"He had seen enough.  He'd had to do too much, participate too much.  He'd kept quiet, done his job.  The ghosts of his past haunted him.  He was drinking, again.  Too much, again.  And the opium, and the heroin.  And the cocaine.  Too much, all far too much.  But he'd stopped smoking, and that made his hill-walking easier.  And heck, who didn't like to inject a speedball and then drink a bottle of scotch after climbing one of the famous hills in Detroit?

He had a single mission, and that was to become the richest leader of this thing of ours.  Easier said than done, he thought, searching for a vein.  POP went the syringe and then Roger saw it. 

He knew it could be done.  Just one man stood in his way, and that man's swagger had to be turned into a stagger.  A stagger from a gunshot wound to his cruel knees, knees that had operated his legs as he swaggered to superstardom, leaving Roger left behind.

He'd have to train to get this guy.  He'd have to give up the heavy drugs and continue running.  Running hard, but steady, and then, he would get there.

He.  Would.  Get.  There."

"The scumbag was falling from grace.  Grace isn't a woman, not in this instance, but a condition of pride and prestige.

Roger was sure that it was rightfully his.  A birthright. It had been taken from him.  A birthwrong.

He was close to getting it back, but first, he had to finish off the cigar box full of narcotics. After that.

He.  Would.  Get.  There."