Despite spending most of his days eroding against the tide, much to my chagrin, I discovered that HeadCoach was recently given the nod to carry 60 units. A somewhat irrelevant achievement you might think, for a man who was swept out to sea a week ago and hasn't been seen since, but as ever, there is a method to his madness.

60 units has long been viewed as a status symbol, a commendable achievement, the summit of the trade. Only the most experienced are given the nod by the FBN to carry such weight with impunity. Alas, there is another, less notable benefit to achieving 60 units, which I am sure certain sperm-whale sized coaches are familiar with - they can no longer be pickpocketed by anyone with less than 60 units themselves. 

You might think that it is just a simple coincidence that those with 60 units are granted this protection from an act as common in Mug City as breathing, dogging or glory-holing. In response to that I will provide you with 3 case studies:

1) HeadCoach

This absentee manatee has crowed from behind his beef burger breakfasts for as long as I can remember, telling anyone who would listen that he beats all comers (mainly me) from pillar to post. This was a lie. HeadCoach purposefully allowed himself to be swept away - how else would he have pitched himself near a tide even strong enough to manage such a feat - to avoid the vicious maulings I regularly delivered to him, 15k of his hard-earned tucked safely in the waistband of my shorts all the while. Now that he's got his 60? Back from the fucking dead, I'll bet. Verdict: HeadCoward.

2) Hobbs

A pioneer of the 60 unit cowardice movement. Forced into hiding after playing Detroit Bingo, the snake of Summerlin promptly begged his way to the nod from the FBN and has gleefully placed his pockets beyond reach ever since. You know what they say about a guy with lots of bodyguards? Compensating. As big a fanny as you are likely to meet. Verdict: Coward.

3) Sosabowski

A man who was forced to create a fake organisation to give himself reasons to start conversations with me was always a certainty for having suspect bravery. He achieved pickpocket-purity early on his career and has now converted his wallet pouches into crème fraîche dispensers. Has anyone checked he was actually awarded those medals he wears and that he didn't just buy them with all the 15ks he hasn't lost? Verdict: General (probably not really) Coward.

Irrefutable evidence, I'm sure you'll agree.

Are there other 60 units cowards out there? Definitely; just what do we actually know about Void? Thinking about it, are there actually any 60 unit carriers who aren't afraid of having their wallets snatched? I remain unconvinced. 

Coach, dripping wet, looking like the soggiest thing since wet bread, grew increasingly enraged by every word of the speech. The sea had washed him back up for this? He thought he'd found a home there. Peace and tranquility. But a great storm had cast him out, to suffer through Grin's whining once more. He adjusted the shark fin tied to the top of his head and pulled a pistol out of his fish-skin shorts. 

You shot at Grin-22's bodyguards. You killed seven bodyguards.

Better. Much better.  

"Back from the dead indeed, dummy. Have a sniff of these loins, I'm fresh as smoked salmon. Pity about the magnificent seven of your bodyguard clown car, I'm still getting used to my new strength. Hauling 60 units of cocaine around isn't a job for some small-muscled dilbert, you know. Certainly not for some 40-unit dumpster diver. Is there even money to be made at that point? Skidmark and I have been tossing our combined 122 units around like confetti and you aren't invited to the party, son."

Well, well, well, look what an unfortunately fat mouse the cat has dragged in. The dinnertime tyrant, always back for more. Have you really been tossing units or just tossing salad? We've all heard about what you and Skidmark were getting upto before you went away, Coach, and rest assured I want no part of it. I thought I wouldn't need that block on all communication from you given that you were off frolicking in seaweed, but I see that was a mistake and 7 of my finest have paid the price for my hubris. Like the many Kuku-butchered sons of Chicago, they will be missed. Mourned and canonised alongside their brethren who were similarly slain by their supposed leader, the biggest threat my entourage have faced since BricktownCL was abroad in Detroit.

I speak for all of us when I say you haven't been missed, unlike BricktownCL. My tenure as de facto HeadCoach was widely recognised as the greatest period in the history of this cesspool and now it is at an end, like my days of taking your $15,000. I'm proud at least that my donations to you will always remain a net negative, despite your monstrous 100% tax rate. BBB has been sounding me out to administer the laundry over in 12th Street, did you know that? Obviously I'm not going to do it because firstly 12th Street smells like dick and secondly BBB doesn't have the authority to make those kind of decisions when FrizzleFry is still marauding around the DribbleDome in defiance of you, but still. I'm wanted, remember that.

AssistantHeadCoach, if you say anything disrespectful about my friend Illuminatiatedional, I'll forget about you quicker than a 10m prize in a mugging contest, understand? 

I was delighted to see HeadCuck labelled the HeadCoward until I realised I myself, hero of one war was also labelled as a coward. I may be writing this from a secret bunker in an undisclosed third world country to avoid detection and death, I may be scared of wasps and spiders and other creepy crawlies and finally I may be afraid of my own shadow but that does not make me a coward. I am in fact a brave, brave man according to my very own Mother.

My 60 units was achieved back when it was still relevant. Back when I was a wee lad impressing SpikeS and Son of Spike and Spikeysaurus and all other variants with my impressive prowess and activity. I'm not one of these weak minded idiots like Void Bianca Headcoach who are late to the party. 

Grin, I used to respect you and desperately seek your OC seal of approval. Now I recognise you for the bin loving pyscopath you are. 

"Grin-22, not only are you a notoriously inveterate slop-sucker, a well-known shallow plate and a jejune dullard, you are also a liar. I can honestly say that I'd rather catch a particularly nasty bout of trench foot — again — than converse with you. I swear this on Hiro's (impressive) array of medals. Sadly, but inevitably, duty calls, and here I am on the frontlines once more. You would, of course, have no inkling of what a noble cause is, which is why you continually and habitually disparage the righteous aims and efforts of READ, which, by the way, is a real, reputable and legitimate operation. Even if we discounted and forgot about the great numbers of previous 'incidents' (which, I'm sure, will be the subject of some kind of international tribunal at some point), the events of today have proven the great and pressing need for an organisation like READ."

"I've long argued that Detroit should be blocked off and quarantined to the great benefit of the rest of the world. Putting the noxious, toxic (and probably illegal) gasses that spring forth from the biohazard known as the public toilets to one side, we know see that the spread of what we now call 'foot-in-mouth-disease' appears to be endemic within Detroit, but particularly localised within your person. Your 'tenure' as DHC has, perhaps, produced the darkest days in recent memory, somehow even eclipsing that time when HeadCoach accidentally blotted out the sun with his protruding belly. The unfortunate result of your indiscretions and general buffoonery is, sadly, not your death, but that of your wretched bodyguards. Perhaps we are to imagine that it is better this way, that they are infinitely happier in death than they were in life serving you." 

A frail, anemic and gutless loser like you can only dream about getting your dirty, suspiciously small hands into my crème fraîche dispensers. Even if, by miracle, you had accumulated the prowess necessary to hoodwink the General — unlikely, given my renowned and much-celebrated reflexes — you would fail to break through the impressive and impenetrable defences surrounding me at all times. If you treat your men well, they will respect you, and protect you from the harbingers of disease that infest Detroit. Yours, mistreated, abused and continually murdered as they are, are more like the Maginot line — impressive in theory, but in practice one can simply walk around them. Should the unthinkable ever happen — you reaching the necessary amount of prowess to roll my pockets, HeadCoach stepping down to begin a dieting business, and Hobbs managing to punch a dent in a knob of Lurpak spreadable butter — then I challenge you to face me head-on in a battle that will surely be remembered by history. Until then, there's always checkers." 

Duh' Blitz'terd'er Shep'tHerd'er was rootin'n tootin' his 'oat'z o'dee lad thruu the by the byez. A conversation had been struck in the skreetz and he observed. Noddin' along with the points he agree't with, he suddenly had the urge to wipe the shiner he 'ad acquire't from a miss't mark in Detroit the night before. Fioras Ceann Tread Bo toot't. He grabb'th'uh glicc'k'th'y of his tribez clique'y

Shots fired

The reddest of eyez found a stairway to post up on and rolled a spliff, pouch of tobacco on top of his knees, and the bag of green pulled from his vest pocket. It seem't the show was only just beginnin'

Iron Mike has been called many thing during his tenure as the second smallest crew leader in Mug City. Dense, boring, a dullard, illiterate, a lisping fool, the scum of the earth. Widely derided by all & sundry! Today was a Thursday which was convenient as Thursday is Iron Mikes lucky day! This Thursday in particular he would show the world he was a THUCKING MAVERICK.

Iron Mike certainly didn't want to be associated with the likes of Hobbs by being a 60 unit guyth, but now we had all these 60 unit criminals out in the streets swinging their dicks causing a scene. All the 60 unit guyth were flaunting their clout & muscle. Iron Mike had the requisite muscle mass to slag 60 drug units no thucking problem.

From day one Iron Mike had been doing this his way, sure his style of beating the living piss out of anyone who touched his pockets had won him legions of fans & enemies, beating people down was not just a way of life, it was his whole reason for living. The clout to hustle 60 drug units would whittle down his potential beating victims to an unacceptably small pool. Iron Mike needed a way to brag of his prowess & separate himself from the Salvatore-Lucchese's of the world whilst maintaining a sense of menace to all mobster nation wide. He had broken the mould & done it!

"BATHK IN MY GLORY FRIENDTH, 50 thucking units. The thuperior to thixthy units place to be! I tholemly vow to thand proudly with 50 units until my dying day (Or the day I thuck up and sell drugs again!)"

He turns to laundry magnate Grin-22 who had just taken a particularly bad verbal beating from Thothabowthki & speaking in a high piping voice.

"Brother Grin, the question should not be is 60 units a badge of honour or a mark of shame. It should really be why can't these geekth & freakth hang with, one off original 50 units Iron Mike!"

By this time quite the crowd had gathered who begin to chant 'IRON MIKE, IRON MIKE, IRON MIKE'. Either that or Mike was having a small mental break from reality brought on my numerous (Mugging related) blows to the head.

Mike had well & truly pulled a Jerome. For an amazing 2 hours he had been the 50 units maverick. The king of the world. That now laid in tatters. As always greed had done him in. Some very cheap brown cocaine (Thanks for the tip Southsider) had been knocking around in Iron Mikes gym bag. When he saw the local smack heads were paying $10,000 a unit he had to offload for a HUGE profit not realising what this would do for his street cred. He had inadvertently joined the 60 unit swinging dick club.

"Welp I guethth there is always thuicide..."

"Mike 'The Embarraththment' Tyson. As always my friend you exaggerate your abilities, peak too soon and skip straight to the finish leaving everyone around you dissatisfied and miserable wishing they'd never laid eyes on your miserable face.

As many in America would say: this is the Detroit way."

Void was attentively listening along to the speech made by Grin-22. He nodded especially enthousiastically at the venomous claims made against Hobbs. He was nodding so wildly that it looked as if his head was about to fall off. By the time members of the crowd had done their say Void had regained his composure.

"Ah Grin-22, you made me have an epiphany. For weeks now I have been wondering why my pockets had gone so unmolested. I have tried everything from pocket perfume to stocking it with delicious sandwiches. I had set the bait but much like an unskilled fisherman I ended the days without a catch."

"Being left without any other options I even ventured into that unclean city called Detroit, hoping that at least there I would be able to dole out a mug. But no, even when putting up with the DISGUSTING city-wide smog originating from the public toilets (which seems by now to visibly colour the skies) my pockets were only fondled once by a passing gorilla who had a suspicious citrus smell cling to him."

"I thus conclude that being part of the 60+ club is not all that it was hyped up to be in the papers. Though the FAT STACKS that it brings is a feather in my cap, my pockets have become less perused than even the Detroit Public Library. I urge more people to make the push and suck up to the FBN. My pockets are lonely and crave the warmth of a human touch."