I guess every Simon has found themselves where I am standing now; immediately adjacent to the freshly turned earth over the previous fat Simon who now has a gaping hole in their head where most of their face used to be.

A tough 13 months for our extensive family tree, I have to admit. The swan hunting one was first, the pioneer of Simonry who reintroduced the world to the virtues of egregious payday claiming, mugging relentlessly and picking on those weaker than yourself. Naturally, someone shot him and LittleSi, his son, strode out into the world and fought the good fight against the evils of TomJoad, struggled against but never quite overcame claims of stolen valour in the founding of New Detroit after the snowball battle with the Comrades, and curiously sent xXArtiomXx $50,000,000 just for existing. gz.

Of course, someone shot him too. Right about here. Simon points to the top of his forlorn moustache. Really gruesome finish; an open casket was out of the question before but after, deary me. Only old mother BigPaw could even bear to look at him, and that was because she'd had a lifetime of practice from enduring the sight of the malformed features of her own offspring. His face looked like pavement pizza after the birds had picked out the most edible pieces. Or a Danish delicacy, even. Truly horrifying. 

Next came, DetroitSimon. Curiously named for a man resident in Las Vegas and terribly bad at completing projects he started like his diary, his transplant of a 12th Street lav for Made Man ceremonies and teaching TextBasedMafiaRPGMan how to make it past Boss. He too met his demise like every preceding Simon, gunned down by his own Don after protecting him.

I suspected that would be the last in the horrible line of Simon's but no, brother BlackSheeo managed to drag himself from the wilderness and tried lamely to preserve the Simon name. Should a family name be their Christian name? Is that odd or unique? Either way, that obscenely named oaf couldn't even muster the energy to open his mouth or hone his skills during his increasingly forgetful tenure. It was almost a mercy killing by the time Tommy Shelbs tucked him in to bed with a good night story about something DetroitSimon had said he didn't want to do, and held the pillow over his face after he'd done his best Flash-Fire impression and left himself completely at his attacker's mercy. 

And that was that. The last of bloodline, gone, the heirs of the Swansong empire all wiped out no trueborn descendants to follow in their footsteps. Everything ends, right? 

Or, so people hoped. Unfortunately there were two universal truths about SimonTheSwanHunter, which he passed down through his defective genes to his progeny. One, he was greedy and there is a fat fortune to inherit if anyone could prove a connection, and two, he was a shagger, more than Mrs TheSwanHunter could handle. Which leads to me, SimonTheBastard. The natural-born son of that horrible man, down on my luck and in desperate need of collecting a delicious payday. Time to collect. 

Ah, LostBoy, I mean SimonTheBastard.  Good to see you out here.

But I remember different days.  Better days.  The days when my lineage had a face that fit.  You see, I never believed my detractors when they said my lineage only got promoted to the upper structure when I had a few hundred million to chuck around.  But lately, it seems that the lighter my lineages wallet, the less my face fits when it comes to being in the upper structure.

And like the bones of my face, my lineage presented sharp and distinguishes structure.  Striking.  Handsome.  My lineage had the first LHM fan club.

But it seems I can no longer afford to serve the public, my people, on these streets I've loved so well.

Sounds like you need to get yourself a better paying job then, Anton, so that you can buy yourself a seat at the table. Have you ever considered writing? I know a guy who used to receive handsome tips. 

Well, SimonTheBastard, writing don't pay what it Once did.

Any of ideas for stories that The People want told?

Well, Anton, in the interest of advancing Antonism, this marvelous philosophy that we've been promised for some time now, I have a great idea for a story. While digging around in the subway stations of New York I came across an old piece of clay pottery with a broken lid. Curious thing to find in a subway station, I thought. Inside were the charred remains of a Birth Certificate. It looks like someone tried to destroy it to conceal the identity of SimonTheBastard's father.

We all know that Simon Snow's mother is Mrs. TheSwanHunter. But who is the father? Who is trying to hide his identity and destroy all evidence thereof? If I had money to bet, I'd say The Bastard's father is/was PropertyManager, who was also DetroitSimon's son. I'm not sure what that makes him in relation to the rest of the Simon family, other than just a sick fuck.

For the story, perhaps it should involve an investigation into SimonTheBastard's parentage. It could involve some lurid tales of Mrs. TheSwanHunter whoring around New York with dirty bums. Maybe it could even involve...gulp...a writing competition.

g0d have mercy on our souls.