Narrator:
They all hate the gun they hire. When people look at you, baby boy Frankie Bono, they see death. Death across the counter.
Narrator:
When the Better Business Bureau rings the Christmas bell, the suckers forget there's such a business as murder, and businessmen who make it their exclusive line.
Narrator:
You don't have to know a man to live with him. But you have to know a man like a brother to kill him.
Narrator:
You get a feeling this is how it was meant to be. Like you are Troiano's fate. Like you're God.
Narrator:
You know the type. Second-string syndicate boss with too much ambition and a mustache to hide the fact he has lips like a woman. The kind of face you hate.
Narrator:
You're alone. But you don't mind that. You're a loner. That's the way it should be. You've always been alone. By now it's your trademark. You like it that way.
[closing narration]
Narrator: "God moves in mysterious ways," they said. Maybe he is on your side, the way it all worked out. Remembering other Christmases, wishing for something, something important, something special. And this is it, baby boy Frankie Bono. You're alone now. All alone. The scream is dead. There's no pain. You're home again, back in the cold, black silence.
Narrator: "God moves in mysterious ways," they said. Maybe he is on your side, the way it all worked out. Remembering other Christmases, wishing for something, something important, something special. And this is it, baby boy Frankie Bono. You're alone now. All alone. The scream is dead. There's no pain. You're home again, back in the cold, black silence.
