It's a sunny morning in Queens, NY, the type of morning people choose to eat outside as opposed to in their stuffy row-home kitchens. Slowly and painfully, the underworld monstrosity known as TheHumanCentipede crawls towards a table outside its favorite New York bistro, each human extension of the centipede dressed fashionably in pin-stripe adult diapers and knee pads. The bistro owner steps out to take TheHumanCentipede's order, looking down at it with an expression of both pity and disgust. The front piece of the centipede wishes the owner good morning and orders its breakfast while the center and end piece groan and gurgle in agony and despair.

TheHumanCentipede looks across the street where a prominent Mafioso is standing, enjoying the morning. Without warning, a Model-T speeds by the hapless mobster, a tommy gun hanging out the passenger-side window. The mobster is gunned down as the car speeds off. The front piece of TheHumanCentipede shakes its head. The center and end piece attempt to, but cannot as their mouths are sown to the front's rear.

I put a lot of importance in breakfast. It's considered by many to be the most important meal of the day and I agree. It gives me the energy to work hard and achieve my goals for the day. I put a lot of value in breakfast because it also gives me an appreciation for being alive to see another morning. As is evident from our friend laying in a pool of his own blood across the street, our lives and everything we've worked for up until the moment of our demise can vanish in an instant, at any instance.

I hear mumblings of boredom and stagnation in our world. The repetitive nature of our business almost makes our day-to-day activities seem like nothing more than simply going through a series of motions, for many with no focus on their future and no goal in sight.

I've always felt that slow periods, or 'boring' periods, of our life of crime should be utilized for strengthening one's self, or at the very least working towards something. Some of our leaders work to strengthen themselves to become powerful, be it by default or by force. Other leaders work to defend what they already have.

I wonder about everyone else though... the middle-management and the associates, the proverbial middle and end pieces of this big Human Centipede of ours known as the Mafia? What are you looking to achieve? What motivates you to hit the streets every morning to grind out more work? Do you have goals or are you content running on the hampster-wheel, constantly moving yet not going anywhere? If you are bored, how do you break the monotony of your day?

Even if you choose not to answer any of these questions publicly, I'd challenge you to at least ask yourself that question. Because if you're not working towards something, you're really just waiting to die, and filling the time in between by complaining about how boring This Thing Of Ours is.

Think about that, and in the meantime be grateful for yet another opportunity to wake up above ground and enjoy yet another breakfast.

With that being said, TheHumanCentipede's breakfast arrives; a massive buttery omelette with a heaping plate of succulent hot Italian sausage. The front piece smiles, relishing how delightful the breakfast will taste. The center and end piece however look on in horror, eyes wide and sweating profusively, gagging and pleading desperately, knowing that their breakfast experience will be quite different once the greasy plate of food is digested.

Take what you will from this street speech. Maybe it will help you view things differently. Maybe not. Either way I don't care. I really just wanted an excuse to tell a story that ended with the strong implication that something horrific involving defecation would be happening at some point.

Nemoo pulls up on his Cr125, takes of his helmet and walks over and shakes thehumancentipede's hand and sits down.

"Hmmm im hungry any chance of a nice juicy fat fryup with 3pieces of toast and while your at it I'll have a cuppa tea milk and 3 sugars"

Nemoo sits back pulls out 2 Cuban cigars puts both in his mouth lights them up and hands one to thehumancentipede.

Nemoo, thank you for your insight, and thanks for handing me a cigar that's just been in your mouth. I appreciate it but I have my own lighter you know

TheHumanCentipede accepts the soggy lit cigar from Nemoo and passes it back to his end piece to figure out a creative way to smoke it.

By all means my Friend, sit down and share my breakfast with us.

Nemoo sits down and eats with the surgically conjoint members of TheHumanCentipede, clearly Nemoo enjoying his intake of breakfast more than the latter two pieces of the centipede.

Nemoo says "don't worry I don't have germs and if its wet and you have a lighter light it up and dry my nemoo saliva of and smoke it" Nemoo chuckles and smokes his cigar.

TheBody of TheHumanCentipede groaned in agony, as front piece digested his breakfast. His belly made the terrifying gurgle of digestion that TheBody had come to despise more than any other sound.

"Nooooo!" Whined TheBody knowing what was about to happen, but nobody could hear it, it was just another of many groans that could only be made by a mouth surgically attached to an anus. Everyone knew the noise well.

An acrid smell filled TheBody's nose before warm shit filled it's mouth. Unable to close it's mouth and unable to turn away, TheBody was forced to swallow the horrible breakfast that the front piece had enjoyed so much. It steamed and burned in it's gullet as it slipped down to it's own stomach and began the unenviable journey towards the end piece's mouth.

"WHY?!" Cried TheBody as it chomped on it's shitcereal. "WHY?!?!"

Nobody looked over at the groaning creature. Nemo continued to chuckle and smoke his cigar. TheBody felt ill and sad. And a little hungry.

im just a wise old man who lurks these streets in the shadow helping those in need

the large mobster walks off into the night blowing on a cigar with a strap on his waist band

Sobbing with grief and despair, TheHumanCentipede is consumed with an overwhelming sense of helplessness as he reaches behind him to hold TheBody's hand tightly.

I'm sorry, I'm so, so, sorry

He cries and cries. He cries until he cannot cry anymore, unable to help his young associate/thorax. He is damned to this tortured existence forever. Exhausted from crying, he looks up at IRON187 and nods

Indeed a worthy way to spend ones days. I've noticed there's many people willing to share their knowledge of our world with those less knowledgable. I also know that it comes with a great deal of satisfaction when you get to see someone you've helped groom in the ways of This Thing of Ours achieve success. I raise my glass to you sir. Cheers.

TheBody cries silently, clutching the hand of the front piece.