Mafia Hit Man Caught in Traffic Dino DeDinatti, trigger man for the recently attenuated Concetto Crimo Familiariario, got stuck in a crapload of traffic on interstate 75 near Hahira, Georgia, while packing the body of the still warm yet extremely decapitated Tony "Hats" Clemente-Finzi (minus the hats) on the roof of his V-8 1991 Chevron Algonquin City Villanese Town Car Primo Connally SuedeLuxe Dreamboat Swallow Supreme. DeDonati, drinking steadily from the barrel of a whiskey flask disguised as a colt .45 since Florida, and flummoxed by the jam on the supposed "freeway", swerved impulsively into the HOV lane, reasoning that the trusty Algonquin was after all carrying more than one body on its way north, and anyhow did the Pope say both bodies had to be actively respirating or what?
Dino grabbed a bit of daylight, and floored the fifty-five hundred pound behemoth, plus the "dead weight" of Clemente-Finzi lashed to the roof rack with bungy cords and duct tape. Soon after, DeDinatti was clocked by a local highway patrolman at ninety-nine miles an hour, which piqued the lawman's dormant doughnut fed curiosity, not to mention the nifty suede wingtips protruding between the grommets of the blue vinyl tarp on the roof as it sped past the Exit 361 Cafe Erotica billboard they usually parked behind.
"SO? . . what's your hurry, need a shoe shine?" inquired Officer Ed "Hoss" Lumbah, Lieutenant Major First Class of Willowcoochee County, Georgia, sauntering up and leaning a hand against the open window of the Algonquin.
Responded a deadpan DeDinatti, "Officer, That is an excellent question and requires an honest and straightforward answer which I am more than glad to provide, that is, and I say this with all sincerity, so listen close -- we're traveling rapidly in the HOV Lane only because the my good friend and confidant, the late Mr. Finzi, requested to be laid to rest beneath the moss topped permafrost located in the deep northern and icy wastes of.... Chicken, Alaska."
To which Officer Lumbah responded with a derisive chuckle, "Chicken, Alaska, really? Well, mister Dee-do-knotty, I think you better get your bering strait, good buddy."
At which moment Mr. DeDinatti drifted off into a zone of rapt inattention pregnant with possibility. He pondered aggressively flooring his Chevron Algonquin Swallow Supreme, once again harnessing the explosive power of refined petroleum to propel him at brisk yet breakneck speeds across the county line and towards Clemente-Finzi's final resting places and then keep driving and leaving behind his life of crime and perhaps settling on a corner lot in Chicken, Alaska and living the thin life in the witness protection program but without the government stickin' a speculum up his ass.