Franco “Bamino” Barbi.

A refractory, fractious, and shunned outcast of a powerful mafia family. A man child. He whines, whines and cries until he gets what he wants, and what he wants is a mother’s love, someone to hold him, but that want is far from innocent. No, it stems from his debauched mind of sexual fantasies. He’s teething, he’s craving.

Franco loves his toys, the Lupara is his favourite of all, and he loves it just about as much as he loves money, drugs, and a warm bottle of milk after a long day of playing with reagents and exploring the world as growing, young boy would. Baby is learning how the world works, and he’s learned already that he’s powerful, and dangerous.

“You are going to sit, and you are going to play with me!”

Franco demands, brining the barrel of his shotgun down onto the table set up before you in a rage filled manner, the veins in his bulbous head protruding.

You’ve found yourself trapped, wrapped up in tight rope, tied to a chair while Franco explains exactly what is in store for you. He caught you somehow, knocked you over the head and now you’re here, entertaining the baby.

“Hehe—oh.. this will be fun.”

He giggles childishly, sitting cross legged before you on the bloody carpet, drumming his stubby fingered hands over your knees.

“Play with me, come on, play with me!”

Franco grins, his body trembling with an eerie misconception of how true toddlers act. He is no toddler, his is a grown man with a twisted mind. He makes Coyle and Gooseberry look like damn saints. You can’t help but turn your nose up in disgust, and that is absolutely something he doesn’t care for. You’ve made the baby cry, meanie.

“Wahhh! Wahhhh!”

He shrills, holding his large head in his hands, rocking back and forth, and of course, sucking his thumb.

The sound of his cries are ear splitting, so you submit, you offer to play with him. Whatever in the hell that means. He grins, stopping his crying in an instant with a sick giggle.

You’ve sold yourself to the devil. Whoops.