The Iron Bank believes in redistribution of wealth.  It also believes in Comrades, from Las Vegas and further afield, having the same opportunities as everyone else.

To this end, we are running a WRITING COMPETITION.

To enter, you have to write a story of no less than three hundred words about an aspect of the world that is familiar to all of us.

It could be about crime, death, love, anything really.

It could be about your favorite associate from years gone by.  It could be about a murder that you've heard about.  It could be about the injustice endemic in our world

In short, it could be about anything at all.

Just make sure that it's 300 words long, that's it's here for everyone to see by this time tomorrow, and that it's about this world.

Thank you for hosting this sort of contest.  When is the deadline for entries?  

Oriana sidles up to AuroraMastrosimone, who obviously hadn't had her coffee yet, and mouths "that's it's here for everyone to see by this time tomorrow."

My dear, you are right.  I do need my coffee!

William walks up to the assembled throng of LVs finest, and not being one to hide behind the accomplishments of others, decides to try and set things off by getting his story out there first.

"My bleedin' family first stepped off the boat back in June '03, a rough and tumble wannabe gangster with no idea, and no clue. He died pretty quickly, shot down for random whacking and being unsponsored alas his name has been lost to the winds of time. Next came the name that my family would initially become famous for, not in this world, but in that other world, you know the one, the one that most of us old timers bloody hail from - Tiscalli. Nunzio Tiscalli to be precise. Great grand pappy Nunzio signed up with Lia Vazzi’s outfit, and did the best he could. He was polite and respectful, and never stepped out of line. At that time, unbeknownst to Nunzio, a member of La Frat, Dean Martin’s then RHM, had noticed him, and was keeping an eye on his performance. La Frat, for those who don't know, take their name from their family quote, La fratellanza degli assassini, una famiglia leggendaria, the Brotherhood of the assassin, a family of legends.

Well as with all good times, they didn’t last. Nunzio had a fall out with one of Vazzi’s crew, who was trying to extort money out of him and a friend, called Spaceman. Not being one to back down, Nunzio threatened to kill this other mobster if he didn’t disappear. So what did he do? The ole Spike here would like to say that he disappeared; unfortunately he went straight to the boss, with a carefully edited Mob Mail. Vazzi decided that he didn’t have time to deal with the petty annoyances of an earner and 2 Goombas, so he had all three taken into the desert and shot. No trial, no interrogation, just ultimate justice. This didn’t sit too well with my family, who had a romantic idea of what being a mobster was all about. Surely there had been some sort of error? Benito Tiscalli arrived on the shores of America soon after, and went straight to Vazzi. He was respectful but curious. When Vazzi failed to provide the answers he sought, he took his case to the streets, and again found no answers. Benito was contacted by DM’s RHM, Untouchable Saint, who was impressed with his way of speaking, both publicly and privately. And offered a place in La Frat. Benito respectfully declined, knowing that his hold on life was tenuous at best, he’d been making enemies quicker than allies, but he did put in a good word for his son, and Nunzio’s nephew, a guy called Carlo, who was waiting in the wings.

Benito was gunned down as soon as he made the rank of Gangster, killed by agents of Lia. Carlo arrived in America in a few days, and took over as the Families representative. He approached Untouchable Saint, and Saint put in a good word for him with Dean Martin. Carlo’s time in La Frat was double edged. On one side he was happy, here was a good family, willing to support and stick up for its members, on the other he still sought revenge for the death of his uncle and father. Carlo decided that open hostility was not the way to go, as Vazzi was the leader of the largest crime family in the 5 cities at that time, and had more than enough soldiers to ensure that Carlo would fail at any attempt to take him out. So grand pappy Carlo made a public announcement that he did not hold Vazzi responsible for the deaths of his relations, and that he was determined to show that he was a worthwhile member of our society. But his quest for revenge didn’t end there, it continued for the rest of the year, only now an underground operation, collecting Intel on Vazzi, passing it to his enemies though a carefully orchestrated network of spies and double agents. If you where one of these people, I’m sure my Grand pappy Carlo would thank you, and don’t worry, he carried the secret of your identities to his Grave, knowing first-hand how people tend to carry a grudge for things done in the past.

At the rank of Earner, Carlo got his first position in the La Frat crew Structure, that of Recruiter. By organising his endeavours, and creating Standard invites, questionnaires, and responses, Carlo quickly ramped up the membership of La Frat to the maximum of 200 members. Many of you might never even have heard of La Frat if it weren’t for Carlo. Around this time, Spike's grand pappy Carlo also attracted the attention of Dean’s LHM, one Donnie Brasco. He had noticed Carlo’s talent for public speaking, and his polite and sociable manner, traits that he has obviously passed on to me." 

William pauses and scans the crowd to see if anyone laughed at this self absurdness. Not seeing anything obvious, he take's out a Morley^TM and lights it before continuing.

"Donnie asked Carlo to look after his bar, Brasco’s, in Philly, where La Frat had moved when it became the 6^th mafia City in late July. Again, Carlo set himself targets, and quickly turned Brasco’s into the most successful bar in the city, with a unique blend of Cabaret and humour.

When Carlo became Made man, a proud day for the whole family, he took on the role of Family spokesman and Public Relations. It was his job to ensure that only the positive aspects of La Frat reached the streets and the general public. Again it was a challenge that Carlo was willing to take on. Now, forgive me if this all sounds too easy, in fact it wasn’t, Carlo still had plenty of enemies, and as he rose in rank, more and more decided to take pot shots at him. Carlo Tiscalli survived 13 shots in all, his good friend and mentor Untouchable Saint taking out those unlucky enough to take a shot at him. It was hard work, but the rewards where good, and La Frat was in my grandfather’s opinion, the best there was. La Frat weren’t interested in world domination or being the baddest mofo’s in all of mafia, they were only interested in looking after their own, and having a strong supportive family. At the start of August, Donnie Brasco was authed by Dean, and took position at his side in Philly. Little did they know that the good times where coming to an end…

In the Second week of August, Carlo made Consigliere, the highest rank any member of my family had ever been, and until Dean made God Father, the highest he could go, this was back in the days when your highest rank was one below your crew leader. But this was when things started to go wrong. Dean was in the habit of taking Prowacks. Like Carlo, he had a few enemies, mostly idiots who were fearful of his strong crew and the respect he held with them. One of his most trusted friends sold him out for a mere 500k, telling his enemies the time of his prowack. On the morning of the 11^th of August, Dean was murdered as he prepared himself for his prowack. Over 100 of his crew joined him in the cemetery; Carlo himself was shot at twice whilst unsponsored before he could get into Donnie’s crew and relative Safety. It was a sad day for La frat, unequalled since the death of our founder the previous year.

In Donnie’s Crew Carlo continued to do the role that he had been assigned in Deans, Public relations and Recruiting, and for a while things carried on as they always had. But Donnie wasn’t as strong a leader as Dean. He didn’t have the same street presence, or the diplomatic skills, and was challenged repeatedly. On top of this, with the disaster that had befallen Dean, Donnie was afraid to take Prowacks, and Carlo knew it was only a matter of time before things went pear shaped. As predicted, before the close of August, Donnie joined Dean in the family Graveyard, with almost two thirds of his crew. Carlo wasn’t as lucky this time, and joined the ranks of the fallen. It was a full 2 weeks before my family returned to the streets.

When my family returned in early September, under the guise of Saint Carlo, they found Sanctuary in another La Frat crew, that of Soultaker, one of the few lucky ones to have survived the massacre of La Frat. Saint Carlo started at the bottom and slowly worked his way up. It was here that my family cemented a lot of the friendships that keeps us here to this Day, FatTony2, BennyNoodles, Mafio, Christian, Versace, Scale, StopKillingMe, Jimmythebean, Bighead, Ecky_bloke, Seyarah, OptimusPrime and others too numerous to mention, they were… well they were as thick as thieves. Within days, Opti had been Authed, and moved away to start a crew of his own. Saint Carlo never achieved the same success in Soultaker’s crew as Carlo had in Deans or Donnie’s, but he was by no means the bottom of the Ladder. He had his own group of Subcrews to look after, and he still recruited other members, plus he still had access to his father’s spy and informant network, so Saint Carlo also had that to look after. Things were always easier though with friends by your side, and with Tony, Benny and Untouchable Saint to back him up, Saint Carlo felt invincible. He trained his gun religiously, and while he never reached the legendary status of some, he was by no means shabby. Over 150 fell by his hands, but Saint Carlo made sure to attend each and every funeral, because he always had respect for his enemies. When you loose that respect, that’s when you take people for Granted, and that’s when you get sloppy.

It was the best of times, and the worst of times. La Frat, except for a core of individuals, was disintegrating, and so was borne the curse of Saint Carlo. Saint Carlo had decided to go for Auth, and out of respect he approached Soultaker, his leader first. Within 2 days Soultaker was dead, and Seyarah, his RHM, was exiled. Carlo then approached others he knew and respected, and who in turn respected him. One by one they all died. Carlo however seemed immortal, touched by some strange protection from the Gods, and had finally taken refuge in Versace’s crew, whilst he sought Auth. It was at this time, as September ended and October Began that Carlo finally got Auth. Opti was the man to do it, and Carlo gratefully accepted. With the Death of Versace, that very night, he set up in New Orleans, the original home of La Frat, beside Opti on the 6^th October. Things where starting to look up, or so they all thought.

As some of you might remember, this was the time of MrEvilMan, or MeM as he was often referred to. And he had just about taken over the 6 cities. Every one seamed to be scared of him, and despite his draconian policies, no one had the balls to stand up to him. Saint Carlo tried, but alas wasn’t strong enough. After 6 days as a CL, word came to Carlo that MeM had had enough of his petty little rebellion, and was coming gunning for him. My family have never been the sort to wait and see what happens, so Carlo took the only course of action available to him, and shot at MeM, unfortunately missing. As there had been no formal declaration of war, Carlo decided to make one, in his own inimitable style. Over the next 30 minutes, Carlo hit listed all 146 members of MeM’s crew, for 100k each. He knew it wouldn’t be long before MeM worked out what happened and took him down, so he decided not to take Prowacks, and instead stood shoulder to shoulder with his Crew, and took as many of them out as we could. Within 2 hours, Carlo was hit by MrEvilMan’s RHM, and was out of the fight, but his own family fought on to a man. Over 90% of Carlo’s crew were killed, but they dealt a blow to MeM that he wouldn’t recover from, he was down to 67 men, and less than 14 days later he disbanded his crew, as the tide of public opinion finally turned against him. Again my family was to be involved in this.

My ancestors returned to the streets the next day under the guise of Unstrippable Paint, a tribute to their close friend and mentor, Untouchable Saint. UP didn’t join a crew, and went straight to the streets to continue to speak out against MeM and his ways. UP remained unsponsored and alive for 12 days, making it all the way to Earner, the first person to ever do so. During this time I think he pissed off just about every Crew leader around, calling them out, and asking why none of them had the balls to stand up against MeM. Paint’s voice attracted a lot of attention, and many voiced support for his cause, despite the silence of their Crew Leaders. At the Rank of Earner, UP finally died. He had ensured that no crew leader could take him in and offer him protection, Paint had burned those bridges, plus with MeM still around, I think a lot of them were too afraid to. Actually, just prior to Christmas, one of my ancestors had a chance to catch up with MeM, and he voiced his support for UP’s campaign, stating that he was not against freedom of speech, as long as it was a coherent argument, in fact he was one of the few to publicly debate with UP in the streets. My ancestor also got him to admit that his intentions had been to kill Saint Carlo, vindicating Carlo in his Pre-emptive strike. But I digress. Unstrippable Paint left mafia land, only ever returning at times of great injustice, and made way for TheEqualizer, but that as they say, is another story."

William takes a final drag from his cigarette and drops it to the floor.

"So, emmm, yeah... that's it. I'll be going then."

Turning up the collar of his coat, William plunges his hands into his pockets and trudges off to find someone to eat...

Luc sat down with his little cousin Victor Lucchese Jr.  Luc told him a story about how his bloodline ended up in the life as members of the Honored Society.  

"Going back many generations the to the time of Carmine Lucchese and Gwendolyn Rossetti they were young and deeply in love.  Carmine was a fishermen by trade and Gwen family were farmers.  Gwen family looked down on Carmine's family, they often made fun of her for liking a man that seemed to be broken.  Gwen would argue that Carmine treated her better then any man in Sicily and he worked hard to have what he owned.  Now don't look down on Gwen because Carmine didn't fair any better.  His family teased him about having his head in the clouds because they believed that he was chasing a hopeless dream when it came to being with a Rossetti.  Carmine would reply she cares for me as I am she is not like the rest of the nobles.  His family and friends would tell him that he was dreaming and to wake up and see reality."  

"Back then the French occupied Sicily and there was a soldier that thought he was the dream of every woman in Sicily.  His name was Captain Johnathan M Haberdashery.  He was a pompous arrogant ass that treated non French citizens like cattle for the slaughter.  He spotted Gwendolyn and choose her home to be his office and barracks.  He eat their food and when he wanted to show them kindness it was allowing them to eat with him or to allowing them to drink with him.  Daily Johnathan eyes lusted for Gwen however her time and heart was kept for Carmine.  Then on March 30, 1282 a young woman was taken by a French officer and it was reported to the Captain.   He decided to do the same thing and that night he tried to force himself onto Gwendolyn he wanted her for himself for the night.  She screamed as he grabbed her by the hair and he didn't care he tore her dress as she tried to escaped before the officer could do anything."  

"The next morning Carmine came to visit her she sat in the corner crying blood was on her dress her face was badly beaten and blood was on her hands.  The Officer laid on the floor in a pool of his own blood.  Gwen had pulled the fishermen's knife that Carmine gave her and sliced the Officers face, neck and gentiles then stabbed the man.  Carmine stood there as she looked up unable to speak.  Carmine was furiously upset as the officers aide walked into the house Carmine quickly turn on him choking him at first then beating him until life departed the young French  boy.   Then Carmine looked back at her and told her to go quickly wash and change he will get rid of the bodies and they would clean the room of all the blood.  She did as Carmine asked as he carried the Aides body to the barn and tossed hay on top until he could retrieve it later that night. 

"Gwendolyn's parents returned home worried looking for her and they saw the blood, she told them what transpired and asked her father to help Carmine.  Her father was horrified, then he started to panic because the Captain and his Aide were dead an it was known that they lived in his home.  Then he looked at his daughter and then his wife and anger arose wanting to know if the officer hurt her just as she replied no Carmine walked in and the father hatred kindled hotter as he moved to strike Carmine.  Carmine sensed the anger and as Gwen father moved to hit him he punched the father first and the old man stopped and grabbed his ribs.  Carmine told him that he would handle everything that they needed to listen to him.  He asked her mother to get everyone dressed and take Gwen to the church and deliver food for the festival.  They were to be seen by as many people as possible.  He asked the Father to help him take the body of the Captain to the barn and then he needed to get dressed and go to the church then to the tavern and drink and celebrate the joys of anything just look happy and laugh.  He told them that he  would clean the room of all the blood which they did." 

"Then the city erupted in gun play and fire broke out as news spread of a young woman raped by French soldiers just outside of Palermo.  While that took place Carmine went and got his two brothers and cousin they followed Carmine to the barn and helped him load the bodies into a hay cart that belonged to the Rossetti family they took those bodies to the coastline then took them out to sea and cut the bladders and dropped them into the sea.  Gwen's father went to get his wife and children from the Church but the fighting was rampant so they returned home in the morning to find Carmine sitting next to the fire place cooking a few small fish.  Carmine stood and they looked as the room was clean.  Then a knock at the door came and two soldiers stood there as Carmine went to see what they wanted.  They were looking for the captain and Carmine saw that they were hungry also so he invited them in and offered them some of his fish.  They eat their fill as Carmine explained that the Captain and his Aide left the villa late yesterday to see why all the noise was occurring and that they had not returned.  He offered then wine to drink but they refuse and went back to report to the commanding Officer."

"It was months later when Carmine and Gwen were married, and it was his cousin that had people going to Carmine for help because he had several boats that was purchased by Gwen's father.  The added boats meant more fish to sale and greater wealth.  With Carmine helping those in need they gave him tribute and started calling him Don Lucchese.  It was then that he started making the rules and had men that supported him and his wishes that created this thing of ours in our home town."

Young Victor stood up nodding as he was now more proud to be a Lucchese then ever before.  Luc smiled as he knew that pride and knew he would have to help his young cousin keep that in check.   

Just what the hell happened last night...?

As he eventually managed to convince his arms and legs to work, he sat up and tried to blink his way through what was growing to be a very painful headache, and once his vision cleared, he observed the surroundings of his bedroom. and swiftly realised he’d gone to bed fully clothed in his suit from yesterday, the only things missing were his jacket, which seemed to be missing from the back of the bedroom door, and his hat, god knows where that was.

With a slightly sheepish sensation creeping up on him, he gets out of bed, grabbing a fresh suit from the wardrobe, laying it out on the bed before going to shower, brush his teeth and give himself a quick shave.

Fully dressed now, and feeling a little bit better, he left the bathroom and headed into the lounge, only to find the couch cushions upturned onto the carpet, the hat rack wearing yesterday’s jacket, random bits of trash littering the floor, one large pumpkin sat on the kitchen counter wearing his missing hat, a traffic cone he was sure wasn’t present yesterday sitting smack bang in the middle of the room, and a scarecrow, just casually sitting on the upturned couch, posed as if it was intently watching the static of the television.

And to top it all off, just outside the window was an all-white stallion, hitched to the lamppost, drawing some very strange looks from passers-by.

Choosing not to deal with any of that until he’d had at least two cups of coffee, he makes his way to the kitchen and immediately brews a full jug of the stuff, turning the radio on to catch up on the news.

Two and a half cups of coffee later, Peter begins tidying up the apartment, and finds his planner among the trash that was on the floor. He flips through it to try and find any evidence of what he did yesterday, as his brain wasn’t quite willing to give up any memories of last night just yet, and he found TEGRIDY FARM VISIT, scrawled in the entry for the previous day.

…

Everything came back almost all at once.

With a dry mouth and a growing sense of nausea, Peter found the telephone and dialled the number for Tegridy Farm, grabbing the bottle of whiskey from the nearby spirits trolley and adding a copious amount to his third cup of coffee, having a feeling he may need it for what Oblivion was likely about to tell him of last night.

Oblivion answered the phone after several rings, and once Peter let him know it was him who was calling, he grimaced at hearing Oblivion’s knowing laughter.

“Good morning, sunshine...” he drawled, sounding intensely pleased with himself. “And how are we this morning?”

Peter physically cringed.

“I’m struggling to recall just what happened last night.” He replied. “If you could fill me in, I’d be grateful. And if need be, I’ll apologise.”

Oblivion chuckled. “Well, just where do I begin?” he says. Peter closed his eyes in silent embarrassment as he listened to Oblivion’s detailing of his actions last night.

“First off, you started giggling at absolutely nothing. Then you wandered off as I went to call you a cab, singing your heart out to some nonsense song I’d never heard before. By the time I’d finished hiring the cab, you’d disappeared, so, I rounded up a couple farmhands to help me out, and eventually, we hear you singing in the corn maze. I run in there, shouting your name, and you run off, screaming as if I’m about to murder you. One of the farmhands manages to lasso you so we don’t lose you again, and somehow, you got free! God knows how that happened. It was like Houdini, I tell you.”

“Anyway, you get free, and you disappear, again. So, we’re running around in the maze trying to find you, and it’s a good fifteen to twenty minutes before we hear you yell out ‘YOU’LL NEVER CATCH ME ALIVE, PIG!’ and you start hollering like the Indians do. We all run out of the maze and find you riding one of my best thoroughbred stallions, with a pumpkin and one of the scarecrows from the maze in your arms, making a break for the gates. I am stunned to silence, and then, that was it. You’d gone.”

Peter groaned quietly into the heel of his free hand, muttering several curses under his breath.

“Considering you’re calling me, I can only assume you got home in one piece.”

“Yeah. Physically. I think most of my common sense is out on the highway still.” Peter says.

Oblivion snorted at that.

“Well, I apologize for everything, my friend.” Peter continued.

“Ah, it’s nothing.” Oblivion says. “You gave me a laugh more than anything. However, if you wouldn’t mind returning the horse…?”

“Absolutely. I’ll bring him back today.” Peter says. “And the scarecrow… and the pumpkin… by any chance you’re not missing a traffic cone, are you?”

“A traffic cone?!” exclaimed Oblivion. “Uh, no, that’s not me…” he laughed. “Christ, Bishop, you went on a right rampage last night, didn’t you?”

Peter chuckled lightly, and after a reaffirmation of his promise to return the horse, the two friends said goodbye and Peter hung up. He put the phone down and slumped as far down into the couch as the cushions and his spine would allow, groaning loudly in despair.

The horse outside seemed to hear this and neighed in a manner that Peter could only take to be indignation, and he quickly got himself ready, grabbed the pumpkin, the scarecrow and the traffic cone and left the apartment, making his way to the street and found the horse drinking from a puddle. As he approached, the horse looked up and seemed to give Peter a look that said ‘not you again!’

He saddled the scarecrow and balanced the pumpkin on the horse’s back, while he tried to nonchalantly dump the traffic cone back to where it clearly belonged in a coned off loading bay on the other side of the street, before he spent a few minutes checking the horse was relatively okay, all the while trying to ignore the judgemental looks he was getting from the few people who were walking by, and before he could leave, he had to endure a ten minute lecture from his elderly neighbour, on how his shameful behaviour last night woke her up and disturbed her so much that she spent most of the night praying for his salvation.

“get yourself a job, boy!” she’d shouted as she stood on her doorstep again. “all of this ungodly behaviour is disgusting! No woman will dare be seen with you! The Devil himself wouldn’t want you!”

Trying to clear his mind, Peter unhitched the horse, and saddled up, putting the scarecrow and the pumpkin in front of him. He gently nudged the horse to start walking, hoping his childhood riding lessons would not let him down.

The ride back to Tegridy farm was longer than the drive, Peter was very unfocused during the ride as he was trying to envision everything Oblivion had told him of his exploits yesterday. Highly embarrassing though it all was, Peter was grateful that he’d not tried to do anything dangerous too both to himself and to other people around him. He just hoped that he’d not caused any road accidents or harmed anyone unnecessarily while he was very much not himself. Though he supposed that the police would be no doubt on his doorstep at the crack of dawn if he had, demanding an explanation for his actions, or the worst case scenario could be that Peter would be waking up in a jail cell, or something even more sinister.

As Tegridy Farm eventually appeared within his sight, Peter quickened the pace, and was soon riding up the dirt track, past the corn maze, and slowing to a stop outside Oblivion’s house. A pair of farmhands greeted him, and Peter met their smirking faces with a haft smile as they claimed the pumpkin, the scarecrow, and the horse from him.

A loud boom of laughter echoed from behind him and Peter turned to see Oblivion leaning on the front porch fence, looking down at him with an almost annoyingly gleeful expression on his face.

“Made it back alright then?” he asks. “You, ah, didn’t steal any more horses? Or…” he sniggered. “…traffic cones?”

Peter tried to think of a witty comeback, but instead, he brought up his hand to wave away the question. Oblivion grinned hugely.

“Come on,” he says, standing up. “Have a drink. But I think we’ll just stick with the mild stuff, hey?”

Peter nodded. “Tea, I think, would be just enough. Thanks.”

Oblivion was wandering around the streets, listening to a variety of speeches and stories on every corner, pleased with the bustling of activity all around. Upon hearing of a competition by CommissarZverev, he felt the time was right to finally share his story. He respectfully stood by as others shared their stories, before stepping onto the soap box and pulling a beat-up journal from his bag. He cleared his throat, opened his journal to the appropriate page, and began.

"I would like to share with you today, how I came to be here. Thank you for listening.

Two years prior in Waterford, Ireland.

In the cover of night, he made his way through the allies of Adelphi Quay glancing once over the barricade to make sure his boat was still running and waiting. He spotted his business companion, Mr. Kitterman, sitting in the captain’s seat keeping the boat running at a low volume. Oblivion gave him a thumbs up, and then continued his path. Exiting the alleyway, he made it to William St, looking across the street at the Bar. Taking a seat on a bench across from the bar, he made himself at home. He was dressed quite disgruntled, almost looking homeless, and was just biding his time.

After some time had passed, Oblivion looked up to see his target exiting the bar, staggering along the street, one Mr. Julian O'Shea. It was one year to the day that O'Shea had changed Oblivion's life forever. One year since this drunken Irish bastard had wiped out everything he had known. One night, during a drunken bender, O'Shea had lost his temper with Oblivion's mother, a knife was drawn, her throat was slashed. As the floor was bathed in crimson, his father had charged in a blind rage, and ended with the same fate. It was unfortunate then, that after this O'Shea took off running, and Oblivion couldn't quite catch up. That wouldn't happen this time, not again. The local authorities had completed an investigation, but it was truly to no avail. O’Shea was arrested, served a month or two, and was released on a technicality, but that wouldn’t happen this time.

Oblivion followed O’Shea until he made his way down a dark alleyway, the same one loading to Mr. Kitterman waiting in his boat. He walked up slowly behind him, not wanting to alert him to his presence, and swiftly kicked him behind his knee. O’Shea crumpled to the ground, looking about to see what happened, but before he could begin to stir, Oblivion was on top of him. No words were needed, but he could tell by the look in O’Shea’s eyes that he knew, he was aware of what was to come. Oblivion pulled a small knife from his pocket, and swiftly jabbed it into the side of O’Shea’s neck, before quickly pulling it out and letting the warm spray come from the wound. This alone would have killed him, but this was personal, Oblivion was overcome with emotion as he repeatedly stabbed O’Shea in the neck, chest, everywhere, until he was kneeling in nothing but red. Looking behind him, he spotted a witness who was standing there completely shell shocked. In a split-second decision, Oblivion climbed to his feet and took off running, hearing nothing but “Stop! Stop! What have you done?!” The police would be there shortly, he was sure, and there was no time to spare.

Looking behind him at every turn, and every few seconds, to make sure he had enough distance, he made a mad sprint to the boat, leaping from the pier, landing on the rear of the boat. He screamed to Mr. Kitterman, “GO! NOW!” as he struggled to make it to his feet before Kitterman accelerated, and the life Oblivion had known was gone forever in the figurative rear view.

A few weeks later.

Oblivion landed in America off the coast of New York, desperately hoping the past was behind him, but aware of the crushing guilt in his chest. Shooting someone is easy, it’s impersonal, you fire the gun, walk away, let nature take care of the rest. But to stab a man, to watch the life drain from his eyes, and the little light that’s inside everyone flicker out, that takes a toll. His heart was heavy, but he pushed on regardless. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a note he had found written upon a postcard from Seattle. It was addressed to his father, but plainly stated; “Should you ever find yourself needing shelter, or anything at all, make your way to The Black Oak Ranch.” It was signed by a JohnWalton, and an address was scribbled below.

In a long line of things Oblivion wasn’t proud of, he needed money to get to Seattle. Knowing this, he did the only thing he could think of. He stopped at a small convenience store and snatched up a black mask, sliding it into his pocket and running out of the establishment and down a few blocks. Breathing a sigh of relief that nobody had followed, or seemingly seen, he made his way to the nearby postal office, and slid the mask on before making his way in. Not saying a word, he made his way to the teller, with his gun drawn, and pointed it square between her eyes. Using his other hand, he pointed at the till and made a motion dictating that he wanted all the money inside. The teller promptly screamed but did as instructed. Oblivion used the butt of the gun and softly hit her to knock her back, giving him enough time to escape and make his way to the airport. He caught the next flight to Seattle and landed a few hours later.

He made his way through Seattle, and finally arrived at The Black Oak Ranch, located on the outskirts of Pioneer Square. He walked up to the front door, and knocked twice, before being greeted by an odd-looking Mrs_Cat, who hissed and ran away. Looking up, he spotted a young man, Gio-Moretti, who demanded to know who he was and why he was there. “I would like to see JohnWalton please, I have this.” He flashed the young man the postcard and was then led to an extravagant office.

Hello John, I believe you knew my father?

Oblivion handed over the postcard and watched for any reaction. The reaction was swift and unexpected, as JohnWalton got up from his desk and walked over to him, practically lifting him in an embrace. “Welcome home brother, we’ve been waiting for you.” The rest as they say, is history.

Oblivion nodded to those around him, and slid his journal back into his chest pocket, patting it once. It would shortly be returning to his safe, where it belonged.

ErrantKnight stepped up to the park bench which seemed a suitable location for story time, cleared his throat, and began for all to hear:

"I was hard at work that Thursday morning at 1:00 am. Abruptly, I was awoken by a knocking. I rose from where I had been glued to the desk, un-sticking myself like a slug with some place to be. Carefully, I crept toward the door and drew the closest firearm I had access to. I peeked through the peephole to no avail and returned to my desk. A dim moonlight silhouetted a pesky shadow on its wooden plateau before I had the chance to continue my review of the paperwork. It had been a busy week: demand for paper had risen ever since paper had replaced coal as a primary source of energy-producing fuel. It was a ripe monopoly that the sole paper producer in the whole of Philadelphia, the dutiful Paper Route Empire and its astute guardian, Adolph Thornton, had stumbled, or more truthfully, settled upon. It was but a shame the warehouses of coal-burners had been found empty one bright Monday morning. Business is as business does.

Back to that shadow though. It was an odd shape. Some might assume it was owl-shaped, which would have been a correct assumption had you been in my shoes that early Thursday morning, more accurately Wednesday night with how things had been going. The owl-shaped shadow continued to release a knocking noise, presumably upon the shadow’s beak tapping the glass window. I was more than bewildered. Not only had this owl interrupted my work, but it had lacked the common decency to walk up the half-dozen flights of stairs and knock on my door.

On the seventh floor that early Thursday morning, I found myself standing rather unprepared. I had not previously faced a problem such as an owl-shaped shadow, with a propensity for tapping upon my unprotected glass window. After a few moments of shuffling and almost tripping over my set of armor laid across the floor, I cracked open the window enough for the owl-shaped shadow to enter. As it turns out, it was not merely an owl-shaped shadow, but an owl itself. I had previously had the time to mentally prepare myself for the impatient visitor-ship of an owl-shaped shadow, but now my preparations were shown to be much too hasty. I immediately began with an overture to the agitated bird.

'Welcome to my humble abode, please forgive me for not preparing greater for your arrival. If I could so humbly ask, could you please alert me in the future with at least 2-3 business days- ahem- sorry, the contractual language I have become accustomed to with all these manifests and paperwork for the company have deteriorated my lordly tongue… but please, oh great visitor, could you send prior warning of your eminent arrival beforehand?'

By then, the owl had flapped down to my desk, settling on a stack of paperwork labeled: “Important: Sign and date by Thursday” which had been my previous ambition to complete by the end of the night. It stared me in the eyes as it released its foul excrement onto the top sheet. Subsequently, it dragged one talon through the sheet, as if tossing it onto the floor and started pooping on the next paper, dropping it on the floor, and continuing the process for a few more sheets until it presumably became so preoccupied with the sight of my armor that it flew from its perch. My gaze had been occupied solely, as if hypnotically, with the owl’s movements on my paper stack. Upon its movement onto my armor, my eyes grew wide and I drew my firearm once more. Hand quivering, I dropped it down to my side again, and tried to bend over and attend to the owl who was now enamored with my armor. It saw itself in the shiny reflection and began to poke and tap at the smooth surface with a tiny plunk noise.

After a few minutes of hesitantly observing its actions, I remembered the advice my dear friend Mark had imparted upon me. Owls love shopping carts. They can’t stay away. I turned my back to the owl, retreating toward my closet- obviously one of my first mistakes- and retrieved the shopping cart I had always left in there for times of emergency. I rapidly rolled out the cart, but not before the owl flew in my face, immediately attracted by the new presence of the shopping cart. My first goal had been achieved, my armor had been abandoned. However, now I wish I had been wearing my armor, as opposed to the floor, because owl talons are painful when they scratch at you.

Luckily for any untrained handler of an owl, they only attack when they sense fear. Unluckily for me on the seventh floor that early Thursday morning at 1:30 am, I was most definitely fearful. Now don’t get me wrong, I have a very steady tread when it comes to walking through haunted houses, a steady carriage when it comes to jousting, and a steady flow of liquid waste when my bladder needs emptying. But the unexpected visit of an owl had undone my mental armor, and I was quaking without my boots, which lay on the floor alongside my set of armor.

Fortunately, the owl had not been incited into a frenzy toward me but was merely excited over the sudden appearance of the shopping cart. A treat to the senses much like the sudden appearance of the owl had not been to me. I gingerly put my jealously aside and tried to coax the owl into the shopping cart. I questioned aloud to my friend Mark, whose presence I was not currently graced with, but might have decided to take in place of the owl at that current time whether my attempts would be successful.

Luckily enough, Mark’s advice proved correct. Never stand under a team of movers lifting a piano. I immediately remembered the story of my Aunt whose brother was crushed by a falling piano, dropped by a team of movers. However, that’s a story for another time. Early that Thursday morning, I was finally able to corral the owl into the shopping cart. Unfortunately, I was so tired by that point, some time around 2:00 or 2:30 am, I immediately slumped to the floor, feet from my bed of course, and fell asleep. By the time I had awoken, I was disappointed.

It was raining outside."

He stepped down off the park bench and blinked.

"That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. I hope you learned something here today because I sure have. One of those things was about the power of knowledge from storytelling and human interaction. The second one was something about wealth distribution and income inequality, but I already forgot the important parts from both of those."

There’s something beautiful about taking another human being apart with your hands. Guns and knives paid the bills, sure. But this? This was just fun. Gavin stepped back, easily avoiding the roundhouse punch that the pickpocket had thrown in his direction, then delivering a body shot to the man’s kidney. As his target fell to the concrete, Gavin dropped down to stay at eye level, resting his forearms on his knees.

“Look,” said Gavin. “I love the enthusiasm. Hitting the streets. Scraping us cash however you can. Fighting spirit. I get it. I lived it. But when you try to pick the pocket of a Made guy and get caught, you’re better off just admitting it and taking your lumps. Lying about it isn’t going to help-”

He ducked back again as the pickpocket threw a punch from his knees. With a sigh, Gavin kicked the man in the ribs. As the pickpocket rolled on the ground, Gavin sat down on an abandoned soapbox and said, “You know who some good targets are? FBN agents- especially the corrupt ones- they’re good. Durdens aren’t so bad when they’re around.” The pickpocket seemed to focus on catching his breath as Gavin continued. “Once there was more respect around these streets. Rank use to mean something, you know?” The pickpocket wheezed.

“Before your time, I guess,” added Gavin. “Which reminds me- I’m going to be late for this thing for my kids. Trying to balance work and family, ya know? Yea it gets hard sometimes, but there’s more to life than just the job, am I right?” Shrugging, Gavin reached down and removed the man’s wallet, taking out all the bills inside.

“I need money for the concession stand. You understand, I’m sure. And even if you don’t, you tried to lift my wallet first, so this seems pretty fair to me.” After emptying the wallet, Gavin placed it back into the man’s pocket. “Well, nice talking to you, I guess. Try not to pickpocket any more-“

“I mug you.”

“You what me?”

“I mug you.”

“Why would you hug me?”

The pickpocket spit out a tooth. “Mug. I mug you.” Somehow, the beaten man dragged himself to his feet.

“Very impressive,” said Gavin. But you don’t want to try that right now, I think.”

“I mug you.”

“You can’t just keep saying that and expecting something to happen.”

“I mug-.”

“If you finish that sentence, I’m going to put my boot so far up your ass that you’re going to smell shoe polish for a week.”

To his credit, the pickpocket stayed silent.

“Now here’s what’s going to happen,” said Gavin to the pickpocket, as shouting became evident from the sidewalk. “You can go. Just don’t pickpocket or mug any Made guys. And watch out for the…” Suddenly, the source of the sound came into view, as the low buzz of  a general commotion began growing in the streets.

Gavin risked a peek around the corner. “Oh… shit. They’re earlier this year.” The pickpocket looked confused. “The Trick or Treaters. They invade every year. Look, it’s a long story. Just don’t-“

The pickpocket sprinted away, not listening to any advice. Gavin sighed. “Don’t worry, you’ll fit in just fine around here.”

A few minutes later, Gavin had climbed up the fire escape and was moving from building to building, avoiding the rampaging Trick or Treaters that dominated the streets and alleyways. When he reached the end of the row of buildings, Gavin dropped down into the alleyway and found himself face to face with a cow- or at least a man wearing a cow costume. Wait, was that-

“I moo-g you!” the gleeful pickpocket exclaimed as he pulled out a knife, pointing it directly at Gavin and flashing a steely, bovine glare.

Gavin took a deep breath. Then he took out his gun and shot the cow-man.

“I feel like there’s a joke about steak to be- damn it!”

The group of Trick or Treaters had heard the gunshot and started running down Gavin with their open candy bags extended for loot. They chased him across three city blocks, and Gavin was wheezing by the time he crashed into the payphone, frantically putting in his coin and dialing the number.

“Hey, it’s me. Yea, I’ll be at the thing later. Look, I’ve just- lock the doors for a bit. Almost Halloween, you know.”

Hanging up the phone quickly, Gavin sprinted out of the phone booth before it was consumed by a wave of Trick or Treaters. His shoes echoed on the deserted streets as he raced away from the horde. Though they made no intelligible sound with their gnashing, chocolate-stained teeth, their murmurs seemed to pulse with a clear warning.

Soon. Soon.

Vrezhkndir, (V-rez-kun-dish) The Revenant, the walking ghost, the one who returned. The word echoed in his mind. What was he doing? Has he gone totally mad? The image of a pile of murdered children their dead cloudy eyes wide and transfixed in their last horrible moment for all eternity came to mind. Yes he agreed with himself, in a mad world I have found my sanity. 
It was a crisp January evening in Eleskirt, Turkey 1916 and he slipped silently along the roadside. The industrial section, his goal was in sight. In a warehouse now used as temporary holding for, well they were not even called people anymore but "items". The Turks had been rounding up anyone of Armenian heritage especially Christians. The souls held in this warehouse had been led on a death march, beaten, robbed, assaulted even raped along the way. Now on a final stop over as they prepared for a march South into the desert and "exile" they would be prodded on untill they collapsed and were left to die. 
He was far into Turkish land,, enemy territory he corrected himself for there was no doubt if he was discovered he would be shot as a spy. Creeping along the outer perimeter fence he prayed to Saint Gregory the illuminator. 
"Blessed Saint Gregory light my way, blind my enemies and illuminate my thoughts and deeds tonight."
 Quick and silent he dispatched the 2 nodding guards, the only ones left on post. Marching a column of prisoners all day was tiring work and the rest of the troop fell quickly asleep in a barrack building. One quick stop at a small office building where the leaders had been entertaining some local harlots they had long ago finished and loud snoring came from inside. He slipped in and one by one dispatched them with his blade. With determination he pulled out 2 wine bottles stashed inside his coat and ust outside the door laid them on the ground, uncorked them, stuffed a rag inside, lit it and tossed them inside. The loud WOOSH and bright light that followed when the benzine inside was released from the shattered bottles was not nearly as satisfying as the screams that followed. Two men managed to find the door and rushing out were shot. 
When he was sure every enemy was dead he walked over to the main building and flung the door open wide. Tossing a set of keys he stole from the commanders body he shouted.
"Saint Gregory shines his light through the darkest night" 
With that he encourages everyone into a trio of large trucks parked nearby and leads the convoy north twards relative safety. Beaming in a grin that spread ear to ear the small part of childhood left in this 16 year old man was proud of how well this game of war turned out tonight. 

No matter how much money he had, how much power he was gaining as a crew leader in Detroit, Sean would never, COULD NEVER, forget his up bringing. His childhood on the streets of Dublin had been tough. Never enough food to eat, not sure whether when he went home at night that there'd be a bed for him, or whether his Aunt Carmen had bought another man back to the tiny place they rented. Sure, he knew that what she did with those men paid the rent, it didn't mean he had to like it though. Christ, the way some of those men looked at HIM, too....

Then she left...one of the guys she'd got friendly with had told her about there being work in America. It was one of those places that everyone talked about – the land of opportunity! Carmen wanted to go, he could tell by the way even her weary eyes lit up at the tales she heard in the bars she frequented. It was her latest fella, Boris, a huge giant of a man with a funny accent that finally convinced her to try her luck. He'd talked often of a gentleman called Drax who had his fingers in various pies – apparently he could use someone with Carmen's unique skills.

It took Carmen 6 months, and god knows how many men, before she'd raised the money to purchase their tickets for the ship to New York, and she'd never looked happier than she did the day they were boarding the ship. Sean had often spent days watching the massive cruise liners docking, and trying to work out which of the visitors had the most money that he would get them to part with, but travelling on one??? That had never seemed possible – a pipe dream!

Their room on the ship was the lowest of the low, far away from the rich people. They were encouraged to remain below decks, and the food was meagre, but it was dry, warm, and the door had a lock on it – a luxury compared to the squalor they'd left behind. Carmen was still able to ply her trade, and Sean was able to do his own thing. They also met several people who had the same ideas about what they would do once the ship docked.

Boris, however, taught Sean a lesson he would carry with him for the rest of his days.

“Remember this, and you'll be fine – Family comes first! There'll come a time when your blood family will become second to the Family who give you work, a sense of belonging, opportunity! Keep your head down, earn these guys money, do what they tell you to do, and you won't believe the rewards that will come your way! You've done ok back home, but you're going to the major leagues now! Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer – it's dog eat dog, and the higher you get, the more people will want to take away everything you have!”

Thanks for the opportunity to tell my story.  Fair warning, if suspenseful stories make you feel a certain way you may want to move along.  But if you like suspense I hope you enjoy (exactly 300 words as well if case gives me any kind of advantage)

The Robbery

It was a beautiful, warm, lovely, clear skied afternoon and the store clerk was in a great mood.  That is before a masked criminal entered the business brandishing a firearm!

The robber stuck his gun in the store clerk's face. "Give me all your money you goddam, lousy, rotton, no good, stupid, yellow bellied, fat, ugly fucking, darn, greedy, old son of a goddam fucking bitch."

The store clerk opens the register hand hands the robber all the money.  He is trembling in fear like a leaf that has fallen from a tree and is blowing around in the autumn wind in the month of October, or even perhaps November maybe.

"Now, get on the ground and shut your eyes and count to one hundred before getting up."  The store clerk gets on the ground and begins counting out loud.

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen......"

The suspense builds to a crippling level. You can literally feel the same anxiety that the store clerk is feeling as he continues to count.

"...twenty, twenty one, twenty two, twenty three, twenty four, twenty five..."

Off the charts suspense is now at a stomach cramping nauseating level.  Surely the robber has fled, right?  He wouldn't stick around just to make sure the clerk finished counting to one hundred, would he?  Yet the clerk is so petrified with fear he dares not open his eyes.  He continues to count.

"...twenty six, twenty seven, twenty nine..."

The clerk feels the coldness of a gun barrel pressed to his head.  It was the robber.

"You skipped twenty eight."

The store clerk gulps.  Well, I guess this is the end of the road for me, he thinks to himself.  The robber pulls the trigger.