A Message from the Streets

Listen up, ya wide-eyed numbskulls and paper-pushers playin’ gangster.
You think you’ve found family?

You didn’t join a family—you joined a countdown.

These crews? These so-called "families"?
They ain’t protectin’ you.
They’re watchin’ you—waitin’ for the moment you get too sharp, too smart, or God forbid, too good.
And when that day comes?

Bang.
You're takin' a dirt nap in your own boots—done in by the very crew you broke your back for.

Don’t matter how many tributes you sent.
Don’t matter if you called the boss “uncle” and licked their ring every Thursday.
The second you look like you could maybe take their job?
You're gettin’ a one-way ticket to Sleepy Hollow, mob edition.

They’ll smile in your face, hand you a promotion, maybe even let you run a district for a week—and the next night?
You’re facin’ the wall, beggin’ the ghosts for a second chance.

And you idiots still line up like it’s Sunday school.

“But they promised me safety!”
Safety?!
You’re safer shakin’ down the Durdens with a spoon than trustin' a made man with a twitchy trigger finger and a fragile ego.

Let me tell ya something real:
Loyalty don’t mean jack in this world.
You’re loyal? Great.
You’re still gonna die—just with your name in their ledger and your pockets turned inside out.

So why give ‘em your cash? Why give ‘em your blood?
Why die for a boss who wouldn’t even pour you a drink?

You wanna live? You wanna make it?
Stick to the streets.
Earn for yourself.
Make ‘em pay if they want you—make ‘em sweat for the privilege of your loyalty.
And when they ask for blind obedience?
Tell 'em you ain’t blind. You’re just done bein’ stupid.

This city's built on lies, concrete, and corpses.
The least you can do is make sure yours ain’t the next one stacked on the pile for bein’ "too promising."

So stay sharp, stay loud, and for God’s sake—don’t trust a smile in a silk suit.

While I understand the sentiment and I even agree with most of it. I just have one thing to pick at. You mention paying for loyalty.

Loyalty should never be something that can be bought. Either you are loyal or you are not.  Many tend to be loyal to themselves and this is perhaps some of why we see the purging happen so much. Many of these leaders are loyal to themselves, not to their families or their members. they are willing to shoot their best friends or members in the face to keep their own lives. Many are like that. To think otherwise is foolish.

There are very few that are loyal to more than themselves. However, those people that can be loyal to more than themselves, it is often not bought. Bought loyalty is never real. Nor is it real loyalty. Might as well save your money and pay for that nice lady of the night who can lie a little better and tell you they love you for the half minute you last.

TheDump has some funny things that Rufus surräely smiles at.

Dearest RufusWatchdog, please name two.  

As StripheCorelli took his morning walk he noticed a few bodies stacked up on the curbline with half the body hanging into the street almost getting hit by passing cars. It was pretty early in the morning and most people were still in bed but he enjoyed the fresh cool air and he actually hated people so he loved being out so early. He kept walking making sure to not step in the puddle of blood as he heard the beeping of the trash truck that stopped and disposed of the bodies quickly before flying off...the streets now cleared as he smiled 

You know its never easy in this world as an up and coming mobster and there are some things they need to do if they do not want to end up the same as those chumps I just walked by. I mean if we want it to be something special and something important then it cant be that easy, right?

You gotta' put the effort in to get to know people in your family, city and your boss to get them to be willing to stick their neck out for you.. and that is no easy task. Everyone has their own way to shine and sometimes it is a steep learning curve but again something to be proud of is not always easy, hell some will never make it its a cold fucking world. 

StripheCorelli kept walking, the sounds of his boots hitting the hard concrete with every step as took a deep breath of the spring air as he looked around for a place to take a seat and maybe read the latest issue of QuackersFeatherbeak newspaper and try to find out the latest poker results 

Look at LuncheonEpiphany with that once upon a time status quo of attacking how the messenger delivers a message. Your responses are so damn stale mold is present. 

Lacking the intelligence or maybe balls to stay on topic. Which is it?

My apologies if I gave any impression I was looking for a debate.

You either agree and be about it or wear the shoes.

Keep in mind. Everyone has a limit. It's already evident.

Even my thoughts will get old with me. 

The stars barely blinked above the neon haze as Mambo strolled down a quiet street, heels clicking soft on pavement. She needed a breather. Too much coffee, too many thoughts.

Then she heard it.

“Listen up, ya wide-eyed numbskulls and paper-pushers playin’ gangster…”

She stopped cold. Just around the corner, a voice cut through the stillness like a knife gritty, angry, and maybe way too honest.

“You didn’t join a family, you joined a countdown.”

Mambo leaned against the brick wall, just out of sight. Her hand brushed the diner keys clipped to her apron, as she holds onto the wall.

“Loyalty don’t mean jack… You’re still gonna die, just with your name in their ledger.”

The voice faded. A match struck. Silence followed.

Mambo stepped back, blending into the dark, her thoughts louder than the street, but she’d just been reminded what might be.

She starts walking, walking faster and picking up the pace with everystep, thoughts still racing through her mind all the way back to her diner.

And when they ask for blind obedience?
Tell 'em you ain’t blind. You’re just done bein’ stupid.

Statements like this make me question where people understand the life they've signed up to, particularly anyone with the ambition to swear their oath, or have already sworn their oath. 

This life is not democratic. This life is not fair.  

Jeff is walking up the block as he takes a drag of his blunt, He could hear the shouting and yelling going on, he completely understands. Jeff pauses for a moment looks around, then continues down the way. 

The night was heavy, hanging like wet wool over the city. Cyclone moved through the empty train yard, boots crunching over gravel and broken glass. A whistle blew somewhere in the distance. Not a train some guy.
Loud. Ranting. Crazy.

"Family? HA! You’re just a bullet waiting’ for a barrel!"

Cyclone paused near a rusted-out boxcar, the cold bite of metal at his back. Across the yard, standing on an overturned crate like a mad rat king, was an old man, coat tattered, hair wild. His eyes glinted with a manic intensity, as if he could see straight through Cyclone's very soul. "You think you’re safe in this forsaken place?" the old man shouted, his voice echoing off the decaying walls. Cyclone narrowed his gaze, intrigued yet wary, ready to either engage or retreat depending on the madman's next move.

"Trust’ll get you six feet deep and a name spelt wrong on a stone!"

Cyclone watched him for a beat, the cigarette between his fingers burning low. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just listened. The man’s words spilled forth like shattered whisky bottles – angry, slurred, and bitter enough to strip paint from the rails. Then the old man stumbled, vanishing into the shadows like he’d never been there at all.

Cyclone let the smoke curl from his mouth, slow and thoughtful.

He knew the streets didn’t whisper warnings; they screamed them.
Always had.
Didn’t mean you had to pay them any mind.

He crushed the cigarette under his heel, hands in his coat pockets, and kept walking toward the edge of the yard, where the city lights looked just close enough to touch. The streets wasn't loyalty. It wasn’t betrayal. It was about surviving long enough to establish your own rules.