I think they’re still huntin' me. I have no right to be alive, and they’re still huntin’ me. I was murdered and dumped into a river, in one of the finest twilled rugs the gangsters who shot me could find in Carpet Right. The only problem? I survived.
I guess I was always immature. I’ve grown plenty over these seven months, but before that I barely aged in 67 years. I was always Jimmy “Tattletale” Miggins, that kindergartener who told on you when you copied homework or stabbed a fellow pupil with a screwdriver.
And I ain’t talking about the cocktail, boss. Although I did once glass a man with a screwdriver cocktail.
The best way to find work as a tattletale ain’t through legitimate means, I tell you now boss. No, my position at that aforementioned Carpet Right was always on the line. I needed money, anyway, for my various drug addictions, and once you’re in the mob, the paracetamol is basically on tap.
Mobs need tattletales like most of those students needed a good stabbing. Sorely. The media always gets us snitches in the wrong light. The underworld needs us like we need them.
I’m the insurance policy. I suppose when your car is damaged, you get money on your insurance. Likewise, when Tommy “Horsehead” Scariacci is killed in cold blood on an anti-depressant deal gone bad, I’m the guy who gets the blame.
Once the mob’s done me good and proper in retaliation, they can go back to abusing Xanax and sertraline. I never said being a mobster was easy, boss.
So, yeah. That’s how I came to be in this rug. That’s how I came to be in that puddle that Lorenzo “The Shortsighted” Scariacci thought was a river. That's how I flopped away down the road to allow my wounds to heal. Trouble is, I can’t get out. This Persian rug’s wrapped round tight.
Life in the rug is tough. You try stirring a coffee with no hands. You try loving a beautiful woman without being able to feel anything but wool. Wool is itchy, and I'm allergic to it. That didn't go down well with Antonia, my wife, who takes one look at my inflamed skin and leaves me.
I tried to get a guy to cut me out, but instead he cut a small hole in the rug to steal my wallet, and after that I couldn’t trust no-one.
I want out and I’ve only just figured out how to get out. I watched this Bond film where this mill-saw is set on Bond. I’m going down to Milltown tomorrow to run headlong at one of those mill-saws to set me free, and there ain't nothing anyone can do about it.
Jimmy “Tattletale” Miggins was unfortunately run over by a bus on the way to Milltown. He will be buried in the rug.