Lucretia was sitting at her Casino's poker tables, drowning her sorrows with beer, gin and tonic, and even the rare cosmopolitan. She was letting the customers come out ahead as they took her cash from alcohol-induced bids. It was all small change for a casino owner anyway, but she was even less concerned about the money because it would surely be great publicity and bring in new customers to pay itself off. Besides, that guy across the table was pretty cute, anyway, and a bit of fun every now and again was a good thing. After she was thoroughly buzzed the conversation turned from flirtation to more serious matters when the tall, dark stranger asked her if she wanted to rant a bit and see if it felt better.

Well, it all started this afternoon. I was drinking my espresso and walking around the floor of The Den of Sin, and all of a sudden I received the most awful news anyone wants to hear. A man sprinted up to me and told me, between heaving breaths "Ma'am ... It's horrible ... Back at the headquarters ... Blood everywhere ... Heart gone ... Keypunch ... Blood Gods ... Skinned alive!"

Lucretia at this point was so fixated on her story that she mindlessly folded a hand she had intended to slow-play instead of checking. After the next player in the rotation had bid she realized her error, demanded the cards back, and called a re-do after announcing to all that she "would never have folded with an ace-king suited." Realizing that she had again erred, Lucretia decided she ought to give the poker a rest and concentrate on the handsome man sitting across from her.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, the horrible spectacle. When I heard about it I ran back to my business's headquarters and had to see it for myself. It was awful, carnage everywhere, and already packs of religious fanatics were collecting his helpless bodyguards - foolishly loyal men that they were, they would not halt standing guard this great man Keypunch's corpse - and bringing them to their own private alters to appease the deities lust for blood. Quetzalcoatl came from across the Great Sea to inform me that the gods looked favorably upon the blood spilled today, and as such my bank account had been reimbursed for my investment in Keypunch's defenses, but money was the last thing on my mind. My friend, my beloved author, my darling Keypunch was taken from me.

Now, some people have contacted me and asked "why did the gods smite that Capo?" I want to take this moment to set the record straight. If you look on my crew roster, Mr. Keypunch is listed as Don. He was not really Earner Keypunch, nor Capo Keypunch, nor any of the other ranks we may have jokingly used around him to belittle his true stature. No, this was a great man who can only properly be known by the rank he earned in my heart, mind, and crew structure. This man, as I say with full authority as Godfather of Las Vegas, is rightfully to be known as Don Keypunch.

At this moment, Lucretia again got a little emotional again and had to claw back tears for her fallen comrade. She turned to the nearest drink-gal and asked her to bring several of her coworkers with trays of beers to the area so that a toast could be arranged. A few minutes later, the poker game was swept aside and several dozen people were standing at attention, free beers in hand, watching Lucretia as she stood atop the table glass raised.

Keypunch, dear Keypunch. I don't know where to begin but at the start. I remember back when we were in New York together, struggling to secure our position as the premier news authority of these eight cities against the cutthroat competition of The Mob News and others. I remember how your razor sharp wit and acid barbs immediately captured the attention of all and brought people swarming to our newsstands. I remember the times we spent together, laughing for joy, mocking screw-ups when appropriate (and just as often when not), and just generally not taking things too seriously so we could enjoy them all the more. My dear friend, brother in arms, most favorite writer, and Don of Las Vegas Keypunch, you shall be missed! To Don Keypunch!

Lucretia here lifted her glass of Ale and downed it in a single hearty swig. She was given another as the others in the crowd were given the opportunity to share their own toasts in honor of Don Keypunch.

As the tall dark stranger stepped forward he reached inside his blazer pocket pulling out a flask. On the bottom of the flask it had Asylum etched in it while the leather bands around the flask showed wear. The man screws off the cap and begins to pour out the bourbon into the streets. As the flask became more and more empty the man stopped.

As my Godtucker has said, we didn't lose an Earner, or even a Capo. We have lost a Don. Keypunch was a man that could do many things just with a pen and paper. For everything his ancestors have done for my ancestors I never could have seen this coming. Not now especially with how much of an improvement his bloodline has been making in this world from generation to generation. This world has grown more and more empty as time goes on.

The tall dark stranger lifts the flask to his lips and takes down the last of the bourbon. Screwing the cap on the man wipes his lips dry of what little bourbon there was. Looking to the sky almost as if he could hear Keypunch he embraced the thought that he was in a better place.

RIP Keypunch, taken too soon. As we can see, you're a massive loss to the Las Vegas criminal underworld, but you are a loss to the streets. Your contributions to The New York Post (or, Sin City Sentinel) will be well remembered and it's perhaps fitting that your death marks the closing of the newspaper; it wouldn't have been the same without your input.

As they say, the pen is mightier than the...errrrm, tommy gun.

Walks into the casino, listening to the speech, raising his glass to the memory of the great Don Keypunch

That was a great speech.  I am amazed at how much dedication you have shown to one of your members.  He must have been a great person to work with, and he will be very sorely missed.

Sets his glass down and tosses Lucretia a chip

Next bet is on me, make it worth it in Don Keypunch's honor.

Walks out of the casino, head hung low...

The Liar stepped forward, so saddened and shocked that for the first, and quite possibly the last, time in his life the mask slipped. The trauma that normally caused him to tell so many lies forgotten as he heard the news about Keypunch.

Words are our stock in trade... or, at least, they should be. This world was borne of a place where words mattered, where words were used as a tool to belittle, to humiliate, to spark outrage and controversy. Words are sometimes the precursor to violence, and sometimes an end in themselves. Words are used to entertain, to enlighten, to set the record straight.

They are the life blood of this thing of ours... or they should be.

Don Keypunch was murdered in cold blood because the powers that be took exception to his turn of phrase. Did he push the boundaries? Sure. Did many of the legends of yesteryear do the exact same thing? Damned straight they did. Mr 47, Father Pat McGroin, Cross De Lena: These are the some of the heroes of the streets, the idols my great (times whatever) grandparents admired, and learned from. I dare anyone to tell me that in their time they didn't go further than Keypunch ever did. That they didn't stray into sexual content, or some truly horrific insults... tell me that, and I'll call you The Liar. 

Am I going too far back into the pages of history to make my point? Perhaps. I do so because to use more recent examples (and there are plenty) would be to use family lines that are still around, and I am not here to try and stir up more shit for other people.

It strikes me that there needs to be a line drawn in the sand. There is a limit to what can be said here in the streets. We all have lives away from this thing of ours, our wives kids, some of the lower ranks I hear even have to hold down a second job. When insults start flying about that, then sure, it's up to the staff at city hall to bring down that heavy hammer and ensure that those people cannot re-join the life of crime they love.

For the rest of it, we have guns. When did we stop using them for anything but perceived power grabs? Again, perhaps I go too far back in history here, but there was a time that the community policed itself. It was no secret that Mr Huckles was the author behind the Keypunch columns, hell, I barely pay attention to these things and if I knew it I'm sure anyone who wanted to could have found out easily enough. He offended and attacked Detroit... if they had a problem with it, they should have just fucking SHOT HIM. We're meant to be Mafioso out here, do we need our hands holding that much?

Have we slipped so far away from that state of affairs, so far down the
road toward a place where all that matters is the number of crimes you
do and the number of notches on your gun belt? A place where words are secondary to everything else? A place where it is the role of city hall to police our streets and determine what we as a community feel is acceptable? A place where a family, a godfather, a city don't stand up for their own honour, but rather wait for the hand of God to smite those that speak out against them? Really?

There is a more nefarious claim being bandied about in private, that those who dare challenge the wife of the mayor find themselves unwelcome here. They point to Huckles, his son Keypunch, and the recently departed Ezio Medici as evidence of people who have crossed her and have been stamped out by the powers that be. I do not know if there's any truth to this, I pray to God there isn't. I doubt it, to be honest, my family have known several of the city hall employees for many many years now, and I simply cannot accept that they'd condone such behaviour.

I guess my point is this. The murder of Don Keypunch was unnecessary, and has had an overall negative impact on the streets, and our world as a whole. Lucretia's decision to pull the paper from the shelves being the most obvious. While it is easy to stand here and blame the city hall, or the mayor, or moving goalposts, we as a community have to accept some responsibility for ourselves. When we cease to police our own behaviour; when life-preservation to crime our way to the next rank takes precedence over standing up for our honour, then that policing influence will have to come in from outside... this is the result.

The Liar drains his glass, with a nod to Godfather Borgia he puts on his fedora as he turns to leave.

Liar, I may be in love with you.

You have said everything that has been on my mind for a long time. Times have changed to the point that great speakers are on the decline, people without tounges whom can simply crime in silence are encouraged. People are simply scared to speak their mind, not from fear of mobsters anymore, but of the Gods of whom they have no defence against.

I think this also has a great relevence on the "Grincident", as the gods seeing it as a positive move for the community, and the whole community seeing it as a negative. Perhaps I speak out of line when I say this, but Perhaps the Community knows what is best for it better than the gods? I doubt it matters very much, and I'm sure that the gods will need another blood sacrafic of a great speaker once again at some point. It is just a shame that policing of this community has been taken out of the Community's hands.

He shakes his head with disappointment.