OffsidePrince sits in his office. Preparing for his next meeting with the FBN, he places the last stack of cash onto the desk beside a newspaper. A name catches his eye 

Edward Carver, known to friends and associates as “Two-Toes,” passed away suddenly on the evening of May 12th, at the age of 33. Born and raised on the South Side of Chicago, Mr. Carver was once a promising boxer before an injury in the ring led him to other lines of work.

 OP looks at the paper for a moment in shock, a wave of feelings rushing over him in an instant.

"Damnit Eddie, what the hell'd you do?"

He paws his inside pocket for a cigarette, lights it, and closes his eyes as the smoke fills his lungs and mind. A slow exhale escapes from his nose as the vapors fill the room, fading into his memory

Bang Bang Bang

​​​OP's eyes open to see the peeling yellow paint from the ceiling of his ratty apartment on the South Side, his heart racing as his reflexes take over.  It had been weeks since he had come home from the war and the wounds were still fresh. Realizing he wasn't in a trench and instead back in Chicago, he shifts his focus to the door, the source of the jarring sound that jolted him. 

"Hey Opie, it's me, let me in" A familiar voice calls from the other side. "Jesus, Eddie, you almost gave me a fuckin' heart attack I told you be careful with those meat mittens you got." OP hisses as he unlatches the door for his old friend. "You always slept like a stone, I just wanted to make sure you heard me. I brought you something nice" a bottle of whiskey entering the room with Ed in tow. The pair take a seat at the table after snagging glasses

Clink

"To much more where it came from" Eddie cheers. "A guy I work with down at the docks says the O'Connor gang is running cases of this stuff coming in marked as art, furniture, and other bullshit. All we have to do is show up say I forgot something in the warehouse, we go in snag a crate, in and out easy peezy" The plan rolls off Ed's tongue as he begins to pour another round. OP stared in utter silence, he'd never heard a scheme so harebrained sound so well rehearsed.

"Damnit Eddie, boosting some swag from your work is one thing, Rippin off the O'Connors though? Those crazy fucks bury families for kicks. We're not going to just waltz in there for a forgotten hat.." OP complains, spinning his glass on the table

"So you're out?" Ed questions downing his drink

"I'm in, but we need a better plan than this shit.." The pair have another drink before walking into the chicago night to get what they need.

Prince stands in an abandoned warehouse with his driver/bodyguard Danny behind him. A briefcase of money is beside his right foot, pocket watch opened in his right hand, his left in his pocket, thumbing the grip of his 1911.

"Why the nerves boss?"

"Danny I hate meeting with cops. If anything goes wrong shooting your way out can cause more problems than when you went in. They always want to meet in some abandoned place, everything about it just makes my skin crawl... And they're always fucking late!"

The pocket watch slams closed and slips back into his pocket.

Click

Eddie snaps the radio on, static laden jazz crackling through the car as they drive

A layer of mist covers the docks as the duo make their approach. OP thumbs the butt of his .38 in his left coat pocket, praying he won't need it.

"So... When did you score a set of wheels like this?" OP inquires, breaking the silence as they ride up the boulevard 

"You remember that friend I told you about? Runs a scrapyard right outside of town? He's not connected but he has a lot of cars waiting to get crushed. I go there, grab a car, use it once, bring it back no big deal" Eddie explains.

"Ah yeah, Churrie, or Chewy, whatever their name was... And he's alright with that?" 

"It's better to ask forgiveness than permission Opie, you know that. Besides, what he doesn't know can't come back on me or you or anyone else for that matter. What are you so worried about anyway? Come on this is supposed to be fun." Eddies hand lands squarely on OP's chest, an audible thud filling the cab

"Sure, going to rip off a psychopathic Irishman of the only thing they actually give a shit about, it's gonna be a gas" OP laments his close friend's constant disregard for danger, but chalks it up to an occupational quirk of having people trying to take your head off your shoulders. "Just get us there so we can get this over with" he finishes, flicking his smoke from the passenger window. 

The dull roar of the engine comes to a halt just before the gate. The two young hoods exit the vehicle to engage with the man working the booth, Ed slides his ID across the counter

"Hey Ed, you workin tonight?" "Nah, you're not gonna believe it. get this" ​Toes shoots a sly wink to OP as he continues. "I dropped my favorite hat when I was working in six, I was wondering if you'd let me go snag it real quick?" Franks face shifts to a concerned look as he reaches for the phone "​​​I'm convinced you're getting stupider by the day, I think somethings happening in six so lemme just call 'em up and make-"

"You don't have to do that Frank, I'm just gonna be a sec"

"Yeah, but I'd feel a lot better if I ju-" 

"Relax Boy'o" OP pipes up, chancing his best attempt at an Irish accent. 

"We're here to pick up a package from Gerry, they're expecting us.." his right hand sliding across the counter, Andrew Jackson's face peeking behind the fingers.

"You guys are the buyers? Huh, what do I know." Frank slips the bill into his pants before raising the gate.

 Thunk Thunk.

The two re-enter the car and drive through, the gate closing behind them

"That's weird Frank don't call anybody. And what was up with your voice? You think somethin' ain't right about this Opie?"

"Nothing feels right about this, I'm just ready to get this shit and go. The sooner the better."

"Yeah, sure, whatever you say.. Boy'o"  A wide smile crept across Eddie's face as they make their way to Warehouse Six