unlucky very fast.

Don Figlio was the undisputed head of all construction rackets in Portland. He also owned a couple of restaurants, a funeral home, an insurance agency, a real estate brokerage, the Figleaf sex shop, an imported provisions distributorship, and Figlio Construction, LLC, his parent company, the dominant force in the city’s municipal construction.

Figmono Construction was his brand-new baby, one he managed but did not own. All shares were held in trust for Figlio’s beloved ward, Mono, a 14-year-old illegal immigrant who inadvertently saved Don Figlio’s life just a year ago.

Figlio had been dying of an extremely rare liver disease. While dying, Figlio ran into the homeless Mono at the Donut Shack. He believed that Mono was expendable, a perfect prospect for an experimental medical procedure. Figlio wanted Mono’s liver. Figlio lured the unsuspecting Hispanic boy into his Crown Victoria, drugged him, and had an unethical doctor perform a nonconsensual biopsy and removal of part of Mono’s liver. After submitting it to a complex process, the doctor injected the resulting goo into the big man’s liver. Don Figlio soon made a miraculous recovery, and Mono, who owned nothing, was now a made man for life.

Figlio loved him. He took Mono into his house to live despite Mono’s reluctance to live indoors or anywhere near the Don. Figlio put up with any amount of rejection. Figlio indulged him, but Mono did not want any of what Figlio offered, except stories. Mono would listen for hours to stories, all kinds of tales, true or made up, from anyone who would talk to him. Tell me a story, Mono squeaked repeatedly in his high-pitched voice.

In ten minutes, the maid knocked again. Figlio knew Luca would not care if Figlio were late for lunch, but Figlio had great professional pride. He never arrived late for a meeting, and savagely chastised anyone who was late to meet with him, anyone except Luca and Mono.

Figlio left the study and walked into a grand, three-story living and dining room. Vinny the Vulture sat on a couch picking at his nails with a switchblade. The bodyguard's nickname came from his gangly frame, long neck, and hard gaze that constantly sought signs of weakness in everybody. Everybody except the Don.

Figlio opened the swinging door to the kitchen where he and Luca were dining today. Inside, his chef and dishwasher were busy preparing the meal and cleaning the stainless steel interior of the kitchen. Two large chairs were next to a small butcher-block table covered in white linen. There was one place setting of silverware and two napkins.

LUCA! Don Figlio screamed at the top of his lungs. LUCA! He waited. Where is Luca? I’m gonna get you!

The door burst open. An enormous Doberman burst through and charged past the legs of the cook who held on to the rim of the stove. The great red dog bounded to Don Figlio, stuck his nose in Don Figlio’s face and sniffed a wet sniff.

Get on your chair, ordered Don Figlio. Luca happily climbed onto the chair. Figlio tucked Luca’s napkin into his collar. The chef brought over Don Figlio’s lunch, coq au vin and a salad, and the dishwasher brought over Luca’s bowl of kibble and water with a taste of coq au vin liquid.

Who’s a good boy? said Figlio.

3

After lunch, Figlio rolled up his engineering plans and tossed them in the trashcan. The engineer had apologized profusely and promised to double check his calculations and deliver a new set of plans by end of business today. There was a tiny knock on the door. Figlio recognized the sound immediately.

Come in my boy, he said sweetly.

Mono entered, his anorak dripping. He was short and very wiry, with long arms and incredibly long fingers. His arms were hairy, just like Don Figlio’s, and only his face was uncovered by black hair. He walked to Don Figlio, sniffed the top of Figlio’s head, sniffed his armpits, then stepped away.

Hi, hi, Mono chirped.

Figlio sat on his drafting stool.

How are you today, Mono?

Mono ignored the question.

Can I, can I ask you something?

Can I ask you for something? Figlio patiently corrected.

Yes. I want to go college.

Figlio paused.

College?

I want to go college.

Figlio knew better than to dismiss Mono and his crazy idea outright. Mono seldom asked for anything. Figlio knew Mono was ambivalent about living with the Don. Figlio was worried Mono would disappear forever.

I promise you we will try. Figlio pressed a button on the desk and Vinny came into the room.

Vinny. I need you to take Mono to Portland State and get him enrolled to visit classes. He don’t need to take no tests. He just gets to go to college.

Vinny the Vulture erupted with a mean derisive laugh. "Haw haw. You sure you don’t want to graduate from grade school first,

Mono? How about middle school? How about I enroll you in middle school, and you don’t have to take no middle school tests?" He smiled at his own joke.

Don Figlio sighed and slowly stood. He held out his hand to Vinny.

Give me your pig sticker. Vinny quickly handed his switchblade over, no longer feeling quite so witty. A dark red color rose in Don Figlio’s face and neck. He stood over Vinny and stared, daring Vinny to hold his gaze. Vinny looked away.

What college did you go to Vinny? Figlio said softly, almost in a whisper. Vinny was a man who could kill or maim without a second thought, but he was suddenly terrified. He did not answer.

I said, Where did you go to college? WHERE DID YOU GO TO FUCKING COLLEGE YOU SHITBIRD? Figlio screamed at Vinny, spit flying from the corners of his mouth.

I’ll tell you where you went to college, you knuckle dragging bullet head alky: ‘Dumb Nuts U.’ He glared. You spigot sucking, beer-jerking bingo boy. You dickbrained banana head. You want to know where I went to college?

Figlio challenged Vinny to answer. Vinny hoped he was not required to answer aloud. He desperately wanted to diffuse this situation. He did not know whether to answer. An uncomfortable silence passed. He answered.

Where, Boss?

I went to ‘Take this knife of yours and cut off your balls and feed them to the pigs U,’ that’s where.

Figlio snapped open the knife, and Vinny yelped involuntarily.

I’m sorry boss.

Figlio grew angrier.

Why are you apologizing to me? It’s not me you insulted. It was Mono you insulted. If my boy wants to go to college, he will go to college. Do you have a problem with that?

I am sorry, Mono. Please accept my apology.

Figlio turned to Mono. Do you accept, or shall I avenge your honor?

Accept, I accept, Mono quickly said. Figlio remained standing over Vinny, not sure if this was sufficient.

I’ll take him to the college tomorrow, Boss. We’ll get him enrolled. I think they call it auditing, said Vinny.

Call my lawyer if there are any problems, said Figlio.

Papi, Papi, Mono tugged at Figlio’s sleeve. Figlio loved it when Mono called him Papi.

What is it, Bambino? Figlio said.

I want bank money. I want account at a real bank.

Figlio sighed. He was getting tired of these crazy requests.

Sure, Mono. Anything. Figlio thought for a second and turned back to Vinny, still angry.

Damn right you’ll get a bank account, Mono. How much money do you want to give Mono to start his bank account, Vinny? Figlio asked his henchman.

Vinny had hoped this was over, and now he saw himself between the horns of another dilemma. How much would suffice? Too much and Figlio would think him an ass kisser, and too little would be insulting to that little geek Mono.

Anything you like, boss, Vinny said.

No, I am asking you. Be a man. Tell me how much you are gonna give him.

Uh, how about, uh a $500? Would that be OK, boss?

Make it $1,000 Figlio barked in return.

OK. That is fine. We will get a bank account and enroll you in college tomorrow. How does that sound, Mono? Just you and me, said Vinny.

OK, OK, OK, eh eh eh eh. Mono jumped up and down excitedly. Figlio saw Mono was happy, so he decided the confrontation with Vinny was over.

Get out of here you boozaholic shitbird, said Figlio. He folded the knife very slowly and handed it back. Vinny left quickly.

I want to go play, Papi. Mono was very agitated and happy. Figlio was joyful.

Sure, Mono. Papi has to work now. Go out and play. Figlio yawned. He had not slept a full night’s sleep in two weeks, and sleep deprivation was making him alternate manically between anger and giddiness. He needed rest and nothing had worked. He had tried medications, alcohol, warm milk, sex. Nothing worked and he wondered if he would ever sleep again. He wished he could lie down, but later this afternoon he was attending his first meeting of the Portland Opera Council, and he wanted to be sharp. He rang for the maid.

Maria, bring me a double espresso.

My name is not Maria, it’s LaSheeka she replied. He would never get it right.

Just bring it.

4

Mono used his passkey and boarded the Max. The light rail car was crammed. He hung from a strap, his free hand on a vertical stainless steel handrail. Quietly, without drawing any attention to himself, he would lift himself easily up with his strap hand, and pivot his feet out using his other hand as a lever.

He tickled the hair of an older woman sitting in a seat five feet ahead of him, snaking his foot past a businessman standing in front of himself. The woman was startled, and turned around to confront the person who invaded her space. The businessman was reading his folded Oregonian and did not catch either Mono’s foot, or the woman’s challenge.

She turned back. A group of gangster wannabe teenagers sitting across the aisle saw the whole thing. They started joking amongst themselves. One pointed to the woman, inviting Mono to do it again. Mono stood expressionless. His transfer stop to the West Hills was coming up, at Pioneer Square. As soon as the door opened, he reached around the businessman, and in two quick movements, undid the man’s belt and dropped the man’s pants. He then disappeared through the open door, to a howl of teenage laughter. Mono did not look back, but lost himself in the crowd.

Mono took the Max to go see Hudson at Hudson’s apartment at Carolyn Friedman’s home in the West Hills. Hudson was a paid director of No Strings Attached, whose future home was just two blocks from where Hudson lived. Don Figlio’s crew was just finishing the renovations on the center, in anticipation of its grand opening.

Mono adored Hudson and loved to sit with Hudson, while Hudson practiced his bibliomancy. Hudson had a strange gift. From his family bible, cryptic and often illegible messages would appear to him. All he had to do was run his fingers across its pages and stare into the book.

The gift of bible reading had come to just a few persons in his family for over 150 years. Bibliomancy brought him peace and purpose. Hudson’s bible reading would also induce an intense meditative calm in others near him. People would swoon, see visions, or become sedate. It was like the quiet that is experienced in hypnosis.

Over the four months Hudson had been bible reading, he discovered he could figure out the motivations and major emotions of the people in the room with him while he read. He was now able to read a crowd with great accuracy.

Hudson never used any of his abilities for personal gain. Money did not motivate him. His family of birth included two siblings with advanced degrees, but Hudson had barely completed high school. He had lived his entire life in rural northern California. Portland was the first city he had ever lived in.

Mono knocked on his door, and Hudson opened it, clad in his own raincoat.

Hey little buddy. How ya doing Mono? Mono sniffed Hudson’s sleeve.

I was just going up to the center to paint a room. Want to help me? Hudson said.

The tiny Mono beamed up at the giant Hudson. Yeah, yeah, he said.

Outside they walked in a cold midwinter rain.

"You want a piggyback ride, Mono?

Yeh, Yeh. I want. I want.

Mono climbed on Hudson’s broad back and he trudged up the steep road. Mono, who was going through puberty, clung to his back and found himself getting sexually stimulated. Hs groin was pressed against Hudson and the motion of Hudson walking rubbed him strongly enough to cause an erection. He gripped Hudson’s neck harder, and then started humping Hudson’s back, making noises:

ee ee ee eeeeee.

Christ. What the fuck are you doing? Hudson turned around, and Mono gripped tighter and pumped faster.

Stop it! Stop it! Hudson tried to pull Mono’s legs off him, to get some distance between himself and the hard-on, but Mono had a death grip. Hudson saw a street sign a few feet away. He backed into it and tried to wipe Mono off his back. It worked. Mono dropped to the ground, confused, hurt, and excited.

What I do? What do I do? What I do?

Hudson took a deep breath.

You need to talk to your father, dude. Don’t ask me that shit. And don’t ever do that to me again. That is not cool—with anybody. Friends don’t do that kind of thing to each other.

I sorry, said Mono.

Cover up that boner.

Mono pulled down his anorak and they proceeded silently up the road to the nearly finished teen center. It was a beautiful home built on a nearly vertical hillside. It was four stories tall, with openings on two different streets: the garage and lower entrance on one street, close to the road, and the main entrance up the hill on a different street.

Hudson opened the garage door at the lower level and began to mix his paint, leaving the garage door open. Mono climbed a nearby tree. An old woman in a yellow raincoat with two dachshunds wearing matching yellow raincoats passed by. She stopped. Mono jumped down.

What is happening here? she asked.

Hudson had been warned by both Carolyn, his landlord, and Brad Mart, the brains behind the No Strings Attached, not to talk to the locals. Don’t talk to the neighbors. They can’t help us, Brad had told him.

Hudson had never agreed with this position and with just a few days before the opening, he decided to be honest, which he felt was always the best policy.

Hi ma’am. We are opening a drop-in center for homeless teens right here. It will be the first of its kind in the northwest.

The woman’s expression changed from friendly to skeptical in an instant.

Is that legal?

Yes, Ma’am. Perfectly legal. They got what is called a variance. You are invited to the grand opening in five days. We will start servicing the homeless teens of our community immediately. They can come by any time they want. Isn’t that great? We aren’t going to have too many rules. We are really proud of this thing and all the good we will do.

We have zoning laws against that type of thing! She scowled at Hudson, shook her head, and walked away quickly. Hudson watched her go.

What a sourpuss, Hudson said. The paint was mixed. He closed the garage door and went upstairs to paint his room.

Hey Mono.

Yes?

Don’t forget to ask your father what to do about that thing in your pants. Ask him today. What you did to me as not cool, not at all.

I am sorry. Mono picked up a brush, and helped Hudson paint. But Hudson suggested that Mono work the opposite side of the room.

5

Brad Mart was eager for Thursday to end. All he could think about was his upcoming weekend at Brother Elijah’s compound in Idaho, his first time visiting. He was planning to leave the first thing tomorrow. He was a guest breeder at a sect of ultra-conservative Mormons, who maintained a low profile.

Brad, a Mormon himself, had been intrigued by polygamy for years. This was his first foray into bringing a second woman into his marriage of 13 years. Brad was 34 years old, a tall, good-looking ex-football player who married a cheerleader. He had two kids and was rich. He ran his own business: Mart Venture Capital, Inc.

He funded a few entrepreneurs and their inventions, but mostly he stole the ideas of clueless inventors who were not smart enough to ask for a confidentiality agreement. Brad had engineers on staff in Mumbai who developed the inventions. The inventions were sold through shell corporations owned by holding corporations and limited partnerships, all eventually held by his wife Brenda, in her maiden name, which she had kept after marrying Brad—it was part of their plan.

Brad rang his secretary.

Jeannette. What do I have early next week? Brad wanted to find out how much time he could spend in Idaho, in case he wanted to extend his sex weekend.

You have a meeting with your lawyers on Monday, to change the name of the homeless teen center to Homeless Teens for Christ Latter Day Pregnancy Alternatives Center. Then on Tuesday, the center opens with a ceremony. The mayor is coming. Then on Wednesday, you have a meeting with Mr. Hudson together with Dagmar St. John, the Hollywood personal coach. I have confirmed that Mr. St. John will be here early Wednesday morning. His staff told me he is eager to meet the remarkable Hudson, with his amazing bible reading powers.

Good, Jeannette. Call Brother Elijah and tell him I will be there by noon tomorrow.

6

After Don Figlio finished reviewing his building plans and Mono had left to play outside, he showered and changed into a conservative, dark gray cashmere and wool suit. He fastened his monogrammed gold cufflinks, picked out a blue patterned tie, and climbed into his Crown Victoria. He drove himself to the Portland Art Museum to a much-anticipated meeting. Today Don Figlio was joining the prestigious Portland Opera Council, a group of professors, composers, and opera patrons. Figlio, a thoroughgoing opera fan, had tried for years to join the exclusive gathering, but had failed repeatedly to gain an invitation.

He had give up, and then he bought out the first position trust deed that was financing the construction of the Portland River Village Mall, an undercapitalized venture that had run out of money. The project controlled the best location for a new mall in southeast Portland. He obtained the trust deed for pennies on the dollar, and immediately filed foreclosure proceedings.

His foreclosure notice got the immediate attention of the desperate owners, who begged for a personal meeting. Figlio readily granted the interview, since the only spectacle he adored more than opera was making vanquished business competitors squirm. If they asked for a meeting—as they usually would—he would meet them at a construction site.

For the meeting with the desperate owners, he dressed in dirty construction coveralls and a hard hat. He would make his competitors sit on uncomfortable folding chairs. Then his fun started. He never immediately dispelled their desperate hopes, but prolonged their agony, before dealing his victims a lengthy and oh-so compassionate final coup de grace. He wanted his victims to believe in his compassion, and if they bought it, he felt ecstatic. In reality, Don Figlio was about as compassionate as a cat toying with a small, crippled bird.

Figlio always imagined these scenes as part of a grand opera—an opera all about Don Figlio’s life. He instinctively sought out experiences that were rich in operatic potential, and his beaten competitors provided just such rich material for him to react against. He relished seeing regret, fear, pleading, resignation, and humiliation, all in a brief meeting.

He conducted these meetings with practiced flair, weaving each meeting of the doomed into a unique artistic creation. He vowed that one day his life experiences would be the subject matter for an important new opera, one that would endure for millennia, alongside the great Italian operas. He even had a name for his opera: Don Inferno. Don Figlio knew he had lived enough to provide sufficient material for a grand opera, from his impoverished childhood to his present position. All he needed was a gifted composer and clever librettist to realize his vision.

However, on the particular day of his meeting with the unhappy owners of the Portland River Village Mall, something changed in the meeting, that made Don Figlio change his usual pattern of dealing a financial sword thrust to the hearts of his sorry victims.

Figlio always opened the meetings to find out some personal information about his victims: family, education, hobbies, and the like. During his opening maneuver with the owners of the Portland River Village Mall, Figlio discovered that the mall’s owner, Sebastian Orville, was the grandson of a woman who had endowed the Portland Opera with enough money to run it for decades. Figlio expressed his desire to joint the