Hey, you mugs and molls out there, listen up. I got this story that's got me half laughin, half shakin my head. 

LittleSi, that smooth-talkin son of a gun who could've conned a priest into runnin hooch, well, he took one in the ticker he never saw comin. Swanfree Swansong's big finale hit fast. Pop SimonTheSwanHunter, God rest his soul, he'da turned the whole mess into some epic tall tale around the poker table.

But nah, here I am, stumblin over the loose ends. Sleep tight, boss. Up there's gotta be better shots than down here.

Picture me, yeah? Sittin in that dim-lit gin mill off Grand Boulevard, nursin a highball that's mostly melted ice, when in creeps Skinny Vinny. Guy moves slow and careful. He plops down, fiddlin with his fedora, and wheezes out, Big G, the capos or whatever's left after that last scrap, they reckon you're the rock to lean on now." Rock” huh? Cute, on account of the name and all. I about swallowed my olive whole. Me? Takin the wheel on the Swans? That outfit's been comin apart since the boys came home from the war, and they toss the keys my way? LittleSi used to kid me nonstop bout makin the best of a bad situation. Guess the joke's on, fellas. Time to play the hand.

And here's the kicker. We're pullin stakes for Detroit. You know, that ol' Motor City junkpile, rusty and broke down. Factories belchin smoke, streets pocked with holes. But fresh dirt for plantin roots, right? I'm callin us the 12th Street Swan Lover’s , tough as those river bluffs from way back, maybe even strike gold if you pick the right spot to dig. All you old Swans hangin on, green kids lookin for a score, any wiseacre with a poker face and cards up his sleeve... pipe up in the replies, would ya? We'll hack a little Eden outta this beat-to-hell skyline.

First round's mine, providin the joint ain't gone up in smoke yet