The beatnik mobster kicks a milkcrate against a wall in the middle of a crossway, Chicago born and still connected to a farm in Texas Paddy had a question. Maybe it was more of a concern, who really knows? His visits to MeeMaw in Texas taught him you never speak religion, politics, or sports with anyone out of respect for another person's opinion. The former red-capped now dawnin' a blue paddy cap proudly on top of his head takes a stand on top of his milk crate. He had wandered past speeches where rabble-rousers were gettin' up in their emotions over the most trivial shit. But Paddy was a lover of self-expression. Whether it be visual art, music, or perhaps performance arts. All crafts were skill-based and could be traded on a market for goods or services. So what happened to the craftsmen and craftswomen of our streets? Perhaps they felt their voices were being stifled by the traditions of old. 

My family wasn't around for when the Dot.Org.Anization was up and at 'em, but I know many of your bloodlines have such journals to read over with fond familiarities of your ancestor's truth being told to you. I know we all dream about the days of old, but at what point do the traditions of old become a hindrance to the overall flow of our very world as we know it? A now deceased man from a shippin' company told me "It's deemed feminine" or some dumb shit along those lines when I brought up the buskers of our streets. Those that speak and act out their subjective truths for all the world to see. The executions in broad daylight, the car chases, and of course the pickin' of pockets everyone loves so much.

A slight cough comes from Paddy's innards, a mysterious 15 grand in his back pocket smack against his beautiful bubble booty.

What happened to the people livin' their own stories out here in the streets? Speakin' their subjective truths for the world to see? Why are we as a collective hyper-focusin' on negatives and only promotin' one way of actin' out here? Is it "pussy" for a member of this thing of ours to come out and tell a story about their heritage or culture? Is it "weak" for a group of people to handle a job out here in public? Seein' as the actual code of Omerta get's bent to whoever's will it benefits at the time, why not allow the people to be free to dance and sing as they feel? Maybe I just miss seein' all the shenanigans this business can get one into a bit too much...

Paddy remains on top of the milk crate placed for his dumb speech. He whips out a tin cigarette case from his black and blue plaid sweater vest. He then proceeds to light a spliff pulled out from the said case. The smell of a very strong strain of marijuana homegrown by PP in a shack back in New York takes over the immediate vicinity the man stands in.