Hello, ladies and gentlemen. 

As I traveled here the same way I travel everywhere - cargo net suspended beneath a tandem-rotor chopper - I cast my eyes over Detroit with despair. What was once a thriving hub of Mafia Basketball, now stands laid to waste by a tyrannical bird-fetishist unable to move past the memory of his fallen enemy/obsession, QuackersFeatherbeak. 

Having been kicked out of that very same tyrant's crew, it appears so clearly to me now that the mafia is stupid and I don't need it anyway. 

That's why I'm retiring from crime and pursuing my lifelong dream: to cook the greatest Mafia Pizza ever eaten. 

Together with my 0 to 5 employees, we intend to combine Mafia Cheese, Mafia Dough, and Mafia Toppings into a delectable delight beyond your wildest imagination.

We're leaving tommy guns for pizza runs. We're leaving alibis for pizza pies. From crime sprees, to extra cheese. No more hits, just oven mitts. No more bloodshed, just garlic bread. 

Please note: We do NOT serve mafia or mafia-affiliated people. 

And to the detectives investigating my (near?) future death: if I die, arrest Illuminatiated immediately. 

Anyway, welcome to Coach's Pizza Palace.

QuackersFeatherbeak? Never heard of him.

Bret, please escort this man out, he's not Coach's Pizza Palace material.

GhostofHeadCoach -I believe a small arms attack on his bodyguards would send the send that that man has to read.  Blood has to be spilled.

Is 

That a "great work Bret, be my right hand!" I hear?

Great idea, Bret. Carry out a precision strike on the weakest of Simon's bodyguards please. It will be my final act as a member of the criminal underworld, before becoming a full-time pizza chef/entrepreneur.