Joe had a loose idea of what he wanted to do. He wasn't in this cesspool for no reason. You only found yourself here on account of being drawn here, sucked here, as like attracts like, especially with this crowd, who weren't the types people would actually say aloud that they did like.

But some, somewhere deep down in their souless, dark, empty selves, did appreciate this place. For various reasons, depending on the rung of the social ladder you were clinging onto. But make no mistakes, those here were all at the bottom, the absolute lowest end of the food chain. The real degenerates. All of them. Including Joe Adonis...

Before he launched himself into the shit show, Joe took one last drag of the cheap snipe. His lips opened to let the shot of gut rot gin in, then a quick swallow preceded the exhale. If he was to make more of a mess of it, it wasn't going to be without a last taste of life's simple but guilty pleasures. And, if the guys behind him didn't kill him, the nasty bathtub version of a barman's staple he'd been downing all morning probably should.

Ray hadn't yet seen the worst of it, which was oddly a feat in and of itself. Losing hand after losing hand. He'd lost the lot he came in with and a shit lot more he didn't. A bill had his name on it that he never intended to pay. With each loss he was determined to make it back, and big, and eventually get on a run. But it never came. And the shady pieces of life running the game didn't even need to work in a false shuffle, or slip out an ace to their group off of a fake cut. The guys bad luck just seemed to come all at once.

Some karma, Joe thought, as he shuffled on a stool at the bar, his back to the table where the action was. But on account of Ray's constant blabbering, he only needed a keen sense of hearing to follow his downward spiral, above a clumsy effort on a poorly tuned piano from another drunkard that haunted this gin den.

Joe signalled the shabby looking idea of a drink specialist as he pondered the situation unfolding behind him and lit a cigarette.

It's his fault. He made his choices. And lady luck shut her eyes and turned her head. Hell, she probably shut up shop before he left his squalor to come here. Sometimes you gotta just take it on the chin. Like a man. Sometimes in life, you just gotta lose to win.

As Adonis eyed the shallow filled, chipped glass, and enjoyed a lungs-fill of smoke, he heard it. That distinctive sound. Anyone not throwing up on themselves in a dark corner would've. The fingers bashing the piano keys and ears with bung notes stopped too. The sound of a revolver cocking.

Ray was a fool. He was probably so right from the get go. He probably face planted straight out of the womb. But in a place like this, that practically fed on people like him, the vile, repulsive excuses for humans, he didn't deserve a bullet. Or maybe he did. Maybe this was life saying better luck next time, no credits to continue. No more self-hatred. No more being unable to look at your wife, or your own reflection, because you gambled the weeks wages away again. This is it. Your get out of life free card.

But Joe was also a fool. He wasn't one to turn a blind eye, as long as atleast one still functioned, even if it gave out blurred, double vision. The cocking of the gun just didn't sit right. Maybe because he wasn't the one with the finger on the trigger. And maybe because Ray just didn't seem like the bad guy in all of this. He simply fell into the honey pot. One fucked up honey pot at that.

Joe gave one last look at the drink. Had one last puff. Down went the gin. As the smoke escaped his lips he flicked away the cheap cigarette. A very subtle smirk joined the party as he kicked the bar still out from beneath him, turned around and raised his arm. With it outstretched, he shouted across the room.

"YOU!"

Joe saw pretty much the same thing he did when he first entered, eyeing the place he would sink some cheap whatever and pass the time. Three hideous mugs and pairs of death stairs looking back. The difference, one wartime relic pointed at Ray.

"THE FUCK, RAY?! AGAIN?! DIDN'T DON MEZZO TELL YOU TO STAY THE FUCK OUT OF SHITHOLES LIKE THIS?!"

The asshole's grip on the gun moved. With the shuffling fingers, Joe took it as a sign the mind of the lowlife holding the gat was taking in what was being sprayed. And Joe was talking so loud he was basically spitting as he screamed, as saliva was flying out with the highly combustible hot air.

"YOU FUCKIN' PIECE OF SHIT!"

He meant all of them, yet kept his eyes on Ray, as he glared down his stiffly pointed finger at the end of his right limb which was being thrust and jabbed with emphasis. Joe's feet began to slowly move him forward.

"HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO THE DON?! DON MOTHER FUCKIN' MEZZO!"

The run down basement beneath the bustling Old City District street above was no larger than an area you would use to hold stock for an actual establishment normal people would use, and would want to use. With a few more shuffles, Joe was a whisker away from Ray, who had been more shocked by the outburst than by the promise a loaded gun aimed at his chest had given him.

Before there was too much of a gap for anyone to say anything, a firm clenched fist smashed into Ray's nose. As he leaned against the table to hold himself up and stop himself from falling to the floor, the same fist clocked him in the side of the head. Joe held Ray's shirt by the sweaty collar as he rained down another punch, and another, and one in the right eye, then one in the mouth, and another in the mouth.

Joe held his arm back, ready and willing to keep the fist flying. He enjoyed this. Feeling his knuckles hit skin and bones and his hand begin to swell. Even when he knew he'd broken his little finger on Ray's forehead by a wayward punch, it just teased him to keep going. But as he held his slightly concussed victim beneath him, against the table, with the three watching on silently yet hungrily out of his peripheral, Joe restrained himself. He remembered the gut rot gin and smoke fueled plan, if you'd call it that.

Ray spat out blood as he slowly begun regaining his senses. Looking up at Joe, he then spat out a tooth. His lips were already numb and his face had a peculiar stinging feeling. After a moment, he was pulled up by Adonis, who began to drag him towards the door.

"WE'RE GOING RIGHT TO THE DON, RIGHT FUCKIN' NOW!" Joe shouted as he pulled Ray along by the scruff off his shirt, making sure to lift and help his semi conscious companion along the way. He jerked him through the bar, with patrons somewhat interested in the commotion, yet more so numb from possibly too much of the poision on offer, or the hard knocks life had also thrown their way. As if they'd seen it all before, or just didn't care.

The sunlight hit. It hit them equally as hard, for similar reasons. Both worse for wear. One on accoount of the other. Joe almost hissed as they made it up the stairs and out into the afternoon sun. Philadelphia was new to him. A place he wasn't fully familiar with, and a life he wasn't yet fully immersed in, so work was somewhat stagnant. The life of a mere thug. It had its drawbacks. But in some ways, also had its perks. Like not caring if your plan went to shit and took a wrong turn, as there really wasn't too far to fall when you were all the way at the bottom.

Joe helped Ray into a taxi after a short stagger.

"Tell the wife I'm sorry 'bout the crooked smile." He said wheezing.

Fare money was tossed at the driver before the door slammed shut. The last slices of cheddar from a cash register in an earlier smash, grab and vault. The same job that ironically ending up saving both there asses in that hellish hole, that Joe wouldn't be back in anytime soon if he could help it, but would probably be the opposite for Ray. It lead to an encounter with Billy Bowden, and a long story short, an opportunity working along Race Street.

Joe kept moving, making sure to put as much distance between himself and that place as possible. No more lettuce for another taxi, so he had to beat the feet. And although you could say this wasn't the greatest part of the life, you couldn't say it didn't have its moments. He eventually found a wooden public bench to take a seat on, pushing aside some loose pages of newspapers as he did.

"Thug life." He said aloud with a smirk as he inspected his right hand and broken finger.

"I wonder if I'll see that crumb Ray again."

Days later in a Philadelphia jail house...

Corrections Officer Ray DiDomenico puts you in handcuffs and takes you around back.

After checking that no one is watching, they unlock your handcuffs and looks the other way. As you break into a run, you hear them yell "Listen asshole, I can only do this so more times and then we are even!"

Thug life, indeed.