A satirical piece to explore the stupidity of PP Rules, and the ridiculous procedures and codes of conduct that go with it. Enjoy

Eric Cantona walked along the the banks of the south-branch of the Chicago river, contently whistling the french song 'frere Jacques' as he went. He was contented, life was good in so many ways. He was a made guy, and he had enough business interests, both legal and shady, across the four cities that he was set for life. At times, he did miss the old country. The sharp, sea air of Marseille and the camaraderie of his fellow countrymen was something he occasionally became very homesick for; but he knew he could never go back. France had changed forever following the conclusion of World War I , and he knew he would still be a wanted man in Marseille for his crimes.

Besides, he had a good family here in America. His wife was a devoted American woman who was obedient and pliant, the sort of woman that could never be found on the Cote D'Azur, and his two boys were an immense and neverending source of pride. Although his mid forties, he looked somewhat younger than his years despite his salt-and-pepper hair and beard and rugged, weathered looks. This, along with his tall and powerful frame and, perhaps more cynically, his considerable wealth interested in women and he kept two classy mistresses on the side. Life wwas good indeed.

His good mood did not last long. The harmony of a glorious Chicago summer's day was shattered when Eric Cantona felt something brush against his trouser pocket. Looking behind, Eric was momentarily surprised to see someone keeping pace with him simultaneously half-crouching and trying to slip a hand into his pocket. Rage instantly swallowed surprise and Eric grabbed the man's wrist in a vice like grip with iron-like fingers controlled by forearms made incredibly powerful thanks to a lifetime at the Butcher's block. With increasing pressure, Eric bent the man's wrist back until he heard a satisfying sound somewhere between a pop and a snap. He wasn't sure whether he'd broken the wrist or torn through the tendon, but the result was a shrill, satisfying screech from the would be thief.

Eric was unconcerned by the commotion, he was known in this neighbourhood and had no reason to fear the local's would go to the police. He half steered half dragged the man into the closet alley and pinned him against the wall by the lapels of his suit jacket.

"What are you doing?! My wrist! It's fucked! Why would you do that? What's wrong with you?! We're from the same city!"

Eric spat in disgust and leaned in towards the man until their noses were an inch apart.

"Disgrace! 'Ow dare you?! You think to come like this to me, to steal from me, and then to get away with ze crime because you are, 'ow you say, from my city?! Ah 'ave never seen your face before you leetle worm! You meck me sick!"

Before the man had chance to respond, Eric threw his head forward with explosive speed and power and was rewarded with a satisfying crunch as the man's nose imploded under the power of the headbutt. The blood, surprisingly, came out as a pitiful trickle rather than the torrential stream Cantona was expecting, and it had not even reached the man's upper lip by the time the follow up punch came crashing into the man's jaw. As soon as he connected, Eric knew the jaw was broken and saw the pickpocket's eyes glaze over. He was unconscious by the time he hit the floor. Nevertheless, Eric delivered a few brutal kicks to the man's midriff for good measure before going through the man's items and finding, to his delight, various items of contraband totalling around $2mill in street value. Taking out a handkerchief to wipe the spots of blood from his knuckles and shoes, Eric exited the alley and continued with his day.

Some Hours Later...

Eric sat in a broody, unresponsive silence. His only movement so far had been an upturned grimace and a typically Gallic shrug, before he returned to staring at the table that separated him from the two people opposite. Finally, he raised his head to look into the eyes of those opposite; first the elderly gentleman, and then the woman, his own leader.

"Ziva, Ah think you must appreciate 'ow ah feel. Zis man, it is vairy sad zat 'ee has ze broken bones, ah regret that lost all of eez money; but 'ee tried to steal from me, what can 'ee expect?!"

Ziva sighed heavily and opened her mouth to respond, but was beaten to the punch by the elderly gentleman.

"How dare you! You french piece of shit! That guy was one of my associates, a fine earner; and now he's down $2,000,000 and unable to leave Chicago for fuck knows how long because you went over the top and beat him half to death! You didn't even tell him you were unfriendly to pickpockets! Vaffancul!

"HOW DARE I?!" The response from Cantona was equally as vitriolic "Ah deedn't tell 'im ah was unfriendly to pickpockets?! Zis is ridiculous! By zis logic, can ah go out to shoot someone on ze street because zey did not tell me zey are unfriendly to murderers?! Of course not!"

In the tense silence that followed, Ziva spoke quietly but intensely, fixing Cantona with a stern glare. Her tone however, said what she could not. Everyone in the room knew that the 'pickpocket policy' was a joke - and yet they all persevered with the sick charade, like a bunch of incestuous mimes at Christmas.

"Eric, you know how things go. If someone picks your pockets and you beat them half to death and take everything they own, you have to warn them that you're doing to do it first. That's how we do things."

Ziva was worried. Eric was one of her best earners and most loyal members, but he was staring down the barrel here. Eric, however, knew something that Ziva did not. Standing, he removed his suit jacket and and rolled up his shirt sleeve to reveal a small tattoo on his forearm. It was only four letters, but it was four letters that would change everything.

NO PP

Upon seeing the ink, Ziva sighed in relief and the other Crewleader gasped audibly, almost falling off his chair. His voice, when it finally came, was a strangled whisper.

"My member...did he see this?" When Cantona nodded in confirmation, the older man turned to Ziva "Well, this seems to settle matters. Ziva, I'm sorry to waste your time with this, and I'm sorry to have lost my temper with you too, Cantona"

Cantona, in turn, apologised for speaking out of turn and the three mobsters enjoyed a quiet drink before individually attending to their own business matters. The case was closed, but the ridiculously un-Mafia like, convoluted and downright stupid process was doomed to be repeated the next time a piss-arse little tit went pickpocketing and then complained about the end result. Shame.