Tybalt Fuckin Conti

1953

Detroit's boomin'.

Chrome everywhere, like the whole damn city got dipped in a fresh coat of the American Dream. The factories are louder than hell, spitting out cars and paychecks, and up in the big boy boardroom of the Ford Motor Company, a bunch of stiff suits are losin' their goddamn minds.

At who?

At Tybalt Fuckin' Conti.

And he ain't even one of them.

Not "Mr. Conti." Not "Sir." Just Tybalt. 'Cause no man looks at him and doesn't immediately clock that he's above all that shit. Like you put a leash on a lion and called it a housecat.

He don't belong in a boardroom, but here he is.

All in black, crisp as fuck, a cigarette dangling from his mouth like he owns fire itself. He leans against the table, lazy, casual, like a king humoring his subjects.

And beside him?

Carina Marie Esposito.

Yeah. That Carina Marie Esposito. The one who made Ford's PR department. The one who could take down a whole ass man with a look. South Philly royalty.

And she's sittin' on the edge of the conference table, legs crossed, hangin' on his every fuckin' word like she's a schoolgirl, and he's the goddamn Messiah.

The suits?

They are panicked.

They been terrified of her for years, but now they're watching as she fuckin' melts, and for what?

For him.

Tybalt smirks, exhales smoke, and gives 'em the pitch.

Not about horsepower. Not about steel.

"You wanna know why this car's gonna sell?"

The whole room leans in.

"'Cause when a guy gets behind the wheel, he's gonna think he's irresistible."

And these fuckin' men? These executives? The richest bastards in the country?

They believe him.

Thunderbird sales skyrocket.

The Baby Boom? Accelerated.

Carina Marie Esposito? Ruined. Absolutely, deliciously ruined.

Decades later, somebody asks Henry Ford II how he pulled off the greatest marketing campaign in American history.

He just lights a cigar, stares at the horizon, and says:

"... Conti."

1745

Venice is all gold and candlelight, the streets filled with masked nobles playin' their little fuckin' games.

But inside a lavish suite, a kid is havin' the worst, most humiliating post-nut clarity of his life.

Flat on his back. Half-naked. Destroyed.

His name?

Giacomo Casanova.

Yeah. That Casanova.

And next to him, arms behind his head, barely breakin' a sweat?

Tybalt Fuckin' Conti.

"Too much teeth."

Casanova covers his face in shame.

"I--I tried--"

"You tried?" Tybalt exhales, swirling a glass of perfectly aged wine, lounging like a Roman emperor on his day off. "Ragazzo, women don't want a man who tries. They want a man who knows."

Casanova takes notes.

Tybalt teaches him everything.

How to touch. How to tease. How to make a woman feel like surrendering is her own damn idea.

By the time Casanova stumbles outta that room, he ain't just a man. He's a legend in the making.

But every conquest? Every noblewoman, every courtesan, every fuckin' queen he seduces?

Deep down, he knows.

It was never really his game.

He learned it all from Tybalt Conti.

1000 BCE -- The Day David Didn't Fuckin' Win

The battlefield is dead quiet.

David, the little bastard with a slingshot, winds up, ready to do some damage.

He lets the stone fly.

And--

A hand.

Catches it. Mid-air.

The Philistines gasp.

The Israelites gasp.

David?

David shits himself.

Because standing between him and Goliath, in a sleek, unseasonably modern black robe, is a man who ain't supposed to be here.

Tybalt weighs the stone in his palm. Looks at David. Looks at Goliath. Sighs.

"Kid," he says, flicking the rock away like trash, "you wanna be a hero? Don't make it about violence. Make it about legacy."

David understands.

History rewrites itself.

1588 -- The Real Reason England Didn't Get Fucked

Elizabeth I is untouched.

No man has ever had her.

Kings have begged. Princes have offered whole fuckin' kingdoms.

And she's told every single one of 'em to get bent.

But on the night of August 7, 1588, she meets him.

Tybalt Conti steps into Whitehall Palace like he's been expected.

And Elizabeth?

Elizabeth knows.

She knows she's in danger.

"You--you are dangerous," she whispers.

"Then why," Tybalt says, brushing a strand of red hair from her face, "are you still standing here?"

She ain't, for long.

And as he ruins her, as she learns the kind of surrender that queens ain't supposed to know, something happens out at sea.

The winds shift.

The Spanish Armada, unstoppable, poised to invade England--

Scatters.

Torn apart by a sudden, unnatural storm.

Historians will argue about it for centuries.

But Elizabeth knows.

And Tybalt Conti smiles.

2024

So it's a slow night at the CVS, right?

Carrie's half-asleep at the counter, thumb flippin' through some trashy-ass magazine she definitely stole from the rack, and--

The doors slide open.

And in walks Tybalt Fuckin' Conti.

And not just Tybalt--Tybalt and thirteen goddamn cats.

The weird part?

The cats are always there.

Nobody ever sees him putting 'em on a leash. Nobody sees 'em arrive. They just show up.

Like he's got some kinda mystical fuckin' pheromone for strays.

And Tybalt?

He looks like he just stepped out of time itself--

Tall. Sharp-jawed. That voice like warm espresso with just enough gravel to make it illegal.

And Carrie?

Carrie, for the first time in her fuckin' life, gets tongue-tied.

And proceeds to embarrass herself in record time.

"Damn, Conti, looks like you got a lotta pussy followin' you around."

Silence.

Absolute, nuclear silence.

The air stops moving. The cats stare. All thirteen of them. One even fuckin' blinks slow-like, real judgmental.

And Tybalt? Tybalt just smiles.

It ain't a normal smile, neither. It's a fucking Mona Lisa-ass smile. Cryptic. Timeless. Knows something she don't. A smile that says "You just fucked up, but I respect the effort."

Carrie feels every second of that mistake settle in her bones. She wants to die. Absolutely, completely, immediately perish right there in the CVS. She's all teeth and tits about it, too. Standin' up straight, tits out to here as she doubles down.

"I mean--" she starts, voice way too loud now, hands waving, trying to fix it, "Not like--Not like that. Not sayin' you're drowning in it, but, y'know--"

No. Abort. Abort.

She cannot stop herself. The words are coming out like she ain't got brakes.

"--Like, you ever get, like, cat hair in your mouth? When you--uh, when you--"

Stop talking, Carrie. Stop fucking talking.

But she doesn't.

"Not that I'm askin' about your mouth. Or what goes in it. Not that I'm thinkin' about your mouth--"

Fuck. Fuck.

Tybalt, this unfathomable bastard, tilts his head slightly. Like a fucking Renaissance painting. Like some Catholic saint with hidden blasphemies in the fine print. The Pope chuckles to himself and several nearby cardinals look to the west.... Waiting.

And then--he winks.

And says--

"That's a lotta curiosity for a girl who knows exactly what she wants."

That's it.

That's all he says.

And Carrie dies.

She drops. Physically. To her knees. In the middle of the goddamn CVS.

Shudders. Visibly. Like she got hit with a mystical bass drop from the universe itself. Legs twitching. Breathing sharp. Whole body overtaken with a shiverin', full-body, earth-shattering orgasm that detonates in the core of her fuckin' soul.

It ain't just a normal climax, neither. No, this one is spiritual. Biblical. Somewhere in the ether, her ancestors feel it. A nun in 1865 just fainted. In 1425, Catalina Delvecchio looks up from her knittin' and smiles. The Madonna sheds a single tear. A star in the redacted constellation of Felis winks out.

We gotta bottle that and put it in the feminine hygiene aisle.

For seconds--long, painful seconds--Carrie just stays there. Trembling. Processing. Aware that she just ascended, saw God, and came back down with the knowledge that He's got Tybalt's jawline.

Valeria is starin'. She's getting' hit by waves of second-hand pleasure. It's not as strong for her, somewhere in time, Xochitl herself stops, mid-swing of her war-club. "That's my girl."

The cats? Still staring.

Tybalt? That fucking Mona Lisa smile again.

Carrie, on sheer willpower alone, recovers. Stands. Wobbles a bit, legs still weak. Dusts herself off like she did not just drop to her knees and cum herself stupid in front of a man she barely knows.

Then, with the only ounce of composure she has left--

She breathes in deep, exhales slow, nods once and says:

"I gotta tell Zach about this."