Smokeshow for the Mafia Prince

4. Prologue

Prologue

Dashiell

Most ancient myth systems and religions have something divine associated with fire.

The Judeo-Christians have their burning bush. The Ancient Greeks had Prometheus. Maūi of Polynesian myth performs a similar trick as the legendary Greek titan. In all these stories, fire is something that brings enlightenment, wisdom, life.

And yet, fire must be feared.

I first learned the fear of fire when I was nine years old.

My best friend, Kenny, had invited me to a sleepover for his birthday.

Just the two of us, we had stayed up late watching old kids’ movies, and then stayed up even later watching forbidden adults’ movies.

His parents didn’t know about that part, though I’m sure that his dad later saw it on his cable bill.

The first started in the kitchen, an electrical fire caused by faulty wiring. Of course, we didn’t know that. All we knew was that we were woken up at three in the morning to the keening of the alarms and to the air thick with smoke.

Kenny’s parents rushed us out of the house, bundled in quilts, and we stood moon-eyed on the street while the firefighters pumped water onto the brick split-level.

In the end, the house was okay, though the carpet still smells like an old campfire when it rains to heavily outside.

Though the flames themselves didn’t touch me, something sparked inside me that night, and ever since then I have known the holy terror and awe reserved for the ancient gods. Because all flames, whether holy or hellish, share something: the unstoppable potential for utter destruction.