It’s a quarter past midnight and the jazz club is bumping. Various people from different walks of life found themselves in the at the bar. Knuckles, aka Tommy O’Sullivan was an immigrant from England. He found himself in a new world and was trying to make a buck. As he was chatting with some of the ladies he noticed a few eyes fell upon him, eyes he didn’t want to be looking back at. He realized he needed to make an adjustment to how he was approaching this world. American criminals seemed different, more inquisitive. He thought it might be best if he lay out who he was to those interested. 

Alright, gather 'round, you lot. Let me take you back to the days when yours truly, just plain ol' Knuckles, was nothing but Tommy O'Sullivan, a bloke with a decent jab and dreams bigger than I knew what to do with. It all kicks off after a proper bruising match at the East End, and this bloke, Jimmy "The Razor" Malone, spots me. Thinks I'm more than just a pug with a left hook.

Now, that first chat with Malone, it's like entering the lion's den, mates. Picture me nursing my bruises in the corner pub, when in walks Malone, sharp as a razor, sizing me up. He has an entourage of men with him. A cloud of cigar smoke swirling around, he says, "Tommy O'Sullivan, ain't it? Saw you take a beating in that ring, but you didn't back down. Got some bloody spirit in you." I'm eyeing him, wondering what this bloke wants. He tosses a cigar on the bench I'm sitting on, I pick it up and he lights it for me. "You're wasting those fists in the ring, mate. I've got a proposition for you." And there it is—the ticket to a world beyond the canvas.

So, I nod, take a drag from that cigar, and dive headfirst into a conversation that changed the course of my life. Little did I know, that talk over smoke-filled air would set me on a journey from a struggling boxer to a bloke they'd call "Knuckles" on the unforgiving streets of London. Fast forward a bit, and now I'm running errands for Malone's lot—dodgy dealings, midnight heists, the whole shebang. The streets are like a maze, and I'm learning the shortcuts quick. Before you know it, I'm running with a bunch of low-level geezers, the kind you wouldn't want to meet down a dark alley.

Now, onto one of the maddest nights. Malone's got a job for me, something about a dodgy shipment down by the docks. Meet Mick "Whisper" O'Donnell, a wiry bloke with a knack for silence, and Big Eddie "Brick" McAllister, a mountain of a man with fists like, well, bricks. Our job? Intercept the shipment before it falls into the right hands. Were crouched in the darkness, the salty scent of the Thames hanging heavy. Rival gang, the Blackfriars, looking to make a grab for the goods. Silent as ghosts, we trail them through the maze of shipping containers. It's a dance of shadows and whispers. Chaos erupts, and Brick finds himself face to face with Johnny Blackfriar, eldest son of the rival outfit.

Brick barrels into the fray like a wrecking ball, fists flying. He knocks Johnny in the icy water, where eventually Johnnys body was recovered later the next day. Meanwhile, I'm weaving through the chaos, picking off Blackfriars like thieves in the night. Left hook, right hook. I'm laying these Blackfriars out easy. Crates scattered, rivals bruised, we stand triumphant. That night, under the London stars, the crew—Knuckles, Whisper, and Brick—solidified as a force to be reckoned with.

Now, brace yourselves for the twist. Malone, he starts whispering in my ear about Brick being a liability, a loose cannon. I fight for Brick, but Malone spins a tale of betrayal. Brick's supposedly been skimming off the top, planning to start his own crew. I can't believe it. Brick, my mate, my rock, betrayed? Bollocks.

Protests, yells—no use. We're in some rundown warehouse, surrounded by shadows, and Brick's face, confused and hurt, tells me he had no idea what was coming. I'm left there, fists clenched, frustrated, regretting not doing more to save him. And as Malone walks away, I'm wishing I could turn back time, wishing I could have done something to save Brick from the betrayal that cut him down in the shadows we once ruled together.

And don’t even get me started on Mick. He seemed to have his own game going. When Brick died, mick found himself with a new little lady by his side - Bricks girl. That shit never sat right with me boys. The streets may be unforgiving, but sometimes, it’s the ones you trust the most that leave you with the deepest scars. 

As the band begins to play the music, Knuckles lays down cash for the drinks. 

Listen, I would love to share more with you all, but I believe that’s a good enough background. If you want to hear more of Brick and Mick or Razor or the BlackFriars, I’d be glad to share. If you’re still interested I can even tell you how I got here. If none of that interest you then perhaps I can share with you how I even got to America. But unless I’m causing a disturbance, I think I may go see if that lovely lady wants to dance with me.