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| Old Beginnings | Started by: Plato on Nov 15, '07 17:29 |
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At five foot eight, Plato couldn't be considered a big man, but equally, small was a wholly inaccurate word with which to brand him. Although naturally stocky, he had began to gain in strength through construction work and labour, thought it was his enforcing work with the notorious blackhand gangs under Chicago's Don Mickey Finelli. After the Don's death, Plato decided to start anew. Moving to Boston, he immediately affiliated himself with the Irish Crews up there, immediately using his brutality, strength and contacts to set himself up as a silent partner for the bootlegging operations of the disorganised rabble that was the Irsh gangs. He was more than eking out a living, the Irish guys gave him a fair cut as well as his own money makers on the side, but it was never a life, only an existance. He detested the way these roughians did their business. The lack of morals and class; it was like working with animals. He longed for the familiar biting wind at his cheeks, the wind he had always hated. He had thought about going back many a time, the heat would've died down by now after all, but nothing was the same. Even the infallible Godmother of Philadelphia had lived out the last of her days now, and the famous six cities were as far away as Presidancy was to Plato now. No, there was nothing for him back home now, at only twenty eight years old, the peak of his life was behind him, and he found himself longing for the return of old friends. With a great sigh, Plato heaved his muscled frame out of bed and went to check his mail. |
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