Was the creation of the earth due to cosmic forces of pure luck and billions of years of fine tuning, or guided by the soft hand of an ethereal being who lovingly painted it all into existence? This question had been debated in tried and true fashion for hundreds of years and there would be no definitive answer that everyone would be happy with-- no agreement, and yet still the question would rage on. A fire burned in the loins of every man and woman who sought out the answers to the end of their world.

That very same burning had pervaded itself into Sisyphus' very loins, but from a very different question altogether: What was his? What kept him awake at night? What nagging thought attached itself to his brain and wouldn't let loose no matter how much he shook his head back and forth?

"What makes the mafia man?"

Unwavering. Poetic. The type of question that would keep you awake at night if you pondered for too long. It rendered him completely fraught with grief that he did not have the answer, but he also knew that in order to understand he would first need to expand on what he meant... surely there was a better way to explain?

"When a mafia man... what makes him?"

He could do better than this. He had to. No one would know what to answer, and that just wouldn't cut it. You can't possibly hope to be given an explanation without expounding your own first. Entering a quick coughing fit to buy some time, Sisyphus was ready to fully explain what he was looking for.

"So, uh... you see... I'm a man, right? and I'm in the--", he lowers his voice for a second just in case any police were around. "mafia. I'm in the mafia.", completely sure that he was in the clear he coughed one more time before speaking aloud once more as if there was no change in the decibels of his voice in the first place "so what does that even mean? Is it about the accolades I've achieved? A fourth place finish in a story competition and a terrible foray into basketball which I just don't want to talk about. Then there was this... I can't remember anymore, I seem to have hit my head and completely had a lapse in memory, but I want to say that I won a fist fighting competition by default? But I can't be sure. It's like it never happened, very hazy. Eck."

Realizing that he had ventured from a conversation to a short rant, Sisyphus attempted to gather his thoughts to continue with the proper train of thought. This would be a serious debate, and to have a serious conversation such as this you need to have a concise and straight to the point type of speech to really rally the troops into conversing with you-- usually he would accidentally joke a bit too much and lose everyone's attention by now, but surely there were still a few in the crowd willing to stick it out.

"So, my question is simply this: What makes you tick? What sticks out to you as the important parts of being in this thing of ours? Why do you do what you do? Is it the money? The glory? Holes that you make with your gun?"

This one was going well. There hadn't been any rats or fireworks, no dangerous situations. Hell, he didn't even accidentally tape himself to a wall... it was all so professional, but it wasn't over yet. Sisyphus knew that at any moment he could fuck things up and an entire marching band could appear out of nowhere like in a puff of smoke to take away the credibility of the conversation, so he had to focus. Hard. He was almost to the home stretch.

"For me it would definitely be the glory. Everyone knows me as the second person to try announcing themselves as the leader of the streets. What is that saying? Second is the best? I think I'm the walking embodiment of that, personally. So what about you? Don't be shy. What makes the mafia man named... you. Well, but your name. Not you. You, but you know what I mean."

Perfect. Placing a piece of tape over his mouth before he could fuck this up, he waited for the first response to his very serious and official debate.

what makes me tick?  well, basically it's my ticks.

Rabies doesn't help either but you gotta play the cards your dealt right?

Busy being caught up what makes the world go round, Stoney recalled a very important and vital question he came across

This is a very good question and important question Sisyphus.

Stoney clears hos voice and grabs his balls

It starts with associates. They ought to be working, if not shot dead almost immediately. The workings of associates are the backbone of a family.