Paddy sat back and recapped the facts of how he had pulled the smoothest hand to head off with the left hand... Ahh! The ol' puncture a wound and follow through to get slew? Paddy remembers back...

The body of SwoonKidd lay in a pool of her blood leakin' from the neck. The cut was deep and precise, the puncture point was above the jugular. The follow-through slice was a solid 2 inches deep, administered with the port side hand cannon of Paddy. The Dance was literally dead now, born of a surname cursed by a gift involvin'n they wrists. A note from a woman set up to be a punchin' bag for a long line of undefeated killas, real shotta of Bumba clotta's these'ns was flutters in the wind. It hangs from the back pocket of the stinkin' Pitruzzello fello'. He sits atop the dead body and rolls a spliff. Reachin' inside his breast pocket coverin' his heart. The yearnin' for somethin' more overcame the young mobster as he pulls out the marijuana nugget from the plastic bag. Paddy's left-hand dives into his front left pocket. Emergin' with papers tied to a pouch of tobacco. He flips the pouch open and immediately begins breakin' down the nugget of green gold to ease the mind into the open paper. He tucks it all to the left side of the paper with his starboard-sided pointer finger, followin' the motion up by pickin' up a pinch of tobacco from within the pouch. He sprinkles an even portionin'n for a nice thick slicked down green'n brown. The tuck and roll? Handled with precision.

A cocked left eyebrow as he follows through with a triple lick of the right half of the spliff. The mouthpiece slimmed down to a nice open hole, with a port side hold of the thumb, Paddy's right hand comes over to re-tuck the port side of the joint. Aimin' to be the end at which would be burnt when Paddy stinkin' of da danky stank Pitruzzello was finished a'rola-rollin', Paddy gives 3 quick licks before he lights up a cigarette

Caledonia had given up the next take to the other side, a Durden man intercepted a letter in a hand-off gone right for C.D.Curry, the deceased. SwoonKidd's blunder would never be forgiven, could never be forgotten. Paddy looked over at Don, a Salvadorian man with a funny mustache. Paddy stinkin' Pitruzzello the goodfello' had murdered the photographer of that fateful bombin' in Chicago. 

The one that could only be traced back to Capwnyville, and a certain farmhand feel of a lifestyle provided by the ol' yeehawin' feckin' peckerhead ya pecker's head'n a gator mouth ya dumb bish caught fists of fury. A fist clasped with an appropriately sized bayonet... 

The note tucked in between Paddy's butt and a pants flap continued on but Paddy thought better to keep readin in his minds eye... An attempt at controllin' his deepest impulses. Paddy tried to focus on the current task at hand. Just hang out... Have a good time... But how could he do that? He took another swig of a drink, roughly his 3rd one of the feast so far. 

Voices spoke to Paddy. They spoke inside his head and told him he had to speak out. But he just couldn't speak so he continues to just nod. Hangin' his head as he starts poundin' the table. A BOW BOW BOW followed by a shmackeroo of the butterknife, with a BOW followed by a BOW. Paddy's head begins a bouncin'. The beat started in the feastin' hall of feasts y'all.  

"DaDummDummDunDiddlyDooDiddleDooDooDooDaDummDumm" he begins chantin' in his native tongue again, the demons of his soul were non-existent when the mind's eye wasn't focused on findin' them anymore. He pictures a jalopy, Ford Model-A. Black on black. All black. With a motor, only an actual demon would want to whip the wheel behind. Paddy found himself centered in the face made by the sun reflectin' off of the steerin' wheel in the sun once again as he just wandered off in his own song. 

Payin' no mind to anything but this moment here in space and time...

Roco had sent the Paddy wacker to handle a Durden informant within the city of Chicago the other day...
It was supposed to be an easy hit followed, no hitches within a mile for our business. But it happened that night. Dancin' with Dance the Swoon, in a parkin' lot under a full moon. 
An inside job handled by an inside man goes wrong with no one around to take a picture. After the fact, no one can seem to make a face with a name... Does anyone ever go to jail? Aren't there 3 sides to all stories? Yours mine and the objective truth? Well, piss fuck shit cunt ass and tittys. 
That night, Paddy "the stinker" Pitruzzello cruised in a black Ford with his left foot hangin' from outside the window. He came to a crossway that had just turned red, he accelerated abruptly. Just barely squeezin' past a speedin' maniac tryin' to drag race an ol' lady not even payin' attention to the fool with his silly tool of speed. 
Paddy fixed his cap as he looked at the bag layin' in the passenger side floorboard when nearin' the location Roco had left in the HQ. Paddy's goat sat in the back of the car. Hay was spread around so that the messenger of death would not get hungry upon this trip.
Fools...
They forgot about the legendary greatest'est of all time'n board checker and crash the glass technicians! The messenger of doom and gloom sat unchecked in the backseat of the black on black jalopy Paddy had driven that night.
The spot was a bar, and both of Paddy's pigs in the blankets... at the time that is... well... allegedly they were there...that is...
2 cops on the payroll sat across from the spot. One was a male, and the other female. Both were on Paddy's payroll and were makin' sure nothin' went wrong.
But SwoonKidd was panicin' n' shook with a little anxiety about the old Ford pullin' in. She had KSSCH'd her last KSSCH after Paddy stinky Pitruzzello pulled up to the spot. The little bitch was a snitch!
Immediately as if by some sort of magical timin' mechanism. Almost as if the KSSCH was a signal of sorts. A pair of silver Mercedes Benz 320's pulled up. The black roof's covered 2 men each, and 2 Thompson's and 2 Colt M1911's immediately raised out of both of the 1940 cabriolet's. They were pointed at deep purple jalopy sittin' across from the bar. 
Paddy had to reach over into the floorboard with his right hand, keepin' his eyes just above the dash as he made the manuever. He quickly rifled through the bag for his custom made Tommy Annihilation model with the drum to fit 120 inside. 
With a firm grip on the handle, Paddy rolls back into the proper sittin' position. He then proceeded to take aim on the closest of Durden hitmen. 
He squeezed off 20 rounds and took both men out. 3 headshots a pair. One took a peculiar shot to the jawline that dislocated the bone, the other found the ol Pine Eel glandular say banana shot to the domepiece. 
Paddy the maddy had to accelerate at this point in time, as shots had already fired out. The newest member on the payroll had replaced a good officer that was allowed to retire, he still sat in the car.
SwoonKidd had snuck out the back and was firin' on the black Ford with the Durden hit-squads.
Flipped indeed, she had brazenly strolled out from cover and paced forward with the 1911 as she squeezed off shots into the black jalopy.
Paddy paid no mind to the lackin' behind uninclined to hit that shot anyways lass. He unloaded another crisp 20 into the trailin' Mercedes before whippin' the jalopy to a stop.
He kicked the door open and had to charge at the traitor on foot! He had hit full sprint when he threw the secret technique.
Ye olden time drop kick to the breasticles!
It was a critical hit!
The stupid bitch fell in a ditch on the grass dividin' the sidewalk. Roughly 6 feet away from where she had lifted off from Paddy's lift off. 
With a quick roll off of his port sided shoulder, Paddy had made his way back to his feet before the informant had.
He pulled the bayonet as he jogged on to meet the informant and leave her with a piece of his mind. With his left hand he let fly what seemed to be a wildstyle slice, but instead was precise. 
SwoonKidd proceeded to choke on her own blood in the middle of the street of Chicago... Just days before this very meetin' of minds!
Paddy shook his head, he had finished 2 more drinks by this time. The new Don Juan underneath his blanket of security checkage just kept refreshin' Paddy's drink. Why wouldn't he? Paddy had saved his life that day anyways...

Hobbs had received multiple invites from Roco the goat master and his fiendish entertainment lawyer, Harvey_Specter. Hobbs knew at some point he'd need to accept out of politeness but he couldn't help but think there was an ulterior motive here. The last time there'd been this many high ranking officiaries across multiple families and allies there had been a Red Wedding affair with multiple people murdered where they stood, or in most cases sat.

Hobbs looked around nervously and scratched at his itchy all hemp fibre suit. He'd been a much better dressed man when BBB had been around. He'd invited Void with him as his plus one, and also if it came to it as a sacrificial lamb so he could make his escape whilst the 'Humble Don' perished in his place.

In truth based on the invitation he was about 8 days late, but in all things Mafia time was not a flat circle. It was a big ball of wibbly-wobbly stuff that meant people could arrive both early and late. He'd brought several "How to be a good Vegan" pamphlets with him to hand out at the event and couldn't wait to tell people about his new recipe for Nutroast and Spaghetti and meat-less balls that he could share with the community, as well as entertaining snipets.

"Each vegan saves hundreds of animals a year"

Great fact.