Barry had always wanted to be a gangster. In his mind he was Tony Soprano, or maybe Vito Corleone. He wanted to wear a fedora and spats, and carry a concealed handgun.
He burned to be outlawed, to be feared, to father a dynasty of shifty-eyed sons who carried razor blades in the peaks of their ball caps.
And he had most of the requirements for the job. He was mean, shifty, dishonest and naturally violent. He would, to coin a phrase, be willing to sell his mother for a pittance.
But then there was his face.