Neil was aware that it was traditional to stand on a milk crate or an orange crate or a tea chest or some other wooden contraption to give oneself elevation over the peons in an attempt to get oneself heard, and he guessed that as his speech invoked a certain amount of nostalgia he should probably carry one himself. There were of course a few issues with this:

1. He was a Lawyer by trade and did not usually work with soap boxes.
2. He did not own a soap box other than the cardboard one his laundry detergent came in.
3. He did not know where one would procure a soapbox
4. He did not have an intern like CoconutRandy used to have before he was gunned down by a villainous cheat who lived in the mid west... actually that would be a good name for a movie, "The Assassination of Credits Grinbini by the Villainous Cheat..." That was neither here nor there and we are rapidly distancing ourselves from the whole point of this debacle.

Still, not to be outdone, Neil deftly jumps up onto the trunk of his car and loudly clears his throat.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, If I could have a moment of you time. I want to talk to you today about public speaking, public speaking like this very speech right now. You see, the streets have always been of vital importance to this thing of ours. Alas, much like everything else, it seems to go in and out of fashion. As much as it pains me to say it, The Commie was right when he said that the streets were on their knees. He wasn't right when he tried to declare himself the saviour of the streets, the messiah of public speaking, because to be perfectly honest, the rigged competitions that he runs are not the kind of public speaking I'm here to talk about. You see even when the streets are out of fashion, there have always been story tellers. There has always been those individuals who forge a path into the unknown with tales of daring do, from the inane '24 hours in my life' type tales, to the 'we just killed everyone and robbed the shit out of a whole city' type tales. Even before the Commie came up with his competition idea, there were people still telling stories in the streets, stories that for the most part, people ignored. I mean, if I want to listen to a story, I'll watch Flash Gordon or Tarzan, or even The Lone Ranger in the Picture House every Saturday morning, at least I can get popcorn there."

Neil pauses for a moment and takes out a brand new packet of Morleys^TM, breaking the seal, he takes one out and lights it with Destro's obviously fake Zippo lighter, which apparently was a family heirloom, but which was still buried with his corpse. Inhaling deeply, he blows out a plume of smoke and smiles to himself before continuing.

"Ever since my family came to these shores, they were always intrigued by the streets. Not the crime ridden, drug infested, cesspool smelling streets of Detroit, but THE STREETS where we always went for our fix of what was happening in the world.  The streets where people discussed hot topics such as picking pockets, mugging, Parties, New auths and Crews, Honour, Omerta, the meaning of rank, an infinite combination of topics both titillating and depraved, subjects to press the stinking face of humanity into the dark blood of its own secret heart. It warms my heart to see that newspapers have returned to the streets, and whilst they may or may not be as good as some of the publications of years gone by, they offer a glimpse into a bygone era, where cunning word smiths wrought the events of yesterday into the news of today. Where has it all gone?"

The Cigarette finished, Neil fishes into his coat and pulls out a hip flask, it looks suspiciously like the one that was stolen from your pocket by a chance pick pocket the other week, probably that mouldering corpse VIPCreditsGrin. Opening it he takes a deep draught to help keep out the approaching winter chill. Neil smiles to himself before continuing.

"Occasionally we get the odd glimpse of great topics, once in a while someone comes to the streets with a topic that stimulates the mind and inflames the senses. The City Leader Rulings, the obviously fake excuses for taking out this city or that one, the odd fight club or boxing competition, they all paint a picture of what once was, and what we have lost. A quick search of the streets has revealed to me that the only truly successful speeches of recent times are the stories, the long assed boring stories, prerehearsed in a back alley somewhere days or weeks in advance before being enacted en masse in the streets, and that my friends is a truly sad state of affairs."

Before jumping down of his car, Neil reaches into his pocket and takes out a small mirrored compact, the type that flappers kept their foundation in. Opening it, he takes out a razor blade and a rolled up $20 and cuts a line of white powder on the mirror before snorting it through the $20 note. Truly smiling to himself for the first time today, Neil jumps down of his car and places the compact back into his pocket.