Prue was one of those overly precocious children—ran a back alley game of three card Monte at age 3, got into bootlegging gin at 3 ½, and by age 4, she had taken over the black-market cigarette trade and set her mind firmly on becoming kingpin of the local syndicate. Her tinted hair and rouged up cheeks gave her an air of sophistication that when combined with her hard living and hooker heels planted the look of a held back seven year old on her five-year-old head.
She was hustling drinks one night in late February at the dive where her father tended bar and her mother taxi danced. She had a Pall Mall in one hand and agin and whiskey in the other when it started. Some say the rain brought it on. Others tell that it came in with the tide. Either way, Chuck accused Tom of cheating during a raucous game of Candy Land. Tom answered Chuck’s charges with a right hook. Faster than you can say “Goodfellas,” it had become a full on, bare knuckled, barroom brawl. Prue thought to ride it out on her barstool, but a flying rum bottle knocked her to the floor. While she was lamenting a chip to one of her highly polished finger nails, the ebb of the fight turned trampling her under foot. She was buried from St. Sebastian’s the next Friday
with a Mass of the Angels.
Thanks again to Mr. Gorey.
