With the disbanding...dispansion, (is that even a word?)...closure...(that's the one) of his headquarters and his relocation to HQ Ramza in Chicago, Credits found himself with some spare time. He had liquidated a lot of his former interests but he still had connections to the newspaper industry and Ramza had tasked him with maintaining these for his new family. It was useful having newspaper people on the payroll as it allowed the family to spin things in a certain way that might lead public perception to be a little different to the reality, which Ramza understood. It also helped explain some of things they did in a way that was more palatable than "because we could...now pay up" which also helped.

So Credits was pleased to do this for his boss because it made perfect sense, but he also knew his own passions were a little more lighthearted than that. He had always had a flair for entertainment and his friends had often joked with him that if he hadn't joined the family business, he would have joined the circus. They actually meant this because he was ugly as sin and would fit in well as part of the freak show, but to Credits' mind, they meant being a clown because he was hilarious and always making them laugh. Something along those lines, anyway.

With this in mind, he had quietly recruited a team of writers and put them to work on producing something a little different to what was available at the moment. It was nothing too fancy, just a couple of gags and stories he and his team had conjured up to entertain his buddies when they were doing their rounds and had knocked up into a flyer. It was nothing the cops could do anything with either as it was all just hearsay and bullshit. Let the real journalists report the stories, he thought, he would hopefully put a smile or two on usually serious faces.

Credits read through the final draft and nodded to his runner. The lad collected the handful of fliers and ran out to the streets to begin distribution.

From Tehran, Iran, with love.

by Credits

There are many irrefutable facts in our world; the sky is undoubtedly blue, the sea is undeniably wet and you can be certain that someone, somewhere, is going to be complaining about a boring-ass pickpocketing incident even though nobody gives anything close to resembling a fuck about them anymore. 

These are universal truths and another such fun fact it turns out, is that we men are insanely jealous creatures who rise to the slightest provocation particularly where the fairer sex are involved. It's true. Even though we don't mean to be, somehow, before too long our blood is boiling, our hearts are racing and almost inevitably, we are left picking pieces of plaster out of our knuckles from where we have just punched a nearby wall after our sweetheart has sloped off with someone else, despite the hours of not talking to her and staring at the back of her head longingly we've been doing.

That ignorant bitch.

My own forlorn attempts at love aside, it would seem that I'm not alone and this jealousy is not hindered by country of origin or culture. It affects men from every race, every country and every profession. Never was this more evident that on the famous cobbles of Streeton, Mafiaville, where a fight broke out between an Iranian thug and a well respected businessman from New York. 

Rumour has it the scuffle started after our Iranian friend, famously referred to in bordellos across the country as "the IronSheik", was caught sneaking out of a Black Bottom hotel, scantily clad and locked in a camel clutch, with none other than up and coming, Eredin associate, Zephyra.

The couple's attempt at secrecy were thwarted by a loudmouth porter, known only as "Keegan", who tipped us off and fortunately our man Rusty, ever eager to be inside Black Bottoms, raced to the scene (enormous ginger afro covertly corn-rolled for just such an eventuality), with his trusty portable Kodak camera to capture the shocking moment first hand. 

Apparently news of their tryst got back to Eredin who flew into a rage and took to the streets himself to denounce the IronSheik and his intentions towards Zephyra, presumably on account of his own inclinations in that direction. He had this to say:

"Who the fuck does he think he is? Hustling in on my patch. Stupid mustachioed motherfucker. Who is he helping? You tell me. Just who the fuck is he helping? Eh? EH? How is putting that drop dead body in a camel clutch helping anyone? Fucking asshole."

- Eredin, Consigliere, Bronx.

Following the altercation the whereabouts of the IronSheik are unknown, although it is believed his dallying days are permanently over. Zephyra was understandably heartbroken and unavailable for comment at this difficult time. 

"Here!" he shouted to his lad "put this one out too!" 

Rumours of Necrophilia plague Chicago

by Credits

With the removal of The_Hitcher's regime out in Detroit came an outpouring of emotion from mobsters across the country. It seems the Don was well respected and well liked, even among his assassins, with many of those purported to be involved in the killing attending his funeral and offering their condolences to friends and family. A truly fitting send off was observed by the many in attendance. 

However, the mourning appears to have come to an abrupt halt as rumours abound of unseemly nighttime activities taking place in Chicago in the wake of the recent slaughter. Apparently, some bastards from the city are so randy that they just can't satisfy themselves with getting their jollies from the living, and have now branched out into the dead!

This alarming trend came to light after South Side Consigliere, Technical, came to the streets to announce a protection order, only for passersby to note the only ones benefiting form his protection would be his beloved corpses, given that virtually everyone from Detroit had already been slaughtered. 

In the face of such despicable allegations, Technical was quick to set the record straight:

"I think people have misunderstood. We're looking after the little guy, you know, Whatshisname...and Jimmy thingybob...the big guy, with the hat...yeah...and they are both still alive I might add and in desperate need of protection. Well, last time I heard they were alive anyway, I don't know for sure, but eh. Don't take the piss. Any surviving members of Detroit wearing their families tags have 24 hours from the start of my speech to find homes. That's reasonable, isn't it?

And all deceased ones should be rounded up and delivered The Exiles headquarters for proper....processing.

Nothing sinister. Honest."

- Technical, Consigliere, Visas

The announcement was met with horror by concerned relatives and friends. Fortunately for all concerned, they were labeled salty motherfuckers and told to shut up.

[TOMMYWISEAU enters The Room]

[TOMMY is holding the newspaper in his hands.  He has just finished reading.  He puts the paper down and removes his dark glasses.  He looks up at CREDITS]

TOMMYWISEAU: "Many newspapers come and go.... most are written by hand or by typewriter..... but what sets your newspaper apart from the others Credits... is what you chose to write yours with................................. your heart."

[TOMMYWISEAU looks down to the ground for a moment.  His expression is reflective.  After a moment he looks back up to CREDITS.  There is a sadness in his eyes.]

TOMMYWISEAU: "I once had a heart too..... but I gave it away.....and when she returned it to me.... it was broken.  

These are great stories you have included in your first edition... important stories..... I look forward to reading more in the future."

Chicago's latest loan signing, KevinOwens

By Rusty

Everyone knows KevinOwens isn't the type to stay in one place for too long, so it came as no great surprise to us when Owens revealed in the street that his latest position was not a permanent one. Rumoured to be out on loan until the end of the season, Owens was quick to dismiss his separation from his beloved Detroit New York roots when exchanging words with several mobsters and informed them that his stint in North Side was just a temporary situation. Here is what he had to say:

"I am from New York for a start Padrino. I am on loan to Chicago for a short time." - KevinOwens

Expected to see the remainder of the season out on loan with Sovereign, Owens has been making himself unuseful in the RHM position, racking up an impressive amount of appearances (in the street) and assisting where possible. It is expected that Kev will return to open arms from the New York syndicates, except La Famiglia Gato, who may or may not have (but probably didn't) said that they would "prefer to see KevinOwens stay in Chicago", especially after a recent verbal exchange between the two well hated respected mobsters took place out in the street. Fortunately, I had my kodak at hand and managed to get a quick picture of what was going on. As you can see, it certainly seemed like things were heating up, rumour has it the pair are still currently going at it with no idea as to when it may allay.

Asbestos causes havoc in Sin City

by Credits

Property owners across the country are being warned to avoid buying in Las Vegas, "like the fucking plague", by a top surveyor, after a reported asbestos problem has laid waste to many of the city's top establishments. Whilst the material is only considered harmful to humans when disturbed, the increased pressure upon owners to have it environmentally disposed of (rather than put out on it's ear quicker than AfghanTango's Los Angeles ownership claims), has seen many simply wash their hands of otherwise profitable investments. 

The previously unreported issue was apparently first discovered by reputed crime kingpin Seph, alleged Don of the Pyromaniac crime syndicate, when one of his top lieutenants, Vanessa_Ives, was handed the keys to her own nightclub only to unceremoniously dump them back on his desk a short time later. Possibly, although currently unsubstantiated, covered in DooDooBrown. 

Fortunately, before her untimely passing, Miss Ives explained her decision to close up shop; saying:

"Tried to stitch me up, didn't he? Said to me "here you go, girl. Here's a nice little place to have as your own, do what you like". Only when I get my scruffs on and started peeling back the plaster; place is only fucking riddled. Asbestos fucking everywhere! I haven't stopped coughing since! Can't do a fucking thing to it, now. And what do you think happened to Cin, eh? I heard she just wanted to knock through her kitchen and dining room to make it open plan so she could entertain all her pals - next thing she's fucking coughing her guts out, blood everywhere and needs the doctor! This shit is fucking nuts." 

- Vanessa-Ives, deceased (likely due to asbestos poisoning) 

Having seen the downfall of two of her predecessors, current Paradise bigwig, Doll, was quick to reassure everyone that all was well. We met her in her office and she had this to say:

"I don't know why people are shitting themselves, everything's absolutely fine out here. Promise. Oh what, the mask? It's nothing, I always wear it around the house, honest."

- Doll, Consigliere, Paradise

Despite her assurances, many fear that it is only a matter of time before the asbestos crisis causes another seemingly sound Las Vegas operation to shut its doors.

As ever, regardless of whether you reply or not, we'll keep you posted. 

Putting down the paper Dick looks around with a smile on his face. I suppose the paper did as it stated because Dick was pleased, and when Dick is pleased it sets the tone for a good day ahead.

Well done Credits and others. I enjoyed the read very much. Was informative and enjoyable too a Dick that has been underwraps for some time. It helps Dick get caught up on current affairs. Speaking affairs, where is Iris when you need her? We need to go over a few things before her significant other begins asking questions. Well gotta run!

"Hurry up, we need to leave."

Sereno made it known that he was ready and waiting, his voice muffled yet audible from the other side of the toilet door. Himself and two of his workers had stopped by HQ to grab a drink and take a short break. This was a usual thing. Business kept them busy yet it wasn't exactly a 8-hour a day, 40-hour regimented work week the so called working American's that could find jobs did. Fuck that right off. Who's fucked up idea was it to start that trend?

Joe Blow can follow the dictators while the smart and business savvy, well dressed men and women who really ran shit, did what they wanted to during the time they carved out of their not as slave like work days. And hard work it was. Not the, work yourself beat till you can't get an erection type of work. It was the type that at moments had you rushing with adrenaline not knowing whether this minute would be your last. The kind of work that put money in the pocket and hairs on your balls. The kind that had everyday America on it's knees and J Edgar Hoover bitching.

Sereno pulled up a chair and noticed a pile of fliers that had been circulating throughout Chicago, sitting on the table. As he read through one he smiled, realizing the humour in it. At the same time chuckles could be heard coming from the toilet. Within a few seconds the sound of the toilet flushing preceded the toilet door opening. Out came Fat Joe tucking in his shirt and holding a copy of the flier. As Joe entered the room, Sereno looked at him from where he was seated and shook his head with a smirk, realizing he had just taken a dump and had been reading the same thing.

"Come on, let's move, Anton will be expecting us outside about now."

Joe returned the flier to the communal HQ table next to the handful of others and followed Sereno. It was time to get back to work and make a dime in the downtrodden economy. The risks matched the rewards and this afternoon was sure to be rewarding, Sereno thought, as he fixed the positioning of his handgun in his waistband before walking out into the street.

Richard happened upon a flyer stapled to a lamp post. He tore it off and scanned its contents. "Who gives a rat's brajole about dust? My fellow paisans flew five thousand miles to build the Empire State Building. They never complained about dirty air," he said while chortling to himself. The world used to be tougher. If there was a problem, someone handled the thing and that would be the end of it. Take Gary Cooper, for example. Now there was a guy with moxie.

Sweeping his medium-length taper haircut back with a comb, Richard gave the flyer one last glance. He shook his head in depreciation. No hackneyed spinsters could change his perception of Sin City. One day he'd make the trip over. One of the days...