Grin-08 was sitting at his desk in The Grin Gang HQ. On his desk was a photograph of himself, Anton and Billy_Russo with arms across each other shoulders and Grin-10 standing in front of them, his lopsided smile and faraway look, one of complete contentment. Grin-08 allowed himself a smirk of his own, remembering that day. He reaching into his desk draw and pulled out his notebook. He liked to scribble things down from time to time, a memoir of sorts that he had originally intended to leave to Grin-10 so he could avoid repeating his father's mistakes. Now that Grin-10 was a dummy as likely to eat the book as read it, he wasn't sure why he still made entries. Still, he had the urge so he started writing.

When I came into the business, I was never intended to be a boss. I was thrust into the limelight when Grin-07 "died like a bitch" after being "shot in the face" by mobsters from New York. It was a tumultuous time. We now couldn't do an open casket, which the old man would have wanted, being a previously good looking son of a bitch, so that was disappointing. A good chunk of his fortune was pilfered by the swindler Billy Mastrosimone and his long-con Mastrosimone Mutual Fund (now thankfully in the hands of the much more reputable, Cromwell), which we only discovered when settling his vast estate. And Zapata, his trusted number 2 and defacto leader of the Gang, was about to serve a stretch in jail. 

So here I was, $50,000,000 out of pocket (thanks Billy), a greenhorn with a bigger name than I had the experience to live up to and an entire city lacking guidance. I was lucky that Elodin initially stepped up to handle the immediate day-to-day operations of the Gang and settle everything down, but our relationships outside of The Loop, into broader Chicago and the wider country, all those were on me. Oh, and I forgot to mention, I had a severely retarded son, Grin-10, tagging along with me.

You see, that's why I was never supposed to be boss; I had baggage. I had that little pipsqueak following me around all thanks to an ill-fated night spent in a Chicago HQ with the late contest-rigging supremo, Mrs Destro-Whelan. I know, I know, I should have known better, right? But she had been a big deal once upon a time and I was young guy without the resistance to her womanly wiles I've subsequently acquired over the years since and one thing led to another. I am only human and I didn't think of the consequences. Boy, I wish I had.

She walked away from the life not long after giving birth to Grin-10, which was entirely understandably after meeting him, a particularly ugly mutt even before the accident and I was saddled with him. Grin-07 was not impressed with any of this and it is fair to say I was the original black sheep of the family (until that stupid little fucker came along at least), forced to take a back seat in everything. And it only got worse after PhilipMarleau, or his son PhilipMarleauJr, I can't remember which calamitous dullard it was after all this time, hit that errant hockey puck right into his face. He was now incontinent, as thick as two short planks and glued to me at the hip. I could hardly be expected to pull off a trucking heist if I had to bring a, adult-sized baby seat along for Grin-10 to ride shotgun in. No, I was on the outside, looking in, with Grin-10 licking the window right beside me.

Grin-08 put down his pen and leaned back in his chair. The story of how he went from a single Dad with a drooling oaf in his wake to the colossus of the Windy City underworld would have to wait for another day.

Grin is in his office and hears some shouting outside. He closes the window and then carries on with his day. 

Another day and another moment for quiet reflection for Grin-08. It had been a traumatic day yesterday, having recently concluded an entry in his notebook, a clamour in the street outside had caught his attention. He had initially ignored the shouts and closed the window, with every intention of carrying on his day (a meeting at a fancy Italian restaurant with Cromwell and Rubberlips), however a bolt of lightning flew from the sky catching the loudly whinging KukuDoesDrugs unawares. Gazing out at the devastation, Grin was amazed to find that not only had the 300 million volt impact improved KukuDoesDrug's appearance, it was now obvious that he, like DeadSet and Thomas_Raith, were of the PhilipMarleauJr bloodline. Grin tutted to himself. A duper - the wretched vermin of the criminal underworld - a sorry fall from grace for the offspring of proud Billy_Russo, long time partner of his good friend Anton.

The thought of that pair brought Grin-08's thoughts back to the task at hand, leaving something for his son to better himself with or, at least, perhaps not make himself any worse. He withdrew his notebook and began to write again.

I was saddled with you, Grin-10, and although my life seemed destined to be filled with the type of unmitigated misery only one who has interacted with you can possibly understand, things were about to change. Dad was dead, I was still short my $50,000,000 thanks to Lordian and his fraudulent Mastrosimone Mutual Fund, but hope came in the form of an inseparable bond between two great friends. 

I didn't know how I was going to step up and lead the Gang with your soul-sucking stupidity shadowing my every step and until a knock on the door rang out, I was contemplating shooting at least one of us in the head and being done with it all. People have often wondered why I keep your Uncle Anton around. He isn't everyone's cup of tea and he starts problems for me sometimes, but one thing quickly became obvious, he was prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice that one man could make for another. He proposed that he and Billy_Russo would foster you, Grin-10, on their farm.

Naturally I assumed this was another of his wise cracks and told him to beat it. Then, when he reiterated his offer I broke out in uncontrollable yet masculine giggles. An opportunity. I could fulfill my duty and discharge my biggest liability. I naturally questioned why he and Billy_Russo would make such an offer, being a busy man himself with streets to lead and writing communities to prop up and Billy also existing and championing imaginary maligned causes. It didn't leave much wiggle room to care for a dimwit now suffering with a traumatic brain injury.

He assured me that he would find the time, no, they would find the time. They would let you go outside and run around as much as you wanted. There was talk of a swing, I'm not certain what they used it for prior to this, and your favourite, lots of pitching and catching. This sounded perfect and I was sold. 

I know it was cheeky of me to ask, given the burden that they had agreed to take on. Still, an opportunity like this doesn't come around every day so I thought I would pitch it out there. I asked that Anton took you under his wing and taught you how to write. He smiled and shared with me the story of how he had taught Billy_Russo to write, once upon a time. When they had first met Billy had never run a contest in his life, spending his time slipping on the ice in a stadium in Chicago writing terrible love poetry, without a penny to his name. Anton had given him support, financial naturally (grateful received) and more important, physical. Slowly over time, his writing evolved into something approaching passing garbage. It was a lovely story, some details escape me now, there was something about big apes. I forget exactly what he said; a real banger though, that was obvious. 

I shook Anton's hand and he left me there contemplating the opportunity now available to us. Friendship, son. It is everything in this business.

I'm not normally a fan of these kind of speeches, but this one, spoke to me if you'll excuse the pun.

not just because it wasn't another bloody writing competition speech but because it has substance and gravitas.

More of this kind of thing say I!