La Mela

He had only been in New York for a few days. Cocky and arrogant. Fortunately, his brother, an artist struggling to pay for beer and cigarettes was familiar with the ins and outs of the Big Apple.
"Chinese?"
Yeah.
It had not taken entirely too long to hop the L from Brooklyn and into Union Square. The usual fare rode the train smelling of sewage, barf and Old Spice. Hanging on to the straps attempting to talk over the incessant screaming of the L bounding through the underground at breakneck speeds, they pondered whether to walk via the village or take the 6 train.
Well, it was the Big Apple and these two intrepid individuals had a pack of Marlboro Reds, matches, 4 pints of liquid giddiness and were bound for China Town on foot.
Of course, one cannot help getting to China Town via Little Italy, and these two being eager to smell everything from vomit to street crime did just that.
"Wonder what's on the menu?'
Spaghetti, du'h.
La Mela stood out to them - little shop with all the quaintness of a wayward, red speckled Mafioso movie.
"Dude, no prices."
He puffed on his cigarette, reading the tiny print on the menu.
"I wonder wh..."
"You twos look 'ungry."
Before they knew it two of la Mela's goons dragged them into the building. It was no use arguing. By the time fear had washed over them and subsided they were seated at a round table - the footmen lumbering in the sunlight casting long, lonely shadows.
Dire moments.
They stared at the walls of La Mela. They obviously did not know of interior decorating as the walls were plastered like poorly placed machine gun holes with a variety of autographed celebrity photographs. Each one thanking La Mela for the hospitality and a place to store the body. Dean Martin, John Wayne, Sinatra, DeNiro, da friggin' Pope…
Above them a ceiling filled with what may have been fingers and ears for all they had known. And the piece to cause them the greater deal of consternation – a monstrous phallic chandelier
The boys were in big, big trouble...