As a long-serving marine/tier one operator, I've seen my fair share of combat. I've protected Chinese interests looting the rich mineral deposits of Namibia. I've oppressed left-leaning guerrilla resistances across various undemocratic tropical states. I've bunkered down with Slavic mercenary groups exacerbating sectarian violence across civilian populations. I've even shot a man in Reno just to watch him die. 

I am, by all accounts, a good man and a good soldier.

Yet, here I stand in the familiar residual smoke of warfare, untouched by this bloody war.

My mortal enemy Pickpocket is dead, my crew leader DuchessDingleberry has been slain, and I am now a man without home or purpose. 

What does the future have in store for TextBasedMafiaRPGMan? 

If I learned one thing running subterfuge operations to undermine Taiwanese independence efforts on behalf of Beijing, it is this: in all things have no preferences.

Pardon friend, have you considered taking auth and becoming a Crewleader? You can't be much worse than Duchess was, and I would quite enjoy watching you get purged in the future.

I currently don't qualify, on account of the time standards those HQ landlords have imposed. That is not a mark against me but against a society who has not yet embraced the lackadaisical front I put on in order to disguise my elite instincts as a tier one operator. I have been busy with my unit in Ahmedabad planting evidence to besmirch Gandhi as a favor to my drunk, obese friend Winston Churchill.

You deserve the opportunity extasedafiaan to go run free and wild amongst the elite of this world. Just like everyone else I believe you should grasp with both hands and listen to ferret

If the right honorable robot nerd won't take auth and die, I demand instead that he should be killed for being a high ranking confidant of Duchess the betrayer.

It breaks my heart to see him walking and talking instead of leaking his robot juice all over the floor. I want to see his sockets melted. I want to see the kind of robotic device destruction normally seen in lonely divorcee Mothers bedrooms.

Why is he alive?

Ferret and Freixenet, would whatever powers remain even want me as a crewleader? And who would want the job? Crewleading is a curse. My crewleader is the Pope. And God. And the USA. If I stepped on a landmine chaperoning French cultural contraband out of Indochina, and my legs were blown off clean to the hip, I might consider it only then, as punishment for my sins. And if my arms were blown off too? I'd need some goombas to spoon-feed mush into my toothless gums. Would the government rebuild me? Who can say. To crew-lead is to crew-follow, do you know what I mean? My crewleader, the President, wants me to stop democracy from reaching Haiti. But he'd have to invest in my robo-parts. Democracy won't crush itself. Mafia Democracy least of all. 

Father Jack is out for his post liquid lunch 'stroll' being pushed around by Bob, one of his many bodyguards when he suddenly exlaims.

"ARSE BISCUITS"

Bob pats Father Jack on the shoulder to calm him down.

"Calm down Father, I'm sure you just misheard, I'm sure he didn't mention anything about shaving privates".

Father Jack is visibly upset and demands a pick me up.

"DRINK!"

Bob tries to calm Jack down

"When we get back home Father"

As Father Jack is about to protest he hears a familiar name, Pickpocket.

"FECKING GOBSHITE!!!"

I might not always be able to pleasure my wife due to my atrophied muscles, less than appealing physical appearance and her penchant for intercourse with other men, but I do know what I expect from my leaders and that is certainly not having three masters. Pope, God and USA?Where would you find the time to juggle that? How would you prevent the job board from becoming neglected while you're at Mass? Have you even heard of perm auth, Text? Seems unlikely. I don't think you have any clue what real leadership actually is. Here's a clue, until you've carved 4,300 names into your arm, bragged about murdering Wise Guys and had your underboss betray you like my man Octavius the Mighty, you're not qualified to open a book, forget about a HQ. Shit, I bet you couldn't even list all 8 tiers of Rebuild. 

SoWeakWayne, I wouldn't want to be a crewleader. That would put me in charge of weaklings like you, instead of surrounded by powerful, sweaty hogs like the men in my unit. It would be a step down. I wouldn't be able to look the Pope, my best friend, in the eye. He lets me wear his hat sometimes. He despises me, he claims my robo-parts are an affront to the natural divine order, but he gets giggly after a glass of port and asks if he can polish my metal head. Which head? That's for me to know. He is an extremely repressed little deviant, so don't insinuate anything. 

Is the war over yet? Who's still fighting? Who is fighting who? It's not for me to say or know. And I mean it when I say I genuinely do not know. But when it is, I expect to be violently murdered. It would offer me closure. I intend to be the seed of societal rebirth, 5-man HQ's constructed out of cyborg scrap metal, as God intended.