Recently, the vile serpent known as Grin-22 offered a rather fanciful account of his tenure as de facto Headcoach of Detroit. After listing rather less than a handful worth of supposed ‘victories’, he promptly offered me a signed copy of his authorized hagiography, a book that will, undoubtedly, be printed on the very same paper that is used in the 12th Street toilets, and presumably adorned with the same ‘materials’ usually produced there as well. Although the subject of Grin-22’s legacy (or tangible lack thereof) is relatively uncontroversial (few would disagree with the assessment that his life, let alone his transient ‘tenure’, has been an utter and abject failure), it got me thinking. How will our (in)actions and decisions be remembered by future generations? The oft-quoted adage tells us that history is, indeed, “written by the victors”, but only up until a point. My triumphs are, for example, well-known throughout the land. Unbeaten at checkers. The grand prize is still unclaimed. Yet, already, even before my inevitable demise, there are evil tongues, foul whispers, that proclaim the rules were “dumb”, or that I, somehow, “cheated”. History will remember the Great Checkers Challenge as the monumental milestone that it is — this goes without saying. But how will they remember it? Who will tell the story of this great event, when the echo of my great victories has, at last, given way to a deep, stifling silence? Will they accept the sore and pitiful excuses, justifications and spurious allegations expatiated by my opponents? Will they take their lies, this heinous propaganda, for the truth? We will have to see if future generations will take heed of my warnings, and avoid the obvious pitfalls of such devious historical revisionism. 

Perhaps the greatest threat to future understanding of our collective past, however, is not necessarily such revisionism — for this process is, indeed, a necessary component of our dealings with the unfinished past — or the excesses thereof. The greatest threat is silence. Perhaps such muteness is to be expected to due to the habitually secretive nature of this ‘thing’ of ours — and people are more likely to discuss events between themselves, perhaps in the headquarters or in the coffeeshops, or perhaps it is because certain bloodlines, which have a tendency to faithfully appear historical events of significance, preferring to make history rather than write about it. The present is, essentially, nothing more than an extension of the past; challenging the status quo is perhaps the most superbly effective way of ‘correcting’ history. Overthrowing a regime repudiates it and simultaneously redeems any ‘previous’ regimes headed by a certain bloodline or groups in the process. Indeed, if we put private deliberations and the occasional nostalgia trip in the coffeeshops to one side, such subjects are only ever raised during moments of great peril, emotion and activity. The kin of a vanquished city is liable to angrily venture onto the streets; the victorious regime is usually quick to offer justifications for, and demonstrate the necessity of, the latest massacre. 

 Yet, I should think it a necessity to remember and discuss such things, especially after the wounds have healed, the salt has dissipated and one can adopt something approaching a detached and disinterested view of affairs. If we do not remember the past, then why do we toil? It is the great, sometimes tall, tales and recollections of the past that keeps us going, no matter if we want to prevent repeating it, or indeed want to repeat it, yearning for a new golden age. Detroit, however nugatory their contributions to the advancement of mafiakind might have been, will be remembered, if only because HeadCoach’s insatiable appetite has single-handedly revived the mostly abandoned field of Malthusianism. Godfather Twigs, too, will be mentioned by historians, if only for his ‘hit-and-miss’ poker strategies, in the margins of the great monographs detailing my life and many victories. Hobbs’ legacy and reputation might yet be salvaged, however unlikely, by future generations reappraising his life. Hiro will, undoubtedly, be remembered as he is known today: a bona fide hero, albeit with a hairline that is receding more rapidly than the French divisions before the initial German onslaught. But this will only be the case if people talk about it!

"You are rather long-winded General! Why are you telling us all this?"

For this reason, I have decided to launch a competition of sorts. Our world has a long history of all sorts of competition. Not all have been equally successful or even necessarily legitimate. This (sometimes curiously bloody) history, then, is equally disputed. Even this competition may be the subject of future controversy — never underestimate the steadfastness and perniciousness of a sore loser (again, see Hobbs as an example). The subject, of course, is history, of any sort, any time, and in any form you might want. As long as it concerns the past (although somehow mentioning — and praising — the jury might do wonders for your results), you are left free to decide how to express yourself.

"Crikey! A competition! How fun! But what categories are there, General?"

To make life easier for myself and the other judges, however, there’s three main categories in which you can, hopefully, find your niche. Namely, visual art, poetry, and prose. We’ve recently seen a great upsurge in popular interest in the visual arts; just visited Daiquri’s Art Gallery, which I’m told has been permanently moved to the business district in Las Vegas. In addition to the truly remarkable stuff produced by the up-and-coming artists of our time, there’s a truly stupendous portrait made by an anonymous contributor. You should go and check it out. If you don’t win any prizes here, they might give your work a place in the Pity Hall. The style and substance of your contribution is up to you, whether it be an persuasively written essay, a disgustingly polemic tome, a humorous limerick (although, I beg, of better quality than Void’s recent shambolic attempt). or some piece of abstract art (you are advised to give a brief instruction on its possible meaning(s), however). Residents of the ‘city’ of Detroit will be pleased to know that submissions of the category of ‘caveman art’ will also be accepted. All I ask you to produce a history of sorts. Write or rhyme about some event or figure, monumental or trivial, or paint it. I’ll be very miffed if you don’t give it a go.

''But who will judge our contributions, General?!"

The judging shall be done by a very competent and venerable set of men. Firstly, the kindly old Giorgio-Esposito, a decorated veteran, and successful zookeeper. Despite his advanced age, he is still quite sprightly and his mind is still sharp. Secondly, the illustrious twigs, who despite appearances, has the strength of a mighty oak, and is known far and wide as a chess and poker player of some repute. Thirdly, the ‘acting Godfather Chairman’ of Chicago, Illum(etc.), who is generally known as possibly the nicest man in the land. Finally, there is the godlike Hiro and, of course, yours truly. Possibly the best team ever assembled. We ought to do an OC sometime. 

"So why would we willingly do all this, General?"

There will, of course, be prizes. (Most of) these prizes have been generously provided by the Djinn Memorial Endowment for the Arts, a division of the Sosabowski Institute. You might have never heard of these organisations before, but I assure you that they are at the forefront of what passes for civil society in this world. Despite the protestations uttered by some perfidious and slanderous tongues, this is a "real" organization; some have even described it as “noble’’ and “world-changing.” Who am I to cast doubt upon these assessments? In any case, the prizes are real enough, I’ve seen them. Throughout history great men have become great patrons of the arts or the sciences, if only to wash away the sins accrued in the process of becoming ‘great men’ in this way. The ill-gotten wealth of such men has shaped, moulded and built the world we live in today. Most, if not all, of my wealth is ill-gotten and as such, it is high time I give something back, even if the people I’m giving it ‘back’ to are also villainous scumbags.

"Out with it, General!" 

Each participant is allowed to send in up to two entries. These may be in the same category, or in different categories. A winner will be decided for each category — so, in the end, we will have three ‘winners’. The winner of each category will receive: 

$2,500,000 in cash.

5 credits. 

Pied Piper

Corrupt Agent

Pickpocket Perk

Organized Crime Proficiency Perk

Achievement Reveal / Bookkeeper 

Hustle Hangover. 

In addition, a set of Quad Corrupt Agents will be awarded to the winner of the coveted ‘Public Favourite’ prize, which, as you might have guessed, will be decided by a public poll. The submission deemed to be best overall by the judges will also receive a double-unit corrupt agent (sponsored by a certain well-known chess aficionado). Lastly, certain ‘notable’ entries, as decided by the judges, will be awarded a $1,000,000 prize. This contest closes on Saturday the 20th of August, 20:00, so get writing, or painting, or rhyming! Off you go.

"What do we need to do again, General?"

Write, rhyme or paint/illustrate some sort of historical event or figure; something that you deem important, significant, funny or otherwise worth remembering. Even if it isn't important, significant, funny or otherwise worth remembering, but you feel inspired nonetheless, go right ahead. Tell me of the most impressive, long-lasting and impactful regimes. Tell me of the rogues and personalities that challenged them. Tell me of the abject failures, the slouches, the incapable and inept. It can be anything, really, but if it is not obvious you should take care to mention what exactly it is you've made (especially if you're making a visual artwork). I imagine you'd to this anyway if you were writing an essay, otherwise it'd be a a rather poor contribution and you wouldn't win regardless.

You're allowed to submit up to two (2) contributions, in the same category or in two different categories. Whatever makes you happiest.
After the deadline, the jury will deliberate. If it was any good you might just get a prize. If it wasn't, damn, that sucks. Maybe the public might take sympathy on your sad effort and award you their prize, though.

Have fun!

I am saddened to learn of the regrettable demise of two of our erstwhile judges. It is my sincere hope that the remaining members of the panel will retain their mortal coils, at least until the end of the competition and the completion of the judging process. The irreplaceable Hiro's position on the panel will be taken up by the not-quite-as-well-decorated Smigly. Finally, an announcement from our sponsor: The Djinn Memorial Endowment for the Arts has been duly renamed the Hiro Memorial Endowment for the Arts. 

"Despite my high hopes, the competition has turned out to be more bloody than imagined, not so much for the entrants (which are, it seems, still very much non-existent), but mainly for those called upon to judge the fabled entries. In the perhaps foolhardy belief that, given more time, at least someone will make a worthwhile contribution to this competition while there is someone to judge it. Let's imagine I live to tell to see such a world-breaking eventuality, and say that the deadline has been extended by one week.

After that, we shall take score once more. I take offense at the suggestion that this competition is, in any way, "rigged" although I can, sadly, no longer deny its status as a '"mass casualty" competition, albeit in an unusual manner. Thank you. And please contribute!"

Here's me entry:

The Historical Ballad of John Fareham

Also Known As:  LET MY FAREHAM HOME!

For a joke told by other men

John Fareham was slain

And then the forever Fareham war 

Well, things were never the name!

During the Fareham war

There came a sturdy stout man

The bold, brave HeadCoach

A man with girth and a plan!

And Detroit was reborn!

Gun-smoke; Revolutionary chatter

Enemies died in droves

Along with one allied pro-wacker

Fareham, alas, heroically died

Whilst Detroit grew and grew

Memorialising his fine name

Was the Fareham name bearing crew

And then started to go wrong

Heroes shouting that 'would not stand'

Evil scum in the Windy City

Had to be killed by an underground band

Not an unsigned jazz music band

That would make no sense

This was a band of gunmen

With justice to dispense!

His name was John Fareham

Was the rallying cry

For those brave men

Who decided that Chicago must die!

The death toll grows still

When will the slaughter stop?

Will Fareham be allowed home?

John would like that.

John Fareham would like that a lot.

"I must admit that I have been awfully slow in offering up my submission for this competition. First there was the turbulence of the past weeks with rogues and NPCs surfacing, and then immediately after those trying times I was locked into room 432 of the Three Star Hotel to suffer in isolation by a certain King of Summerlin who I do not dare name directly for fear of being forced to part with my head for what he is sure to call slander and insolence."

"But better late than never, of course I cannot ever hope to beat the late Doctor_Melfi in the poetry category after that touching song about John Fareham and the city of Detroit (which, I might add, has my personal vote to win in the poetry prize), so I will just do the regular writing category instead."

"I managed to dig up an old tale from the family archives called The Tale of Pots the Legendary Pro-Wacker, now I just want to make it completely clear that none of the names or events mean anything to me personally and that this is apparently something that my grand-grand-grand-grand-grand-father was witness to and felt the need to document. Some of the words as well I can't make any sense of whatsoever and seem to have lost all meaning, maybe it was just the slang of the time or something, who knows."

"With that context, let our tale fetched from this old diary begin!"

Pots the Legendary Pro-Wacker.

Once upon a time many years ago there was a Don named Novi (from what is historically known as the Vino bloodline), the respected right hand of another Don named Severe at the time. The times were turbulent and a storm was brewing, it was going to be only a matter of days before shots would start flying and hell would break loose upon the world.

In anticipation of this, Novi had enlisted the help of a mutual acquaintance of ours from the british isles to act as his personal bodyguard. The lad named Pots had made his way all across the atlantic ocean by boat just for this specific purpose. Mind you that this individual had up until then lived a rather innocent life (as had those who came before him), so he was completely unfamiliar with the life of crime and did not have any ancestors clue him in on what it would be like.

Now that the stage is set and the actors have been introduced, let us turn on the spotlights and have our play begin.

Novi had instructed Pots to follow him around and serve as his personal protection. Pots had been told that, after Novi had taken a shot at and killed another mobster, he was to purposefully miss a shot to cause a racket and give Novi some time to escape and secure himself for the hours that were to follow. Note that Pots had not had not had any marksmanship training whatsoever, he had been in the states for only a few days and this was the first time he had even held a gun, so the chance of him hitting anything was abysmally small.

I remember what happened next very vividly. Pots had asked Novi one last time "Novi is this really ok?" and upon being given the affirmative after Novi's shot, Pots had fired his gun. However Pots was rather surprised to find his friend on the ground, writhing around in pain as a pool of blood started to form, when Pots had expected to find Novi sprinting off instead. Pots the legendary pro-wacker's first shot had been a hit. How he managed to land it despite the legion of bodyguards was nothing short of an unfortunate miracle.

Both Pots and I live to tell the tale, but we can still hear Novi's laughter echoing in our ears even years after the fact.
I fear that the laughter of the ghost of Novi shall haunt us both until the day we finally give up the ghost and go to the world beyond.

"So there you have it, the historical tale of Pots the Legendary Pro-Wacker, who despite being absolutely unfamiliar and clueless about everything, accidently killed his friend and was left even more clueless than before."