Heavy fog was covering everything as the ship docked and people starting moving about with the members of the crew driving them like cattle towards the exit. All Mirko had was one single suit case to his name and he was almost swept away without it as the crowded ship emptied. He pushed past a couple of people to grab it's handle with his outstretched fingertips. As he stood up straight a crew member shoved him backwards...

"Lets go! Get off the ship! We have a schedule to keep!" The man yelled at Mirko and the crowd around them.

Mirko could hear the man mutter something about immigrants under his breath before turning and joining the rush to the exit. It was something he had expected, but wasn't expecting it before he even exited the ship that brought him across the ocean from Italy. There wasn't much around them besides fences, railings, and other people. As he made he way off the ship he saw a sign...

Ellis Island

Welcome to America

The next thing he saw was a man directing people to get into different lines where it appeared they would be observed by a medical professional before they could go get checked into the country. Mirko was a young man in exceptional health even though most Europe was struggling at the moment, ever since the end of the great war. His father Jonas Fritzinger passed away not too long after the war from the spanish flu pandemic leaving just Mirko and his mother Sofia. Although her maiden name was Castelli, she kept the name Fritzinger. 

His mother was unable to make the journey with him and he would be sending money to her periodically as he earned it. There was no real set plan for him other than the fact that he wanted to get into the business of alcohol. There were constant discussions of the bootlegging business in Italy through the connections to the American Mafia. The money being made and the money being paid to the old country in tribute was never ending. 

The only thing his father really gave him besides his last name was a specific recipe for a delicious German lager. He'd done some experimenting in the area of liquor, but he needed to earn money to do something with his knowledge first. The only real hope would be to find and make connections in the criminal world of New York City. Much easier said than done...

It was what felt like an eternity before it was his turn to be inspected by the doctor. When he finally stepped forward the doctor was quick to get into it. He had to undress down to his underpants and let the inspection begin...

"Have you got any symptoms of illness?" He asked inquisitively as he began inspecting every inch of skin.  

"No, I am feeling just fine." He said in response.

The doctor looked at him with a bit of surprise, "Your english is pretty good for a foreigner. Most of the people we have coming over here from Italy have either no english or strong accents. Your accent is still there, but not too thick. You have family here?"

"My uncle grew up here in the United States, but made frequent trips to visit my mother and I in Italy." Some of the memories came flooding back as he made mention of his uncle Tony. 

The doctor wasn't too interested to hear anymore and continued on, "Anyone in your immediate family have any illnesses or diseases we should know about? We can't have you bringing anything into the country. That's what this is all about."

Nothing came to mind as he pondered the question, "No sir, nothing that I can think of. My mother has always been a healthy person. My father died of Spanish Flu a few years back." 

The doctor nodded at each response as he inspected Mirko, "Well, everything seems to check out and I have no concerns with your health. Get dressed and move on to the next station."

Mirko nodded and thanked the doctor before getting his clothes back on. Next he needed to get his passport checked and answer any questions they may have before he could hopefully get on with his new life here in America. It wasn't what he expected so far, but his uncle didn't really deal with all of this to give him a real true vision of what he'd deal with coming to the country. 

Once again he was in line waiting for his turn...

His thoughts were wondering and full of questions that he would have to answer sooner rather than later as he tried to begin his new life here in America...

Where should I go first? Who should I go to?

Is there any connections Uncle Tony would have had that he could use?

What should he call his business?

"Next!" The man shouted at Mirko. 

Mirko was so deep in thought he didn't hear the man the first time and an old man behind him gave him a slight shove and said something in french that he couldn't understand. He awkwardly made his way to the desk in front of him trying to ignore the fact that he was just holding up the whole line.

"Name?" The man said impatiently as he started filling out a new row in his book.

"Mirko..." He gave a slight pause before giving his last name and the man interjected.

"Marco? Marco what?" He inquired incorrectly.

Mirko had heard of this happening before and sighed before continuing, "It's Mirko Fritzinger, sir."

The man jotted something down before continuing on with is questioning for the book in front of him...

"So, what country are you from? What was your occupation there? What is your expected occupation here in the United States?" He bombarded Mirko with question after question.

"I am from Italy." He paused as he thought about what to say for the next two questions. 

Mirko had worked for a mafia boss in his small home town in southern italy where he delivered and picked up packages. He was not a truly connected person in the life of crime so leaving was no issue, but he didn't want to report that as his occupation. He was confident that would get him turned away. As for what he was going to do....well he couldn't tell them he planned on breaking a major federal law. An idea popped into his head and he continued on...

"Well, I worked as a.....what you would call mail man in my home town. I delivered mail and packages. I plan on trying to find work in a restaurant here as I am a fine chef!" He felt that these lies would suffice as answers to the mans questions to get him through. 

"Okay. Well, that works for me and it helps me fill out what I need to fill out. I just need to see your documents and passport. Then we'll take your photo and you will be on your way." He extended his hand.

Mirko handed everything over and the man began looking through everything before pausing for a moment. He seemed to focus in on something before muttering something under his breath and shaking his head. He handed back the documents and motioned for Mirko to move forward without a word. He made his way over to stand in front of the camera where the woman snapped his photo quickly before sending him on his way.

It was a quick process for him, although he knew for others it would be long or even end with their entry being refused. He was one of the lucky ones and he wasn't going to lose out on this opportunity...

The streets of New York were bustling with people and vehicles going every direction. The noise level was like nothing he had ever experienced back in Italy. He was used to small town life where the loudest noises usually came from arguments in the streets or the occasional use of a shotgun to settle something. 

As he slowly began walking down the sidewalk he could see a group of men staring at him. They were clearly not a friendly bunch so he made sure to avoid them and turned down the next street. He paused at a small German delicatessen where two older gentlemen were sitting out front to ask them a question...

"Hallo, wissen Sie, wo ich ein italienisches Restaurant finden kann, das möglicherweise eingestellt wird?" He inquired about restaurants that may be hiring locally.

The two older gentlemen looked at him in confusion and then realizing where they were sat....they had a good chuckle before responding in Italian....

"Siamo spiacenti, non parliamo tedesco." They apologized for not being able to speak German.

Mirko easily switched to Italian to re-ask his question, "Va bene. Parlo anche italiano. Conosci qualche ristorante che potrebbe essere in affitto?"

The two men smiled as they finally understood what Mirko was saying, "Non ne siamo sicuri Puoi sempre chiedere dietro l'angolo da Don Angelo. È un ottimo ristorante."

While the men were not able to give him a sure thing for restaurants that were hiring, they gave him a possible lead of a place called Don Angelo's that was just around the corner. So with a quick thank you he began to make his way down the street to find this restaurant. Although it began as a lie at Ellis Island, he had come to think it was actually a good idea to find work in a restaurant. He was actually a good cook after spending years learning from his mother.

He was passing by an alley when he heard some shouting from behind him...

As he turned he spotted the angry looking group of men that he saw just a few minutes earlier and they were quickly approaching him. The whole thing did not give Mirko a good feeling about what was to come. They looked like they hated him and had no idea who he was. He hadn't heard what they shouted, but once again one of them raised their voice.

"Hey you immigrant fuck! We want to talk to you! Get over here!" The venom in his voice was clear and the anger was clearly laid out upon his face. 

"I don't want any trouble fellas. I'm just on my way to a local restaurant." He held his hands up to hopefully defuse their anger a bit.

They encircled him near the entrance of the alley with a mixture of anger and devilish smirks upon their faces. The man who had yelled at him before was clearly the leader of this pack of idiots. He would be the one to lead this interrogation it seemed.

"So, what country you from? You a guinea? A mick? A kraut? What?" He seemed to take pleasure in reciting all the hateful terms he knew. 

Mirko knew there was no way getting out of this so he went along with it, "I'm from Italy, but my father was from Germany."

The men laughed as if he had told some sort of joke...

"So you're a guinea kraut then? What's your name?" They stepped closer forcing Mirko to step backwards further into the alley. 

Not the direction he wanted to be going...

"My name is Mirko Fritzinger." He said as the anger began to rise within him in the face of these ignorant fucks.

"I thought you said you were Italian? That sure sounds like a kraut name to me. Doesn't it sound like a kraut to you fellas?" The group of men nodded and agreed like the sheep they were before the leader of the sheep continued.

"So, your name is Kraut I think. We'll stick with that. That okay with you Kraut? Good. Now let's see what we have in that suit case of yours. I've been in need of a few new things anyway." He snickered as he reached out his hand.

"Wie wäre es, wenn du dich selbst fickst?" Mirko said without a thought.

"Woahhh, that didn't sound to friendly Kraut. I thought we were becoming friends here and there you go making it hostile. I guess it's just in your peoples nature to start fights, huh? Krauts are just all the same." As he finished one of the men behind him stepped forward with a bat and hit Mirko across the head.

After the first blow all he could remember was the onslaught of kicks to his side. It didn't stop for what felt like forever...

Finally it stopped when he heard one of the men make a sound like he took a blow to the head himself. Then some shuffling feet and somebody else interjecting with a shout...

His vision was blurry, but he could focus it enough to see a man pointing a gun at the group that had been assaulting him. In his other hand he held a bat that had a bit of blood on it from the first man he hit with it. It was hard to truly understand the man was saying with the ringing in his ears, but he did his best to listen in.

"You boys really picked the wrong day to fuck with somebody on our turf. I mean, who the fuck do you think you are? You don't know who this is do you?" He said with an ice cold calm before turning his attention slightly towards Mirko.

"Hey, get up kid. Unless you enjoy spending time in the dirt." He smirked for a brief second before turning his attention back to his attackers.

The man was still pointing a gun at the group as Mirko got slowly to his feet and went to stand next to the mysterious man who came to his rescue. The man looked him up and down and frowned...

"Okay, now let's have that suitcase back." He motioned with the gun and one of the men carefully brought it over to him. 

Mirko was thankful to have it back as it had everything he owned in it. Losing that would make him feel quite lost and alone since it had a few keepsakes and pictures in it. There was no replacing those even if he could replace the clothes that were in it. He nodded thankfully to his rescuer.

"Now let's have an apology boys and I mean a meaningful apology. I'll know if you're bullshitting me so make sure you really put that effort in. I don't want to have to paint that wall behind you all. It really doesn't need a new coat of paint." He said as he cocked back the hammer of his gun.

The leader of the men took a step forward....his hand shaking, "We...we're sorry for bothering you. I don't know why we chose to do it. It..it...was wrong. We won't do it again to you or anyone else. Please forgive us."

The man who had come to his aid looked at him to see if it was acceptable, "I think they got the message."

"Well, I think you forgive a bit too easy. You should all thank this kid. I was going to paint that wall if it was up to me. This kid just saved your lives. It's much more than you pieces of shit deserve. Now get the fuck out of here before I change my mind." He waved the gun in the direction of the street and they took no time to start running.

He clicked the hammer back to a safe position and put the gun between his pants and his lower back before adjusting his shirt to cover it. With a bit of rustling around in his pockets he finally pulled out a cigarette and lit it. After a couple of puffs he turned and looked at Mirko who was covered in bruises, scrapes, and blood.

"Damn kid. You chose the wrong day to get off the ship. What's your name?" He asked. 

It was a question Mirko was getting tired of answering today, "It's Mirko Fritzinger or as my new paperwork says....Marco Fritz. If you asked those men it would be Kraut."

The man chuckled, "You wear that shit with pride. Metaphorically of course. That's your nickname now. The Kraut. Don't ever let somebody use that shit against you. Be proud of who you fucking are."

He offered Mirko a cigarette and he happily accepted it. Now puffing on cigarettes together, Mirko decided to finally ask a question himself, "So what's your name?"

"The people I work with call me Insomnia. You can as well. People in my line of work tend to end up with nicknames for some fuckin reason. So that's what mine is." He walked over and sat on an old chair that was against the wall of the alley.

"Well, it's nice to meet you. Thank you for helping me." He walked over and leaned against the wall next to Insomnia.

"Don't thank me. Just don't let it happen again. People try to fuck with you? You take their power to dot it away from them however you can. Here take this." He took another gun out from a holster hidden inside his jacket and handed it to Mirko.

He quickly hid it where Insomnia was keeping his other gun, "So, what now?"

"Good question. What now?...Good fuckin question." He leaned back and stared up at the sky deep in thought.

Insomnia was deep in thought when finally he sat forward and turned his head to look at Mirko. He seemed like he may have finally found an answer to the question of 'what now?', but they were sitting there in an awkward silence. There was still the hustle and bustle of the New York City streets next to them and they just ignored it as they were there in their own little world.

"You looking for work Mirko? Looking to stay clean or want to make money however you can? These are important distinctions to make for yourself as you decide what to do with your life here in America. So?" He was standing now with a new energy about him as the thoughts must have been flying through his mind now.

"I came here to make money. My hope is to eventually get into the business of alcohol." He said with the dreamy eyed look of most immigrants those days.

Insomnia chuckled, "Well I think you're a ways off from that. You just got here and everyone wants to be in the liquor business. How about you come work for our crew here in New York? See how things go and eventually get your own stuff brewing?" 

The chances of everything that happened today seemed impossible, so he knew he had to jump at this chance, "Yes. I think I'll take you up on that offer of work. Whatever I can do to make my way into the liquor business. The plan of working at a restaurant doesn't seem as quick as this option."

The two of them laughed as Mirko picked up his bag and they began making their way to Brooklyn...