"Simon" was a strong name. It meant "he has heard" or "listening" in Hebrew, which Simon thought was probably why his Mum had insisted on it instead of "Young Bruce", his father's choice, wanting to name him after his older brother...Clive. She meanwhile had clearly wanted him to be a staunch advocate of the 'two ears and only one mouth' philosophy, employing his brain before speaking. Then he'd found out it also meant "flat-nosed" in Greek and a look in the mirror at his ruler dorsum and squinty nostrils gave him pause. Still, "Simon" it was and now having been raised within the toxic smog which permanently enveloped 12th Street, he'd acquired a "Detroit" prefix to go with his nasally, clipped Michigan accent, just so as to avoid confusion with all of the other Simons running around.

DetroitSimon was a young man with big dreams. Not for fame and glory necessarily, but for status and respect. Being a flat-nosed rat on 12th Street had done little for people's opinion of him. Learning a trade or busting his ass in a "real" job also held little appeal; a lack of motivation which was compounded by his inability to keep numbers in his head and his steak hands being ill-suited to holding anything but a moderately sized cosh. The path of thuggery opened up before him like the Red Sea before Moses, except rather than leading the Israelites from Egypt, Simon was planning to lead people's money into his pocket. Kinda. 

His low-level shitbaggery quickly caught the eye of one of the families who controlled what little existed of the legitimate economy in Bricktown, namely when he had the piss beaten out of him by a mobster whose wallet he hadn't been able to lift. Old steak hands strikes again. A few minutes into the resultant beating, his assailant finally relented looking the remaining pulp up and down. "Huh, what's your name, kid, Simon or something?" He asked pointing at the nose. "Could probably ice skate on that thing."

A little while later, blood dripping down his face and a ringing in his ear loud enough to make sirens jealous, and DetroitSimon had got himself a sponsor together with a list of jobs he demanded completing. The first day looked simple enough:

1. Take a flight to another city - Get out of Detroit and head to Chicago. 

Simon had never left Detroit. Did he have a passport? Unlikely. He hoped it would probably work itself out somehow.

2. Grease some palms - Make sure the Law isn't looking our way and keep things sweet. Visit Corrections Officer Joseph Reiss, $5,000 should keep him happy. Daniel Meehan likes his envelope to arrive with his morning coffee. $17,000. Local and nationwide narcotics prices. 

First the flight, now $22,000 in tips too? Maybe he should have stayed in the 12th Street stalls. Life was definitely cheaper there.

3. Travel to another district - Show your face around town, get familiar with it so when you next arrive to collect people remember your ugly face and flat-nose. 

That seemed a little mean but whatever. 

With his tasks in hand and his vision starting to slowly come back into focus, he set to work on his jobs for the day. Maybe it was the CTE forming on his brain, but he felt full of life and purpose despite the recent whooping, and ready to prove himself. That or beat a man to death with his ribeye fingers anyway. He set about his business.

The first day in the business had been a complete success. DetroitSimon did have the piss beaten out of him, but he also managed to secure a flight to Chicago, slip Daniel Meehan $17,000 and some nose candy, and trot around The Loop and South Chicago at leisure. He was also promoted to the Underboss of whatever Gneiss had named his crew. This story isn't about that though. 

What would his second day on the Streets entail? A promotion to Don? Godfather? King? Well, not quite. He unfolded the piece of paper his sponsor had given him.

1. Win some money gambling - Need to top up those coffers after giving Danny Mee his taste. Ok, makes sense.

2. Make a profit selling a full load of drugs - See number 1. We need the money. I hear you, more green. Gotcha.

3. Lose some money gambling - Stay humble. What? This seems a little counterproductive to jobs 1 and 2. Ok, do it anyway. Understood.

Contradictory orders in hand, DetroitSimon immediately vacated Chicago and returned to the familiar streets of Bricktown. The aptly named Motor City Casino would provide the perfect backdrop for him to complete all three of his tasks. He could win some money, lose some money and also push all 19 units of cocaine he was permitted to sell to xXArtiomXx. What could possibly go wrong?

The grind of being a Gangster isn't for everyone. It takes a daily commitment to proving yourself to your bosses, gaining a reputation as a good earner and a person who can be trusted. For example, if you had started a report on your comings-and-goings each day, much to the delight of the masses, and then after just the second day you had already fallen behind in that reporting, then that probably wouldn't look very good. Embarrassing even. 

Fortunately DetroitSimon didn't play by the rules and he had absolutely no shame. DetroitSimon was promoted to RHM 6 hours into his career for God's sake. He couldn't break a Thug out of prison and his knees started knocking together if they had any guards at all, but his bosses also deemed him qualified to assist in the day-to-day running of the family, so what are you going to do? He was a Goomba now and that meant that the self-imposed reporting rulebook had gone straight out of the window. See ya later, Rulebook. That's the type of witty thing DetroitSimon had become known for in his 3, nearly 4 days, roaming the streets of Bricktown. A wit so sharp he could butter both halves of a chip butty with it.

How had the weekend shaped up for everyone's favourite flat nose? Well, it was Friday night and our hero had trotted back to Bricktown and straight into the Motor City Casino without even stopping to take a shower. Yep, sweaty aeroplane ass dropped right into a seat at the blackjack table and 19 units of mid-poor level cocaine taped across his chest. First hand, King, Eight. 18. A good hand to complete the first of his tasks for his bosses. No card. Dealer has blackjack. What a piece of shit. He had at least completed task 3 and he lost some money. Unfortunately he had intended to win some first, but whatever. There was always the next hand. Or not. Ok, the next one. Hit. Again. The croupier looks at him in surprise. Is this guy retarded, hitting on 17? The card comes out. Ace. 18 again. No card. YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS. Dealer busts. Get out of here, motherfucker. DetroitSimon DOES NOT fuck around. gz as we say in the Detroit mafia business.

Speaking of gz, xXAritiomXx had arrived just in time to witness Simon's crowning glory over the unsuspecting croupier. They made eye contact and shared a nod. Was it just the mark of respect between two great friends or was it something more? Hard to say. Speculate on that though while you claim this. What happened next probably shouldn't be broadcast in public, so let's just say a fat load was dropped off. DetroitSimon had secured his profit if you catch my drift and whatever other innuendos you would like to supply in your filthy little imagination. 

With Friday's work done, Simon was horrified to discover he was expected to work weekends. Jesus Christ. Fine. In addition to whatever else, Artiom had slipped him his next set of mundane tasks to complete so he gave them a look:

1. Make profitable drug deals with a full load of drugs. Three times. - A three-fer. This guy was insatiable. 

2. Pay your damned taxes. $4,000, please. - Of course, here he is, Mr Man. Come to take his cut. Wet your break a little, Sir? Take the shirt off my back, Sir? Disgusting. What's next?

3. Take a flight to another city. - Do I look like some sort of international traveller, what? Fuck me.

4. Travel to another district. - And now onto the bus to tootle about town. Great. Welcome to the life, Goomba, ring the bell and get off at your stop, little Goomba. Ding, ding, Captain Dickhead is here to show his face again. Whatever, I'm leaving. Fine.

It has been four days since Simon appeared to tell us about his daily hustle. I knew he didn't have the stamina for this. One can only hope that he will soon be murdered, just like his Father and Grandfather.

Walking down the street, studiously ignoring EIkmilk like everyone else, you spot a tattered leather diary open on a nearby bench. Was that where EIkmilk slept? Probably. He certainly looked disheveled enough to be homeless. Being wise enough to ignore the smelly village tramp  but still a bit of a nosy Nelly, you can't help but begin to read the incredible prose penned before you, in an undoubtedly masculine hand.

Jan 25th

Dear Diary,

I have had this feeling for a couple of days that someone is watching me. I feel like my every action is being recorded and described by some, very likely strong jawed and muscular omnipotent observer for the entertainment of others. I don't enjoy it. I feel very exposed. I keep looking over my shoulder but there is nobody behind me, unless I'm sat at my writing desk like right now, where the mirror is behind me, and then I see my own reflection. I'm topless while I'm writing this too so then I'm a little distracted like woah, that is a very defined back right there. Clearly defined. Crystal clarity. Like, open the dictionary to D, and there is my jacked rear elevation parked directly under 'Defined".

Anyway, yesterday was a total success. Well, that is if you can consider taking the bus backwards and forwards between Bricktown and Corktown a success. At least I managed to sell off all of the units I was carrying and slip Gneiss $4,000. It was $4,000 that I had already withdrawn from his office safe, but still, he should be grateful to get anything. Speaking of, I should probably put this here, just in case. 

No rest for the wicked or the extremely handsome with envy-inducing backs either apparently, because today I was handed more numbskullery to complete:

1. Win some money gambling. NOT POKER. Weird distinction and a borderline obsession with me gambling, but whatever. I was heading back to Motor City Casino then.

2. Lose some money gambling. NOT POKER FFS. I feel like I'm donating everything I win back to this place at this point. I did it though, $100 lost for the day. Wonderful.

3. Participate in some crew chat, head to the bar and talk to your peers. Maybe the most difficult task of the lot. Talking to these neanderthals is painful. An insult to a gang of morons. twigs constantly trying to shove tofu down everyone's throats while TextBasedMafiaRPGMan yuks it up like he's never had a steak in his life. 

4. Travel to another district. Corktown beckons. AGAIN? I'm the most active person in that whole district at this point. Motherfuckers. I can still feel the stink of it on my clothes. 

Jobs done for today though, that's a plus. Maybe tomorrow I will able to shake this horrible pervy scrutiny that I'm under. I don't know.  

Intrigued by the story, you flick to the next page but it is blank. Huh. Looking up, it seemed like EIkmilk might be trying to talk to you again, so you quickly leave.

How did DetroitSimon know I had been watching him? Did he have some sort of sixth sense for voyeurism from a lifetime of hanging around a public toilet or was he just arrogant enough to believe that anyone would be interested in hearing about the mundane exploits of his daily life? Either way, after successfully hustling his way to glory on Sunday, it was the start of a new week for our protagonist. What would Monday see the RHM of the Birmingham crew of Detroit upto? Bringing a new revenue stream under family control? Smoothing over a tricky issue with a rival family perhaps? Making sure one of their important rackets wasn't compromised?

Well, erm, not quite: 

1. Send someone your hard earned cash. $800 will do for now, you don't deserve it. What, just like anyone?

2. Grease a palm. Keep our contacts happy. Find a grave to tip over, associate. That seems a little rude. I could make good money fencing those.

3. Take a flight to another city. See the sights.

Did DetroitSimon spit his dummy out at being given such tedious jobs to do? Absolutely not. He spat on $800 and sent it to Gneiss. A Detroit kiss. He swanned over to Toby Greene and slipped him twenty fucking thousand dollars for a line on a guy buried fully clothed and bejeweled. Then, with mud still under his fingernails and some of Interlude's DNA under his knuckles from the mandatory beatdown he had given him earlier, he took a flight to Chicago. Still a dump. Would Tuesday improve his prospects?  

It has come to my attention that apparently together with my reports upon the exciting times of DetroitSimon, little gifts have been slipping between my fingers. This is not intentional. DO NOT TAKE THEM. I consider this to be stealing from me ESPECIALLY if you do not festoon my person with lots of money as thanks. Who would just pick something up without asking if it was meant for them? Outrageous behaviour. Literally stealing food off my table. Mrs Omnipotent Observer is forced to take on work following some other moron around to supplement our income and keep our little omnipotents clothed. Are you proud of yourself? Does that make you feel like a big man, RebusDupeoUlricMusic Jnr?

Robbery of me aside, it was Tuesday in DetroitSimon's world and hot on the heels on having to send spit money to Gneiss, get the nod on a recently buried corpse and take a flight to Chicago, he was back with his flat-nose to the grindstone trying to make something of himself. What tasks would his betters grace him with today? The opportunity to punch EIkmilk square on his dumb jaw would be a real bonus. He'd even settle for just not having to visit Corktown for once. 

For the attention of DetroitSimon. Do these things. Or else.

1. Read a poster. Learn new things

2. Tip an author $20,000 for their work.

3. Travel to another district. Four times should do the trick.

4. Send someone your "hard earned cash". 

Simon looked at the list disgusted. Reading? Supporting authors? Visiting Corktown AGAIN. This had to be some sort of prank being played on him. Why would he want to read any of the stupid things people like TextBasedMafiaRPGMan were writing? The man was as likely to wipe his ass with a piece of paper as he was to put words on it, and the bum residue would probably be more entertaining to read. Still, a job was a job to DetroitSimon, loyal soldier and apprentice legend, so despite his disdain for the duties ahead of him, he set about completing them.

"Simon is Dead, The Board of Peace Emerges" - 3/10. Not a patch on a Charlie_Pavanno tale. Have $20,000, dickhead. Corktown oh how you have been missed. NOT. Ha ha ha ha ha. That was Simon laughing to himself after this great jokes and spitting on more money and putting it in an envelope for Gneiss. 

Alright, so here I am. BigDaveGoggins. Just stepping into the world of organized crime, trying to make my mark in this city of concrete and chaos. They call it Mug City, but to me, it’s just another battlefield another place to prove I’ve got what it takes. I've teamed up with Interlude’s crew, and they’re already showing me the ropes. Yeah, it’s a dirty business, but nothing worth having comes easy. I didn’t sign up for a cushy life. I signed up for the grind. I’m here to earn my spot, learn what it means to hustle at the highest level, and to show everyone around me that I’m not some rookie. This isn’t about fame, it’s about respect. And trust me, I’m going to earn it. So, let’s get to work.

"Alright, alright, here we go. DaveGoggins’ Daily Hustle, baby. Not sure if I’m ready for all this luxury work Simon’s been doing, but let’s see if I can match it. I’m sure it’s gonna be tough, but hey, we don’t make excuses around here."

Task 1: Travel to another district.
"This isn't just a stroll through Detroit. Oh no. I’m out here running 10 miles in the dark while the whole cities asleep. How do I make it happen? I don’t know, maybe it’s the fact that I’m addicted to the grind. I don’t stop. Ever. I don’t even need sleep."

Task 2: Lose some money gambling.
"Yeah, yeah. Here’s how I lost my “money.” I ran 30 miles, didn’t stop to eat or drink, and nearly lost consciousness, but that’s just what we do when we’re out here pushing the limits. Losing? Nah, I was gaining mental strength. I don’t need to roll dice or hope the dealer busts, because I’m the one who decides how this game’s played."

Task 3: Pick someone's pocket.
"Alright, here’s the deal. You want me to pick someone’s pocket? Fine. But here’s the difference between you and me. I don’t need to steal to win. While the rest of these so-called "hustlers" are scurrying around, looking for a quick score, I’m out here running 100 miles just to prove that the real hustle is in the long game. I’m not about taking someone’s lunch money. I’m out here taking minds. Breaking down the will of every pencil necked weakling who thinks they can keep up. So, I stroll up to this guy, casually check his pockets, but instead of just taking cash, I take his confidence. By the time I’m done with him, he’s questioning his whole life. Forget the wallet, man. I’m taking his pride. You wanna talk about hustling? That’s hustle. You can pick a pocket all you want, but you’ll never pick up the mindset that I carry around 24/7. Keep your coins. I’m collecting strength."

"Yeah, so that’s my hustle. I don’t need the fancy casinos, the high-flying flights, or the “greasing palms.” I’m the one in the streets every day, keeping my head down, pushing harder than anyone in the game."

STAY HARD.

Alright. Day 2 in the Mafia. Still breathing. Still running. Still not impressed. Woke up in Mug City before the sun came up, not because I had to, but because my body doesn’t understand the concept of rest anymore. 

"Alright, alright, here we go. DaveGoggins’ Daily Hustle. Day 2."

Task 1: Listen to a DetroitSimon story without interrupting.
"This one tested me. Stood there. Hands behind my back. Let the full story play out without correcting facts, mocking delivery, or leaving the room. Maintained composure the entire time. As soon as it ended, I ran 10 miles at pace to flush the neurological damage from my brain. Recovery run. Felt great by mile six."

Task 2: Participate in crew chat.
"Engaged for a strict 90 seconds. No more. Contributed one sentence of value, zero smiles. Left mid-thought to do push-ups against a brick wall. Refused all tofu based opinions on principle. Reminder issued: Take a payday & STAY HARD!"

Task 3: Consume protein.
"Meat only. If it didn’t have a face, it doesn’t count. Ate standing up. No sauces. No joy. Fuel, not food."

"That’s day two.

No gambling.
No tofu.
No nerdery.
Just work. 

Still new to the Mafia.
Already allergic to weakness."

STAY HARD.

I would like to report a crime. Someone has attempted to commandeer a story about a flat-nosed high-flyer from the probably radioactive, definitely contaminated streets of Bricktown, Detroit, and shoehorn in the boring tale about things a deluded, fat, dork pretends to get up to while he's really alone intermittently comfort-eating and crying.

What do you mean that's not a crime? Have you listened to this stuff? "This one tested me. Stood there." WOW. How riveting. "Stood there". What's next? "Breathed". Thanks for nothing. Crimes against literacy, diaries and my sensibilities.

Right, lets sort this out immediately:

Rules of Omnipotent Observation 

1. No listening to tales about DaveGoggins.

2. Absolutely no tipping of tales about DaveGoggins.

3. DaveGoggins is banned from being described in any way which isn't derogatory. 

Simon then. Had a few scrapes. Still flat-nosed. 'Stood there' a bit. Nailed a few tasks. Got promoted to Capo. Survived a war. Committed a felony. Won some money gambling. Sent someone his hard earned cash again because his bosses really valued him giving away money. Speaking of his generosity, he did wonder how long it would take people to find their reward. Goggins could do with a reward. He was one step away from being packed up and shipped to New York to be with TextBasedMafiaRPGMan, who had seen the rapid muscle decline often only evidenced in those with muscular dystrophy since his departure from Detroit, and looked only a couple of days away from getting his own fountain pen. His reward was going to be getting socked in the mouth if he carried on though. 

Walking through the streets of Mug City, I can’t shake this feeling. It’s not just a feeling it’s real. It’s like someone's always watching me. But not just any observer. A strong, jawed, muscular observer. Someone who sees beyond my sweat and grind. It’s me, looking at myself, pushing limits, and crushing obstacles. That’s the kind of observer I’ve got around here. No bullshit, just action.

It’s a good day in Mug City, fellas. And it’s even better now that I see DetroitSimon packing his bags, heading out to Las Vegas or somewhere just as lame. Maybe he’ll hit the blackjack tables or try to win a couple bucks without breaking a sweat. Whatever he’s doing, he’s out of Mug City, and that’s one less nerd to try and toughen up. I can only imagine what kind of “hustle” Simon’s got. Winning at casino games while sitting down? Pathetic. At least he’s gone.

On my 100-mile pre-breakfast run, I berated the people I passed with shouts of STAY HARD! and asked what they thought about the news.

BlackRabbit had this to say: “Simons crew name has to be one of the most dogshit names for a crew I have seen so far”

EIkmilk struggled to hold eye contact with Big Davey G, mumbling some nonsense about looking for a wife. Good luck with that, buddy.

TextBasedMafiaRPGMan showed some grit he went hard in the opposite direction. Allegedly ran all the way to New Dork to escape his mandatory fitness class with Big Davey G. I’m all about running, but I wouldn’t wish the punishment of doing a hand job on EIkmilk on my worst enemy.

Day 3 in the Mafia. New set of tasks. Let’s go.

Task 1: Whip Mug City into physical fitness.
So, I tried to get Mug City moving. Told ‘em, “Get off your ass, start running, and feel alive.” Hit the streets, dragged a few folks around, but what did I get? A bunch of people running for the hills literally. Everyone packed up and bounced. Las Vegas, LA, New Dork, and God knows where else. Guess what, though? At least they moved. I’m over here running 100 miles, dragging the city’s dead weight up a hill, and they bail after 2 laps. Typical. You can’t make people want it if they’re not ready to suffer.

Task 2: Be insulted publicly.
Thank the person. Ask for more. Use it as pre-workout.

Task 3: Send someone your hard-earned cash.
Do it without blinking. Then do burpees to remind yourself: money is temporary, suffering is forever.

STAY HARD!

Woke up before the sun again. Not because I had somewhere to be but because sleep tried to get comfortable. That’s when I heard it. Someone, somewhere, had floated the idea that we should move the crew to Paradise, Las Vegas. I laughed so hard I nearly pulled a hamstring.
Vegas isn’t paradise. It’s a brightly lit waiting room for people avoiding their own thoughts. Air-con, neon, cheap dopamine, carpets that smell like regret and worst of all its occupied by Not DetroitSimon

I didn’t sign up to live somewhere designed to soften the edges. If the ground doesn’t fight back when you run on it, it’s the wrong ground. So we stay put for now.

Anyway. Day’s work.
Task 1: Make a wildly successful speech that two people respond to.
I didn’t do the whole “gather round, lads” thing. Just started talking where people could hear it. No hope. No comfort. No “we’ll get through this together”. Just the truth. Two responses. One guy actually listened and didn’t try to be funny about it. Another one made very clear everyone hates DetroitSimon so I am calling it a success. 

Task 2: Do not burn out.
Pulled the pace back when the ego wanted to sprint. Ate properly instead of pretending hunger is a personality trait. Drank water. Didn’t pick a fight just to feel something.

Task 3: Do 100 push-ups in public.
Go to the 12th Street Public Bathroom, do 100 push-ups, and don’t explain. People will stare. They will wonder why, what’s the point? Answer them with nothing. Just kept pushing until your arms can’t move anymore. That’s what being hard as F looks like.

No paradise.
No burn out.
No escape plan.
Just work.

STAY HARD!

People are still not paying attention. Is it because Goggins mad shouting into the wind is distracting them or do they just not have the perseverance to find the treats on offer to them? Hard to say. Time will tell. I can't wait to see who bags themselves a treat and I'm going to really enjoy it not being the puny little moron, DaveGoggins. I never thought I could hate someone more than treacherous never-been-kissed TextBasedMafiaRPG man but this deluded doofus is really grinding my gears.

DetroitSimon's gears had really been turning though, right into the glitz and glamour of Las Vegas. Everyone was glitzy and glamorous when DTSi was around though. His flat nose kind of just fit in places. He had one of those personalities where everyone immediately liked him and wanted to be his friend, which is also the complete opposite of how people feel about EIkmilk. 

The first day on the job for Simon in his new surroundings and his promotion to Boss looked simple enough.

1. Take a flight to another city.

Literally just got here.

2. Travel to another district. 

At least Paradise has a nice name to it and won't actually be Corktown. 

3. Tip some speakers at least $20,000. 

Is there anything I wouldn't do to encourage the Streets?

Fourth time's the charm. Si nailed it, like Goggins would in a being ugly, stupid and unwanted contest. No problem. 

Yesterday was an eventful day as two of the gifts scattered in our musings were discovered. The unfortunate part is that they were unmasked by conversation thief, DaveGoggins. On the bright side he missed the other two and now there are three out in the wild awaiting discovery. Who will claim the prize?

Such excitement made me forget about what DetroitSimon was upto yesterday. It was another exciting day for our flat-nosed prince as he completed the transition from Detroit to Las Vegas. The HQ still didn't have anything in it besides the dregs of the crew which Gneiss had shoved upon him, the likes of DickDickman and Keypunch being the scraping from the very limits of the barrel, but he would work with what he was given. It was pleasing to see Goggins also fail to offer any dumb positive exercise related nonsense. 3 days in and Mr Stay Hard has reached the limit of his stamina, pathetic. 

A quieter day on the cards for DTLV-Si today:

Pay your damned taxes.   

Ok that one was probably from Gneiss. Feeling the hard times now he's giving the paydays rather than taking them.

Read a book.

I know we aren't in Detroit anymore but this is absolutely outrageous. What's next, sudoku puzzles?

Chat with the crew, show them you love them.

I absolutely do not. They need to be ruled with an iron fist. At best I'll deliver mild threats and vague promises I won't keep.

 Would 11th February go down as a truly memorable day or would it be just another entry in the Daily Hustle of DetroitSimon? We'll find out tomorrow...OHOOOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOH EXCITINGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG

Woke up with a headache that made me think I was in the middle of some kind of nightmare. Last thing I remembered, I was dropping the kids off at the pool in the 12th Street Public Bathrooms in Mug City. The next thing? I was waking up in some dingy hotel room in Las Vegas. The neon lights still bleeding through the blinds, the smell of desperation & shite thick in the air. What the hell happened? One moment, I was making my mark, pushing myself to the limit, and then I was knocked out cold.
Could’ve been a punch. Could’ve been a trap. Could’ve been anything. Doesn’t matter. Because I woke up, and now it’s time to get back to work.

Alright lets do this. BigDaveyG’s 5th day in the mafia. 

Task 1: Get called "A Notorious Freak" by EIkmilk.
I don’t know what it is about him, but it seems like every time he opens his mouth, it’s to insult me or throw out some weak ass name calling. This time, he called me a "Notorious freak." Let me tell you something. I don’t mind being called names. Well, here’s the thing, I don’t get offended by the weak. Getting pissed off by wifeless nerds is for pussies. EIkmilk knows I’m living proof the grind works, and he’s too scared to admit it.

Task 2: Get one over on stupid Not DetroitSimon.
First thing I did when I stepped out of the hotel? Walked straight to where Simon’s stash of gold was hidden. Poor old Simon was heard lamenting “I can't wait to see who bags themselves a treat and I'm going to really enjoy it not being the puny little moron, DaveGoggins. I never thought I could hate someone more than treacherous never-been-kissed TextBasedMafiaRPG man but this deluded doofus is really grinding my gears.”

UNLUCKY. It's not about the gold, but purely about taking something from someone who doesn't even know what hard work looks like.
He was later heard flapping his gums about me not being on the streets. Let’s set the record straight, bozo, when you get knocked out and dragged to another city, it takes time to recover. My stamina? Hasn’t even been touched yet.. 

Task 3: Refute allegations of being fired as LHM.
Apparently, some geek has been spreading the story that I was fired as LHM. For the record: I didn’t get fired, I walked out. Left Hand Man is too weak a position for a man this hard. Look at the crew lists, who would want to be lumped in with the likes of Mint_Royale Keypunch or Smithers. Ewwwww. 

Task 4: Find my way around Vegas.
You wanna talk about losing your bearings? Try getting dropped in the middle of Las Vegas after being knocked out and having no idea how you ended up here. First thing I did? Hit the streets. Ran up and down a few blocks. Felt the city under my feet. I’m gonna carve my way through this place. I don’t care if it’s my first day, I’m already owning the streets.

No distractions.
No excuses. 
No neon lights. 

Just work.

STAY HARD!

Woke up this morning, and it hit me I’m not here to settle for anything less than greatness. I’ve been promoted to Earner. Not just a title, but the start of a new chapter. I didn’t take the easy path to get here. No handouts. Just hard work.

Day six in the mafia. Let’s get it.

Task 1: Get filthy fuckin’ rich. Win big on Roulette.
Hit the casino with Kiel today. He taught me a system. It’s simple & it works 100% of the time, 80% of the time. Went in with a plan and came out with $17,500,000. The dealer didn’t like it, said, “Take your bet and MY $17,500,000, but don’t get too comfortable with my money in your pocket.” I’m comfortable. That’s the difference between those who make moves and the people who let life happen to them like TextBasedMafiaRPGMan

Task 2: Listen to Giordo only talk in rules of three.
I slowed my run to listen to my fellow Vegas resident speak. Should have sped up. Nothing but rule of three after rule of three. “He got back right after that recent war tore through the city. Bad timing maybe. Streets are still quiet in places they shouldn't be.” Does this guy ever say anything without sounding like a robot stuck on the same setting? It’s the same thing over and over: “Flash forward to now, he's running with the DT-LV Simon Gang under DeriotSimon. Seemed like the right move. Structured crew, steady leadership. After a war like the last one, that matters..” Yeah, alright, Giordo. We get it, back-to-back rule of three slop. We already had one bozo in the slammer for a 5 stretch for this sort of nonsense. Quit it.  

Task 3: Grease a palm.
Vegas, baby! You know what it’s like: everybody wants something. The trick is getting to them before they ask. So I walk up to this guy, a shady-looking dealer with a slick suit, and slid him a crisp stack of cash. $500. “Rumor has it that Chicago is looking like a profitable route for Cocaine at this moment.” Took a flight, Cocaine at 7.8k. FUCK THAT GUY. No more tips for anyone, ever!

No distractions.
Just work.

STAY HARD!
 

Giordo won't speed up. Won't slow down either. But may as well chime in. 

Sounds as If you are adding my sentences into your macro count, If I add this, then add the part where he says that... BINGO That makes 500. WHO'S KAYAK ARE WE CARRYING? or however that quote goes. 

Giordo glanced at the one big freakishly ripped vegan protein shake in front of him and smiled. Finally, something worth responding to out here. 

11th Feb was nothing to write home about as it turned out. Despite spending all his time here, the fact that DaveGoggins had missed two more rewards was telling about his observation skills. Did this make all other advice he proffered questionable? Would impressionable young New York Earners like Helping listening to him be led down the garden path? Yes. Yes they would. Helping is gone now. He's in the wilderness, lost beneath the branches of a weeping willow considering what to do with the rest of his life. Something artsy. He hasn't reported to work for EIkmilk for days now - still comfortably his most productive member - but maybe we'll see him in a play sometime soon. Well done, Dave. Clap, clap, clap. 

LV-DTSimon on the other hand had been hard at work as usual. He was forging maybe the most impressive crew that Las Vegas had ever seen and his own star was continuing to shine all the brighter for it. Some highlights:

1. Attempt some jail breaks

Yes, this is more up my street. Ranking members of our family got caught in a sting - a failed art gallery job from bungly Gneiss, figures - naturally none talked. Six need springing and DetroitSimon is the man for the job.

2. Win some money gambling (NOT POKER)

Not sure what you've got against poker. I enjoy poker. I am good at poker. I guess I'll just win money some other way once I've busted the boys out of the can. Roulette maybe. $10,000 on 8/11, baby.

3. Pay your damned taxes! 

 Gneiss giving out the jobs himself. Weak. I'm a team player though and I'll make sure I put some dollars in an envelope for him. 

And that was that. No slop, pure filth, the LV-DT way. 13th in the books. DetroitSimon on the up. Goggins still sucks.