Like all good super villains, rumours of the demise of "Big Si", SimonTheSwanHunter, King of Detroit, Champion Pickpocket, Masterful Mugger, Renowned OC Practitioner and Avoider of Pavement Turds, were entirely wishful thinking. Having established the Swanfree Swansong family in the crucible of Mug City, surviving the jealous overtures of the TomJoad era of Chicago and even managing to drag deadbeats like twigs and TrashPole Waffle along with him, you would think the guy had earned his retirement. And you would be right. He had. He had achieved all a man could hope for. He was a literal king. Detroit had two nearly active businesses, a bustling public toilet where only one person had killed themselves in recent months and a fat ghost who everyone ignored. 

But still, despite a resume long enough to make a porn star blush, Big Si would never miss the opportunity for a hunt. Together with mandatory near fatal beatings for picking pockets, the swan hunt had been one of the pillars upon which the family was built. The call from SlimRagnarok had actually been to WaffleStompingChamp. This was a mistake as WaffleStompingChamp couldn't use a telephone nor was he ever likely to be present enough to answer it. Simon, of course, recognised this for the bluff that it was. SlimRagnarok of course knew that WaffleStompingChamp would never put in enough effort to be awake during the day and actually set one of his noodle arms quivering by picking up a ringing phone. No. This had been, as usual, an indirect route to try and get Big Si to help Slim.

Unlike a Drieza organized crime, the Detroit boys knew how to put a job together. As Summer's last warm tendril had finally retreated and the leaves of the deciduous trees had begun to tease Autumn about falling, swan hunting season was here. Of course, true to his name and reputation, Simon had entirely removed the swan threat from Mug City prior to establishing his operation there. This meant, naturally, that the gang would need to roam further afield. Would this mean Big Si would have to wipe his feet on the way out of New York in a few days to get the stain off them before coming home? Perhaps. Chicago reported a flourishing swan population but like so many of their promises and would-be assassins from Las Vegas, they fell well short of the mark.

Adorning his finest hunting gear, Big Si left Mrs TheSwanHunter gently dozing in the bed of his compound, and headed out to the rough streets of 12th Street. He had done nothing to temper the violence that ran through the core of Detroit. If anything, he had encouraged it. Shops with boarded windows. Signs hanging loose and letters fallen forlornly from fascias. Cracked glazing and broken downpipes pissing onto the pavement. But everybody paid. Simon felt pride swell within him at all he had achieved and took a deep breath in of the fresh morning air, hopefully before the deadline of the competition. He cast his eyes about as he walked, chest full of autumn. This place was a toxic dump, sure. But it was his toxic dump. 

"Slim," he said, catching SlimRagnarok entirely by surprised as he padded up behind him. "I got your call."

SlimRagnarok barely had time to conceal the displeasure at seeing his Godfather before him decked out in his finest gear. "My call? I called Waffle. Why are you weari-," and Slim's mouth dropped open. "Oh no. You're not coming with us, are you?"

Simon laughed his good natured laugh, his breath pooling around him in the crisp fall air. "Ah, good one, Slim. 'I called Waffle' Ha ha ha. You're funnier than they say. Calling Waffle. Good one. I knew who you really wanted," he added with a wink.

"Well, it wouldn't have been fucking you, would it?"

"Ha ha ha ha ha. Slim, stop. You're killing me here. Look, I'm glad I came too, ok? No need to get mushy on me. It has been awhile since we've plucked feathers together."

"Please don't call it that."

Simon placed a hand on his Don's shoulder. "This family was forged on the hunt, Slim. Don't forget that."

"And because nobody else wanted Detroit," Slim muttered under his breath.

"That too, Slim. That too." Begrudgingly, the pair set off. What bonds would be reforged in the great outdoors? Who would demonstrate the greater prowess in the hunt for majestic white gold and underline their name in the legends? And after how many days of failing to find a single living thing and being cold, hungry and tired would it take the pair to return to their lives as leaders of the criminal underworld?