Stepping out of his hired limousine, Mason tries not to stand out as he casually makes his way to the shelter/soup kitchen for the homeless situated in Brooklyn, New York. Dressed discretely in a long shabby coat and shades, he orders his chauffeur and staff to park off to the side, out of sight and he follows the same old grease mark staining the sidewalk towards his destination, as he does, every 1st of the month. Nothing ever prepares him for the desperate, hungry, and burnt out look in the eyes of those that flock to this place in the hopes of filling up their worn down bodies with hot soup and bread. Something tells him that this time will be different; that she won't be there anymore. Scanning the motley crowd of people pushing through people to get in line, he looks for his sister in vain. He remembers seeing her, frail, sick, and pushed to the limit last month when he visited her to hand her money from his underground dealings. How badly he wanted to take her in and get the proper care she needs but alas, he always knew his world was dangerous; not the place for a little girl barely reaching puberty. The hopelessness of being homeless was better for her than the unpredictability of living with him. He was still starting out. Someone could easily rat him out to the cops. It wasn't safe yet. 

I looked Mason straight in the eyes and he didn't even recognize me in my whites.  I'm not surprised, I barely recognize myself these days. I still volunteer in the soup kitchen from time to time, I like to think it helps keep me out of trouble, with the ladies at least, ya know? if I don't stay busy, I'm likely to get sidetracked, pop one in the oven and than when I get popped I'll be leaving a burden of pain and resentment that know one should have to go through. You see, I grew up on these streets. I have to give back anyway I can, for I wouldn't be alive now if it weren't for places like this.  Than again, I know a couple dozen other chaps that WOULD still be kicking around if I weren't.  

Gangrene steps back from the counter and slips out back for a smoke

This reminds me of my younger days, living on the streets because my family was killed. I was brought in by a kind but strict man who raised as his own. He required me to go to school as well as learn from the streets. Through the years I had seen things that I knew were not right but I seen that what he was doing earned him respect as well as the money to put food on the table on clothes on my back. I met prominent men who I called my uncles, who I respected and loved like they were my blood.  When I reached the age of maturity I realized that this new family of mine was part of a larger family. I wouldn't be  the man I am today if it weren't for them!