If your name is DetroitSimon, stop listening now. 

Everyone else, hello. 

I come to you with an important question on my mind: why don't we all just shoot each other?

Most of us are functional human-beings. We've got thoughts, dreams, urges and desires, like anyone else. For example, I'd love a slice of apple pie right now. I'd also love to kill DetroitSimon. These are just simple things I think about sometimes, when the mood strikes. I know you must think it too.

We're simple people. We all have questions.

"What would happen if I stuffed DaveGoggins into a backpack and threw it off a ferry?"

"Why does EIkmilk look around the room, and then point at himself and raise his eyebrows, when asked where milk comes from?"

"What does Reggie do alone in Detroit with those swanstitutes all day?"

But the big question, the really thrilling one that everyone bounces around, is "Why don't we all just shoot each other?"

I say we give in to those primal urges.

Let's weigh the pros and cons.

We'd gain:

• A fun time.
• The thrill of mutual animosity. 
• Many of us would be excused from positions of meaningless responsibility via the sweet release of death.
• DetroitSimon would likely take a fat one to the cabbage, just like all the other Simon's.
• A war speech full of way-too-long, incredibly boring replies from super-nerds about why these four incidents and leadership anecdotes from their killers' past means they really have the moral high-ground.

We'd lose:

• EIkmilk's milk crew, probably.
• DetroitSimon, hopefully.
• Many of us would lose responsibilities involving sending shot report mass mails, forwarding poker mails and tending to the job board, oh no!!!
• Our properties? Do I know how those work? No. 

If anyone would like to try and convince me why this is a bad idea, please speak up, otherwise I'm feeling quite convinced.

I cannot emphasise this next part enough.

I would absolutely love it if someone found me worthwhile enough to waste prioritise a rogue shot on. I have 203 very real bodyguard support and a massive cap killing gun (ignore my 200 days of sleeping, I was building the whole time.). I am absolutely a target who needs to be dealt with as soon as possible. 

Failing that. Matt if you don't let me honk your honk it will end in disaster (and sweet relief) for one of us.

Look at this. A crewleader immediately pledging their support to being shot at. This is what a community looks like. Where is DetroitSimon? Lurking in the shadows? Having his hair cut for a dollar-fifty in a shop that also sells Mars Bars and windshield wiper fluid? Jellying eels? And why won't Matt allow himself to be honked? Who is pulling the strings? And why won't they kill me? 

What even is a shot report anyways? 

I would love to see those poker mails lost in the trash though. 

ZoyechkaBelikov has died almost immediately after receiving this rallying cry. Someone got the memo. We're off to a very good start here.

I've made polite enquiries with an obese Left Hand Man I will not name for reasons for omerta. Once the fat bastard answers we will discover what Zoyech did to earn death, and see if we can replicate it here in Noob York City.

Alarmed at the suddenly homicidal robot, Dick jumps to the rescue...

"Aren't you supposed to be a protector of the people, or something like that? Now you're the Jim Jones of Mafia Cyborgs. Well I'm not drinking the Kool-Aid, bub. I stand behind my mighty Boss, Detroit Simon, who I fear and respect, and long for the day he kills all of you with a single swing of his mighty fist."

Having listened to your proposal I think this might be the best idea I have seen in mein entire leben.

And that's saying something, because I come into contact with A LOT of ideas during my time here. Ich bin ein member of at least 23 think tanks across the country. Dealing with subjects ranging from "microbial macro economics" all the way down to "hamburger colour composition guidelines". Luckily, the milk business is something I have been able to avoid since that's run by CROOKS.

Aber, I digress.

Textbasedmafiarpgman, who is to be my first target to smother in sauerkraut?

Matt stepped forward straightening his tie with deliberate care, the kind of small composed gesture that suggested he had already made up his mind long before anyone else had even finished forming theirs.

He cleared his throat, not out of nerves, but ceremony.

“Ladies, Gentlemen and Milk enthusiasts. I have carefully reviewed this proposal and after extensive and thorough internal discussions entirely conducted with and by myself, I have reached a conclusion.”

He stopped, turning slightly, as if to ensure every eye was on him.

“Absolutely fucking not."

"Not because of morality, nor fear, not even basic survival instinct. No. I simply refuse to be taken out by a man who has the worst hair cut I've ever seen."

A few steps carried him further across the room, his gaze drifting as though observing something far more interesting than the people present.

“And let’s consider the consequences shall we? If we all start shooting each other, who exactly is going forward on the sacred poker messages? Who will ask with unwavering consistency, what a ‘shot report’ is every single week as though encountering the concept for the first time?”

He shook his head, almost disappointed.

“You’re all thinking too small.”

His tone then shifted, not louder, but sharper and more focused.

“While you’re busy declaring open season on one another, I will be occupied with matters of actual importance like hoarding power, hoarding snacks and most critically denying honk requests indefinitely.”

He waved a dismissive hand as if assigning each person their irrelevance.

“As far as I am concerned DetroitSimon can continue lurking in whatever barbershop petrol station hybrid he insists on calling home and EIkmilk may carry on with his lifelong investigation into dairy based identity."

Then, finally, Matt placed a hand lightly against his chest.

“But me? I will survive purely out of spite. And when the dust clears, when the last of you has dramatically monologued yourselves into an early grave, I will still be here. Unread. Unshot. Unhonked."