Tony is the result of a bottle of Acqua Di Gio breeding with a tub of hair gel and giving birth into a pile of trimmed pubic hair.
His priorities are simple: the sound system in his lpate model 3 series lowered BMW, his gains and his famiglia. The lowest of his priorities are fair quotes on his painting business and maintaining a civil volume of conversation.
You’ll never see him without a wallet full of cash, a gold crucifix around his neck and designer clothes tighter than Hey Dad’s clench while in the prison showers.
How does he afford such extravagances? Well, the “24-carat gold” is really just 12 carats plated, and he lives in his parent’s granny flat at the ripe age of 31. His rent? Helping to bottle a decades worth of pasta sauce every year.
When it comes to his famiglia, he will “fooking kill ya mate” if you disrespect his sisters or mamma. However, if you are a “slut” walking on a footpath, he will hound you like relapsing DMX from his vehicle. Note: this is the one, and only time he will turn down his shit house music because he doesn’t turn down his woofers for nothing, bro.
Every weekend is like a Night at the Cuntsbry. He loads up his BMW with his cousins and cruises down to Perth’s Roma: Freo. Before getting out of the car each cousin’s fist pumps the tiny pair of boxing gloves hanging from Tony’s rearview, “gonna get some pussay, bros”.
Before hitting the strip for some coffees and pasta, they pose by the BMW for a gram pic looking like they’re about to drop the hottest Rohypnol pill of 2019 into someone’s drink.
Next, they are onto Ginos to sit on the terrace and whistle at girls walking past and maybe sell a few bags to people who like their drugs cut up like Edward Scissorhands dick after a 9-hour meth-wank.
After the coffees, it’s time to smash out a few laps of the strip and head into Subiaco to tune some ladies. Of course, the staff refuse to let him carry around a bottle of Grey Goose, so he does the woggiest thing he knows, he gives the bartender $20 to let him pose with the bottle for the gram, “popping bottles babies #theycanthandleus”.
Tony spends the majority of the night harassing the DJ to play some deep house before getting sprung selling a bag of white weakness to a “perthonality”. While being escorted to the club, he resists while asking whether the bouncers know who he is?
They sure do, he’s the guy heading back to his parent’s granny flat to take photos in the mirror and send dick picks so hairy that the recipients call in bigfoot sightings.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?
