In the back room of an empty dance hall in North Side, Chicago, shadows could be seen moving back and forth as raised voices and periodic meat packing sounds broke the silence of the dimly lit area. In the room, a scruffy Irish fellow sits at a small round table made of red oak, smoking a marijuana cigarette, staring down a man being roughed up by the hands of hired help. "I don't have the money!," the battered man screams as he eats another hard punch to his upper cheek.

The small fellow stood up from the table holding his gun backwards as if his fingers gripped a hammer. He approached the pleading man and began to swing. Blow after blow he hammered his nail like a construction worker, because that's what it was, work.

"You'd better come back tomorrow with the money you owe or you'll be seeing the thick end of a baseball bat," the out of breathe mobster said to the beat up man before giving him one last hit on the nose. He walked back to the table and wiped his gun with a fancy banquet cloth, "Now, take him to the clinic, make sure he heals enough to return with my father's cash," he said to his goons. "Yes sir, Mr. Wetherbee," they replied, moving with haste.

They hauled the poor man out of the building, dragging his feet on the waxed dance floor. The Irishman puts his marijuana cigarette out in the ashtray and throws a coat over his back, grinning at the floor like a bad joke was being told to him. Who is this mobster? How could he do such nasty things in the name of money?

He was born Rodric Fitzgerald Wetherbee III. His father was an honest man and poor, who worked with a little known construction company.  It was a constant struggle because his father was generous to his own detriment. So generous, that no one even entertained the thought of repaying the debt owed to him. Young Wetherbee saw this as a real weakness in his father and grew to dislike the men who took advantage.

The mobsters in his old neighborhood showed him the ways of violence, that a man is more likely to comply when there is a gun pointed at his skull. He became something of a professional debt collector, harming and even killing when the proper respect was not present. He saw these mobsters as uncles and father figures. They protected him, paid him, and taught him, and in order to keep the respect, he had to do his work with skill and without hesitation.

He sought out the con artists that prayed on his kind father. He gave them only beatings and sound advice.

It wasn't about the money, it was about respect.

I sat there watching as the chain of events took place.
A man beaten so much that it was hard to recognize his face, but not enough for him to pass out. 
The one in charge knew what he was doing and was good at it.

I don't have the money!

A debt collector I see. 
As the beaten were dragged out to the clinic a piece of picture slipped out of his back pocket. 
A family picture, daughter of two with a beautiful baby wrapped around mothers arm. The man with a much recognizable face in the picture smiling with joy.

I place the picture in my jacket and walk up to the debt collector.

Allow me to buy you a drink friend.

I walk up to the bar and asked for the best whiskey they had and slid it toward the debt collector.

Care to tell me the story of that man earlier?

I pour a triple shot of whiskey and slide the bottle back to Sweetsuns.  I sip the good whiskey and wonder why I find myself in a smoke filled bar that is simply over crowded with a team of bodyguards.  I turn to iterate my drama's with the man from humble backgrounds who had the misfortune of cross my family,"You see, years ago, that low life came to my father in need of money.  Said he would lose his business and that his wife was gonna leave'em.  He had gambling problem.  He promised to pay it back but never made good...Excuse me"

I pull out a pre-rolled marijuana cigarette and light it.  I continue speaking,"My father, may he rest in peace, believed in an honest living, he would never try to hurt anyone, not even people who do him wrong.  A full blown pacifist.  This why the harsh behavior. You just never know what you're dealing with until it hits you in the face.  Alluding to the so-called family man of course."

I finish my drink and check out the bar's local beer.

I listened as Rodric told the story of the beaten.
Wasn't expecting a pretty story, you simply don't expect people who reach out to debt collectors to be reasonable.

I could see emotions run through Rodrics eye when he spoke of his father.
His father also a debt collector, well know for his kindness and generosity. It's been told that his generosity and trust in people has lead to the down fall of his business.

Body guards surrounding Rodric, I could tell he's succeeded and climbed his way up through these unconventional methods.  Successful but completely different from his fathers way. Powerful and Merciless.

Say Rodric, How much does that man owe you? and what happens if he can't pay you back?