As I traveled along the north coast of Sicily from one small town to the next I started leaving word at
bars and fish houses that I wanted to talk to someone in the Mafia. Preferably one of those guys named Don, but if he
can't speak English any better than Marlon Brando, forget it.
I want to join the Mafia long enough to get one of those cool names like "The Worm." I could be a
foot soldier for a few days and dispose of a few bodies I suppose. If they met my terms and gave me the name I want
I could tell them I need two weeks vacation to take care of old business. Then I'd ask for two weeks advance on my salary.
By the time they know I've split I'll be half way to Palermo and they'll never find me. Then they'll know that The
Worm Can Bite.
But then I remembered that whole "Ugly American" thing and realized I wouldn't be leaving a good impression of Americans
abroad so I finished my beer and got back to riding.
