Al kicks the soapbox to the curb, he is tall enough to be seen and heard.

Fellow mobsters, gangsters, and all you wanna be's, lend me your attention for a short time please. We all come to these streets with a sense of who we might be, how we might change this thing of ours, don't we? Maybe some come to be a wise guy bitch, but most of us are here to scratch a certain itch. So what should a gangster do when even their best attempts at greatness fail? What course should a mobster take when they work for weeks to no avail? How can one stand proud when others rise, fall, and rise again, while you sit there waiting for a war to kill off your next kin? How can a person go on seeing certain inferiority, while they are held back simply due to their obvious superiority? Well friend, Al understands your life is a living hell, so take my advice and bid us all your final farewell.

Al grins and walks away.

Conway takes a pitchfork and lights a molotov cocktail as he angrily verbally insults Al for pulling a psychedelic conversation on him. 

Dont grin at me either!" He yelled.

Merci stops, smiles, and shakes her head.

"Had me going there for a minute. See you on the rooftops, hun," she calls over her shoulder as she climbs into a cab, headed for the airport.

Lana makes her way to Al, gives a hug to her old pal. In these streets we've always known our sarcasms are often shown. Friends are what we are, I think. Come on crazy Al, lets go for a drink.