Who wants to know?

Back in New York things were different. I was feared, I commanded respect… I also had a penis.

Name’s Frankie… Was Frankie. You read the papers you probably saw me under the name Scarface Frankie. I was a member of the Falcone crime family. Was until I got pinched by the Feds. I was looking at a long stretch… if I even made it that far. So I made a deal, and I sang like a bird, and the Feds agreed to have me moved someplace no one would ever see old Frankie ever again.

There was just the matter of my face. Scarface wasn’t just a nickname or cold sounding shit to make unfortunate mooks shit themselves when they knew I was coming. My mugg was covered in scars, and I needed to look, how should we say, less conspicuous. The Feds had these nanobots, tiny machines that would reconfigure me subtly and erase the scars on my face. Supposed to make me taller even. Well, there was a problem, they didn’t act as advertise and when I woke up I had tits. Like real tits, not the sagging man kind. I was now in my early 20’s and a dame and whatnot. I was pissed, naturally, but they assured me this would make it even harder for the Falcones to ever find me. Set me up in the countryside with a new wardrobe and a new house.

Given some time, it wasn’t so bad. It even grew on me, I mean I’m living among simple hicks and all, but they are actually alright and mannered and all. As a cute girl, these wannabe cowboys are all sweet on me buying me drinks and all. Look at this photo, the surly bastard from the big city is gone, and now I’m this smiling broad.


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