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 another WRITING COMPETITION.

To enter, you have to write a story of no less than three hundred words and (DEFINITELY!) no more than six 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 between 300 and 600 words long, that's it's here for everyone to see by midnight tomorrow, and that it's about this world.

Some of you will have noticed that the PRIZE MONEY has dropped from $40M to $28M - the first person to say why the change in prize money wins a very significant prize!!

Also, anyone is welcome to make suggestions to make the WRITING COMPETITION EVEN BETTER!!

Scooter walking along the street hears a man announcing large amounts of money and it grabs his attention. He listens a little longer and is a a bit confused.

"So the story has to be 100 words at least or 300 words?"

Hearing the second part of the competition he had to ask

"So why is the prize money smaller this time around?"

Between THREE HUNDRED (300) and SIX HUNDRED (600) words.

That depends, Scooter, on how it's looked at.  I mean, it isn't so much that it's small last time, it's that it was fucking huge last time.

But there is a reason.  But you need to work it out, and the first person that does, wins a very significant prize!

Does the closing time apply to everyone this time?

Haha, yes, of course.  It's unfortunate that I didn't inform everyone of the extension to the last competition, SeanCallan, but then again, nobody except for Destro asked, and I, for one, don't regret granting him more time, because he produced a first class piece of work.

Will you be entering this time, SeanCallan?

Good guesses, Mikari!  But you'll need to think a little bit out of the the box.  Or hors de la boîte as our French friends might say.

Perhaps they don't feel the return is worthy of the effort required to write a modern masterpiece? Or perhaps they dont like the limitations placed upon their entry. Regardless of the reason I'm sure you may get an entry sooner or later, I'd offer to mail my crew, but being a brand new CL with a distinct lack of members, I feel that would be a waste of my limited resources.

Hello, my name is Coconut Randy and this is my story about a crime.

So there I am - Coconut Randy, the Godfather of East Palo Alto and overlapping corners of the adjoining areas - standing around in a bank minding my own business, when out of nowhere the doors burst open and a couple of guys with bandanas wrapped around the bottom halves of their heads come storming in. Everyone is scared and running around like, Oh my god, oh my god, because obviously these guys are here to rob the place, which is totally bogus. Oh man, I'm thinking, because it was about to be my turn and now it is definitely going to take way longer, when one of the bank robbers jumps behind the counter and asks, 'How can I serve you today, sir?'

This was totally confusing to me because, a) I don't think he was qualified to provide such a service, b) I saw him burst through the doors just a second ago, and c) It was definitely my cousin Frank. So I'm like, Frank, what the hell man? And Frank is like, oh shit, Randy is that you? I haven't seen you since high school! And I'm like, Ha ha, yeah man, you probably didn't recognize me because my hair is really straight these days, why are you robbing this bank, dude? And Frank is like, it's a recession, bro! And I was like, word. 

So Frank goes into the vault, comes back with another bank robber and it's my girlfriend Jewel! And I'm all, what the hell Jewel? And she's all angry and shouting at me, Randy, how are we supposed to pay the rent, Randy, nobody reads your dumb newspaper, Randy, how are we meant to feed our kids, and I'm just totally dialed out now, imagining how amazing a real hostage situation could have been, where the robbers weren't totally annoying or my cousin Frank, and what makes it all so much worse is, deep down inside, I just know the third robber is my idiot friend The Doob. 

You see, just the week before, the Doob family mushroom farm - an unbelievably depressing place - had been foreclosed, leaving The Doob and his wiccan half-sisters, Cordelia and Myrtle, in the midst of a minor existential crisis. And robbing a bank with Frank and Jewel was just the kind of thing The Doob would do to lash out at the world. So I'm like, you know what, these people have been watching me talk to you guys for the last 15 minutes, you might as well cut me in on this, right? And they're all deliberating like, No, we did all the planning, he can't just come in at the last minute and get a cut, don't let him freeload off our schemes, and meanwhile the sirens outside are getting closer. 

So Frank turns to me and he goes, you can join in Randy but you and Jewel have to split her share, and Jewel is NOT happy about that, so I'm already bracing myself for that fight when we get home. So I grab a couple bags of money and Jewel is looking at me like, I swear to God if you were a bug I would squish you, and I'm looking at the ground like, what have I done? And we all get out of there pronto. I used my share to buy a new printing press, while Jewel used her share buying a home near her Mom's in Michigan where she moved with our kids. 

That's my story, thank you guys. 

Moose sits quietly at the bar, drinking a glass of whiskey neat and enjoying the buzz he’s feeling when suddenly something catches his eye in the mirror behind the bar 

“What the fu-” He trails off while turning around to confront his interest.  There, sitting in a booth, flirting with a waitress, is Vincent Saffirelli, a slimeball of a human being. Moose hated dealing with him and regularly avoids it. However, today is a different day, Vince owes him money.

Moose swiftly sits across from him before gaining his attention, panic fills Vince’s eyes and he begins to spring as Moose’s .45 hits the table between them

“Don’t even think about it” Moose quickly snaps

Vince settles back into his seat as Moose re-holsters his weapon 

 “Now the way that you were so ready to bolt on me leads me to believe you do not have my money…”

Vince nods slowly and looks down in shame, “Look, Moose, I’m sorry I fucked up losing that card game, but-” 

He is interrupted by a hand slamming the table “But fucking nothing, you owe me FIFTEEN GRAND!” Moose lowers his voice as he sees people start to stare

Vince takes the moment to offer a solution “Listen, I don’t have much cash on me, but I can give you information about a couple of big scores until the debt is paid?”

Moose mulls over this idea for a minute, then speaks.

“Twenty percent of whatever my crew grabs will be taken off your debt” He tips his drink back and sets the glass upside down on the table “And be a gentleman and pay for my drink, I’ll be in touch”

Without waiting for an answer Moose disappears the booth and bar with the same swiftness he had used to get the drop on Vincent to begin with.

Vincent realizing just how close he had come to death orders another drink to collect his nerves and think of what his first score to give.

Wasn't really sure where to put it so I just tacked it onto this thread I hope this is okay!

(My story)

When I first came to this country, I was a nobody, just another lowly immigrant searching for family and the hope of a better life in a different place. I didn't find it straight away and I had some lucky breaks to get to where I am now, but things would seem to be going ok. I have a club in Manhattan. I have a family who look out for me. I have respect. But one thing I don't have is a heck of a lot of money.

I’m a good earner for my family and I think my boss is satisfied with how much I am able to pay her in tribute each week. Despite that, I know I could be better than I am, you see…I have a problem.

I fucking love playing dice and blackjack. That wouldn’t be such a big deal except I’m not actually that good at it. I convince myself sometimes that I’m hot shit, only to run into the dealer flipping over another fucking blackjack right in my face and I want to punch him right in his stupid mouth. Then I spend the next few weeks kicking over every racket I’ve ever heard of trying to get enough together to keep up payments with my boss and win back what House obviously stole from me with his winning streak of 48 million in a row. That motherfucker.

That cycle summed up my time in “This Thing of Ours” for as long as I could remember. Hustle, gamble, win, top of the world, start to lose, panic, lose everything, panic even more, cause a ruckus, swindle some more money, pay up to the boss, put gas in the car and start gambling again. Things changed for me when I first began to visit Las Vegas. It is every gambler’s spiritual home and I soon found somewhere to call my own, a seat at the blackjack table in the then Das Kapital.

It was a non-descript day, I was doing middling well to poor at the table when the boss of the joint stood next to me. He was CommisarZverev. He said to me.

“I have an offer for you.”

I thought, oh no here we go. Another con.

“I’m not interested, thanks.”

I said, going back to my drink and deciding whether or not I should double against the dealer’s 4.

“You want to hear what I have to say.”

He said over my shoulder and something about his demeanour told me he was kind of a big deal, so I doubled down, lost, huffed and followed him to his office.

“We’re doing matched betting now. The Iron Bank has authorised me to offer you $20,000,000 with a reasonable vig of 1.5% which means you’ll have to pay us back $11,500,000 in a week.”

I nearly choked.

“The only stipulation is, you have to bet the lot at the casino. You roll over the $20,000,000 whatever else you have at the end of it, you keep. You just pay us in a week. What do you think?”

$20,000,000 and all I had to do was exactly what I was going to do anyway?

“I love this place!”

I said and Zverev smiled. I smiled too. He passed me an envelope with everything I’d lost that day inside it. I smiled some more.

Things haven’t changed all that much from that day to this. I’m still earning what I can for my family. I’m still running rackets. Whenever I’m in Vegas, I still go to the casino and hope for Zverev to come up behind me with another offer from the Iron Bank!

FUCKING THE WRONG 'PIPE
A group of men are standing at a bar, which is deserted except for them, and for the owner, who is tending bar and who, like those he is serving, is a hard looking man, gnarled and aware, and listening and laughing as they talk.  One man in particular takes centre stage as he responds to a question another man has asked...
"The dumbest hit I ever heard of?  Yeah, sure, I got a story about that.  A few years ago, scratch that, in fact, quite  a few years ago there was a guy who called himself Gaspipe.  Now Gaspipe was actually one of them Kuku's that we are always hearing about, but he was incognito because, as you guys know, anyone calling themself Kuku generally got wacked straight away.  So Gaspipe was called Gaspipe, but nobody realised he was Kuku.  At least not to start with.  Now Gaspipe Kuku had a beef with Jono.  It went way back.  Jono told Kuku Senior to "sod off" and Kuku Senior went rogue or some shit.  Who the fuck knows with guys like that.
So, yeah, anyway, Gaspipe Kuku caused Jono some problems.  Gaspipe Kuku got Made, got a crew and was a big deal out in St Louis, if I recall correctly.  There was a falling out, and Gaspipe Kuku was killed.  Or, in fact, I think he fucking offed himself; shot himself in the head, made a big fucking spectacle of himself.  His son came back, under a few different aliases, none of which were ever Gaspipe.  But evidently, Gaspipe Kuku made a fucking impression on Jono.
Fast forward a few years and some guy steps off the boat, can't recall exactly which city he was in, but he was good.  A solid earner, he was going places.  He impressed the right people, so much so that he got Made - shortly after the ceremony, he was asked to head to IRC Avenue, to visit one of the coffee shops there for the congratulatory toast.  On his way, someone spotted him and shouted "hey, Gaspipe!"  Gaspipe waved back, and stopped to chat.  Now, sitting outside of a bar right opposite was Jono and a few of his friends.  They all looked at each other - it's fucking Gaspipe!  They all turned to Jono, wondering what he was gonna do.  Jono said "I'm gonna fuck that 'pipe" walked up to Gaspipe, shot him in the head - Gaspipe dropped to the ground.  Jono and his friends started slapping each other on the back, having a little circle jerk, shouting "we killed Kuku, we killed Kuku."
But nearby, in the bar of a theatre, Kuku was holding court at a book reading he was giving.  Several of his spies rushed over and told him Jono was celebrating having killed him.  Kuku asked who they actually killed.  Gaspipe, he was told.
Kuku smiled.  They'd fucked the wrong 'pipe.  Kuku waltzed onto the Streets, proclaiming the mistake a great victory.  Jono was ashamed.  Gaspipe's son came back and was well compensated for his father's loss.
But Kuku remembered the look on Jono's face, that look that told everyone everything: that Jono had made a mistake, got clumsy, and in his quest to fuck Kuku, he'd fucked the wrong 'pipe

FUCKING THE WRONG 'PIPE

A group of men are standing at a bar, which is deserted except for them, and for the owner, who is tending bar and who, like those he is serving, is a hard looking man, gnarled and aware, and listening and laughing as they talk.  One man in particular takes centre stage as he responds to a question another man has asked...

"The dumbest hit I ever heard of?  Yeah, sure, I got a story about that.  A few years ago, scratch that, in fact, quite  a few years ago there was a guy who called himself Gaspipe.  Now Gaspipe was actually one of them Kuku's that we are always hearing about, but he was incognito because, as you guys know, anyone calling themself Kuku generally got wacked straight away.  So Gaspipe was called Gaspipe, but nobody realised he was Kuku.  At least not to start with.  Now Gaspipe Kuku had a beef with Jono.  It went way back.  Jono told Kuku Senior to "sod off" and Kuku Senior went rogue or some shit.  Who the fuck knows with guys like that.

So, yeah, anyway, Gaspipe Kuku caused Jono some problems.  Gaspipe Kuku got Made, got a crew and was a big deal out in St Louis, if I recall correctly.  There was a falling out, and Gaspipe Kuku was killed.  Or, in fact, I think he fucking offed himself; shot himself in the head, made a big fucking spectacle of himself.  His son came back, under a few different aliases, none of which were ever Gaspipe.  But evidently, Gaspipe Kuku made a fucking impression on Jono.

Fast forward a few years and some guy steps off the boat, can't recall exactly which city he was in, but he was good.  A solid earner, he was going places.  He impressed the right people, so much so that he got Made - shortly after the ceremony, he was asked to head to IRC Avenue, to visit one of the coffee shops there for the congratulatory toast.  On his way, someone spotted him and shouted "hey, Gaspipe!"  Gaspipe waved back, and stopped to chat.  Now, sitting outside of a bar right opposite was Jono and a few of his friends.  They all looked at each other - it's fucking Gaspipe!  They all turned to Jono, wondering what he was gonna do.  Jono said "I'm gonna fuck that 'pipe" walked up to Gaspipe, shot him in the head - Gaspipe dropped to the ground.  Jono and his friends started slapping each other on the back, having a little circle jerk, shouting "we killed Kuku, we killed Kuku."

But nearby, in the bar of a theatre, Kuku was holding court at a book reading he was giving.  Several of his spies rushed over and told him Jono was celebrating having killed him.  Kuku asked who they actually killed.  Gaspipe, he was told.

Kuku smiled.  They'd fucked the wrong 'pipe.  Kuku waltzed onto the Streets, proclaiming the mistake a great victory.  Jono was ashamed.  Gaspipe's son came back and was well compensated for his father's loss.

But Kuku remembered the look on Jono's face, that look that told everyone everything: that Jono had made a mistake, got clumsy, and in his quest to fuck Kuku, he'd fucked the wrong 'pipe

The raccoon and the million coconuts

A story about mischief, appetite and what should never have been

Once upon a time... There was a starving raccoon. Winter was coming and the weather was already getting pretty cold. His instincts were pushing him to eat and store as much food as possible. If possible, all the food available. But he already emptied the crew fridge, and he was still terribly hungry.

So he did what any clever raccoon would do: he sneaked into his boss' office, found the weekly order of food for the entire crew (which would be sent shortly), and decided to slightly modify it. Not too much, or his boss would eventually discover it. But not too little, or he would have to actually find his own food, which was totally unacceptable.

So, using the ink bottle on the desk and his little raccoon fingers, he started to go over each line: some more meat here, a few additional dry fruits there. But then, he reached the line about coconuts.

And that... was the beginning of the end.

You see, thanks to a certain friend in his crew, a coconut amateur one may say, the raccoon knew that coconuts were delicious. And since several members also loved to eat coconuts, the usual quantity was already... Insane. 

But there was none remaining right now, so clearly, it was a sign that he should add more. And he added a zero to the ordered quantity. And his coconut friend would surely love to have more coconuts, so he added another zero. And thinking about it, he also would love to have more coconuts, and another zero was added. And... 

After having added clearly too many 0's, he was interrupted by noises in the corridor. Panicking about being caught, he quickly slipped one last 0 just to be sure, and then he escaped through the window, hiding in the big tree right next to it, waiting to see who it was.

The noises came from Rupert's secretary. She got in, dropped some letters on his desk, then stopped for a minute. There was paw prints EVERYWHERE. Clearly, it was not the first time that such a mess was caused by the family "trash panda" as she called him.

She sighted... And then called the cleaning company. "The usual, yes" she said. She then rushed out with the order to make sure they would have everything for the next day and hoped that the cleaning crew would be there soon enough. 

His mischief being accomplished, the raccoon curled comfortably into the tree, in a place where he brought some blankets among other things, and decided to sleep until the next day...

He slept very well that night, dreaming about the perfect breakfast he will have the next day. Pastries, meat... And coconuts!

And surely enough, the next day, he was awoken by the delivery truck. "HOORA!" he thought.

Except there was not one truck, but a dozen. And a mountain of coconuts were being dropped in front of the headquarters, to the astonishment of everyone. They all thought that there must be a mistake, until they saw the raccoon happily climbing the gigantic pile and starting to eat his first coconut, the first of a long series that would last until the next year at the very least.

And that is the story of why you should always keep a raccoon well fed and as far as possible of any easy way to get food.

Death. It catches everyone eventually, but those in this mobster lifestyle of ours definitely help to lower the average human lifespan. Although tragic to some, to others it lead to an extra bit of cash from robbing these dead mobsters of their worldly possessions. 

HK416 was no ordinary grave-robber, he was one step ahead of the competition when it concerned taking from the deceased. Instead of waiting for them to be buried, he simply showed up to their funeral procession inside the church, taking care to wait for it to quiet down before making his move. This also saved him the effort of needing a shovel and having to dig up a casket and the likes, and the reward was the same. 

He had picked out a nice target for the day: some Don named Luxanna. It appeared that as he arrived the church was emptying out, so he just had to wait for the window in which no one was in there, and before the body was moved elsewhere. In no time he found himself inside, up and close to the body with no one around. 

It appeared that the casket was mostly closed, except for her face. A common occurrence, usually to avoid showing everyone a gunshot wound, and this way they could still see the face of a friend or a loved one a last time. Her eyes were closed, with the appearance of someone in a deep sleep.

There was one more twist to HK416's grave-robbing, perhaps one that the world would be better not knowing. Instead of moving the casket further open, he pulled out a small open jar, alongside a pair of surgical scissors. With a soft smile, he gently tugged on the deceased's left eyelid. SNIP. PLOP. Into the jar it went. Next came the other eyelid. SNIP. PLOP. Into the jar it went. 

After putting a lid on the jar, he put both the jar and the surgical scissors away before turning away from the casket and heading outside. He had no interest in any sort of fancy jewelry to sell. One man's eyelids are another man's treasure, as the saying goes. 

As for the deceased, she no longer appeared as in a deep slumber. Her eyes were wide open as if terrified, yet she could not scream, as she was but a corpse. 

"Perhaps next time it would be more exciting to use a live subject!" HK416 cheerfully thought to himself as he exited the gates of the church.

Nine years ago today marked the first time Antonius was turned down from an amusement park ride, a theme that would fit well with the rest of his life. Block was a short man. Now he wasn't tiny, per se, but his height was noticeable enough, especially to those in his line of work, the kind of work where respect was key.

"So which one of you is taking Tiny Tony?" 

A sea of not-its and fuck no's echoed throughout the back of the Pizzeria as the man slunk off back to his usual job, chopping and incinerating the bodies. It was honest work, but sometimes he wished he could be trusted with the more intricate of plans.  Oh what would he give to hear the words, "Antonius, you're on lookout duty." This is when an idea sprung to his mind! He would make himself taller, but how? Looking over at the cinder blocks they used to weigh people down, he had an idea. 

"Hey fellas how are we all today?", thunk thunk thunk.

With every hard-fought step he took, his fellow members all gave confused glances to one another trying to understand what they were seeing-- a fully grown man trying to walk with cement blocks taped to his feet. Yet Block held steadfast in his idea and the painful winces on his face were always quickly struck and replaced with a forced smile. 

"So does anyone need some help, eh?"

Shrugging all of the men left without saying a word which was an upgrade over the usual "NO!" and so Antonius gleefully followed behind the rest of them to their car forgetting that quick movements weren't his friend at the moment. Crnnnchhh. Just like that, he was shorter than before. Poor Tony was just an inch short.

There once was a man named Plumbruckett, who once met a robber from Nantucket. The robber did say “count to a hundred ese, or the shopkeep would have his brains blown astray!”

Plumber Plumbruckett was astounded, after all he had just met this man at the local business district. Now this robber regurgitating a menu word for word outloud. “Was this man trying to appear smart by reading the menu aloud? Did it make him feel like he could see or experience more if he did? I mean it’s just fifty different types of coffee and he is sitting there at the front desk reading each and every one. But the man had cash, and cash is king as they always say."

The robber asked for a “Pumpkin Spiced overpriced piece of shit beverage that was more cream than coffee.” The waiter assured the robber that the coffee was made of the finest beans money could buy.

“Yeah, all 1% of it.” The robber said.

The robber took twenty-eight big ones and put it in the barista’s tip jar. The waiter was shocked at the amount of money and asked the robber why he would tip so much for a coffee he didn’t even appear to want.

The robber replied, “I once met a guy like you, he taught me the significance of twenty-eight, that it shouldn’t be forgotten. He forgot twenty-eight, and you would do best to learn from his mistakes.” The barista stared at the robber, dumbfounded, as Plumbruckett waited in line. Plumbruckett approached the robber and also spoke of the significance of the word twenty-eight, in fact he knew a fellow comrade who was planning a writing competition with an award of twenty-eight million dollars because of its significance.

“Twenty-eight million? Golly gee jiminy!” And he left without the coffee.