Tony B. may not have time for coffee with Tony S., but he apparently has plenty for a nice leisurely lunch with Feech. And presumably a shower afterward as well, given Robert Loggia's increasing tendency to spray spittle with every word he growls. We catch up with the boys tooling around town in Feech's convertible, the Feechster himself busily trying to recruit Stevie B. onto his team. After some additional, oven-fresh exposition about Feech's running a bakery to help maintain his legit appearances, the old guy starts talking smack about Tony, calling him "the Boy King" and asking Piney B. (tm mickeyjace) if it's okay to talk "frankly" about the boss. The ever clever Mr. Buscemi, however, never says a word in response, thus keeping his options open for whatever endeavor he might be planning. And in any case, the conversation is soon interrupted when Feech pulls over and announces that he has to make a stop. Ahh, prostate problems. They always get you in the end.

Or perhaps not. It seems Feech has taken a sudden interest in the landscaping arts, because he heads over and strikes up a conversation with a pair of gardeners working on a nearby lawn. And by "strikes up a conversation" I actually mean that he shouts "The fuck you doin'?" several times and creates a localized Category 3 hurricane when his spit gets caught in the back-blast from a weed whacker. Heh. I'd pay good money to see the National Weather Service bust out "Hurricane Feech" next year. I mean, come on. "Hugo"? "Floyd"? "Andrew"? Those guys were pussies. Feech tells the gardener that his nephew Gary La Manna will be the one cutting grass in this neighborhood from now on, to which the gardener replies with a succinct and spittle-free "Fuck off, I'm busy." But not, sadly, full. Because I do have a nice wafer-thin mint right here on my desk for him. Feech clearly doesn't handle rejection very well (which leads me to wonder if his prison fight story didn't actually occur after his cell-daddy dumped him for a fresh-faced young embezzler), because he hauls off and kicks the gardener right in the tulips. Ouch. And here's a sentence to warm the cockles of your heart: "You want me to fuck off? How about if I fuck off all over your stupid fucking face, you fucking mutt?" Feech's fuckfest is accompanied by the rhythmic smacking sounds of him pounding on the poor gardener, and you can tell that the foley guys really had some fun with this scene. Feech then caps off the beating by dragging the bloody and helpless dude over to the curb. By his testicles. Damn. Then he announces one last time that his nephew will be taking over the neighborhood, and jumps down on the gardener's right arm, snapping it like a twig that just got run over by a John Deere. Stevie B. finally runs over to pull Feech away, announcing in a concerned tone of voice that they're both still on parole. Hee! I have no idea why that line amuses me so much, but it does.