"Respect?" the one called Mr. G. said to the two armed guards before pulling back his sleeve. "Respect this, Jack and Jill. You think I got these numbers etched into my arms at my kids birthday party? No! This is a token of surviving for three years while I watched friends and family get sent to their deaths. Throughout the day, I would always wonder if I was inhaling them when I choked on the crap coming out of the smoke stacks. I played it smart for all those years to make sure I wasn't sent to the gas chambers and made damn sure to pull everyone I could out of there. Now you tell that to your precious Don in there and see if that's worthy of his 'respect.'"
Both guards stared at him for a long moment, their expressions blank. Then one of them turned and walked a fair distance to talk into his earpiece. Finally, he came back and faced Mr. G. "The Don will see you now."
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