CommissarZverev steps out of a car, he walks over to a by now well used lamp-post and affixes a notice.  People gather round and start to read what it says...

Destro Memorial Writing Contest

"My friends, this is an exciting opportunity.  An opportunity for you, a competitive writer, to win ONE HUNDRED MILLION DOLLARS, and for us, in the Competitive Writing Community (CWC) to celebrate the life of Destro, and for this wider society to enjoy the Streets their busy best. 

Friends, we, the leading and guiding lights of the CWC, recognise and accept that, in some cases, there have been flaws in the judging processes historically.  With this in mind, and having listened to some of your non-slanderous feedback, we have created a five person judging panel.  We anticipate a large number of entrants, given the scale of the prize, so we might introduce a system of rounds.  We will work with our contest entrants.

The speech should be given here in the streets, and a transcript pinned to this noticeboard. 

The speech should be no more than FIVE HUNDRED WORDS and should be about this society that we live in, preferably within living memory.

One entry per person.  Speeches to be submitted by midnight, a week yesterday.

There will be prizes for 2nd and 3rd place.

THIS IS AN EXCITING OPPORTUNITY TO WIN MONEY FOR YOURSELF, PRESTIGE FOR YOU CREW, AND TO BRING HAPPINESS AND JOY TO THE STREETS.  NAYSAYERS AND SABOTEURS WILL BE IGNORED AND BANNED FROM ENTERING THIS CONTEST, SHOULD THEY ATTEMPT TO DISRUPT IT.

LONG LIVE THE SOVIET STATE, AND THE RAINBOW COOKIE ALLIANCE.

Greetings and salutations honoured comrade Commissar, in the finest traditions of Lt Frank Columbo, I have just one more thing to ask. This judging panel that you mention. Have you already selected it? And if so are you going to reveal who is on the panel, or is that to be a closely guarded secret?

The black cat leaves white prints in the snow. It was an odd statement which Capizzi refused to make his peace with until he fully grasped the moral. 

His previous employer had been a rambunctious, erratic individual. She would force herself - and by requirement, Marcello - into risky situations for incredible gains. Investment banking was a wild, rewarding business, well suited to her particular skillset. Throughout his employment, Capizzi had heard her curious proverb applied to many situations that they were thrust into. Most were questionable in nature, and he was naive enough to commit his blind support to her illicit dealings. It was only now that he himself was entering a questionable business, that the meaning of the words became clear. 

Embracing chills gripped the riverbank. Delicate snowfall blanketed the sidewalk. His eyes followed a pier out over the Delaware, on which stood a collection of quiet, pedestrian buildings. A warm glow whispered through the falling flakes. A jovial chatter of friends. Perhaps there was character here, once, maybe. The streets Capizzi now walked had been walked before, though the tracks were lost to time and the voices were long a bitter silence. He could appreciate the past though, that he wouldn't be the first and certainly not the last. 

A girl, younger than he, clutched at his arm as the wind picked up. She was a family friend, one that seemed immune to the blunt and emotionless attitude of Capizzi, one that tolerated whatever mental incapacity he suffered from and willingly followed in his wake, apologizing. The pair of them had been left unemployed this time last year. It would be a year this Christmas since the stock market crashed. It would be a year since their boss finally ran out of luck and threw herself from the 65th floor of the Chrysler building, forcing them to return to Philly. Now, Capizzi expected it wouldn't be the last death he would see. Irrespective of the life they once lead, the pair would know the color of the prints they would leave.

"Marchie, I'm getting cold." She tugged at his arm. Capizzi nodded. They had met in New York and quickly developed a bond. It was a coincidence he would never be able to appreciate fully, that they both originated from Philadelphia. He also never asked about her past His mind just didn't work that way. 

As they stood to leave, he reached into his heavy jacket and removed a sealed envelope. It immediately collected snow, which he brushed off revealing a plain, almost printed, script. 

Tara Mezzo

Her face lit up, the gesture meaning so much more considering his usual indifference to any celebrated occasion. She embraced him, his expression remained unchanged. She took another look over the serenity of the scene. He waited patiently. As they walked back toward the city, crisp white tracks trailed behind.

Coconut Randy, Editor-In-Chief of The Coconut Chronicle submits his speech, hoping to win the 100M dollars needed to keep his failing newspaper business alive:

There I was, rich beyond belief; I had cars, houses, golf club memberships. I had a refrigerator full of nothing but Kobe beef. On hot days, I'd undress and just drape myself in it, head to toe. I was rubbing liver pâté in my hair, like the Romans used to, and seasoning myself in white truffle shavings. I was a walking hors d'oeuvre. 

When you're insanely rich, you become insane. I started wearing old rich guy clothes; I had a pants guy who tailored the waist on my khakis so high, I could hold them up with my chin. You ever worn a belt around your chest? I'd reached such heights that when I would leave restaurants, I would see fans licking the plates and cutlery I had left behind, and rubbing themselves all over the furniture where I had been seated. 

But this era of eminence was not built to last. I had just eaten the best meal of my life and felt like one of those exotic jungle snakes that feeds and lies completely dormant - 8 weeks of unadultered digestion, baby - when the tragedy struck: the Star-Examiner had entered into circulation. I watched it all slip away; my properties, my Kobe beef, the lives of my two interns. My fortune rapidly dissipated.

Before I knew it, instead of covering myself in expensive food, I was suffering through a cheap lunch with the head of the Verevz Media Group, hibernating through a conversational winter. He was offering to acquire The Coconut Chronicle - my life's work. It was a tricky situation. I was destitute. I missed the cold slap of expensive beef on my naked body. So now I am here, giving this speech about the society we live in; a society shaped by The Coconut Chronicle, the former #1 newspaper in America. A society moulded by its powerful and serious journalism. 

What would have happened if we had not exposed the disgraced leader Xanxus as a malfunctioning robot programmed for treachery? Or accurately predicted the rise of Hammers5, son of Hammers4, son of Hammers3, son of Hammers2, son of Hammers? Where would the leaders of today be without our powerful special report 'Assume The Position' and the illustration that would save millions of lives? 

I dare say we may all be dead. 

That, my friends, is worth 100 million dollars.

Thank you.

Coconut Randy makes sure to sign his name on the transcript in italics: 'Coconut Randy, Editor-In-Chief, The Coconut Chronicle'.

Not with his usual panache the Clown slopes up to the lamp post. He begins to write out a proclamation...

“It was the best of times.... it was the worst of times” “Ahh fuck this” he mumbles under his breath, he’d been warned that pantomime dames dressed as lawyers weren’t allowed to throw sweets through some invisible wall here, he’d best behave himself keep it short and apt to current events. He scratches his head, chuckles to him self, pulls out his favourite crayon and scrawls:

You see through each cloak I wear,

Hear me speak without mouth or language,

the world is drunk on it’s desires for words,

I am a slave to the master of silence.

With that he spits on the floor and vows to keep away from proclamations in the short term.

After just finishing her speech LiLi walks up to the designated noticeboard. She was excited. With some luck and a favorable judging panel this could really be the time to increase her wealth. Looking through the transcript one last time she can't help but smile. This was the time. This was the moment where riches started flowing in. How wonderful. She put it up and slowly started to make her way back to the HQ in order to tell Homer that she soon would be able to brag about being 100 mil richer. 

Fresh off the boat I can’t say I had much of a clue what I had to expect walking into this life of crime. Having only read old journals and notes I knew that wealth and riches was waiting, but not a clue how to get there.

Playing it safe I decided to join Irina in order to give myself time to find out who to join next. After a couple of weeks I stood there as an idiot not a clue where to go being told it was time to make a decision. Nice as she was she gave me some advice, Homer or Odin would apparently both be very good options. Flipping a coin Odin seemed to be the obvious choice.

After a week or so it became clear, this was not the right place for me at this time. I was nowhere closer to all those riches and the advice needed to get there.

One day I got woken up to gunshots, Odin had been gunned down by a rogue. Next hero to step in to help me on my quest was Da-Kine, it all felt glorious. This was how I would get to where I wanted. Filthy rich. Two small conversations and a day later dead, shot down as well. Imagine the disappointment.

Trying to put more thought into it. Feel out what was the right next step I chose to contact Xanxus for a part of his criminal empire. The past was erased, only good things could be awaiting learning from this beast of a man. I got advice, I earned money and most importantly I was getting there. My goal was within reach.

Welllllllll, guess what happened.

The gods, the fucking gods came and took it all away with a snap of their finger. I did feel a bit better after reading The Coconut Chronicle and quickly came to the conclusion that a cyborg was nothing I felt like working for.

But even then this was an all time low. Having my dreams chrushed over and over, when I finally thought I was getting there. This is when Homer stepped into the picture again. Offering me a spot within his organization. I almost said no, the fear of getting close but not close enough was breaking me.

Now it’s a different story though. My spirit is on the up again. I’m currently a ranked member within what might be THE family with THE Godfather, I’m owning a warehouse out of Las Vegas that surely will bring me riches beyond belief. I’m set, surely?

What is the point of all these ramblings I’m sure you’re asking yourself. Well let me tell you. I’m sure all of you listening have a dream a goal. You think you know the path to get there. You all have a plan. But let me tell you. No matter what you think you know. No matter what you’ve got planned.

All roads lead to Homer… I’ll be seeing you!

Friends, it is with much disappointment that I must announce the cancellation of this contest.  I was expecting far more entries, but alas, there just weren't enough to justify it.

At the moment, I've got just about enough to give a generous conciliation prize to our entrants, LiLi, CoconutRandy and MarcelloCapizzi, and to pay our would-be judges for not judging the contests.

Apologies to those who entered, and a bit WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK ARE YOU DOING NOT ENTERING to all those who thought about, but didn't enter.

I'm pretty much done with incentived competitive writing.

#timesup for the impostor Commissar and his dumb contest.

LiLi had been camping around the noticeboard for days now waiting for the 100 mil being delivered to her. The win was surely hers. With Randy gone and only MarcelloCapizzi as competition it was at least a 10-90 chance to win the big prize. Every night LiLi had been dreaming about what to do with the prize money. Every night she’d been thinking about the possibility to reach her big dream of extreme wealth and reputation.

One day it happened. She saw the Commissar pull up. He walk towards where she was sitting. It was time. Finally she would get to where she’d been working so hard for. He stopped a bit away. LiLi was excited. Finally. The Commissar was going to announced LiLi as the winner, she started smiling... But he didn’t, it was the cancelation of the competition. She should have known, it was expected. With her track record she should have expected it to end up in disappointment. It was her place in life. No money, no wealth.

She started packing all of the stuff she’d brought in order to stay warm and fed. Shaking her head she started to walk away. At least there was the consolation prize to look forward to. If that wasn’t going to be canceled as well. LiLi wasn’t sure. This was the way it was going to be for her. Her only hope now was that the newly renovated Warehouse out of Las Vegas was going to take off. Probably not with her track record.

So I did make a speach but to be honest every time I wrote it I hated it. Im not great at impromptu speaches. 

Only inspired ones. 

I was going to go with the best one I had done but saw the cancellation. By this time I knew mine wasnt gonna make the cut so I accepted the desision. 

But now, now I am inspired to say something. Now I find a cause worth standing here and spreading the word. Please do not take one setback to mean the end of things. Nor apathy tward writing contests, you or anything. If anything the timing nailed me being a very busy week. 

So ill use this speech, entered far too late, in the hopes it will encourage you to continue. Thank you again for all the previous contests I have been a part of. Ill be waiting for more to help kick start my creativity.

 

Despite being the primary beneficiary of all standing financial interests involving the CoconutRandy estate, it brings me great joy to see my ignoramus brother deprived of recognition, even in death. Though his bloated corpse has been removed from the Star-Examiner water supply, his toxic micoorganisms live on in their employees, perpetuating his poisonous legacy on the world of serious journalism. May he stew eternally with the carnal malefactors of Satan's great inferno. 

That being said, kudos to the other participants. 

Narasimhaya, you know, it's feedback like that that makes me want to continue with the contests.

I just don't know how to get the balance right - how much to offer for prizes, how much to pay judges, how much to compensate unused people from the judging pool.  It's just really hard to get it all right.

hmm balance. I think you are heading in the right direction with 2nd, 3rd and other depending on the amount of entries. Like with this one the prize could start at $20m with $20 added for each entry above 3. With 4 or more entries you add 2nd place. Or something like that. I think maybe with more than one winner there could have been less sore losers in the past.

For judges volunteers would be great but then they get scrutinised and it can be a chore so lets assume we need to pay for a panel. How much? If you are paying top dollar for judges then they should be making an apperence. Like that singing show. Id think if it cost you a million then he better be entertaining and snarky telling us we are terrible and such.

James sighed as he listened to another cancellation... However, perhaps true, honest, unbiased feedback would help. He'd give it a shot.

"CommissarZverev... It's no surprise that we don't see eye to eye, or get along, or whatever someone wants to call it. We're different, and enjoy different things on an immensely large scale. But. That doesn't mean that I disagree with the fact that, even if I think it's a mockery, you have been a boon to the streets. Yes, I said it, you've been good for the lively hustle and bustle of these streets. I agree with that wholeheartedly."

"However, you stand here and cancel yet another contest, claiming that there were not enough entrants. Have you paused to think that it's this continued trend that makes people not bother really entering into these contests you hold? You've done good, don't let a setback of a small contest (especially around holiday times for a majority of our family members) sway you from continuing your commitment to making these streets active with discussion and story."

"The best way to make people want to continue writing in your contests? Don't cancel them. Not without -good- reason. Your first was canceled because it was moved to another avenue where it would gather less traffic. This one? Because only three speeches were given. At least these were the reasons given."

"The cancellation is nothing but disrespect to those who -did- take the time to put work in for you. It's nothing but a slap in the face, when they have poured themselves into something..."

"So here's an honest, good way to make people want to write for you..."

"When you set up a contest, follow through with it... Regardless of how many entrants you get, or regardless of where it goes. We followed through with ours after your intentional blockade, after it was moved to another avenue, and after it only received three entrants. Two of the same problems you've had. The lack of following through on what you set forth is what will have people thinking, 'Oh, why waste my time if he's not going to commit to what he says he will do?'"

"But following through and judging the three entries you have: first, second, and third that you offered. This will garner more respect for you. It's really up to you, CommissarZverev . Do you want respect? Or do you wish to continue to be the talk of controversy and criticism that your lineage consistently has been?"

"Follow through... If you want more entries? Make that in your rules to begin with. 'If there are less than x amount of entries, the contest will be null and void.' Give yourself that out. But at the end of the day, if you've inspired even one person to write for your prompt? Then you've achieved something. Don't let that lack of participation get you down. You want more people to write, follow through and let them know they can trust you to do so. Only you can change others perception of you. I know you can be better than this, but do you?"

James shrugged, placed a cigarette in his mouth, and lit it as he wandered back into the crowd.

Another thing to consider, and please note that I'm not only directing this suggestion at CommissarZverev but to anyone looking to host a writing competition, is taking a look at your budget and perhaps trimming some expenses?  Commissar you cited three major areas your money needs to go to in order to run these contests, specifically "how much to offer for prizes, how much to pay judges, how much to compensate unused people from the judging pool."  Of those three costs, perhaps eliminate paying the judges and then split your assets to cover the other two expenses?

Maria was thrilled she was sure, SURE, that she had just heard CommissarZverev say that he was pretty much done with incentivized competitive writing. She turned to leave and call a celebration when she heard some additional commotion

She listened, dumbfounded as people inexplicably began giving him suggestions about his next foray into writing contests. 

sigh