I was beginning to make some progress in the Radioactive crew. It was an inauspicious start when I stumbled into a shambolic art gallery job headed by Dr_Satan and ended up getting pinched. Jail wasn’t so bad and I wore my sentence like a man. I was an associate when I got my marching orders and before long I was out robbing old ladies for loose change. It wasn’t exactly the life I envisaged.

Thinking back to my time at the docks, I knew it was still an improvement. I couldn't handle that repetitive shit any longer. A lion needs to eat a varied diet of fruits and vegetables after all. I rolled over in my bed and looked at the task list I had agreed with my boss for the day, the night before. I squinted at my scrawled writing making out what was on the 'To Do' list. 

Participate in your crew's chat.    
Travel to another district.    
Attempt to commit some felonies.    
Lose some money gambling. (Excluding Poker)   

I mulled over the tasks. Firstly, speak to some of the boys, that was easy enough. I would head over to the crew notice board (the only thing in our HQ) and engage in some light banter. I’d probably say “morning guys” and ask “how is everyone?”. I made a mental note to put a line through that. Keeping the troops happy was just good sense. 

Next, the boss wanted me to check on some of the other local turf in Las Vegas. That would probably cost me about $10 in bus fare. I scratched my chin. That would need a couple of prostitution rings to pay for the travel. Fortunately, I had a couple of girls I could collect from and conveniently get two birds with one brick. I pondered whether if I went home to my mother I would be able to proudly explain the standards I uphold. Probably not. I went back to the list.

Three out of the four in the bag, lastly, launder some cash in one of our casinos. Nothing like getting the stains out of some dirty money to work up an appetite. I put the list down on my bedside table. I yawned. It was still early. I could tackle this shit later.
 

I sat at the kitchen table I'd just bought. It was a nice table, sturdy, made from some sort of wood. Oak, maybe? I don't know, I'm not a carpenter. It was brown, anyway. I got four chairs to go around it too, even though I didn't have any friends. I hate this fucking table. With a sigh, I pull out my task list from yesterday, scratching through each job one by one.

Participate in your crew's chat.    
Travel to another district.    
Attempt to commit some felonies.    
Lose some money gambling. (Excluding Poker)   

I'd boxed off the discussion with the boys early on. A casual "morning guys" and a "how is everyone?", as predicted, had done the task. I promptly departed the crew HQ/glorified notice board right after that. I didn't want to catch anything from anyone there and I knew I needed to see my bottom bitch, Gwendoline to make collections. She had come good as always, slipping me a nice wad of notes for the evening's work. I put that to good use and got the bus to Summerlin and The Strip. I didn't spend long in Summerlin. The place was largely lawless as there was only one rule and that seemed lame. The Strip was my bag though, as I needed to launder some of this bottom-bitch cash for the crew. I found one of our casinos easily enough, dropping down at the Blackjack table. 18 right off the bat. I hit immediately. A 2. 20. I hit again. The croupier asked if I was sure. I laughed and told him to mind his beaky fucking nose before I broke it. He turned over an Ace. 21. I wasn't allowed to hit again. Because it was against the rules, he said. It didn't matter if I punched him in his beaky nose or not, he said, those were the rules. Motherfucker.

Eventually I did manage to lose a couple of hands, not easy because I'm actually amazing at gambling, enough to launder a bag of dirty whore cash anyway. Well done me, I gave myself a big tick on my list for the day. I would meet up with Dr_Satan, likely in the process of failing to pull off an art gallery heist, and see what needed doing today. 

"Slow down, Gwen", I said at the frantic voice on the other end of the phone. Fucking whores, so dramatic. 'Oh, oh, that guy tried to drive off without paying', 'I don't think I should see him again, he has a knife', 'he cut Janine and she's bleeding'. Such drama. Anyway, turns out a few of the girls had been picked up by the boys in blue. That was irritating because I'd dropped off a particularly large cut of the take to the Captain O'Riley at the station only a week before. Either some try-hard nerd had taken them in or fat O'Riley was looking for even more money. Well he wasn't fucking getting it, cheeky little twat. That left only one other option, bust the girls out. With a disgruntled snort, I pulled my notebook out, flicking past the completed tasks from yesterday and began to make a note.

 Attempt some jail breaks.

I was springing whores now, wonderful, mother would be proud. What else did I need to do today? Oh, that's right, another pain in my arse. Dr_Satan had needed someone to step in and make a collection in Summerlin. I didn't like Summerlin, it smelled of piss, but I did want to get involved with the narcotics arm of the business as that was where the real money was. I'd agreed and like a good little bitch, sauntered over there to meet Big Marcus the dealer who should have had a packet for me. Instead, Big Stupid Moron Marcus had paid off someone else, thinking it was me. Turns out Marcus has bad eyesight. Turns out Marcus' mum is a crack addict and never bothered to get him glasses. Turns out I don't give a fuck and Marcus' eyesight is going to be a lot worse now I've given him a black eye. Now I had to rob whoever had robbed me to avoid looking like a buffoon in front of the top brass.

Attempt to pick someone's pocket.    

What else? What else? I saw the envelope on my desk. Of course, I had to reward an orator with a nice big of change from the boss to show our appreciation for their efforts. He'd left it up to me to decide who was getting it and how much. I reckoned about $20,000 was enough to curry favour and show our appreciation in the same breath. 

Tip a forum post at least $20,000. 

I scanned the list. That would be a busy day. They were all busy days. More and more my life was becoming like Perseus pushing that boulder up the hill. A Persean task. That was me. Fucking Perseus the Gaul.  

*Zeitgeist had been doing his morning rounds when he noticed a most peculiar site, and as was often so typical with Zeitgeist rather than minding is hown business and continuing on with his day, he couldn't help himself and decided an investigation was essential. Zeitgeist approach the gentleman cautiously and attempted to gain his focus and attention by casually waving his hands in front, managing to make Zeitgeist look quite mad in the process, after a a few flaps of his arms the gentlemen directed his focus towards Zeitgeist, it was at this point where he should probably have prepared what he was going to say a bit better than he had, and instead of a well formed meaningful inquiry, what came out was...*

"What on earth are you doing?" Don't you know that it's bad business practice and worse family business to be airing your dealings in the street like this..."

*Zeitgeist paused for a moment to better order his thoughts and words*

"My apologies sir, your decisions are obviously your own but I just want to direct your attention to the fact that publically sharing the details of what criminal activities you are engaged with, especially as a direct checklist is probably not wise"

*Zeitgeist smiled thinking he had done his good deed for the day and wandered off down the street*

"What am I doing? What are you doing, buddy? Why are you in my house? Beat it and take your apologies with you." Zeitgeist quickly leaves and doesn't come back.

Some fucking people. Talking about airing my dealings, wasn't this the same pansy spouting off about emotions and the merits of whether or not a Made Man can kill Wise Guys? What's the matter with this guy? So I have to write things down on a pad to remember them, big fucking deal. Better that I get them done than forget them, isn't it? Sorry that I don't have one of those photovoltaic memories where I can just remember everything with a snap of my thumbs. My bad. And then he breaks into my house to give me a dressing down. Probably thought this table was shit as well. Fucking table.

I checked the door was locked, so I didn't get any more unwanted interruptions. It was. I saw down and pulled my notebook out. What a day. I'd manage to spring the girls out the local lockup. A small bribe to the desk sergeant was better than trying to blow any doors off. I had that boxed off by lunchtime.

Tracking down Marcus' thief was more difficult. That took most of the afternoon before I found out it was some grease-ball with designs on being a big shot. This wannabe Grande Queso had heard about the troubles we had with our route and also was aware of Marcus' obvious idiocy. All he had done was say "I'm Radioactive" and Marcus had given him the bag without a second glance. Cheesey worked out of a club in Summerlin, place called Subtle Mob Hangout Club. I hated Summerlin, stupid city rule and it smelled of piss. This club was no better. I had to go in there, beat Mr Leerdammer to a pulp and then collect our green. I took some of his as well for good measure. 

With evening closing in I'd still had to tip an orator some cash before I could head home and find an intruder giving me a lecture. I'd decided it was best placed with Lincoln_Lawyer because he was sort of the leader of the streets now, so I'd made the short trip over to his basement office and left the notes with his secretary (plant pot). 

I looked at my list and drew a little satisfaction from the fact I could put a nice line through them.

Attempt some jail breaks.

Attempt to pick someone's pocket.

Tip a forum post at least $20,000.

 I would need to catch up with Don Dr_Satan to see what jobs needed doing today. I would also need to put a sturdier lock on the door. 

Another day and more tasks to pursue. Even being Made didn't stop the famiglia wheels from turning and I had a fresh set of jobs which needed to be seen to. I flicked open my notebook flicking to the right page:

Attempt to commit petty crimes.    
Make profitable drug deals with a full load of drugs.    
Travel to another district. 
Read a forum thread.  

Keep the locals on their toes with a few petty crimes. That would be easy enough to complete. There were a few post offices nearby which I was pretty confident I would be able to stick up. I'd walk in, gun first, waving it around so they knew I meant business. 

The drug deal too, I thought I would be able to handle. Since I'd covered the collection and become Made, I'd inherited the route for my own. Marcus was terrified of fucking up again, so it was a bit of a doddle now. I'd show my face there, make sure everything was running smoothly and then make a collection or two.

Another district? Fucking Summerlin. I hated Summerlin. It had a shitty rule and smelled a lot like piss. I would have to go anyway, probably holding my nose for the entire time I was there.

Read a forum thread....I didn't remember writing that one down. Dr_Satan had given me my instructions and I was staring dreamily into his infinity pool eyes and I got kind of lost with what he was actually asking me to do. Heh, embarrassing. I figured I would just wing that one a little, maybe go and listen to someone speak in the streets. That would probably do it. 

A quick once over of the list. A quick frown at the tasks on my plate. A quick walk to the door and I was out, into the world, like a new born baby fresh from his mother's penis. 

My head was an absolute fucking mess. I had got piss-the-bed drunk and now had soggy sheets to accompany the Daddy of all hangovers. Was it Sunday? No, too hungry for Sunday. Monday, maybe? I rolled over and tried not to add a second bodily fluid to the bed. Oh shit. I sat up in bed. An error. I fell back down. I was drowning. Would dying be worse than this? Probably not. I thought about Sebastien. One shot and that would be the end of it. I needed arm bands. A float. Something to get me afloat at least. Dear God, Jesus, help me. I lay with both hands over my eyes. If I pushed hard enough I might be able to force them back into my head. A sinking dread reminded me that I had not completed my tasks. I was a failure. When I die and go to hustle heaven St Peter will measure my stock and determine it to be lacking. Like when I tell my family over dinner about my mafia exploits, the shame they feel about my behaviour will be replicated but with angels and shit. I'm sorry Mum. I'm sorry Jesus. Can you forgive me? Can I forgive myself? I don't know the answer to that. This hangover is really bad. There were probably things I was meant to do today too. I haven't done them. I can't get this song out of my head. Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? I don't know. I hope it isn't. Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see. Please don't make me. I want to die. Where was Sebastien? I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy. I actually need all of your sympathy. Help me. I'm going to die from a hangover. "What was the cause of death, Doctor?" Enough rum to make an Elephant shit out of it's trunk, ma'am. Mamaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. Just killed a man. I hope it is fucking me. 

With a tentative eye barely open and a mouth dryer than the Atlantic, I crawl from my bed dungeon. Would I be able to do my tasks today? I suspected so. I made a silent vow never to drink again. It was my third such vow this week. There was a newspaper outside the door, which I had managed to stagger all the way over to, open, collect said paper and revert to my seat without passing out. Toddlers everywhere ain't got shit on me. A sudden stab of anxiety and I look to the door. Phew. I had closed it. There would be no Nosey Nigel Zeitgeit visits today. I look down at the paper. "WRITING CONTEST TURNS BLOODY (As usual)" the headline reads. I sigh. Such a tragic waste. Life was fragile. Creative writing continued to serve only to lower the life expectancy of the competitors and reward those who do not enter with 1st place prizes. A tragedy. 

Turning the page a small note drops out. I immediately recognise the monkey scrawl of Dr_Satan and swallow nervously. That was a mistake as my throat was currently 90% razor blades. I read the note all the same.

Paulie,

I'm currently inside - you know how it is when I attempt those damn art gallery jobs - so I need you to take care of a few things:

Attempt to pick someone's pocket.  
Take a flight to another city.   
Read a forum thread.   

Take care of these things for me. I'll be out soon and we can hang. Maybe knock over an art gallery. Hahahahaha, I know, I know. No fucking chance. Anyway, take care.

Your friend boss, 

Dr Satan M.D.

I ran my eyes across the list of jobs again. It seemed easy enough. I could steal from any schmo. Fortunately reading a competition entry was nowhere near as dangerous as writing one, so that should probably complete that. Take a flight. Hm. I don't like flying. I'm a man, not a fucking bird. I'm meant to walk on the ground. I don't want to die, sometimes wish I'd never been born at all. Oh shit, not this again. Think about something else, think about something else.  Sends shivers down my spine, body's aching all the time. The job. The tasks. Dr_Satan in the slammer. Goodbye, everybody, I've got to go. Wearing his dumb medical coat. Dyed black. Fedora slightly askew. Stethoscope in one ear and one nostril. Phew. That did the trick. Visualisation, that was the ticket. Like when I attended the play with the tickets which I had purchased and could attend the event.