Palermo, City of Kings: The Heart of Sicily

(A sleek, campaign office. The air is thick with stale coffee and exhaustion. JOEY JUCO, mid-30s, sharp but weary, stares at a buzzing smartphone. FABRIZIO RANALLO, late 50s, carries a dense, unsettling physicality, enters. He doesn’t so much walk as occupy space.)

RANALLO: (Voice a low gravel) Congratulations are in order, I hear.

JUCO: (Doesn’t look up) The numbers just solidified. It’s not a landslide, but it’s math. You can’t argue with math.

RANALLO: I can argue with anything. You know that. Math is just counting. I deal in realities. Weight plates. Caliber.

JUCO: (Finally looks at him) This is a democracy, Fabrizio. Not a gym, not a range. The people counted. They chose.

RANALLO: (A humorless smile flickers) “The people.” They chose a meme. A quick, clever tweet. I am a principle. Forged. Tempered. You won a popularity contest held during a fire drill.

JUCO: Is that what you call it? A fire drill? The debates? The forums? Where you talked about “iron resolve” and “cleansing sweat” instead of sewer budgets?

RANALLO: Infrastructure of the body precedes infrastructure of the city. A weak people build weak pipes. I offered strength.

JUCO: You offered intimidation. There’s a difference.

RANALLO: (Takes a step closer, his presence filling the room) Intimidation is just unrecognized respect. You’ll learn. The office has a weight. It will bend your back. Snap your clever little spine. You think this is over?

JUCO: The election is.

RANALLO: The election was one set. One rep. The real workout begins now. I don’t retire. I reload.

(Ranallo turns to leave, pausing at the door.)

RANALLO: Get some sleep, Councilman-elect. You look frail. You’ll need your strength.

(He exits. Joey Juco doesn’t move, staring at the empty doorway, the victory on his phone suddenly feeling very, very light.)