* Dyler did not much care for soap boxes and public diatribes, often just the weak rationalisations of those who like to kill for killings sake, yet he was tired of it, so tired of it that he had already warned his only son that this life was not the life of choice for any real man, ' a real man works hard and so does not need to fear or be feared' , he had explained, ' ..'.. he does what he has to do and not less or more. But above all he does not attempt to justify his cowardly deeds by taking to the streets with lame attributions and excuses, if a man is a killer because it arouses him to behave in that way he should indeed join the poilce or the mafia, but then never pretend to be other than what he really is, a cheap punk in fine clothes looking for any excuse to hurt other people simply for the same reason that a hound dog licks it's own balls. ' 

This is what Dyler had made sure his son understood, that there was a time when men of la cosa nostra really were men of respect, men who had some dignity, men who were not afraid to die, the thugs with only a gun to offer were, are, and always will be only the very lowest of their kind and should never get past being made as they represent a very real danger not only to their own family but the community at large *

" Mindless slaughter... Paranoia slayings.... No basic respect... Some people around here are no more la cosa nostra than one of my turds, .. nuff said. "

* with that Dyler frowns, slowly shakes his head and wanders into a nearby speak easy to have a drink before some other low life of the many who now seem to run wild on these streets, randomly decides he is a 'threat' and shoots him in cold blood, the mafia is in the business of keeping a lid on that sort of thing, or at least they were once upon a time. at least he had told his son the truth of this, and hopefully his son heeds his advice and chooses a different path than his grandfather or he himself had. *

*Dyler stumbles out of the speak easy, or rather, stumbles then falls flat on his face after being kicked out of the joint for getting utterly plastered and ranting incoherently at the other patrons about ' the state of the damn underworld these days '. Picking himself up out of the gutter and dusting himself off he looks around glad to see that nobody had borne witness to his humiliating exile, but wondering why he was and even if he was, still alive, in a lot of way's he did not honestly care anymore.. things had gotten so far out of control, but then was there 'really' ever any control to begin with? .. 

Was that all in his romantic, drunken imagination? .. He had addressed the street and spoken his mind without holding back yet there was a small doubt that was rattling around in his mind, that this is perhaps 'just a normal war' and because of that many uninvolved people will and must keep getting caught in the crossfire as a simple matter of course, the reasoning behind his thinking was the conviction he felt that there were perhaps not really any 'talks' being held in an attempt to resolve the ongoing dispute, but it seems the scortched earth was 'again' the 'chosen' method of dealing with problems between the family's. 

True enough it was just a gut feeling yet this was the main thing, that to this current breed of gangsters the only way too solve anything was always this way and so it seemed unlikely to Dyler that there could be another reason rather than this being how they 'like' to do things, it was afterall how his father and his grandfather both had met their maker, no sit downs nor negotiations, just ... 'pew pew'

Dyler just did not understand it or more accurately could not completely 'relate' to it, that so drastic a measure was often the selected one and other options probably not even considered, or was he wrong? He really had no way to know for sure, just a gut feeling, this is why he had called it an excuse rather than a war, but it is perhaps both, an excuse for war, and now the streets are not a safe place to be even for anyone even a lowly gangster not a part of any family. Dyler had been laying low in a safe house the last couple of days hoping this would resolve itself so he could get back to cracking safes to earn himself a living, yet the blood keeps flowing. Dyler shrugs, as for joining any family, it looked from the obits asif all the family's were at war or giving homes to people who have some 'emotional baggage' about the fate of their predecessors. It all just seemed hopeless now, and Dyler smiled at the thought of his inevitable death, it would be, if nothing else, a way out of this madness. Once and for all.*