Every morning, he wakes out of bed. Rising, reaching for the blind, he lets light into the room. Groggily moving, he throws on clothes and tosses two slices of toast in the toaster. Pouring a glass of orange juice, he reaches for a plate from the cabinet, and makes his breakfast. Rubbing his eyes, he takes out the toast and slathers some spread onto them before putting them on the plate. With a step or two, he reaches the small, round and wooden table that sits within the center of the tiled kitchen. The light brown of the table stands in contrast from the black and white tile, with a yellow glow from the ever-rising sun. 

He finishes his morning routine and walks out of the house, a satchel around his shoulder and down to his waist. Pulling out a set of jiggling keys from his pocket, he locks the door. His bike rack holds his only form of transportation, a simple bicycle. Undoing the lock and preparing his mind for the next seven minutes, he sets off. While riding on the sidewalk, many a car soars by. Blue, red, gray, gray, black. Every so often his thought is disrupted by a blur of color, accompanied by the hum of an engine. Lost in a world of his own, he eventually reaches his place of occupation. 

Sun still low in the sky, he walks over and unlocks the front gate, a dark metal, gothic-style construction. Towering over any passersby, it creaks as it opens, just slyly enough for him to squeeze through with his bike, before it is closed once more. He guides his bicycle over to the main building, and ties it up out back. Unlocking the back door, he traipses into the tool storage. He picks out a shovel, second from the left, and weighs it in his hand, letting his arm fall somewhat slack. Satisfied, he walks outside once more, greeted by a warmer temperature than since he had entered. Walking forward, and forward, and what seems like evermore, he finally makes a turn off the path. The fields dotted with gray are mostly past, instead he finds himself along the edge of the property. With a scoop of the shovel, he mutilates the pristine layer of grass, exposing the light soil beneath. Minutes later, a rain drop appears of his shoulder. More follow, dotting the lighter soil with little dark spots. It reaches a point where the man halts his motion, and merely looks up to the sky and lets it absorb him.

~

"Whenever someone finds themselves in a position of power, a myriad of opportunity arises. It's as though a world anew has appeared, sculpted out of the clay mud one has slogged through to get there. To some, that power corrupts. Others, there becomes a new canvas to paint upon. There is barely a person who acts against their own interests in this world. With so much to do, the openness in action is more constrained by their imagination and how they perceive their opportunities to exist. 

My intention throughout all of my hand-ship, crewleader-ship, and eventually Godfather-ship has always been pursuant in the stability of this world. Flexible moral stature aside, I have done things that I have almost always felt was the best choice. Have I made mistakes? Of course. But as I wrote many days now past, 'never do something you couldn't argue on behalf for.'

To those who have worked with me, thank you for giving me a chance. To those I have yet to work with- one day we indeed will. The greatest thing that has kept me going these past days, weeks, months even, has been the people around me. From the smallest thug to the most grandiose friendly neighborhood GFC. Just remember, every life matters. As I write this, I realize my future is rather tenuous. At this stage in my life, I have come to accept fate as it comes upon me, I no longer hold the strength to will against it, squirming one way or another for naught. However, there is no need to worry. The friends I have made along the way, the allies, enemies, and even rivals, have been so instructive in my understanding of this world. 

I write here not to absolve myself of any guilt from these past few days, nor any choices I may have made beforehand. Instead, I mean to say thank you. To those who care. To my district, vai come leoni. At least some of the old timers will understand what that means. To those who always seek to improve themselves, blaming not others for their mistakes or weaknesses but instead focusing on making themselves better. And, like a trinket one of my old ancestors found on a shelf many years ago now, let's make like a snowglobe, and shake things up."

Best,

~CB

From the journals of Cecelia Briggs, Godfather of Bella Vista (Deceased).

As I walk past the cemetery, a light rain begins to fall. Through the fence, I spot a man standing by a shallow hole. His clothes as worn as his face, a face turned up to the sky, rivulets of rain wandering through the crags and gullies a lifetime has worn, like water to the sea, tears to futility. What, if anything, is going through that grey head, I wonder? Is his life more simple than mine, more satisfying, more serene? Or is he dull, uncaring, unaware? Perhaps he has desperation greater than mine own, barriers and hurdles unseen dragging him down to new depths every day?

As I continue past I realize I will probably never know, and that is as it should be. For we each plot a path through the maze called life, ultimately alone, and to know too intimately the jungle another navigates is to understand, identify with, share. Suddenly you are not alone, and in some measure, no matter how small, you have a connection. And that is oh so dangerous. Yes, better we don't know, better we follow our path without delving too deep into another's wilderness.  

It was really hard to do this job right now, each corner there dead body were at was there many people already searching pockets even before the poor bastards were laying under ground in peace at the cemetary. he spent much time before finally getting some cash out of a corpse, it wasnt excactly woth while but he must do it to save the cash from others, he use to donate all he found to the red cross, they really needed the cash more than him.