“i walked down the aisle, i stood in front of the boss, he took a knife. i held out my hand, he cut my finger. some blood dropped on the floor – this is a blood oath – i cupped my hands, he took a picture of a Catholic Saint.
Tonight, Michael Franzese – you are born again. Violate what you know; betray your brothers, & you will die & burn in hell, like this saint is burning in your hands. Do you accept? Yes, i do (what if Michael had said: erm, is it too late for me to change my mind? 😀 ).
That is it. That is the ritual. Short & sweet. But extremely serious.”
– “Now there were six of you.”
– “Yes; six of us; we went in individually. We underwent the ritual alone.”
– “& now, out of these six, you are the only one left alive?”
– “They are all dead. They are all dead. Not one died of natural causes. Every one of ‘em was murdered.”
a poetics of confusions 