So here we are, friend.

Some of you come to these streets and talk about how you were born, where you came from, all that snazzy stuff about the Irish/Italian immigrant with the father who was murdered but conveniently left behind a letter of all the things he wanted to tell you. You know, I wonder, where are all these letters being stashed? Is there some sort of post-mortem courier service I'm unaware of?

Nevertheless, I need no introduction.

I know each and every one of you. I was there when you were born; I helped create you. I defined the constraints of your very own alias - what's printed on your birth certificate. Your parents may have tried to baptize you with some ostentatious, four-word Italian name, but I didn't let that happen. The moment each of you was born, you accepted the TWENTYCHARACTERLIMIT. You had no choice.

So why do I exist? Why have the Gods deemed it suitable that you are all subject to my TWENTYCHARACTERLIMIT? Is it fair that I can exist both as a participant and an abstraction of your own conception? Are we ever able to escape the TWENTYCHARACTERLIMIT that girdles us?

Can you ever be free of my grasp?

Why must our own birth certificates have constraints?

I think the question you are really asking is: Why must I reach the end of this bottle?

Jargon heard some gangster who nobody knew of screaming and kicking around in the streets of Chicago, as if he was hooked on some type of drug. "Some superhuman wacko type shit right there", he thought. It wasn't until he overheard him going on about some God type crap, claiming everyone is in his grasp. 

He walked over to this young gangster and addressed him. "Look, kid, people sleep around in these apartments around here and don't want to listen to you baffle on about whatever the hell you're talking about. Go talk a walk, these streets are dangerous man.". He took a sip of his drink, fixed his suit and turned left into the next alley, hoping to never see this young kiddo again.

Just before Jargon got 10m down the alleyway, he  could still here this kid screaming and going off. Nobody could see anything in this kid, but he had a particular job in mind that would suit him. He approaches the gangster once again, takes in a deep breath and exclaims "Look man, I can tell you're new around here. I got a few jobs I think you'd suit.. if you come with me, money and hardwork will be involved. Shit don't come easy around here, but I can help you get on your feet. Wadda-ya say?". 

TWENTYCHARACTERLIMIT glances at the dainty little invite extended to him by Jargon

Aw, this one is nice! I especially like the floral design on this one. Very bold use of salmon as well. These invites are getting so vivacious nowadays.

He sets the invite on top of a pile of five others.

My, things have certainly changed in the course of a few years. Why, wasn't there a time when Capos were killed for member whoring? I can't even count the number of infractions to this old rule I've seen today alone. I guess times have certainly changed, for better or worse, I suppose.

He looks over at WadeWilson and looks back down at his near-empty flask of tequila.

Indeed, my friend.