TipToeTimmy liked to tip about upon his toes. There wasn't a tip he hadn't visited and there wasn't a toe he hadn't tipped upon. For TipToeTimmy sure was a a tipped toed fella. When he'd been a young lad many had remarked upon his passing by, not a sound heard before he tipped them on the shoulder. For TipToeTimmy sure was a tip toed fella. The diners he frequented in the city of Chicago all remarked on what a good tip he would leave. For TipToeTimmy was a fine tipping fella. 

TipToeTimmy was a fine looking fella, the tips of his hair bleached blonde which some said looked queer, but TipToeTimmy was before his time, before the curve of fashion which would descend decades later. For TipToeTimmy had an insatiable urge to tip and to toe. He kept his body keen with his tip toeing, and his mind sharp by his endless mental tipping. He'd long made a game of his peculiar life. For TipToeTommy was a loner at heart. Kids had called him names as a youth, unable to understand why he he'd always be tip toeing around the school grounds. The kids never understood how he would appear as if a ghost from the shadows, but that was TimToeTimmy's gift. 

TipToeTimmy's great grandfather had been a gunslinger out West. His grandad had told him stories of his adventures, tip toeing into saloons and stealing whatever he wanted. He'd earned a bad reputation but had a gun and the steady reflexes to match. Old TipToeJack they'd called him. A legend of that wild period. The man had never lost a bet and never lost a duel, or so his grandfather had told him. TipToeTimmy looked up to his long bloodline with pride. There wasn't a piece of American history that hadn't known a TipToe'd fella. As far as TipToeTimmy was concerned he was the next to wear that badge with pride.

His father had been a mean man. He'd fallen from a horse as a boy and broken his leg. The injury left him incapable of tip toeing. He was the joke of the family. How was a man of their families long legacy to get by without tip toeing. His father had certainly tried, but what can a man achieve tip toeing on one long. He looked like a clown and had turned to drink to hide his ridicule. TipToeTimmy had fled from that cruel apartment while still a young boy. He would not forsake his legacy like his father had wanted, a life of hard work was not to be his lot. For he would tip and he would toe to get the things he needed. He would not slave away in the factories and foundries of Chicago earning a meager wage.

Life had a different plan for young TipToeTimmy, he'd been caught up in the fervor of the 1940s. He'd listened to the reports of the men he considered to be evil causing another war in Europe. TipToeTimmy had walked straight into the recruitment office and signed up, just like his grandfather had done before him during those dark days in the 1920s. For the gifts bestowed upon his lineage lent themselves to these bloody periods, and there hadn't been a war in American history that hadn't known a TipToe'd fella. 

Young TipToeTimmy had been sent to the front lines, where his tipping and his toeing could be put to best use. Serving as a scout he'd tiptoed his way across Europe. With his keen eyes and ears he'd given the allies many a tip on enemy placements and where best to send their troops. TipToeTimmy was an asset and the upper brass needed his skills. He'd tiptoed into many a German officers quarters and left them with their heads tipped over at an unnatural angle. For his family had never shied away from a fight. In fact if he was being honest with himself he quite enjoyed a fight. Sure he wouldn't win in a contest of strength, but given an inch he'd tiptoe a yard and come out on top. Young TipToeTimmy had a steady hand and good eyes, give him a target and he'd take it down with knife or bullet. 

He'd left the army corded with muscle and covered with medals for his services. Sure he'd fallen in with a bad crowd, but who said TipToeTimmy was any better. He'd been committing crimes since he was a kid, tiptoeing into stores and tipping food into his hat or cash into his pockets. The long lineage of the TipToe's were known to be thieves and killers. This was how TipToeTimmy found himself on the streets of Chicago. Ready to earn his climb out of the shadow of the scum bags he'd associated with. He'd been given a chance. A chance to prove that there was still a place for a tip toed fella in the mafia. Now all he had to do was prove himself.

TipToeTimmy liked to think about his families storied past. For there was neither a time nor a place where a tip did not toe or a toe not tip. His great, great grandfather TipToeTomahawk may have tipped a shipment of tea into a certain Boston harbor. Ever a trouble maker TipToeTomahawk sure did like a scrap. It was said that war was bad for business, but the TipToe's never cared for commerce. As far as TipToeTomahawk was considered war was a good opportunity to put his tiptoeing to the test. 

TipToeTomahawk tiptoed his way into many an officers camp and slit their throats from ear to ear. With his gang of ruffians they had tiptoed through forests and attacked the British convoys. With musket and blade they had laid their enemy low. Ever harrying the red coated English and their allies making them pay for every inch of land. TipToeTomahawk had gained his name during these bloody days, for he would tiptoe about the battlefield claiming his bounty of scalps in the way of his ancestors. Offering them up in service of his father's Gods, while holding onto the cross about his neck and praying to his mother's God for forgiveness. 

Fighting in the skirmish line TipToeTomahawk excelled in his duties for he was fleet footed, he would tiptoe ahead of his men ever eager to lure the loyalist lines. At the bark of their sergeant they would fire a barrage into the English lines before falling back, ever falling back into the waiting maw of the Patriots organized lines. Slaughter would follow as the cannons and heavier muskets opened fire. TipToeTomahawk reveled in such slaughter. Flanking the approaching lines he would join his musket with his skirmishing brigade until the order to charge was given. Then he would drop his musket and take out his tomahawks and charge the loyalists down. 

TipToeTimmy had never met his great, great grandfather but had heard many a great thing about him. He sometimes wished he could tiptoe his way back to simpler times, where a man could earn his trade in the blood of his enemies. For TimToeTomahawk was a wealthy man by the time of the Revolutionary wars conclusion. Rich enough to afford a wealthy estate and raise his family comfortably, but comfort was not something the Tip Toe's preferred. They were a rough lot, more used to living off the land than being served upon. TipToeTomahawk was never happy in that house being fussed over, so one day he had simply left. Rumored to have gone to live with his father's people to help them defend their land against the constant encroachment of the newly formed United States Government. 

TipToeTimmy hit the mean streets of Chicago with a spring in his step and a tip in his toe. Having accepted his lot in life he'd tiptoed his way into a store and took some more things which didn't technically belong to him. Scurrying away on the tips of his toes he ducked into an alleyway careful to avoid the rough looking gangster types who gathered inside. The last thing he needed was any trouble while his arms were filled with bottles of whisky. Keeping to the shadows he used a passing black cat as a distraction to tiptoe past them.

Entering a small alcove he climbed the steps two at a time. He knew a good fence who resided on the seediest side of town. This wasn't the kind of place you walked at night, but TipToeTimmy had tiptoed through many a worse place, and anyway even if he did get caught by the wrong types he kept a knife tucked away in his belt for such an occasion. Following a seemingly endless series of corridors which snaked below the city of Chicago he finally approached his destination. Knocking on the door in a series of taps long practiced between the fence and those seeking his services TipTopTimmy waited patiently. 

His attention was drawn to the door as locks were thrown back and the door inched open. The fence took his stolen goods and paid a fair amount. Satisfied TipToeTimmy tiptoed out of the underground ducts and entered the cold Chicago night. He was growing bored of these little petty jobs. He needed something bigger and better. Across the road he watched a group of well dressed gangsters running out a store with fur coats and televisions bundled under their arms. Throwing them into the back of a waiting truck they sped off into the night as a nearby group of police officers just watched. TipToeTimmy started to think he was in the wrong line of work, he needed to climb the ranks of the mafia. 

Tiptoeing around the streets he noticed local crews advertising work for men such as himself. Who were willing to put in real work no matter the jobs. Well TipToeTimmy certainly didn't care for the nature of how he made a buck. Listening from the shadows of a nearby alley he watched and waited for an ideal moment.

TipToeTimmy's thoughts were disturbed by the approach of a well dressed gangster. She stopped him in the streets and demanded to know what his plans were. He'd nearly laughed out loud, but thought it better to remain somewhat tactful. He had no plans, he had no friends, all he had was a toe to tip on. The prominent gangster, a Don by the name of Ketamine, had offered him a position in her crew, scrubbing the headquarters floors and cleaning the toilets. TipToeTimmy didn't feel he was above such requests, for he had nothing better to do that day. Scribbling his name on a dotted line he found himself welcomed into Ketamine's headquarters. 

Well he could get used to this he thought as he continued to scrub at a dark stain on the floor. A little bit of elbow grease was all it needed. Putting his back into it he watched as the stain began to wash away down a nearby drain. TipToeTimmy, as befitted his very nature, had begun spying on his fellow associates. He always had an ear out for a big score, and figured this would be the exact spot to score big. Tiptoeing out of the room his keen ears locked onto the sounds of men laughing. The deep voices echoed down the long corridors of Ketamine's headquarters. Dissolving into the shadows TipToeTimmy put his ear to the wall and listened as the voices boasted about a job coming up soon. The sort of hit that would leave their pockets heavy, the sort of hit that would need a certain tiptoeing fella he reassured himself. 

Voices approached the door so TipToeTimmy crept back into the room he'd been instructed to clean. When an associate came to check on TipToeTimmy he was found dutifully cleaning the room while whistling out a tune. The associate, clearly satisfied with his work, suggested he explore the headquarters and got to know some of the other members. TipToeTimmy already knew exactly who he would talk to first, tiptoeing his way back down the corridor he knocked on the door and was told to enter. 

"What you want kid?" asked the leader of the well dressed group of mobsters who lounged idly around the large table at the rooms center.

"Its not what I want but what I can do that will interest you," answered TipToeTimmy confidently. 

"I don't think we need the toilets cleaned," laughed one of the men doubting TipToeTimmy's skills turning his back as the leader continued his conversation. 

TipToeTimmy chose this as his moment to strike, he tiptoed behind the offender, reached into the man's pocket and stole his wallet returning to his original position as if he hadn't moved. Using his powers of tiptoeing he moved to the next person and took a wallet out of their breast pocket. Slowly he made his way around the table taking each of their wallets and putting them in his own pocket. To the casual observer he hadn't moved an inch. Such was his ability to tiptoe and fade into the background.

Eventually the groups leader noticed he was still standing at the back of the room, "Hey kid scram, we've got business to sort out don't need you stood around gawping at us." 

Stepping out of the shadow he dropped each of their wallets onto the desk which dominated the middle of the room to the surprise of the assembled men.

"Do I have your attention now," he smiled at them. 

Two of the group stood up immediately, ready to crack his skull, but were stopped in their tracks by the groups leader, "well kid you've certainly got balls pulling a trick like that. I might have a job for someone with your skills," he continued. 

Got them thought TipToeTimmy, who took an offered seat and listened to their plan. It proved to be a big haul should all go well. TipToeTimmy sure was a fine tiptoeing fella. He'd tip and toe til the day everyone knew the TipToe name. For he was destined to be the greatest TipTop to ever have tiptoed. His tips were stronger but his toes were stronger. 

Having finished his day of hard labor TipToeTimmy had nothing to do other than wait. His mind idled along as he sat down for a cup of steaming coffee and a hot meal. He thought back to his families storied past. How they'd tiptoed their way through history. He thought back to a story his great, great grandfather had told him about old TipToeTwain. The man had always been a rogue. Desperate to get away from the progression brought about by the Government. TipToeTwain was not built for this new world, he'd sooner spend a day hard at graft than in comfortable surroundings. 

Old TipToeTwain fell in with a rough bunch of natives, heading out to the plains to join in with the comanche who continued to fight against the American government. TipToeTimmy knew his great, great grandfather would have enjoyed this irony. Tearing down the walls his predecessors had helped build.

Fortunately, thanks to his heritage he could fit amongst this gang of natives. His native mother had left his skin tanned and his hair long and dark. He'd been out on the road for many months, so had taken to growing out his hair. Atop his stolen horse he rode picking up snatches of native tongue with only the briefest understanding, which suited him well. He wasn't a great conversationalist anyways, so the stoic strong silent type suited him well. He would respond when asked questions he understood, and fix the person with a glare when he did not understand. 

The time passed easily for TipToeTwain riding across the country he loved only stopping to attack caravans or farms of the people he'd grown to hate. All had been going so well until they fell upon one settlement which had the gall to fight back. The battle had been a slaughter. TipToeTwain and his temporary gang rode straight into an ambush, barely able to escape with his life he had stolen away into a nearby tree line and made for the hills. 

Living off the land TipToeTwain kept off the busier game tracks careful to avoid anyone in pursuit. Had he known any better he would have set off south at the earliest opportunity, for their was a bounty on his head and many a man willing to try and take it. Having set up a temporary camp deep in some nearby woods, TipToeTwain spent his days gathering wood for his fire, local herbs and plants for his wounds and game for his belly. He unwrapped the bandage from around his waste and applied a paste of aleo vera and yarrow to clean the wound, knowing the risk of it going bad.

As the warm summer sun began to dip under the sky he sat in his camp sipping on a skin of ale he'd managed to take from his fallen horse. His peace was disturbed by a flock of birds shooting into the dusk sky. Reaching for his gun belt he wrapped it around his waist wincing as it caught on his wound, pulling his favorite revolver from its holster he checked it was loaded before tiptoeing out of camp to a nearby ridge line. Lying flat near the top of the ridge he did his best to disguise his position while pulling his rifle forward and taking aim. 

A posse of rough looking men entered his camp at speed with guns drawn. TipToeTwain counted half a dozen men armed with a collection of S&W Model 3's, Colt Single Action's and Henry Rifles. The posse spread out in a wide arc, covering two men who approached the camp and began to search through his belongings. TipToeTwain was just about to take his first shot when he noticed a glint of a scope from further back in the woods. Steadying his breath he switched his aim and pointed his rifle just above the man's head. Releasing his breath he took fire and saw the man keel over. Pulling his gun down TipToeTwain scooted back off the hill, stalking back on the tips of his toes he crept back into the wood concealing himself behind a nearby fallen tree. 

The posse crested the hill warily, not knowing how many men waited in ambush. TipToeTwain waited until the last man took up position on the ridge. Exhaling he put a bullet in the man's chest before grabbing his rifle and retreating into the woods. Using an old trick his father had taught him he began to throw his voice, using an old native war call he nearly laughed aloud as the posse searched the woods for the source of the noise. TipToeTwain knew well the fear a native attack would put into their hearts. The last thing any God fearing American wanted was to be raided by one of the comanche.

Using the posse's confusion to his advantage TipToeTwain dipped behind a tree to their flank and put a bullet in another man's chest. Throwing his voice again he saw the panic enter the group as they searched the tree line for the source of the noise. The leader of the group, a hulking bear of a man clapped one of them on the head as he suggested fleeing before they were overrun, TipToeTwain ducked from behind the tree and fired a shot at the leader but it went wide. The man turned pointing and shouting at his men to return fire, TipToeTwain threw his body back behind the tree as bullets thudded into his position, well he was really in the shit now. 

Bullets rained down upon his position he turned putting a bullet on a man he noticed trying to flank him. He made to move but was quickly forced back into cover as a bullet passed over his head. This really was a shit show, he needed to move quick but didn't want to risk a stray bullet. He attempted to throw his voice to confuse his enemy but quickly learned that trick wouldn't work again when the leader laughed in response. The tree he hid behind was quickly losing its bulk as bullets continued to thump into the wood. He couldn't stay here and he couldn't move, this was the kind of situation he lived for, pulling out his revolvers he thanked his God's for a bountiful life and prepared to meet his end. 

TipToeTwain's attention was drawn to a whooping call which echoed through the heavy forest. The noise bounced off the trees filling the posse's heart with dread. This was no trick or game but the call of the comanche. Gunfire followed the call as the small group were torn to pieces on the hill, whooping riders tore through the forest keen to destroy any who trespassed on what they saw as their land. TipToeTwain joined the whooping call charging forward at the hill caught up in the mad joy of battle. Each time his revolver spat out a bullet he shouted out his joy watching another body fall. 

As the chaos of battle calmed TipToeTwain realized his predicament. Out of the frying pan into the fire his ma would say, he'd exchanged one gang of murderers for another bloodthirsty gang of murderers. Making sure to stow his revolvers in the holsters at his hip he held up his hands and tried his best to stumble his way through a sentence of his mother's native tongue. Sometimes he wished he'd been a more studious child, and had listened to her lessons. The leader of the comanche dropped down off his horse grabbing him by the chin and inspecting his face closely. 

TipToeTwain only caught every other word so nodded along mutely, the comanche chief turned to his men shouting at something which made them all laugh, "I take it this would make it easier, you have the hair and eyes of our people but do not speak our tongue mongrel," he uttered with contempt. 

"My grandfather and mother were both native," TipToeTwain responded unwilling to show any fear.

"What were you doing out here being chased by these dogs," asked the comanche chief. 

"Ran into a bit of trouble in town was riding south with some apache brothers, bastards killed them all," he lied. 

"These are troubling times, but another gun is always welcome at our fire," the chief stated as one of his men came forward with a horse stolen from the dead posse, fortunately it was large enough to contain TipToeTwain's bulk.

"You have my thanks, what do I call you," TipToeTwain asked. 

"Chief White Eagle," he responded while leaping onto his waiting horse and whooping as he rode wildly into the forest. 

TipToeTimmy stopped daydreaming as he finished his cup of coffee. He went to the bathroom to relieve himself and caught himself in the mirror, he owed a lot of his looks to his families long storied past. His skin was tanned darker than a lot of the people he saw on the streets of Chicago. His hair was straight and dark, but he kept it cut short and slicked back. He sometimes wished he'd been born to wilder times, where he could escape southward and join his families people in their war against their enemies, but those days were long past. So instead he did as his forbearers had done before him, he tipped and he toed, toed and tipped, but he felt it in his heart. The desire to do something else. Something bigger, something better. Sure he would do it on tipped toes, but he longed to be the best tiptoed fella to ever hit the streets. 

TipToeTimmy was tiptoeing down another corridor in Ketamine's headquarters when he was accosted by a group of made men. He was mocked for his strange looks and tiptoeing ways. He was more than used to such jibes so shrugged them off as unimportant. The group was stopped in their tracks when the shadowy mobster from earlier appeared.

"I see you've met my friend, I trust you're treating him well?" the boss asked with menace in his eyes. 

"Sure boss no disrespect just having a joke you know," one of the made men answered.

"Trust it stays that way," the boss warned before turning and walking back down the corridor. 

TipToeTimmy used this opportunity to tiptoe his way out of the confrontation. He hadn't been here long enough to be causing trouble, and certainly knew the risks of fighting made members of a crime family. Fading back into the shadows he crept down the corridor keeping to himself not wanting to draw any further attention.

With a tip and a toe he decided to leave the headquarters and head out onto the bustling streets of Chicago. Taking in a deep breath he was reminded why he hated cities so much. The smog which fell so heavily over the city limits made it hard to breathe, too many human bodies packed in on top of each other had a foul stench, he longed to be outside the city limits but knew he'd no hope of achieving his dreams away from these people. 

Creeping along on the tips of his toes he found a nearby purse to pickpocket, he was on the hunt for bobby pins, knowing he would need them for picking locks in the future. You might ask why he didn't just purchase these, given how cheap and easily accessible they were, but this was not TipToeTimmy's way. Why buy what you could steal he mused as he crept along the street, careful to avoid the people streaming past. He spotted his next target, a little old lady walking down the streets without a care in the world. Well I'll teach her he thought to himself, passing past another group of workmen desperate to get to the nearest bar to drown their sorrows. His hand reached out and into her bag and grabbed another bobby pin and a handful of cash to match. 

Ducking into a nearby alleyway TipToeTimmy counted his earnings. Swearing to himself as he collected his meager belongings, there was no way he was going to meet his weekly cut at this rate. He needed to up his game, stealing from old ladies purses wasn't what it used to be. His attention was drawn to a lost man who was wandering the streets asking for directions. Well this promised to be a good hit. He looked wealthy, TipToeTimmy's keen eyes had picked out the trappings of wealth. An expensive suit and pocket watch to match. Tiptoeing up to his next victim he asked the man if he was lost, pointing out he didn't look like he was from around these parts. The man's speech was slurred, but he spoke with an authority which made TipToeTimmy want to put a knife in his gut, but he knew better than that. 

TipToeTimmy led the man down an alleyway beckoning him along with kind words. When he was sure the coast was clear he pulled his knife out his belt and held it to the man's stomach demanding he hand over all his belongings. The man made to protest so TipToeTimmy put the knife to his neck to emphasize the point. He walked out of that alleyway hundreds of dollars richer, that was a bit more like it, but still he needed more to pay his weekly taxes. 

Sitting on a nearby step he started to wonder where his life had gone wrong. Had he always been destined to petty crime or was it a choice, before he could finish such a thought he noticed an unsuspecting shop on the other side of the street. A gang of youths were harassing the shop owner. A lightbulb went off in his head and he tiptoed his way across the street careful to avoid the traffic and any cops looking to punish an aspiring gangster for jay walking. Entering the shop he tiptoed his way past the youths and crept up behind the shop owner. 

"I can help you with this you know," he suggested to the shock of the shopkeeper who's shop was being ransacked.

"Where the hell did you come from?" the shop owner asked in.

"That isn't important, pay me $400 and I'll make your problems go away," he continued smiling as the shop owner passed him a bundle of cash.

TipToeTimmy knew exactly how to deal with such a gang of youths. He walked up to the biggest lad and dropped him to the floor with a punch. Before the rest of the gang could react he beat the boy into the floor and attacked the next youth in the line. Beating the boys up one by one he stood over them threateningly and suggested they get out of this shop Walking back out the shop he waved away the owners thanks and made his way back out onto the streets of Chicago.

Buying himself a coffee and a sandwich he sat outside the cafe and counted his earnings. He was certainly getting there but wanted to give Ketamine a decent cut for his first payment, keen to impress as he was. It was then that he noticed a post office across from the cafe and an idea sprung into his mind. Tiptoeing into the post office he watched as the owner was in a long debate with an old lady regarding the increase in the cost of stamps. Her fury knew no bounds as she berated the poor postal worker into submission. She would not be paying another dime for a stamp and that was that. TipToeTimmy ducked under the counter and reached into his pocket retrieving one of the many bobby pins he had stole that day. He made short work of the safe reaching inside, grabbing a bundle of cash and stuffing it in his pockets. 

Fading back into the shadows he crept back out the post office and finally felt satisfied with his score. It was at this moment that a mysterious figure appeared from an alleyway and called him over. The man stated that he had been watching TipToeTimmy's progress and recognized a good earner. He'd have a chat with Ketamine and let her know of his knew status. He was no longer a petty thug, or a wannabe gangster, hell he wasn't even a miserable goomba anymore, he was an earner, and earning is what he would do. He beamed with pride as he tiptoed back down the street to his nearby apartment.

For TipToeTimmy sure was a fine tipping fella and how was a man to tip without an income, and how was a man to have a sufficient income to tip and to toe without being a good earner. He'd double his tips going forward and use his well trained toes to earn more and more. Life was looking up for old TipToeTimmy, a good old earner he'd be, a fine earner, the best earner he could be. He'd tip and he'd toe his way to more earnings until he'd earned enough to tip more and toe less. 

While counting his bountiful earnings TipToeTimmy's mind began to wander again back to his families storied past. TipToeTwain had rode south with Chief White Eagle and his comanche warriors. He'd found there was a joy in their way of life, a rugged simplicity which appealed to a part of him he'd never recognized. His skills as a pickpocket and a thief were quickly recognized so he was put to use. While the group could subsist off the land they had a need for guns and bullets to continue pursuing their war of vengeance. It was for this reason that TipToeTwain found himself tiptoeing into yet another frontier town under the cover of dark. He knew the risks but quite enjoyed the challenge. 

Careful to keep to the shadows he climbed a nearby tree which had afforded him a sight of the town. He watched and waited as the towns citizens went about their nightly business. From his treetop position he started to pick out the details which would lead him to his mark. The sheriffs office sat on the western end of town, a poor ran down building showed what little stock the frontier town put in the arms of the law. In the middle of the town sat the saloon and inn, a place best avoided this late into the evening, the last thing he wanted was a scuffle with a bunch of drunken cowboys. As his keen eyes scanned the buildings he found the local gun shop, it was the only other building to have barred windows and guards patrolling the perimeter. Well this proved to be fun after all TipToeTwain thought to himself. 

Climbing down the tree with the grace of a chimpanzee he hopped the last couple of the feet to the floor and landed with a roll. Using the long grass which bordered the settlement as cover he tiptoed towards the buildings, careful not to be spotted. Glad for the cover of the cloudy night he kept his profile low and movement steady. First he would need a distraction, there was no way he was going to get the gang into town to collect the guns otherwise. Walking on the tips of his toes he ducked under a fence and entered an enclosure where the horses were kept. Careful not to disturb the unruly animals he made his way over to the gate and opened them. Thinking on the tips of his toes he dashed to the back of the enclosure and smacked the rear horse on the rump, sending the herd charging out of the gates into the narrow streets of the town. Men and women were knocked down as the animals rushed through the town. 

With careful tips of his toes he continued further into the town trying his hardest not to laugh aloud as the town turned to chaos. A lantern must have been knocked off its hook as one of the buildings began to burn, he watched the fire blaze with a moment of glee before catching himself and moving towards his target. The guards who watched the gun stores perimeter were being called to help put out the blaze. TipToeTwain ducked into an alley and let the last one pass. Rushing towards the gun store he made short work of the lock using a pick he kept in his pocket. Turning to the tree line he called out a birds call, and watched with satisfaction as his native allies rushed down from the tree line. 

Once inside TipToeTwain whistled through his teeth. The store was filled to the brim with recently pressed firearms fresh from the northern manufacturies. Sorting through the weapons he began to stock them up by the door so the men he rode with could collect them easily. Once satisfied that he had the best of the stock he began to sort through the ammunition, grabbing everything they'd need for their coming fight. A he waited for his allies to arrive he began to root around for a gun for himself. His eyes settled on a pair of Colt Single Action Army revolvers. He stuffed them into his holster and rushed towards the door to keep an eye out. All was pandemonium outside as people rushed back and fourth trying to round up the loose horses and put out the raging fires. 

TipToeTwain and his gang rode out of the town with enough guns and ammo to equip a small army. Chief White Eagle patted him on the back boasting of his daring raid. He was a hopeful man, and he hoped to one day take the fight to the Americans and get his land back. TipToeTwain thought he was a fool for having such hopes, but for now he at least provided some mild amusement while TipToeTwain tried to figoure out his next moves. 

A lone figure followed the group out of town having watched them steal the guns from the nearby saloon. Well he had TipToeTwain's trail and he'd catch up with him soon. Walking back into the saloon he kicked and punches his lounging men into action, they had to move while the trail was still hot. 

TipToeTimmy was brought back to the present by the arrival of a shady figure. The man was dressed in a flamboyant bright colored suit, the large hat which covered his head and face had a plume of feathers sticking out from its rim. TipToeTimmy didn't know what to think of the man, but considering the fact that he was far from normal himself, he thought he might see what he had to say. 

TipToeTimmy looked at the strange figure trying to gauge whether what he was saying was some sort of joke. Help him run his prostitution ring? That sounded ludicrous, but then again it certainly sounded better than pickpocketing old women, scamming schmucks, extorting businesses or robbing more bastard post offices. TipToeTimmy was many things in life, but a ladies man was not one of them. Sure he'd had his fair few run ins with the ladies over the years but he was not a suave man.

This strange gentleman was suggesting he help run his prostittuion ring, but TipToeTimmy didn't feel he was up to the task. The man explained all he would need to do is find good punters for the beautiful women he kept inside his brothel. Accepting with a nod TipToeTimmy took up position outside. Standing on a nearby milk crate he began to help peddle the mysterious figures wares. By the end of his shift TipToeTimmy had earned the brothel owner a significant chunk of additional cash, he took his cut and disappeared once again into the warren of Chicago's streets. 

Wandering the streets the next day TipToeTimmy knew he needed more money. Sure he'd paid Ketamine her weekly cut but he really wanted to impress upon his new role as an earner, and what sort of earner didn't earn vast sums of cash. Walking past a bank he stopped in his tracks. This could prove to bring in some serious cash. Sure it was a felony and brought with it greater chance of a significant prison sentence, but nothing risked was nothing gained in his books. 

Considering his options he pondered whether to get a team together and storm the bank. They could hold it up and take everything in the vault, but then remembered that he didn't know anyone, and certainly didn't know anyone he'd trust in such a plan. Instead he decided his best option was to rob the tills, sure it would prove to be small change compared to the volumes kept in the bank vaults, but he'd still get enough to line his pockets.

Using his unnatural skills of tiptoeing he crept into the bank, past the guard and bank teller without alerting anyone. When the bank teller was distracted idly chatting to one of her friends TipToeTimmy did what he did best, he tiptoed up to the till and took himself a significant tip. Emptying the cash into his pocket he tipped and he toed his way back out of the bank and onto the mean streets. TipToeTimmy kept an eye over his shoulder as he rushed back through the streets, he wouldn't feel safe until he was back in the warren on Chicago's poorer areas, expecting someone to have seen him. 

With a smile TipToeTimmy continued counting his haul. It was looking pretty, pretty good but he knew he needed more. He was an earner now, and he wanted to impress upon his crew that he was a good earner. A note slipped out of his hand picked up by the strong winds that flowed down from Lake Michigan. He watched as the dollar bill blew down the road and landed on a nearby truck. The trucks driver was busy loading goods into the back. With a smile a plan unfolded in TipToeTimmy's mind. Reaching into his pocket for his favorite lockpick he tipped on his toes and crept towards his next victim. 

Making quick work of the lock TipToeTimmy jumped into the cab and found the keys already in the ignition. Looking in the sideview mirrors he watched as the driver and a worker from a nearby business continued to load the truck. As the last crate was loaded into the back he felt the bed of the truck being slammed shut and turned over the engine before gunning the accelerator. The truck shot forward and was closely followed by muted shouts from the driver as he watched his load accelerating down the street. TipToeTimmy was in hysterics as he watched the driver try and give chase. The old fat bastard didn't stand a chance.

TipToeTimmy drove the stolen truck outside town and to a fence he knew interested in such goods. The man paid well for stolen goods and didn't ask any questions. Adding the cash to the stack he carried in his pocket TipToeTimmy decided that was enough for one day. He'd certainly made a dent in his weekly tribute requirements, walking into a nearby bar he ordered himself a drink and walked to the corner of the room. While sipping his whiskey he watched people come and go, none paying too much attention to the odd man sat in the corner. 

TipToeTimmy had donned himself in black following the death of great FluffyTummy. Such a loss would shake the streets. Upon the tips of his toes he had crept into Fluffy's funeral procession, careful to feed the many cats which lounged upon the steps outside the funeral home. The cats mewled and cried at the loss of their great leader, even the usual treats and tummy rubs did little to help their loss. Having paid his respect he crept back outside and boarded the next flight back to the windy city.

Having slept most of the flight, finding little opportunity to practice his art of tiptoeing, Timmy was surprised as a shady figure approached him outside the aiport. The man's eyes bored into his even as TipToeTimmy tried to hide amongst a nearby crowd. There was no menace in those eyes, but still TipToeTimmy was not quick to trust. The shady figured called him over and told him he'd been watching his progress. He'd seen him performing petty crimes and even daring to commit felonies across the city. TipToeTimmy did his best to hide his fear, not knowing whether he was about to spend a serious bid in the federal prison system. Instead he was left smiling as the figure called him a wise guy and told him to enjoy the rest of his day.

A slight tap echoed through the empty corridors of Ketamine's headquarters. With a tip and a tap TipToeTimmy did tap dance his way down the winding corridors. A wee jig pronounced his arrival with each tip of his toes and tap of his heels. The speed at which he tipped and tapped increased as the tempo of the merry tune he sang in his head increased. Today promised to be a good day. A day where he donned his favorite tap shoes and tapped out a song of merriment. For today TipToeTimmy could impress upon his crew his dedication to their cause, for TipToeTimmy had spent the previous week in heavy toil, gathering the funds necessary to pay his tribute and a little bit more. 

The tune which sprang from the deepest depths of his subconscious kept his legs moving and his heels tapping. All these years spent tiptoeing certainly lent him the agility of a tap dancer. His feet whirlwinding around tapping out the final notes of the song before he arrived at the door of Ketamine's office. TipToeTimmy knocked at the door and waited. As he waited for his crew leader to finish her latest meeting his mind began to wander again. 

TipToeTwain ducked behind the cover of a nearby tree as he spotted the men that followed them. Rough looking riders with cowboys hats on their heads, dusters on their backs and a collection of shining revolvers at their belts. They looked mean, the sort of men who'd sooner put a bullet in your skull before asking whether you were the man on the bounty poster. Gap toothed smiles and heavy bearded, the men sat well on their horses, clearly the hard men that littered the wild west.

His thoughts shot to the rest of his gang who were taking cover in a nearby cave where they'd stored their stolen guns. He considered leaving them to their fate, but knew his best chance of survival lay in making a stand against this group of bounty hunters. Should he try and tiptoe his way out of this mess, he'd likely end up either lost in the great forest without food, water or a horse, or rounded up later down the line. Upon the tips of his toes he made his way back to their camp, careful to keep an eye on the men who tracked them. 

Looping around he arrived at the camp and stirred the gang into action. The posse were definitely on their heels and Chief White Eagle knew they would not escape that forest without a fight. Passing TipToeTimmy one of their stole rifles he instructed the man to take cover in the hill above their cave and to call an alert once the bounty hunters were in sight. Nestling between a tree and a tall hedgerow TipToeTwain lay down on his stomach and put his new rifle in position. Chewing on a piece of salted beef he watched and waited. 

His attention was drawn to a disturbance in the heavy forest. A lone deer sprang out of the trees below and darted away. TipToeTwain had spent enough time in the forest to read the sign. The bounty hunters keen eyes were looking out for ambush as they appeared through the forest below, following the same game trail they had used to enter the cave. Cupping his hand to his mouth he gave out a shrill birds cry, watching as the rest of his gang hid below. They'd wait until the bounty hunters were within their grasp before springing the ambush. 

TipTopTimmy was distracted from his musing as he given entry into Ketamine's office. Handing over a heavy bash of cash he left the office with his crew leaders thanks. 

Walking out onto the bustling streets of Chicago TipToeTimmy tried to figure out what he would do with his position as a wise guy. He'd have to act smarter, that much was clear, for who wanted a stupid wise guy in their crew? He would no longer make rash decisions, such as robbing trucks on the fly or conning schlubs at the end of his favorite knife. He stopped to think, nearly sitting down on a nearby step, but would that be a wise move? Someone had told him you could get piles from sitting on cold steps, and that certainly wouldn't be wise..... 

Tiptoeing past a group of old ladies he felt a sudden urge to pick their pockets, but that didn't seem like a wise move. Sure he did like to pick people's pockets but would a wise guy like himself really sully their image. What if the other wise guys were to find out he was pickpocketing old ladies. No, no, no that was not a wise move. Keep moving he told himself. Keep tipping those toes and tapping those heels, that was the wisest move. 

On the opposite side of the street he noticed a van with its doors left open and no driver in sight. Would it be a wise move to steal it, a quick buck for little work, surely that would be a wise move. Checking no one was watching he noticed a pair of police officers sat in their car opposite watching the truck. Well getting arrested and spending time in prison for a federal crime in sight of two police officers certainly didn't feel like a wise move, would it be wise to care? Was it not a wise guys lot in life to be spent fighting the law. No, no, no it would not be wise to get arrested over such a small a crime. Instead he walked straight past whistling out an innocent tune. 

It seemed to TipToeTimmy that he could not escape the opportunities which presented themselves to him in the city of Chicago. A wise guy he might be but he was also a criminal. An opportunist with a low set of morals, how was he to get by not acting on the instincts which had served him well so far. Would it be wise to change his outlook? Should he be more focused on bigger crimes rather than patrolling the streets looking for any petty crime which would fall in his lap. That sounded like a wise move, but then again there was an old lady with his back turned to him, a wise guy could take her purse without her noticing surely. 

Rushing away from the old lady TipToeTimmy felt the stress building in his chest he needed a drink and quick. Walking into a nearby tavern he took a seat at the bar and held up two fingers. That's what he needed, a quick shot of whisky to clam his nerves. Knocking the drink back in one he lit himself a cigarette and felt his nerves settle. He needed another score something big with a big payday. That would be a wise move he thought, a wise move for a wise guy. The whiskey certainly did the trick as he began thinking clearer. Would it be a wise move to get another, well why not? Every wise guy he'd ever met loved a drink. TipToeTimmy held up two fingers to the bar keeper and knocked back another whisky. 

Some time later TipToeTimmy awoke outside in the freezing cold. Well god damn he thought to himself, that extra whisky, or the one after that, or maybe the one after that might not have been a wise move. He seemed to have lost his coat and shoes, and given the cold biting wind of the city, that definitely wasn't a wise move. Maybe drinking wasn't such a wise move after all. Climbing unsteadily onto his feet he searched the alleyway where he found himself, swearing as he noticed the wet patch on his trousers. Well that wasn't a wise move now was it. Checking his damp pockets he pulled out his wallet but it was empty of any cash, well that wouldn't do. Walking towards the nearby train line he hopped on the next carriage and headed towards his home. 

While sitting on his train his mind began to wander again, maybe it would be wise to have a nap, or maybe it wasn't a wise idea at all, who knew what sort of creatures lurked on Chicago's train system. Keeping his eyes open he allowed himself to think back, to the stories his family had told him when he was a young tiptoed lad. 

TipToeTwain ducked back behind the tree as gunfire tore around him. The ambush had gone well to begin with, they'd caught half a dozen bounty hunters with the first salvo, but the group hadn't been prepared for what came next. Gunfire tore through the forest from a nearby gatlin gun. Trees, hedge rows and whatever hastily found cover the forest provided were torn to dust. He'd watched in horror as his group were ripped to shreds, there was little they could do in response as the gun crew went about their work. 

He knew he was fucked if he stayed, he'd sooner be lost in a forest with no horse than cut in half by a gatlin gun. Taking a last pot shot he watched with satisfaction as a rider fell from his horse. Grabbing his pack with his spare ammo and meager water supplies he took off into the forest taking desperate glances behind him to check for any riders. 

Half falling and half jumping he fell heavily behind a tree. He was panting from exertion of tearing his way through the heavy forest. His arms, face and legs covered in cuts and gouges from where he'd forced his way through bush and brambles. Taking a sip from his water skin he watched for anyone in pursuit, swearing under his breath as he spotted horsemen following his trail. He'd neither the energy or the will to keep running, taking a moment to pray to both his sets of gods he grabbed his rifle and took aim at the first rider, the bullet hit him square in the chest throwing him from his horse and alerting the rest of the posse to his position. 

With his back to a tree he laughed aloud. Well this was a real fight, he'd spent too long on the run, he'd forgot what a thrill a proper firefight could be. Laughing wildly with glee he put a bullet in another bounty hunter's skull and dropped his rifle now its bullets were spent. Pulling his revolvers out their holsters he opened fire at two bounty hunters, watching as they clutched their chests and bellies. He'd lost count how many he'd dropped, but knew this was more than your usual posse of bounty hunters. 

With bullets hot on his heels he dropped down a ravine falling heavily rolling into the fast flowing river. His weapons were empty he had no choice but to run, no matter how much it stung his bountiful pride. Bullets continued to rain down into the river around him, he felt a one graze his leg as he grabbed onto a floating branch and used it for support. He felt the current pulling him down so held tighter onto his improvised raft as the water sped up around him. The roar of crashing water filled his ears as he was pulled below the surface losing grip on the raft he was at the mercy of the rapids as the water flowed through crashed around him. With all his remaining strength he broke the surface and desperately gasped into his lungs before the current pulled him down again. A sudden feeling of weightlessness took over as his body was thrown over the lip of the waterfall, his vision blacking out as he plummeted into the water below. 

TipToeTimmy left Ketamine's headquarters with a smile on his face. He had just sworn his oath to the Feel Good Inc family, he may have blundered through the oath and accidentally sworn to tell the truth and the whole truth, but he'd made it through it. When Ketamine had stabbed him in the hand he was alarmed, his mind had raced, maybe she knew about all the old ladies he'd pickpocketed. Yes, that must have been it, this was a warning from her to stop putting his hands in old ladies purses and stealing bobby pins like some crazed magpie building a nest. 

Sitting on a nearby bench he started to think about what it meant to be a made man. The rank bestowed upon him brought great honor and responsibility, was that a man's making? Thoughts ran unbidden through TipToeTimmy's mind as he tried to make sense of his new situation. He was a respected member of a mafia family he knew that much. His actions and omissions would reflect on the family he belonged to. This must be his making. Before he was a shadow of a man, passing through the streets without much notice from anyone, but now he was established as a made man he would need to change his behavior.

Walking into a nearby tailor he eyed up the expensive suits he saw the other gangsters wearing. It was time he got rid of his shabby clothes and shabby appearance. He was a made man now it was about time he dressed the part. Buying a three piece dark blue suit he selected a red tie and looked at himself in the mirror. He certainly cut a fine figure, with his long beaked nose and deep green eyes. A pair of expensive loafers were placed on his feet as he continued to fuss over his image in the long mirror. 

The tailor found a suitable dark blue fedora hat and a black trench coat to match. TipToeTimmy donned the fedora hat and noticed the bleached tip of his hair sticking out, this wouldn't do. A made man with unkempt hair. Paying the tailor a large sum of money TipToeTimmy walked out the shop looking the part. He noticed all the women stopping to look at him as he walked down the windy Chicago streets. Well this certainly was something. He'd been made into a man and he liked it. 

Sitting himself down on a barbers chair he instructed the man to cut off his hair. He wanted to look smart, like one of the gangsters from the 1930s movies. The man shaved his whiskers with a cut throat as TipToeTimmy tried his best not to think about what would happen should the man slip and cut his throat, that would certainly be his unmaking. 

With his hair slicked back below his new shiny fedora TipToeTimmy strolled down the streets of Chicago. Now he was a made man he thought it was best he armed himself. While he preferred the knives which he kept at his belt and stashed in his boot, he knew a made man was expected to carry a firearm and be able to protect himself. Entering the local gun shop he browsed their wares, wondering whether a made man such as himself would carry a revolver or a pistol. A .38 calibre revolver certainly packed a punch but a pistol might be more suited to his tasks. His eyes settled on a Colt 1911 and his mind was made up. Purchasing the pistol, a few spare magazines, a shoulder holster and a box of ammunition he left the shop satisfied.

Aiming the pistol at a beer can he'd stacked on a nearby wall he squeezed the trigger, glad there was no one around to watch the bullet sail over his target and hit the brick wall behind. Well he'd need to keep practicing if he was expected to hit his target. He was distracted as a member of the infamous Tyler Durden crew sped past with an old ladies purse stashed under his arm. The sight severely annoyed TipToeTimmy who's bandaged hand left him unable to pickpocket.

Remembering the pistol he had in his hand he took up a firing position and put a bullet in the Tyler Durden crew members back, he knew that all members of the Tyler Durden crew were fair game, as the common enemy of all mafia members. He smiled to himself as he watched the man fall to the floor dead. Walking up to the corpse he kicked it over while keeping his gun aimed at the man's chest, grabbing the old ladies purse he reached inside but caught his injured hand on the clasp drawing blood from the wound. Dropping the purse he holstered his pistol and stalked out of the alleyway before any police could turn up. 

Deciding that getting arrested for bloody murder probably wasn't a wise move on his first day as a made man he boarded the next plane to Philadelphia. Landing in the city he decided it was time he tried a crime which was a little more organized. Spotting a nearby gangster who was certainly dressed the part he asked if he was interested in doing a job. The man stated he knew a local art gallery with low security, it was their best chance for a two man job. TipToeTimmy decided that sounded promising so nodded his assent. 

Using a stolen vehicle they drove to the art gallery and scoped out the premises. His shadowy partner had been right, there was no security at all. While his partner distracted the shop owner TipToeTimmy tiptoed into the room and took some priceless art and left the building. Driving to the fence he was left disappointed as the man refused to buy the art, stating it was worthless, not priceless. Well what a failure that had been, but TipToeTimmy was many things but a quitter was not one. Returning to the art shop he tried again selecting another piece of art which took his eye. The fence once again laughed in his face. Well third times the charm he thought and set back off to the art shop.

Taking his time he entered through the back of the shop and found a piece of art covered behind a sheet. The painting did not take his eye, but the frame was golden and that would certainly pick up a pretty price. Tiptoeing out the back door he whistled to his partner and jumped into the car, speeding off to the local fence. The man whistled as he looked at the painting, handing over a substantial bag of cash which TipToeTimmy split in half and handed to his partner in crime. 

Stashing the stolen vehicle a couple of blocks away from his hotel he walked into the lavishly decorated hotel and asked for a room. The woman behind the desk flashed him a smile and didn't even question whether he would be able to afford a room in such an establishment. TipToeTimmy was starting to like his new position, no longer scurrying from shadow to shadow eeking out a miserable life like a rat. Once inside his room he removed his suit and relaxed with a glass of whisky and a cigarette. 

TipToeTimmy awoke in his hotel room, ready to rock and roll. Walking downstairs into the lobby with his bags packed he was stopped by the receptionist who explained that a caller had left a message. TipToeTimmy held the receiver to his ear and tried to act like he knew what he was doing. The receptionist gave him a look of confusion as she passed over the note scribbled on a piece of paper. Well that makes sense he thought to himself, messaging services certainly weren't a thing in 1950s. Holding the piece of paper to the light he read that he was needed back at headquarters.

Boarding the next flight back to Chicago TipToeTimmy sat back in his seat and tried to ignore the screaming child sat a couple of rows back. What was the world coming to when crying babies could be confined in large metal boxes and flown across the country. Feeling his irritation rising he tried his best to distract himself by thinking of the stories he'd been told of old TipToeTwain. 

TipToeTwain awoke as his mouth filled with water. He'd passed out while falling from the water fall and was now fighting for his life. Spinning his body around he cried out as he felt a searing pain shoot through his shoulder socket. With one arm he pulled his way to the nearby bank and dragged his sorry broken body out the water. Sitting on the bank ringing wet he noticed the water fall far in the distance. While unconscious he'd floated a long way down the river so hoped he'd lost his trail, he couldn't be certain though, although it would be unwise for them to come this deep into native controlled lands. 

Searching the river bank he found a fallen log and using a nearby branch as a brace he leant his injured shoulder against the branch pushing forwards with all his remaining strength. The sickening crunch as his shoulder was forced back into its socket echoed through the forest. TipToeTwain cried out in pain, falling to the floor as his legs went weak. Awaking shortly after he tested the joint and found it was sore but he had some mobility. He needed to move and quick if the posse were still on his tail they'd have heard his cry from a mile away. 

He needed to reach some form of shelter where he could treat his wounds and dry his clothes. The sun was creeping over the horizon and he didn't want to be caught fumbling through the woods shivering with cold during the night. Grabbing a branch he stuffed it under his arm to help take some of the weight off his injured leg and started to climb his way off the bank into the trees. Following a game trail he moved as fast as his leg would allow, wincing each time he was forced to put weight on it. 

Reaching a small clearing he spotted a nearby cave and decided this would be his best bet. He'd moved as far as his body would allow. Searching the area he gathered sticks and logs to use as kindling and went about making a fire. Reaching into a pigskin sack he kept stashed under his clothes he retrieved a fire striker and lit some of the dried birch bark he kept stashed away for such an occasion. As the kindling took light he began stacking logs on top grateful for the fires warmth. Reaching into his pigskin sack he pulled out some dried meat and happily chewed at it. Removing his clothes and boots he set them down next to the log to dry. 

TipToeTwain fell into an uneasy sleep. He dreamt of a white eagle flying over the field of a great battle, from its vantage point he watched as army soldiers attacked a native settlement. Their cavalry riding into the village killing men, women and children alike. The battle was a slaughter. He awoke suddenly in a cold sweat, the embers of his fire barely alight anymore. Reaching for a nearby stick he added some more logs to the fire and blew on the embers to get it going again. After such a vision he could not sleep. He searched the dream for hidden meanings but found it to be clear. There'd been rumors of western expansion for years, but it seemed whoever was in control of the United States was prepared to break their treaties once more.

Taking a sip from a skin of water he'd taken from the river he knew he would need to move soon. Testing the rough dressing he'd wrapped around the bullet wound on his leg he was satisfied that the poultice he'd made up seemed to be stopping any rot taking hold. The last thing he needed was a visit to the surgeons to have one of his legs amputated. Pulling on his denim jeans, dirt stained shirt and hole ridden duster he was glad that they felt dry. Lastly he pulled on his well trodden boots and set off further into the woods. With no real destination in mind he headed south, away from the gang of killers hunting him.

TipToeTimmy was shaken awake by the air hostess as the plane landed in Chicago. Pulling himself together he retrieved his bag and hat before following the other passengers off the plane. Pulling his coat tighter about his thin frame as Chicago's famous wind swept down the runway. Stopping at a payphone in the airport terminal he called for a cab, he'd need to think about getting himself a car soon, even if his instincts did tell him to tiptoe his way back to Ketamine's headquarters, he knew it would be more fitting for a made man to arrive by some means of automotive transport. 

As the cab pulled up a block away from Ketamine's headquarters, TipToeTimmy paid the driver and climbed out. It never paid to be too careful, so he did what he did best got on the tips of his toes and tiptoed his way over to the headquarters building. Entering through the front doors he was greeted by the boss who he'd met in the building weeks before. The man needed TipToeTimmy for the job. He'd heard of his fondness for lockpicks and wanted his help taking down a difficult safe inside a bank they planned to rob. TipToeTimmy nodded his agreement, knowing better than to point out the trail of broken picks he left every time he tried to pick a lock. 

Walking out of the headquarters building TipToeTimmy had a time and a date he needed to be ready by. A week wasn't a long time to get prepared for such a heist but he knew his reputation as a made man depended upon his success. Thinking on his feet, or more importantly on the tips of his toes he remembered he had an old friend who was an expert lockpicker. He'd pay him a visit and try to learn what he could about the art. Calling for a passing cab he climbed into the back and told him his friends address. 

TipToeTimmy wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead as he focused on the lessons his friend had taught him. To his front was a complex lock that his friend had made up to practice his skills on. Using one of the many bobby pins he kept stashed in his pocket he teased the lock back and fourth waiting to hear for the click which would indicate that the lock had engaged and he could continue his work. Fortunately TipToeTimmy was a dexterous fella long used to working with his hands. With a final tap the final pin was raised and the lock swung open.

His friend watching from a corner of the room congratulated TipToeTimmy for his success, before wheeling out an even more complicated lock that was the mirror of the lock he would be attempting to pick during their upcoming heist. TipToeTimmy did not complain, instead he wiped the sweat from his brow and kept on keeping on. 

TipToeTimmy's fingers bled from his time spent endlessly picking locks. While a man with his skills was certainly used to working with his hands, he wasn't necessarily used to putting in such hard work. What he'd give to be out on the streets tipping his toes and pickpocketing bobby pins from old ladies purses, but alas here he was confined into this room with a lock who's complexity was beyond his comprehension. A pile of broken bobby pins lay strewn about him, his friend long having retired to his bed for the night no longer capable of helping him. 

Taking a deep breath he collected himself, tried to still his beating heart and cool his boiling blood. This particular lock had 9 pins which he needed to knock into place before he could force it open. He'd got to the 8th pin 9 times and each time the last would not move no matter how much he tipped it. His frustration had built to a point where he was struggling to get past the 3rd pin. Realization began to set in, of course it was the 9th which would prove difficult. For amongst the long lineage of the TipToe's 9 was a cursed number. A number which had long brought ruin to his family. TipToeTimmy started to sweat profusely barely able to hold onto his bowels. With a cry he ran out of the room throwing up gestures to ward off the dreaded curse.

As he ran through the streets his mind shot back to the stories his grandma had told him about the curse on his family. The dreaded curse which had seen his family flee Ireland back in the 1719. The same cursed which had darkened his family history ever since. Back in the old country, his grandma had said, one of his old relatives old TipToeMcCullagh had been a prominent noble, said to have dated his lineage back to the old Irish kings. The villages, farms and estates under his control in County Donegal had enjoyed bountiful harvests for the long decades of his rule. Until the day an old hag had arrived at the doors of his estate asking for help.

Old TipToeMcCullagh was a God fearing man and cared little for the tales of hags and witches which were said to roam the bogs and peatlands of his country. He'd always thought they were stories told to scare children, and the thoughts of superstitious idiots. When one of his butlers had rushed into his room and warned him that an old hag was at his door he had laughed aloud and given the instruction to get rid of her. He had no time for charlatans and even less room at his table for them. The butler scurried off down the halls to deliver his news, but came back shortly after demanding his presence. 

Climbing out of bed and covering himself with an expensive robe and soft slippers old TipToeMcCullagh had strode out to meet this hag who waited at his gate. He had little fear for such beings trusting in his one true God to ward off all evil. The hag asked simply for a barn to sleep in and a little bread and water, but TipToeMcCullagh was no fool and refused outright. For the next 8 nights she arrived at his gates making the same simple plea, each night he refused her and sent her off into the heavy fog which covered this corner of Ireland. 

On the 9th night a heavy bell tolled into the distance. 9 times it struck shaking the windows in their rafters waking TipToeMcCullagh and his 9th wife from their bed. A sickly miasma had crept into his room, it stunk of rotten eggs and stung his eyes as it wafted through the cracks in the windows and through the gap below the door. Panic crept into poor old TipeToeMcCullagh's heart forcing him out of the room into the corridor behind. All his butlers and servants writhed on the floor as the creeping miasma stole away their lives. From outside he heard the hags voice chanting out a curse in a foul language which hurt his ears. He could not understand the words but knew they were of the devil. 

He charged back into his room trying to rouse his wife from her bed but she had inhaled too much of the foul miasma. Grabbing her body he picked her up and ran into each of his 8 children's rooms, shouting at them to follow him. Bleary eyed they climbed out of bed and followed their frantic father out of the estate towards the personal church his great wealth afforded them. Old TipToeMcCullgah knocked at the door until the priest pulled back the doors and allowed them to enter inside. Together they prayed at the altar as the mad laughter echoed around the hall. 

Poor old TipToeMcCullagh survived that fateful night, but unfortunately 8 of his 9 children and his wife all died. His mind incapable of dealing with the loss never recovered. The only child to survive was a rogueish character who'd inherited his name, and had he played his cards right he would have inherited the estate, but instead he was disgraced and forced out of the family estate. Fortune seemed to shine on him as he was on the next boat to Boston when disaster struck his home, but the curse was said to live on.

TipToeTimmy shook his head lost again in his own thoughts. Where had he ran to? Who had seen his mad flight out of the building. Checking the nearest street sign he saw 9th street and started running again. Would he ever escape this misery? Calling a cab he saw the number 9 repeated multiple times in its registration plate so started running in the opposite direction. He just needed a drink, a quick drink to calm his nerves.

Walking into a nearby tavern he ordered himself a whisky and took a seat at the bar. He watched as the bar tender reached for a bottle of whiskey and poured him a shot. Downing the drink in one gulp he felt his nerves settling. It was just a coincidence. The number 9 was just a number, it couldn't hurt him he thought to himself.

TipToeTimmy awoke to his apartments phone ringing. Well the whiskey had certainly helped calm his nerves, he knew that much, but apart from that he could remember little else. Pulling the soaked sheets off his body he tried to stand and fell back heavily onto the bed. His stomach gurgled and he was forced to run to the toilet throwing up its contents. Splashing some cold water on his face he was shocked at how deathly pale he looked in the mirror. Was it the curse? Had the number 9 finally caught up with him again. Shaking his head he tried to dismiss the thoughts as his phone continued to ring.

He did his best attempt at tiptoeing to his phone but found his heels were laden as if weighed down by lead. Settling for a stumble he half walked and half fell towards the phone and answered.

He was met by Boss Carpello's deep voice, "Get down to the headquarters we gotta talk."

"Sure boss," he responded knowing it best not to discuss things over the phone, you could never be too careful now adays.

Climbing into the shower he did his best to wash away last nights over indulgence. The cold water helped settle the ache in his head and his stomach. As he was soaping his chest he noticed a mark on his arm. Scrubbing at it he started to panic, the mark would not come off. Was it just him or did it look like the number 9? What sort of sick prank was this. Some sort of crazed lunatic scribbling the number 9 on his arm in permanent marker. Knowing it wouldn't be wise to keep Boss Carpello waiting he gave up his fruitless attempt to remove the mark and got dressed in his expensive suit. He'd have to keep his cool in the headquarters, he couldn't risk anyone finding out about his curse, the mafia were a superstitious bunch.

Paying the taxi driver he strolled over towards the headquarters building. Walking through the front gate Boss Carpello was waiting for him smoking a cigarette outside. Opening the headquarters entrance for him TipToeTimmy left his hat and coat at the door and walked down the well lit corridors. Boss Carpello was in an excited mood, he began outlining the details of their plan to TipToeTimmy explaining that things had changed and they needed to do the job today.

"You ready to handle that lock?" Boss Carpello asked stopping outside one of the headquarters many rooms.

"Sure boss, just a question do you know how many pins the lock has?" TipToeTimmy responded trying to sound confident, like he was in control of the situation.

"How would I know? Look I was told you're a hand with that picklock I'm trusting you to get this done," Boss Carpello continued fixing him with a deathly stare.

"We're going tonight," he continued not giving TipToeTimmy a chance to continue his line of questioning.

"Sounds good boss, just tell me when and where," TipToeTimmy laughed trying to act cool and collected.

"9PM tonight, meet us at the corner of 9th street," Boss Carpello stated turning his back and opening the door where the others waited.

TipToeTimmy's mind swam. 9PM? On 9th street? With the number 9 marked into his flesh. He felt sweat beads rolling down his head as he froze in the entrance to the room. Making his excuses he told the others he would see them tonight, he had a few errands to run first. The others, more than used to his weird behavior thought little of it.

As he hurried down the corridor he reached into his pocket and found a crumpled piece of paper. Reading the hastily written words he digested the message he recognized in his own hand. Of course, he knew how to ward off a curse. He'd been so consumed he forgot about his grandma's lessons. He needed some supplies if tonight would be a success, as he ran through the inventory of things he needed he knew he'd have a busy night before he could prepare for the job.

Walking onto 9th street as the clock struck 9pm TipToeTimmy checked his pockets once again for all he had gathered. His fingers massaged the rabbit foot he'd tied to a piece of string. He'd wanted to bring a native headress but thought this might alarm his gang regarding his sanity so instead settled on a bag of salt, a bottle of holy water and a three-leafed clover that his grandma had given him for times such as these.

Meeting the others he remained calm as Boss Carpello gave them the nod to don their balaclavas. Two of the burliest members made short work of the front door, with a swift boot the doors was thrown open and the men rushed into the bank. An alarm began to blare but none of the others seemed concerned so TipToeTimmy kept his cool. Heading in the direction indicated by Boss Carpello he leapt over the banks counter and rushed towards the back door. Finding the door locked he reached into his pocket he quietly pulled the rabbit foot necklace over his over his head. With relative ease he picked the lock and felt a wave of relief believing his job to be finished. He hadn't seen any 9s, he hadn't had any misshaps, all was well he told himself.

"What the fuck are you doing? Get in the back and crack that lock," one of the nearby men growled at him as he stood dumbstruck in the doorway.

Pulling himself together he rushed into the back and found a vault door that made his heart sink. Averting his gaze from any numbering etched into the heavy metal he reached into his pocket and pulled out the bag of salt. Pouring a circle around himself he was careful not to break the circle knowing the chaos it would bring. Chanting out the words he recalled the priests drilling into his head as a child he blessed the safe with the holy water from his pocket before any of the others could notice his strange actions.

Praying to all his gods he pulled out his lucky three-leaf clover and bobbypin and started working the lock. The first pin moved with relative ease, he barely noticed the second or the third as he pushed on. He knew they had little time and his part was crucial in them getting out with their freedom. All was going well until he counted the 9th pin. He felt the bobby pin snag as he tried to jostle the pin loose. Panic welled up in his heart, it had to be the 9th pin, not the 6th or the 7th but the 9th.

Taking in a deep breath to settle his nerves he tried to work it loose counting down the seconds in his head. He could already imagine the local police storming the building, cuffing his hands behind his back and parading him front of the crowds for his crimes. They'd finally caught TipToeTimmy the notorious old lady handbag bobbypin thief. He'd probably end up on the gallows pole for his crimes.

What was he thinking? He needed to centre himself. He could not, would not allow these negative thoughts to overpower him. Calling upon his family's spirits he calmed his failing nerves and worked on the 9th pin. Finally he felt the pressure ease and used his screw driver to twist the lock. The door sprung open and he was dazzled by the bars of gold held within. He was brought back to the present by the arrival of Boss Carpello who threw him a duffel bag to stash the stole goods in.

Rushing out of the bank he climbed into the waiting car which sped off into the night. Boss Carpello clapped him on the back for a job well done thankfully not noticing the line of salt he'd poured around the safe. Sitting back in the car he accepted the bottle of whiskey being passed around the occupants and took a swig. Maybe his curse was finally lifted, or maybe there was never a curse to begin with. In fact now he thought about it he wasn't even sure if he was of Irish descent. His grandma had certainly been as mad as a hatter, and always liked a practical joke.

Stuffed into the back of the car as it drove through the windy night TipToeTimmy watched as Boss Carpello took stock of their takings from the night. He heard the man whistle through his teeth as he weighed up the bricks of gold and bundles of cash they'd found in the vault. 

"You boys gonna be rich after tonight," Boss Carpello smiled passing each their cut, "I'll put you in touch with a man who will pay a premium for that gold, you did real good there Timmy," he stated turning to TipToeTimmy who took his cut and stuffed it into his own duffel bag. 

TipToeTimmy sat in his lavish apartment counting out the earnings from their bank robbery. Piling the bundles of cash and bricks of gold on his apartments kitchen counter he danced upon the tips of his toes as he quickly counted its worth. He was rich, richer than he'd ever been. Dividing the money into piles he quickly decided how he would spend it, making sure to leave a big cut for Ketamine who by right of being his crew leader was owed her piece. He separated the gold and stuffed them into a bag, making sure to bundle the cash into a separate bag before stashing them both in a loft space above his bed, it never paid to be to careful he told himself. He'd certainly rest easy tonight.

The next morning TipToeTimmy awoke early. Phoning the number Boss Carpello provided he set off to exchange the stolen bars of gold for hard cash. Walking into the local jewelers he was instructed to follow the owner into the back of the building. TipToeTimmy kept an eye on his surroundings as he followed the ageing man through a series of corridors and security doors. Once in a secure room the man stated the going rate for gold and how much of a cut he'd need for taking stolen goods. TipToeTimmy knew better than offending a personal contact of Boss Carpello and accepted the man's offer. He left the jewelers with a duffle bag filled with crisp cash. 

As he strolled down the street he did his best to keep his cool. He felt like prancing around on the tips of his toes, maybe even grabbing the nearest old lady and embracing her in a warm hug rather than reaching into her purse and stealing all her bobby pins. No he had to control himself, he was a made man, a respected member of the mafia and had to think about the reputation of the crime family. Opting to walk home he stopped at a nearby car dealer and decided it was about time he got himself a vehicle. 

Possibly due to his expensive suit, or the fact that he was carrying a heavy duffel bag he was welcomed into the car dealers with open arms. The owner showed him around their most expensive cars, offering him a cherry red Chevrolet Bell Air, in mint condition the dealer added, what about a Chrysler New Yorker the man asked but TipToeTimmy did not fancy this car either. His eyes settled on a black Lincoln Continental and his mind was made up. The car dealer eyes lit up as TipToeTimmy started piling the cash onto his desk to cover the cost of the car. Taking the keys he signed the paperwork and drove his brand new Lincoln Continental off the lot heading back to his apartment.

Pulling his brand new car into his brand new parking spot he grabbed the duffel bag full of newly received cash and tiptoed to the elevator with a new spring in his step. Life was looking good for TipToeTimmy, maybe this mafia thing wasn't too bad after all. Once inside his lavishly decorated apartment he stashed the cash in the loft space above his bedroom and sat down to drink a cup of coffee. The apartments phone began to ring upon answering he was told to head to the headquarters building asap. With a sigh he gulped his coffee down in one, grabbed his coat and headed to the underground carpark. 

Parking his car outside the headquarters TipToeTimmy tiptoed inside, headed straight for Ketamine's office. Knocking at the door twice he stopped to light himself a cigarette while he waited. He was welcomed inside and offered a seat opposite the Ketamine's desk. Passing the duffel bag to one of her bodyguards he took the offered seat as the man walked up to Ketamine and whispered something into her ear. She seemed pleased with the tribute.

Ketamine called him into her office to discuss his promotion. TipToeTimmy couldn't help but smile at the news, he was working hard and it was being noticed. He held his hand out expecting Ketamine's blade to cut the soft flesh of his hand, having failed to stop robbing bobby pins from old lady's purses, but was surprised as she laughed aloud telling him to put his hand down. TipToeTimmy tiptoed out of Ketamine's office as a capo of Feel Good Inc. Part of him had wanted to ask what capo meant, but thought it best wise not spoil the moment. 

Stopping one of the passing made members of the crew he raised the question, the man told him it meant captain. A captain eh? Like the captain of a ship out in the Bahamas plundering and pillaging? Once again his mind began to wander as he tiptoed down the winding corridors of the headquarters. His old grandma had told him about one of her ancestors, old TipeToeVane who'd sailed the seven seas as a privateer fighting their wars in the seas around the Caribbean. 

TipToeVain and his crew had taken the King's Commission acting as privateers in the wars for control of the bountiful trade which had sprung up in those far away lands. Captaining a sloop he'd led his men against the French and Spanish trade ships, pillaging and plundering in the King's name. That was until 1715 when the bastards had made peace. Many of their ships had sailed for home, satisfied with the loot they'd gathered from plundering the Spanish gold ships, but some such as TipToeVain had refused, neither happy nor satisfied with all they'd gained. They had big dreams and ships loaded with hardened sailors ready and willing to take it. 

His ship had been docked in a friendly port in the Caribbean when he'd received the news that their commission had been removed, that all British ships had been ordered home. He'd held a meeting with the first mate and boatswain of the ship, deciding on what to do. They'd held a vote with the other crew members, leaving it for them to decide their own fate. All had chosen to stay, they'd seen the spoils of war and refused to turn back to England to etch out a meager existence. They wanted to return home as rich men, and given their stations all being of low birth this was their only hope. 

Taking their ship out into Spanish waters TipToeVain and his crew had done what they did best. Raising the black flag they'd peppered the trade ships with cannon balls before boarding, slaughtering all resistance, stealing the ships cargo and leaving as the ship sank to the bottom of the sea. They were now criminals fit for the hangman's noose, but none shirked from their duty. They'd leave the Caribbean rich men or not leave at all. 

TipToeTimmy came to as he drove his car down the windy Chicago streets. What the hell had he been thinking about? Where was he going? He hadn't a clue. Recovering quickly he took the next left and headed back towards his apartment. A glass of whiskey was on the tables, tomorrow he would need to sit down and consider his next moves, but as for tonight he felt a little celebration was in order. 

TipToeTimmy sat back in his apartment sipping at a whiskey on ice smoking on a cigarette. His mind started to drift again back to the stories of his ancestors. Old TipToeTwain had wandered those forests paths for some time with an eye to his back in case of any further pursuit. As the suns lights started to set at his shoulder he noticed a change in the forest. The trees were becoming more sparse as the land gave way to the great plains, he'd been forced to head west as the land further south gave way to fast flowing rivers. Out on the plains he'd be vulnerable with few trees for cover he'd be found by a band of natives in no times, but maybe this could be used to his advantage. 

Settling at the edge of the forest he made a small camp and lit a fire. Chewing on his last piece of meat he waited for the water he'd found in a nearby pond to boil, he would need to improvise some means of filtering out the worst of the debris but had little other choice if he wanted to stay hydrated. He'd thrown caution to the wind building the fire high encouraging the heavy smoke to give away his position. He figured out on the plains without a horse he was as good as dead anyways. Settling down for the night he stoked the fire with some fresh damp logs knowing they would give off the heaviest smoke. Placing his hat over his face he rested his head on a fallen log and made his best attempt at sleep. 

A rustle of softly padded feet awoke TipToeTwain as someone entered his camp. He smiled from underneath the hat which covered his face and kept a hand close to his pistols. Those that dwelt on the plains had sent a scout ahead. He'd wait for his moment before revealing his identity and hopefully winning himself a ticket out of this mess. TipToeTwain heard the scout talking in whispered voices to his companion, so that made at least two of them. Praying to his gods for their favor he kept up the pretense that he was asleep and waited. He heard another pair of feet approaching from the forest, he swore to himself silently, things must be really bad if they'd sent out a whole scouting party to find out who was trying to enter the land they saw as theirs. 

Even his keen ears didn't pick up the 4th pair of footsteps, he hadn't known there were a 4th set of footsteps until he felt a sharp blade at his neck, his hat being hoisted off his face and his guns being removed from his belt. The man was clearly of the comanche dressed in rough leather with dark paint covering his face. TipToeTwain held up his hands and mustered the few words of their tongue he knew. He was clearly doing a bad job as the group shared looks with one another suggesting they'd sooner take his scalp than listen to him, but then TipToeTwain mentioned Chief White Eagle and recognition shone in their eyes. 

He was pulled to his feet as one of their number approached into the light of the fire and asked, "What do you know of Chief White Eagle?"

"I rode with a group of his men a posse caught us in the woods and he was killed in the fight," TipToeTwain explained, waiting for his words to be translated to the others. 

"You saw Chief White Eagle fall?" the man asked with sorrow in his voice.

"Yes the bastards brought up a gatling gun tore us to pieces," TipToeTwain responded watching as the words were passed to the others. 

"You look like us, but speak with a white man's voice?" the man translated the question from the leader of the group.

"My mother was of the plains," TipToeTwain replied pulling his long hair from where it was tucked into his shirt, "my father raped her and when the white man came I was taken away from my mother and raised in their lands," he continued feeling he had to think of a good story on his tiptoes, sure his father was a miserable bastard but he and his mother had raised him together. 

The discussion between the group of scouts got heated as his words were translated, by the hostile stares he could tell most of them wanted to scalp him anyway, but the leader was arguing against it. Reaching into his pocket TipToeTwain rolled himself a cigarette, he needed something to calm his nerves as his life rested in the balance. Lighting the smoke he waited as the group continued their heated discussion. Finally the leader drew an axe he had tucked into his belt and puffed out his chest, daring any of the others to challenge his decision. One of the men looked like he was considering the challenge but instead turned and walked away from the camp, not fancying he would come out of the challenge on top.

"We welcome you as friend of comanche, my name is Running Bull," the translator continued he pointed at the leader of the group, "this is Chief Quanah, he wants to know where the body of his brother Chief White Bull lies for it must be laid to rest." 

TipToeTwain did his best to describe the site of the ambush, with his vague description the group seemed to know the area. The man who had left earlier came back with their horses, passing the reins of a spare mount to TipToeTwain who leapt onto its back and settled into the ride back through the forest. Well this hadn't gone exactly as planned, he was hoping to be taken back to their camp and treated to a toke on their peace pipe. 

TipToeTimmy awoke sat upright at his dining table with an empty bottle of whiskey in one hand and an extinguished cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. Well god damn he thought if he'd drank whiskey on ice, like all the sophisticated gentlemen did in film he wouldn't have got so drunk. Well maybe polishing off the bottle hadn't been wise. Reaching for his lighter he relit the cigarette and heated up the coffee potter. He needed some food so turned on the stove and reached for a frying pan. Walking to his fridge he got some bacon and savored the smell of the frying meat. 

TipToeTimmy checked himself in the mirror, his tanned features were looking good, he'd had a shower and a shave and even gone as far to slick back his hair in the manner he saw the mobsters on the movies do. Pulling on his dark blue suit he fastened the tie around his neck and donned his favorite fedora. Grabbing his trench coat he marched into the elevator and lit himself a cigarette while it descended his apartment block. In between tokes he whistled out a tune and tapped his toes to the beat, he was in a good mood and there was little the world could do to change that. 

Climbing into his black Lincoln Continental he fired up the engine and lit another smoke. He really should have listened to his mother when she told him never to start. He'd begun to pick up the habit, but hey it suited the mobster image well he thought as he blew out another plume of smoke. Running through his plan he'd dreamt up while half a bottle deep into his whiskey he double checked it for any flaws. In his new role of Capo he knew he was expected to have associates, men and women who would put in work for him, and if they played their card rights might one day join the crew.

He knew just the place to find young eager people willing to get their hands dirty. Driving down to South Side Chicago he pulled his car up outside a local Irish Pub. He already knew the sort of degenerates he'd find frequenting the pub at 9am on a Saturday morning, just the kind of degenerates he'd want associated with him for when running crimes in the city. Tiptoeing into the pub he ordered himself a Guinness and sat on a nearby stool. Lighting himself another cigarette he minded his own business, knowing someone would take offense to his presence and try to create trouble soon. 

As expected a rough looking bastard approached him at the bar, he wore a brown leather jacket and a flat peak hat, his red bushy eyebrows and scruffy ginger hair peaked out from below the flat peaked hat. The man was sure of himself and his abilities, as far as he was concerned this was his pub and he didn't take well to strangers. With the exception of the bar tender the only other people in the pub at such an hour were two giant henchmen currently playing a game of pool. They were your typical back alley fighters, covered in slabs of muscle and scar tissue to cover their lack of brains. TipToeTimmy thought they must be twins, with similar flat faces and slicked back black hair. 

"The fuck you doing in my pub?" the ginger man asked at the sound of the commotion two of his friends stopped their game of pool and walked with cues in their hands. 

"Having a pint of Guinness, you stupid as well as ugly?" TipToeTimmy asked in response turning his back on the three men.

The red-haired Irishman grabbed him by the shoulder, which was his second mistake, TipToeTimmy grabbed his hand and pulled it towards him, grabbing the man by the scruff of his hat he smashed his face into the bar and kicked his legs out from underneath him. Jumping to his tiptoes he dodged the pool cue which was aimed directly at his head and bullied his way into the man's guard, hoping his friend would be reluctant to swing his cue not wanting to hit his friend. Throwing a swift series of punches TipToeTimmy left the first guard on his back with a bloodied nose and a bruised ego.

This just left the last guard who was a giant of a man, he threw a haymaker that would have frankly sent poor TipToeTimmy spinning into next week. He needed room to fight so dived past him, ducking, diving and dodging all of the man's punches. As the remaining guard started to tire TipToeTimmy hopped from his tiptoes and landed a shuddering blow to the man's rounded gut dropping him to one knee. Tiptoeing back TipToeTimmy picked up the fallen cue and smashed it over his head, felling him like a heavy log. 

Sitting back down at the bar TipToeTimmy sipped at his pint of Guinness as the bar tender aimed a shotgun, taken from behind the bar, at his head. 

"You might want to think twice about that," TipToeTimmy warned while remaining nonchalant about the loaded gun pointed at his head. 

"Got a real cheek causing trouble in my bar, do you know who those boys are?" the man asked in a heavy Irish accent. 

"Came in for a drink I'd call it self defense," TipToeTimmy responded with a smile taking a pause to sip at his pint of Guinness, "anyways I came in to talk business, got a proposition the sort of characters that frequent this joint might be interested in." 

"What you some sort of business man, get the fuck out of my pub before I paint the wall with your brains," the bartender warned cocking the shotgun to emphasize his point.

"I think you'll find that would be a big mistake, I work for some people who wouldn't take too kindly to your threats," TipToeTimmy warned finishing the rest of his pint and slamming the glass onto the bar. 

Climbing to his feet TipToeTimmy tiptoed closer to the bar and scribbled his number down on the back of a beer coaster and threw it in the bartender direction, the man went to catch it letting go of the front of his gun, quicker than the bartender could react TipToeTimmy grabbed the barrel pulling the gun off the man and aiming it squarely at his head. 

"Next time you go threatening people you might want to ask who they work for, does la cosa nostra mean anything to you?" TipToeTimmy asked with a smile.

Recognition shone in the bar tenders eyes as he held his arms to the sky. He knew he'd fucked up and tried to gulp down his fear, TipToeTimmy had every right to shoot him on the spot, but he liked the man and his people. He'd rather have a man owing him a favor in a pinch than a group of blood thirsty Irish bastards at his back. Passing him the shotgun back he exchanged his name and told him he'd be in contact when he had some work for them. Climbing back into his car he drove off into the windy streets of Chicago.