Valathus wasn't long for wars and he never cared for hiding under mattresses.  Looking out the barred windows from his 4th story apartment, he could see button men patrolling the streets - their palm-greased officers in tow.  It wouldn't be long before his time was up and he had no intention of running.  Just like his friends and family - he was being hunted and time was against him.

He mumbled under his breath, "This shit is getting old."  

Reaching for his holster on the bed, Valathus paused for a moment.  He then turned to the table across the room - reaching for a lamp switch.  With the small room dimly lit, he quickly remembered his pen next to a blood stained parchment.  

"Why the hell not," he murmured.  

For what seemed like an eternity to Valathus, he reminisced about all of the good times he had in Chicago, the people he met in cities across the country, and the friends who have since passed.  Penning what would be his last testament to a hard life of crime and dedication to family, he knew that he had to make things right.  Just somehow, he had to leave some ounce of wisdom for his kin and for those who may find his words comforting.  Upon completing his letter, Valathus grabbed his holster, hat, and put on his coat as he walked out the apartment door for the last time.  He didn't bother to lock up.  The climb down the stairs was sobering and as he went out to the cold, winter Chicago air, he knew that if his last moments were to be anywhere - they would be on the streets he grew up - the streets he loved - in a blood filled pool with the rest of his family and friends.  

Walking up to a lamp post across the street, Valathus pulled out the blood stained parchment and found a way to fasten it to the post for someone to find.  Pausing briefly, he pulled out a white rose from his jacket and gently laid it down beside the post.  As he slowly backed away, a stranger from down an alley noticed the activity and approached the scene.  Valathus resealed his coat and walked away as the stranger noticed the parchment and refocused their attention to the letter...

My dear friend, if only I could begin to explain to you the immense sorrow I feel right now.  My heart is filled with grief and pain; no doubt a testament to the life I have led and the choices I have made.  But the sorrow I feel is not for me, nor is it for those whose time has come and passed.  My sorrow is for YOU.  You who must now bear this burden of living and fighting for something better.  A river of blood now runs down these streets as it has many times in years past.  Gravestones litter the green plains I have come to love - many of my kin among them.  

There are men now laying down across Chicago who believed in building relationships - in forging alliances.  These men were among the best I knew and in their hearts they believed that earning trust was what mattered most.   But it was trust that led the lambs to slaughter.  Trust can be a cruel mistress when it is freely given and not so easily received.  They kept their enemies close - too close.  Ignoring the writing on the wall, it wasn't long before the wolves were behind the gates - ready to strike. 

But to what end I say?  Why do cities invade other cities?  What business is it of theirs what goes on in Chicago?  We never cared for the practices of others in New York, Philadelphia, and Detroit.  When Los Angeles was attacked not long ago, we stood by idly, in isolation - keeping Chicago affairs in Chicago.  Even then, we chose to ignore the signs in hope that the business we had built here would endure through the bad blood, and smoke and mirrors.  

 How naïve we were.  The war machine rages on - an endless cycle of violence and mayhem with no plot, and no recourse.  The only justice we could hope for is for the inferno to suffocate itself.  But this is where YOU come in my friend.  You have a choice to make - you can join the machine or you can stand against it.  But there is no middle ground.  Eventually, that machine will turn against itself - smoldering and smothering those who become too powerful even for the machine to control.  Those who are so naïve to believe they ARE the machine will one day find themselves gasping for air.  It consumes all of us - eventually.

WAR - What is it good for?  Without a significant change to the way we conduct business, it will rage on as it always has.  It will drive bloodlines away and intoxicate those who couldn't imagine living without it. 

But is that all that this thing of ours is?  Is that all that we are?  Instruments of war.  I'd like to think there is more to all of this then who decides who stays and who goes.  Surely those who trespass against others cannot be so untouchable - and war so one-sided in favor of the aggressor. Sadly, only the Gods could decide how fate is determined in that roll of the dice and right now - it's a game of numbers.  We leave little to chance anymore, but it was chance and risk that once made this thing of ours so great.  I could only hope it will again.

Do not make our mistake - do not sit idly by and allow the machine to consume your forest.  You've grown something worth defending - defend it.  Change the rules, make a difference, live for the moment.

Because the machine will only give you one - and it's very, very brief.

Be a rock - and never roll.  

I wish you all the very best my friend, and I hope you may find some warmth and comfort in these words in this cold, winter, Chicago air.

Valathus