Another chilly night swept across the nation, as the coldest election year on record was starting to come to a close. Roosevelt slaughtered Hoover with a convincing 472 to 59 electoral vote annihilation of what seemed like a fair race.

It was on this cold night in 1932 that a young mafioso by the name of Don Jones saw the evil that he had become. His father and grandfather before him both led the life. Both dying relatively young and leaving little children at home without a proper figure to guide them.

It was only natural that the same mistakes would creep in and be repeated, generation up generation. Growing up without a mother Don could be embraced by his father stories, consisting mainly of petty and felony criminal activities and the occasional heist organised by 1 of the main family members. Don always thought his name had meaning, a purpose driven god given right to succeed. But on reflection it made him weak and lazy, he was given his fathers and grandfathers chair. One he did not deserve, not by any means of the imagination. 

Leading his own group of misfit bandits he had few he could call reliable and overly achievable. The absence of a firm guiding hand could clearly be seen in his ever deteriorating actions. Knee jerk aggression and unending.....

"Don didn't have the stomach to see his division become more and more whittled down. His leadership lacking and failing them, one by one they started taking their own lives. Is this what it has come to? Stoked on meth and a drunken night fueled by lustful desires Don stumbles around in his grandfathers city of birth. Shooting cans and birds alike... he sees someone lying on a bench sleeping... crazy he thought... it's snowing. Maybe I can hit it. Aiming his gun he shoots repeatedly at the sleeping man. Only paint a lead mosaic all around the man."

This was not the life for him....

Let's see if I can at least hit this...

*Puts the gun against his head...

See you soon Sarah...  *

BANG