Correct walks down the street pondering the deaths of his grandfather and father. His grandfather died in the Detroit Massacre, and his father turned to the booze after hearing the news, he was later found dead in his apartment, the pistol still in his mouth. His father committed suicide for god knows what reason, must have been the vodka.

As Correct walks the streets he is suddenly filled with the urge to continue his bloodline's work. The people cannot go without it! Or so he thought. Correct walks into a square, where people are busily running erands. He overturns a soapbox and stands on top of it, preparing to give a speech his grandfather gave in the very same spot.

Correct adjusts his fedora, slightly loosens his tie, and begins to clear his throat. Men and women alike turn to hear what the young mobster has to say.

"Ladies and gentlemen, friends and foes, pickpockets and drug dealers. I am Correct, and I am here to answer a question that a few people must be asking."

Correct looks down at his feet and rubs the back of his neck.

"I am the grandson of TheRealDeal, and therefore I inherit TheRealTruth newspaper. You may be asking yourself why I'm here telling you this. Well, I would like nothing more than to continue publishing editions of TheRealTruth. But for that to happen, I need you!"

Correct points to each individual gathered before him.

"I need you, and you, and you. All of you. Every single one of you. I need not only your support of this newspaper, but your enthusiasm to write. See, this newspaper is unlike other papers in the past, it relys upon the community to send in articles. Now, I'm not complaining about a lack of submissions, I am simply urging all of you to send in a piece of your creative side! Let your mind flow, write about anything you wish!"

Correct then smiles at everyone listening closely. He points to an apartment building, on the side of the building is a shiny mail slot.

"That is where you can submit all of your pieces of writing, all of your opinions!"

On the mail slot is a sign, it reads: Submit Here

"Now, I am asking each and every one of you to contribute, at some point, to this newspaper. I want every single one of your voices heard, no matter how small, or large your voice may be. So please send in your opinions and articles, let your inner journalist come forth!"

With that burst of enthusiasm, Correct steps down and tightens his tie. He then waves to everyone and smiles before walking into the apartment building to wait for submissions.

Jelena hears a man giving a speech about reviving a newspaper his forefathers published. He needs you, you, and all of a sudden he points at me!

Sorry buddy, I have nothing to say to the press! she replies as she walks away. Her opinions are far too controversial to be published.

I now know where to go if i need to let the world know somthing.

OOC(Your link don't work)

(OOC: Yeah.. The link was supposed to just go to my mobmail)

Correct walks to the roof of his apartment building, he has been busily typing away and needs some fresh air. When he reaches the roof he decides to update the public. He begins yelling to those below on The Streets.

"Hello ladies and gentlemen. I would just like to inform you that the next edition is almost finished! I am just waiting on a few more submissions, so if you are hoping to have your writing in this edition, get your submission into my mail box before the end of the night!"

Correct decides to go get some sleep while he waits for more articles to be submitted.