The streets are a place where although you don't want to visit, you still end up visiting over, and over again. Out here, you feel free, untouchable it would seem, but we all know that no one's untouchable in this thing of ours, but that's beside the point. The streets are grimy, but most of us... We thrive in filth, and grittiness because we come from the gutter. We don't know any other way to be than mobster. We speak mafia, we eat mafia, we breathe mafia, and we will die she takes a breath mafia.

She sticks her hands in her back pockets, and leans up against a brick wall, she eyes the crowd. 

People want the money, the power, the respect, a slow smile flashes across her face for a second before quickly disappearing,  the women, the love, the honor, and the fucking loyalty, but ya' see, they don't even do the first thing to deserve such bestowment, they want these things without ever doing the work. They want the respect, and glory without doing anything respectable or glorifiable. She pauses thinking the last word over, shrugs and continues onward.

Free rides on the backbones of others, free control, free reign, seems as I look around quantity over quality is preferred, and blind sheep the preferred shade of ilk, but maybe I'm mistaken.