They say dogs don’t age well. As Buddy sat in his panel-lined study, sipping from his favourite dog bowl, he felt older than ever as he thought back to the road that had led him here.

Murdering his first boss, FatGrin when he was just days old. The Detroit muggings back in the days of SimontheSwanHunter. Summers that lasted forever and organised crime lock-ups that lasted even longer. The removal of Shitcago on half a dozen occasions that all blurred into one.

Thinking back to those times, things were different. They were better. People showed respect when it was due and made a point when it wasn’t. Now all Buddy seemed to see from the new young Turks was contempt.

Nevaa was a case in point. A talentless off-cast. Rejected by his mother at birth and left to die at the side of a road to nowhere. As welcome as knotweed on a buyer’s survey. Yet Buddy had brought him in off the streets, put a roof over his head and food in his belly. Now Nevaa had grown, but not into a man. A man would be no word to describe this poor excuse for a mafioso. To this day all he did was take, take, take. A pathetic excuse for every weekly envelope, and a list of one-off payday loans as long as my tail.

And yet, with age Nevaa was beginning to expect certain privileges. To be made into the family. The longer Buddy delayed, the more questions were getting asked. The time had come to stick or twist.

Buddy’s HQ hadn’t heaved like it did today since the early days in LA. All of the made men of the family were in attendance, as were the great and the good of the city and even a select few close family friends from the other cities. Drinks clinked and chatter and laughter murmured throughout the building.

However, Buddy remained in his panel-lined study alone. Sipping from his dog bowl. Contemplating this path to this point and the here and now. The world was watching.

The clock chimed and everyone filtered into the ceremony room. At the front lay a book. Alongside it a sharpened knife and a flickering candle.

The made men lined the walls, leaving the space at the front of the room. Nevaa strode in, beaming like a Cheshire Cat.

Buddy followed him with a solemn look on his face and the room fell silent.

As Nevaa turned to face Buddy his blood ran cold and his smirk was wiped faster than Archy drops $50m in the casino.

Buddy was holding the knife, but not across his palm. Instead, his arm was raised and before Nevaa could react it came tumbling down into the side of his neck. Again and again Buddy struck. Through the throat, the collarbone, the chest. Again and again and again. The shoulder, the lung, but never once that face, for it was already brutal enough looking.

On the 47th stroke @Neeva fell to the floor. Somehow still conscious. Blood bubbling from his mouth.

“47 stab punctures for the 47 paydays you’ve taken.

And consider this one your last.”

Buddy reached into his pocket and took out a bound wad of $37.5k. Tossing it over Nevaa’s bloodied body the notes fluttered through the air and stuck to the blood that had saturated his shirt.

Buddy then pulled out his gun, pointed it between @Neeva’s eyes.

But before he could pull the trigger, he felt cold steel against the back of his own neck. Thomas_Shelby had breached the walls of the HQ. There was a brief pause that felt like an eternity and then he simply heard the words “everything ends”.

This story rings more fable than just an idiot's yarn, despite the low intellect of the speaker. The lesson here should actually be clear to everyone and KingsleyShacklebolt in particular should take note; never try to stop paydays. Pre-payday punishment Buddy was just being stupid and ugly in Los Angeles, largely ignored and widely ridiculed. Tries to take 47 paydays worth of face from Nevaa's chops and the next minute treacherous Tommy is there ready to plunge the knife in. Actions have consequences, Bud. I'm not saying anyone is going to kill Kingsley if he doesn't turn paydays on. And yet...