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| The wound that never heals: Loss of a Leader | Started by: Sledge-Hammer on Dec 10, '07 01:31 |
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Sledge-Hammer buttoned up his overcoat to guard against the winter chill as he stood outside the recently converted paper mill that now held a Speakeasy deep within it's innards. The cold wind had been blowing for some time now and his facial features were beginning to feel numb. He had decided to speak on a subject close to his heart, knowing full-well the probable futility in doing so. He doubted anyone would hear him, much less acknowledge him. But this was important to him. It could not go unsaid any longer. "I deliberated for a while on what exactly I was going to say here. After many hours of thinking, I still cannot be sure I will do my thoughts justice. Nonetheless I will try. My only surprise will be if I have an audience when I finish speaking." Hammer removed some chewing gunm from his coat pocket and unwrapped a piece that disappeared quickly into his mouth. He eschewed smoking and a man has to have a habit where he lacks vices. "I am what you would call an associate. I am tied to a Mafia family. Advancement in my line of work arises through being noticed for your abilities. I view becoming a Man of Honour and taking the sacred oath in the same way a University graduate might view rising up the ranks in a corporation. Success means many different things to many different people. And yet recent events have highlighed a facet to my personality that I was seemingly unaware of. This knowledge both pleases and offends me. It would appear that I cannot reconcile my own desires for advancement alongside my traditionalist values. For yes, I'm a man that believes in character. Perhaps for this reason, the days that have followed the death of Cthulhu have hit me hard. Generally I don't believe in speaking of bloodlines or ancestors. That I do so now is merely to illustrate a wider point that has forced me to accept that certain things go beyond the importance of my own rank. Upon hearing the news of the death of Cthulhu, I have steadily sunk into what I can only term as a mire of emptiness. The Scotch did not ease what has become my well of despair, nor do I believe hard drugs will. My own story shares traits with many that you will hear from proud New Yorkers facing up to the same problems in this difficult time. For as I watched the succession of New York unfold and the inevitable personnel changes that followed, I did what needed to be done. I secured my own safety working with Sal and I did just that. I worked. And yet all the while this particular wound has cut me deep. For as the robberies and petty cash mount up and as I once again deem to prove myself as a worthy associate on a new playing field, I am struck by a sad thought. Cthulhu is only the second Boss myself or anyone else in my family line has ever missed after he was gone. You see, for all our achievements in business, the wars we might win, the money we might make and the people we might touch in our all too brief lives, it is our CHARACTER that is the root of our success. And as I signal the bartender to bring me another round while I drink to the past, the present moves on and I fight to shake away the feeling that something is lacking. Loyalty and honor are fleeting things. They are only as binding as what we make them. It takes a very special person to go beyond the rhetoric. To inspire personal loyalty of the sort that single-handedly wins wars, that guides and motivates and perhaps most crucially, can be genuinely mourned when it is lost. When I think back to stories my bloodline told in days past, they worked for Bosses that unquestionably enjoyed their full loyalty and respect. But would they have necessarily stayed on to work for the family ideals in the event that their Bosses met an end much like Cthulhu's? No. They worked with the foolhardy, the incompetent, the weak and the coarse. That these leaders throughout the past could enjoy my ancestors full loyalty and support while being unaware that their flaws were known each day they worked together might tell you something about me. You may not even like that something. Or you can accept that this story is one steeped in brutal honesty and we move on. Because simply put, very few of these Bosses were that very special person of whom I speak. And they all fell, as nearly all do. And they were mourned. But not on a level like these only two I ever missed and that I speak of today. People went through the motions and life went on. In times of war past, going down with the ship was almost a mandatory thing. People had no choice when their killers came to their doors. And so their children returned with a fresh perspective on the world, forged in the wounds inflicted in the world of their ancestors. Dissent is now often linked to old grudges. Perhaps too often, as I am learning since my own loss. Because when a simple tragedy occurs, when a Boss but their family doe not follow, the survivors find themselves having the time to consider what it was they worked for when they followed this person unquestionably. I know who I worked for and why I did so. I worked for someone who inspired me to edit a Newspaper publication on behalf of the family long after I had begun to give up entirely that it would ever be read. I worked for someone who allowed me each day to forget the shambolic bar districts, the endless discussions that are utterly devoid of originality or merit, the shameless self-publicists, the coffee-house misenthropes and the daily ambitions of those who work towards greatness while lacking entirely in character. In service to Cthulhu I was able to forget what increasingly resembles a jail-breakers world. In a world in which financial incentives now direct the ebb and flow of our characters, I was a part of something. It wasn't perfect. 90-man crews seldom are. But as easily as I can acknowledge certain imperfections, so I can discount some of the criticisms levelled at Cthulhu by those who had never seen him work. In days of numbers, I cam confidant that every single person in his family felt that they were anything but a number. For me, life goes on, albeit slower. Sal has taken up the gauntlet of our cause and I hope and believe that he is capable of becoming only the third leader in my history to possess that special something. Some final words to our leaders from a sad and lonely old man: The small things DO matter. People DO appreciate that personal touch where it is warranted. A leader will always have followers. When they follow you for who you are as much as for what you represent, perhaps we'll move that step closer to finding the character I believe we are losing. |
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| I would venture to say that this speech is the most profound and heartfelt eulogy I have ever heard on these streets. I'm sure that the great C, R.I.P., is looking down from heaven and smiling at these eloquent comments. | |
| Reply by: Olivero at Dec 10, '07 10:21 | |
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Hammer kept chewing on his gum as he stood around. It was only getting colder as the evening wore on. Maybe he outta think about heading in to grab a coffee. \"Thanks Olivero. I was going to write my memoirs but then I realised it was likely that nobody would want to read them...I think we all miss the big C in a way. While others wear this fact openly on their suits, this is my way of dealing with it.\" |
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| Reply by: Sledge-Hammer at Dec 12, '07 12:32 | |
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My father wrote many a story of Cthulhu and all of them good. He is missed by alot of us here still. We know death comes in paculiar ways sometimes which makes us all think what would of happened if he was still around. Rest In Peace Big C. |
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| Reply by: BanditKeith at Dec 13, '07 07:19 | |
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