More Than A Caption:

Some Pictures Deserve 1000 Words

He was born Anthony Staccio, but everyone in the Chicago PD called him “Stache.” Stache dedicated his last 22 years to the CPD, ultimately rising to detective. Police work was everything to him. And that’s why he grew the mustache early in his tenure. It defined his status as a peace officer as much as his actual badge. Also, the mustache was a natural response to the constant reminders of his babyface.

Yeah, Stache was adorable. You could say he had “Resting Cutie-Pie Face.” The mustache neutralized his rosy cheeks and pouty eyes. He couldn’t be a cop without his mustache.

And here was the captain asking him to shave!

Stache fumed, “This is horseshit! I don’t hear you asking Kapowski to shave.”

The captain snapped back, “I’m not assigning Kapowski the case. I need you, Stache. You’re the only man for the job.”

“Because of my experience?” Stache asked.

“No, because you look like a four-year-old without the mustache.”

“You son-of-a-bitch!” Stache paced around the room, walking to mitigate the rage. Stache had always assumed the department saw him as nothing more than a babyfaced freak. Here was the proof.

The captain was unnerved by Stache’s movements, “Why are you pacing like that? Do you need to potty?”

“THAT’S IT.” Stache headed for the door.

“Hear me out, Stache! We got a tip that the Happily Ever Laughter Adoption Center is a front for the Pellicano Crime Family. We need you to infiltrate the adoption center, find evidence, and bring down the syndicate. You’re the only cop that has both the steely resolve to pull this off… and the most pinch-able cheeks I’ve ever seen. Sorry, I gotta knuckle ‘em.”

The captain squeezed Stache’s chubby face between his knuckles and shook.

Stache calmly cocked the hammer on his Smith & Wesson, indicating his displeasure for the facial assault without uttering a word.

The captain quickly got the hint and released Stache’s cheeks, “Sorry, Stache. I don’t know what came over me. So, are you in?”

It was a tough choice for Stache. He loved his mustache, but he also took an oath to protect and serve. Plus, adoption cases were personal for Stache. For most of his childhood, he bounced around the foster system.

“What do you say?” The captain asked.

Stache exhaled, “Bring me a razor.”

Happily Ever Laughter Adoption Center smothered Brayden with love. As far as they knew, Brayden was a troubled toddler looking for permanent placement. They weren’t aware that Brayden was a decorated veteran of the CPD.

Stache effortlessly slipped into the role of Brayden — his gruff personality fit the coarse temperament of a child lost within the foster-care system. His propensity for foul language accentuated the character more than anything. Whenever Stache shouted an obscenity, the employees at the adoption center saw him as “a forgotten child letting out his frustrations.” In truth, Stache just liked to yell “horseshit.”

Stache spent his days meeting families, playing on the playground, and using the potty. After lights out, he would break into the main office to search for any evidence that could lead to the Pellicano syndicate — financial documents, adoption records, receipts.

Yet, two weeks into the assignment, Stache had bupkis.

As time went on, his urgency waned. He spent more time by himself. In these moments, he would smell his upper lip, still unnerved by the scent of bare skin. He missed the bevy of smells that embedded themselves in a thick mustache — yesterday’s mustard, this morning’s coffee, the stench of sweat from chasing a perp. Without a mustache, his lip only smelled of flesh and sour milk. Stache was ready to give up on the case and regrow the whiskers.

“Brayden?” Here they were again. Nathan & Tricia Stewart. The couple that kept coming back, trying to connect with Stache. He didn’t trust them. He wished he could tell them the truth, so they would leave him alone. Stache looked to the ground, hoping his cold-shoulder would push them away as it did with most of the prospective parents. But it never worked with these two.

“We brought you something today.” Nathan held out a bag. “Some toys. Would you like to see them?”

Stache impatiently inspected the useless plastic gifts, ready to toss the whole collection of junk in the trash. But, then, he eyed a cheap police officer kit complete with a gun, a badge, sunglasses, and a fake mustache.

“Want to play cops and robbers?” Nathan asked.

Stache smirked, “You bet your ass, I do.” Stache slapped the fake mustache onto his upper lip. He was back.

“Okay,” said Nathan. “I’m a bank robber. Catch me!”

As Nathan trotted away, Stache clicked in, “Freeze, or I will shoot!” Stache sprinted after Nathan, ultimately smacking him in the back of the knee, taking him down. “On the ground, Perp!”

“Gentle, little fella!” Nathan said through chuckles. But Stache wasn’t trained to be gentle. Nathan rolled over, his hands in the air. “Okay, you got me!”

Stache yanked Nathan’s hands behind his back and slapped the cheap, plastic cuffs onto his wrists, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say…”

Stache paused, surprised by Nathan’s joyful compliance. Stache expected a scrappy fight with an insolent perp, not wiggles and giggles. “Why aren’t you resisting?” he asked.

“Because we’re having fun!” Nathan responded. “And I needed to distract you while Tricia got something.”

A distraction! Stache knew this was all a rouse meant to pull his focus. He turned to Tricia and raised his cheap, plastic gun expecting an incoming onslaught.

But Tricia just stood there, holding an ice cream cone. “I assumed you like chocolate,” she said.

Stache kept his gun trained on Tricia, “I do like chocolate. But I need you to take the first bite. I don’t trust you.”

“Maybe we can share.” Tricia licked, and Stache lowered his cheap, plastic gun.

After a few glorious bites of the soft ice cream, Stache felt his brow unfurrow for the first time in four decades. Tricia spoke, “Brayden, we think you’re very special. And we’d love for you to be part of our family. Is that something you’d like?”

Before Stache could answer, an unknown hand knuckled his rosy cheeks.

“Look at this cute bambino.” It was Carmine Pellicano, the famed patriarch of the Pellicano family. “These cheeks look like a baby pig’s bum. Are you a little pig?”

Here was Carmine Pellicano calling him a pig — was he blown? Before Stache had a chance to react, Nathan stepped between him and Carmine.

“Excuse me,” Nathan spoke. “You don’t grab a child’s cheeks without asking.”

Stache wanted to tell Nathan that he was risking his life by speaking to Carmine Pellicano with such a condescending tone. But he couldn’t speak. Stache was in awe. He’d never had a person stand up for him like that — especially to one of the most feared mobsters in Chicago.

“I didn’t mean to offend. He’s your bambino?” Carmine asked.

“We hope so,” Tricia responded.

Carmine turned to Stache, “What do you say, kid? You gonna go with ‘em?”

Stache stood face-to-face with Carmine Pellicano, gripping his toy handcuffs. Stache dreamt of this day — he could bag the most significant criminal in Chicago at this very moment. He’d be a hero… for a few months. But, after a while, everyone would forget, and he’d once again be nothing more than a babyfaced mustache.

Detective Anthony Staccio ripped off the fake mustache and turned to his new parents.

“I’d be honored to be a part of your family. I just need you to pick up some razors.”