The Pigeon Drugs n Mafia in Florence

The Pigeon, Drugs, and Mafia in Florence

Welcome to Wednesday

This story, which I’ve lovingly titled The Pigeon Drugs n Mafia in Florence, began the way most bad decisions do: in a pub on a Wednesday. My mate Pete had just flown in from the UK to stay with me in Florence. Being the exemplary host that I am, I did what any good friend would do: I took him to my favourite pub for a few pints and a few mistakes. Yeah, these days I write much darker shit, like Good Luck Getting Rid of Me and blogs about narcissists or bromance.

It was around 6pm, and the plan was simple: have a couple of drinks, then go home for a nap. Because, you know, Florence is exhausting when you do it properly. Naturally, this “couple of drinks” idea turned into something else entirely. It always does. And by “something else,” I mean a slow slide into a night that could’ve easily been mistaken for a deleted scene from a Guy Ritchie film.

Two guys were sitting near us, constantly asking to borrow a lighter. The first time was polite. The second was annoying. By the fourth, we figured they either had memory issues or were high. Turns out, it was the latter. They were Italian, clearly pissed, and clearly wired. The kind of wired that comes with clenched jaws, sweat patches in weird places, and the inability to form a complete sentence without sniffing halfway through.

In broken Italian, one of them asked for a lighter while the other rolled his eyes and muttered something about him always losing things. Pete, ever the diplomat, handed it over with a smile.

“No worries, mate,” Pete said.

“Thank you,” the guy slurred.

“He has money,” the other added, “He could buy a hundred lighters.”

We laughed. They introduced themselves as Mario and Luigi. I shit you not. It was almost too on the nose. If one of them had pulled out a wrench or said “It’s-a me!” I would’ve walked straight into traffic.

The Comedy Duo You Didn’t Ask For

Mario told us he’d been dragged to the pub by Luigi at 10am for a “quick drink” that had turned into an 8-hour bender. I joked that I’d buy Luigi a lighter myself. Mario scoffed and insisted Luigi wasn’t poor. To prove it, Luigi rushed to the bar and bought us both a pint.

Fair enough. Your move, Mario.

Not to be outdone, I dashed into the tobacco shop next door and bought him a lighter. Luigi was so grateful he joined us at our table. That’s when things escalated from “two drunk locals” to “Florentine stand-up mafia night.”

The duo entertained us with stories, broken English, and increasingly unhinged behaviour. Luigi, clearly on something, pointed to his nose, sniffed loudly, and whispered, “Mario gave me too much.” As if the spilled pints and twitching weren’t enough evidence. He knocked over one beer, then another, then brought a third and managed to knock that over, too. Pete began to keep count. It became a game.

I asked what they did for a living. Big mistake.

Luigi started off saying he was a doctor. Then a transport guy. Then a cook. Mario, on the other hand, was far more honest.

“I go around and pick up money from people,” he said, like that was a normal sentence.

Pete leaned over. “They’re Mafia.”

“Because they’re drunk?” I asked.

“No. Because they don’t have jobs, they collect money, and they’re high. This is textbook.”

Honestly, he wasn’t wrong. It had Sopranos prequel written all over it.

Toilet Logistics and Cocaine Generosity

Somehow, Luigi managed to convince Pete that he should try this legendary Florentine cocaine. His delivery method? He told Pete to follow him into the men’s toilet, where he’d leave a line waiting for him on the toilet lid. Honestly, the hygiene implications alone should’ve been enough to call the night off.

Because apparently we were now living inside Trainspotting: Florence Edition.

Pete returned a few minutes later, eyes sparkling like he’d just been reborn. He was animated, alert, ready to conquer the world or, at the very least, order a second round. “Let’s go clubbing,” he declared.

I told him to finish his pint first. Within half an hour, he’d crash harder than the Roman Empire. He started quoting random episodes of The Office and declared Florence the best city in Europe. I knew we were approaching the downhill slope.

Mario and Luigi disappeared, saying they had to “pick up money and do some business.” But they promised to come back with “presents.”

Oh good. Presents.

The Pigeon Delivers

Sure enough, about an hour later, as Pete’s cocaine enthusiasm mellowed and he started talking about kebabs, a scooter screeched to a halt outside the pub. Enter Mario.

“Where’s Luigi?” we asked.

Mario laughed hysterically. “He’s fucked. Sitting at home on the couch. He looks like a pigeon.”

He then did a full-body impression of a pigeon. Elbows tucked, hands in front, neck jabbing forward, eyes wide and wild.

“You know, the pigeon,” he said, repeating the move. Then again. And again. I started to think this was a permanent character in his comedic repertoire.

We lost it.

Mario, ever the entrepreneur, offered us more drugs. We declined. I invited him for a pint instead.

“Can’t,” he said. “I have work. Nightclubs. Statues. Midnight to 4am. That’s where you’ll find me.”

Right. That’s his office. He gave us a wink like a man who had seen things. Then came the best part. As he climbed onto his scooter and nearly took out three German tourists, he turned to us and said, “Don’t worry about me. I have a good lawyer. I pay him twenty thousand a year to keep me out of jail.”

Of course you do, Mario.

The Pigeon Drugs n Mafia in Florence: Kebab Justice

Later, we finally got that kebab. And front-row seats to a meltdown. The brand-new server burned someone’s pitta and the manager exploded.

“Va fan culo!” he shouted across the kitchen.

I translated for Pete. “He said ‘fuck off.’ But it literally means go do something unpleasant with your arse.”

We took our food and walked out into the warm Florentine night. Pete, still half buzzing, looked at me and said, “Is every day like this here?”

“Only on Wednesdays,” I replied.

The next morning, I woke up and half-expected Mario to be asleep on the balcony, pigeon-necking at the sun. Thankfully, no. Just a text message from Pete that read: “Best holiday ever.”

Somewhere, out in Florence, Mario is probably leaning against a statue, winking at tourists, and still being protected by that suspiciously effective lawyer. Luigi is probably curled up on a sofa somewhere with a pigeon perched on his head. And the lighter? Probably lost. Again.

Bonus Life Advice

If someone ever tells you they “pick up money from people” and also offers you cocaine on a toilet seat, maybe… just maybe, ask for their lawyer’s number before you say no. Or say yes. Or blink.

If this absurd little tale of coke, chaos, and pigeons gave you even one chuckle, there’s more where The Pigeon Drugs n Mafia in Florence came from. Check out the blog, or grab one of my books. Some are free or 99 cents. Cheaper than Mario’s legal fees. And way more hygienic than Luigi’s toilet.

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