It was two o clock PM and Troy was sleeping off one of his famous hangovers, he had at least thirty glasses of grape juice the night before and at one point he was even mixing it with a bit of apple juice for extra tang. It was all a blur, the sugar-induced coma that followed had lasted for what he thought was only a couple of hours, but was in fact over twelve. There were a couple of notes taped to his door and a few men were standing outside of his home. 

He had just bought this home last year with all of his illegal mobster money. It was nice, there was, like, four rooms and a completely working bathroom. It was sweet.

"Troy! Troy are you in there?! We have... a job."

That's all he had to hear. Flipping out of bed and brushing off some residue from the night before, he put on his cool guy jacket and a pair of shades, and it was the middle of winter. Damn this cat was cool, everyone thought to themselves politely as he pushed open his door and made his way outside. 

"So... what's... the... job?", he said slowly and cooly, like a badass. Everyone was impressed. Trust me.

"We're hitting up this new joint and we need you to go in first."

"Yeah, just, uh, walk right in there. It'll be completely safe, maybe."

They asked Troy to do this sort of stuff all the time. Something about him being so cool that he had to walk into dangerous situations before the other mobsters would enter, he radiated badassery and everyone knew it. It was a respect thing, mostly. So it was time, he made his way into the front gates of the dimly lit house and walked through the doors.

"Hey there, fellas."

A large group of angry looking men gripping tightly to their guns stared down Troy.

"Who are you?"

"I'm... Troy."

His delivery was awesome. You had to be there. After a few more moments of staring each other down, his friends followed behind him and walked into the home.

"We didn't hear any bullets or nothin' so figured it was safe now. Good job, Troy."

He was the man. 

They all finished up their business and then Troy got his usual cut of $20. Sweet! It was a job well done, and it was only the beginning. Cause this is part 1 of 37 possible parts, so tune in next time, folks!

It had been seven years since he last worked for the mafia, he was a withered old man, his mustache greyer than the... uh, greyer than the, hm... it was grey. He was very good looking still, but it wasn't the same, there was something about him that the ladies just no longer wanted and he couldn't quite figure it out. He was miserable, he was alone. There seemed to be nothing going well in his life, and he slowly turned to the bottle for answers that couldn't be explained. It was the lowest point a man could get and there was no sign that it would ever get better for him in this lifetime...

Haha, just kidding. Troy was the fucking man. It had also only been three days, so his mustache was still prime as fuck.

"Hey Troy. We need you, again. This time, for a job that may be your most important yet."

He was intrigued and accepted without even hearing what he had to do. He was sure he would pull it off perfectly, as was the person who gave them the job or why else would he have received it? He was to walk inside the building with a gun and wave it around for a few moments, simple stuff. He had done this before, but the only difference was that he would have no back up if things went wrong. He had one shot to pull this all off, and if he failed, he was dead.

"Cool."

and with that, he was on the prowl. Making his way into the establishment, he walked near the lady behind the counter and set his gun down without saying a word; one look in her eyes and he knew that she had gotten the memo, the fear was palpable. Slowly raising the gun towards the air, he popped off one shot which admittedly made him jump, it was much louder than he had expected.

"This is a holdup, I think?  Not sure what I'm doing here, honestly."

A few more moments passed as police began to circle around the building. Yet Troy stood there adamantly, unwavering, unafraid, with only a twinge of piss smell emanating from his pants, it was time for him to prove exactly what he was worth, as he stared out the windows into the blue flashing lights.

"What do you even want... this is a laundromat.", a man mustered up enough courage to say before Troy stared back at him sharply, and then thought... what is he doing here? Oh well, it will be over soon. He only had to stay for another five minutes. 

The police were shouting something or another, but there was no time to worry. Troy had to make his daring escape, what about through the back doors? Rushing towards them, he kicked and slammed but to no avail. It was locked! Oh no, would he make it out alive?! Why was he sent here?! Would he make it out alive?! I already said that. Damn. I'm just so nervous. 

FIND OUT NEXT TIME

You fell for it again, ha. You're so dumb sometimes. Of course Troy makes it, using tactical maneuvering and the grace of a gazelle, he deftly makes his way to safety and meets up with the men who employed him. They're muttering something beneath their breath and holding bags filled with jewelry in their hands as he enters the place, and they seem surprised, but probably happy. Definitely happy.

"I made it, guys!"

"Good job, Troy. We have another job for someone with your particular set of... skills."

"Neat."

Part 2 of 44 is now over. Tune in next time for the stories of Troy the badass.

ttd walks over to this speech

what ias a MAB?

What is the mab, you say? What is... the mab? Why it is funny you say that, because the mab is exactly that, it is a question, it is a feeling you get when you're not sure if you're feeling anything. It is the cool feeling on the back of your neck the moment you step out of the shower and into the air. You stand here and ask me, "What is the mab?" but the question you should be asking instead is... what isn't the mab? It's all around us. Every. Single. Day.

Sighs heavily and touches his nose with one hand while holding a flower with the other.

That, my friend, is the mab. Any more questions? As I have to get ready to create my next rendition. Stories don't just grow on trees, you know? They're crafted. Finely. They're ART!

Smiling, Troy looked down at his palms and shook for a minute before stopping. The flower dropping from his hand and hitting the ground, before blowing away into the wind. He was at peace in this moment, for he knew the mab and the mab knew him. Looking back towards TTD for a second, he nodded sternly before walking away.

ttd asks

seemed fitting to inquire as to what it was as your whole speech was title about the MAB yet you never once uttered the word MAB

"One doth not needeth to mutter the words which hath everyone already knoweth, so sayeth the lord. Amen." 

Those are words my own father said to me when I was but two years of age, and I live them in my day to day as I believe so should everyone in this thing of ours. Basically, I don't dare speak of something which is already heavily known amongst us. Hopefully, I was able to elucidate this for you, and I wish you the best, now if you'd please, take this piece of paper and spread it to everyone you know! This is my finest story yet, I believe.

He hands TTD a rather dusty scroll filled with his very own writings, before smiling widely and swaying from side to side.

"One doth not needeth to mutter the words which hath everyone already knoweth, so sayeth the lord. Amen"

but youve done a whole speech under the word MAB....sorry im just lost in the irony

He twirls around without saying a single word, pulling down his shades to his eyes to hide his expression. He doesn't stare at TTD, but rather through him, before muttering only a short sentence.

I'm the mafia bad boy. Who said I listen to the rules?

Smirking. He does another sick twirl, fixing the shades as they slide down his nose a bit and hopes no one noticed.

"I don't dare speak of something which is already heavily known amongst us."

you said you listen to rules with this sentence you spoke...

Twirling again, he fights the urge to throw up. Pointing his fingers to the ground dramatically, as he does a bit of jazz hands to spice up the conversation.

A true bad boy listens to no one...

One last twirl is all it takes for him to lose his lunch, the vomit projecting towards the ground as it lays green streaks along the curb, but this doesn't stop him from continuing his sentence.

...not even himself.

and yet you reply to my questions? this seems even more illogical if you indeed listen to no-one

I'm not a barn animal, my friend. While I do not abide by rules, I always listen to a conversation. Will I learn anything? Of course not. Do I listen? Yes. 

Although if I were a barn animal, I think I'd be a gallant horse. 

Slams his feet against the ground to emulate the clopping of a horse before clapping his hands excitedly.

Yes, that sounds perfect. Now, please, allow me to get back to my writing. It's very important that the people hear my stories, or else they will be lost to time itself. This is a dangerous line of work, you know?

you claim to not be a barn animal yet you just vomited all over our streets with garbage cans a plenty to dispose of vomit in...

Clopping a few more times, he begins to write his next masterpiece while standing there before realizing its quite impossible to write with just your fingers. He cannot afford to suffer any more distractions, and so with that, he looks back towards TTD and gives him a solemn nod before plotting his grand escape.

Much like the horse, I must now be free. I'm sure someone will clean that up. It was nice chatting with you.

Staring down at the vomit, he smiles at his creation before quickly and without warning rushing headfirst into the nearest wall, the ambulances of the city were always so nice and comfortable. He was sure someone would be by shortly to pick him up and rush him off to the hospital, as that's where he got most of his creative writing done. That, or he'd run out of blood and expire right here on the street, but the die had already been cast and he was hoping it would be the former rather than the latter.

Although you can never be too sure.