“A Chelsea Grin, Glasgow Smile, Angel Smile or the Grin of a Fucking Cheshire Cat. It don't matter what you call it, it' all does the same thing.”

Mumbles quickly pulls a knife out from under his blazer, stabbing it into the crate next to him with a loud thud. Pulling himself up onto said crate he addresses the crowd.

“What is a Chelsea grin you ask? Well my Sherman Tanks, a Chelsea grin is where you grab a geezas brass bands, tie them up behind his Cilla Black, reach for your favorite drum and fife, and slice a little nick into the corna's of their north and south. Now, what you do is give them a good ol' kick in their Jackson Pollocks and hey presto, they rip open from their north and south to their bottle of beers. Job done.”

Mumbles looks at the crowd, half of them cannot understand his cockney dialect, he pulls out a cigar, lighting it he coughs a couple of times into his hand to regain their attention and changes his tone slightly.

“Look, it doesn't matter what I'm trying to say, its the point it gets across. Back in my land, over the drink, intimidation is the game. Cutting one geezas mouth open tells every other geeza in his town not to mess with Mumbles, plus, who's the one mumbling now?” Mumbles laughs to himself

“My point is, my father told me, in this place where I find myself now, all you gangster's do is kill, kill, kill. There is no intimidation, no beatings just death every time somebody does something out of line. Now don't get me wrong, break the Omerta and get punished, absolutely. But what about more public shaming? Why not drag a half beaten snitch and hang him up in the town square for his wife and children to see, I guarantee it will stop his son coming back and doing the same thing. It's 100%, Mumbles guaranteed, much more effective than just wacking his father and leaving a nice message and a rose on his coffin.”

Mumbles pauses to take a puff of his cigar, then continues his story, waving his hands with the story as if to accentuate his actions.

“Let me tell you another story, this time I will try not to talk so much in the dialect of my home town. Me and my geeza, OneTwo, we were doing this job with a fella called Charlie, a right fat fuck he was. Charlie didn't just like his food, but also his money. So much so, that on said job, he decided to pocket a monkey for himself! I'm sorry, a monkey is five hundred nicker, about one thousand dollars lets say. Now that wasn't my money, or OneTwo's money, that was our boss's money. And when out boss realised he was short changed OneTwo got a slapped around by three fellas with golf clubs and I got a pack of dogs let loose on me. But what happened to the fat fuck Charlie? I will tell you what happened to the fat fuck Charlie.”

“You see, every week, he would visit the same pie shop, he would say the pie he got was for his family, but we all knew they didn't see a single crumb of it. We paid the store a visit, with a 'special' pie. Without fail, the same day our fat friend got his pie, we watched him, sitting from our car down the road, as he shoveled it down his cake hole. What was in the pie you ask? Not much, just some horse tranquillisers. It knocked the fat fuck out like a light. We took his limp body and dragged it down to the local bank. Tying a rope around a lamp post outside we strung him up to dry, legs high in the air, his fat stomach on display for all to see. We stuffed his mouth with a pair of last weeks underwear and slapped him 'til he woke up. Now, if you slash someone with a blade what happens, the Doctor stitches them up of course! What you want to do, is get three blades, each about quarter-an-inch apart and use them, you see, our friend Mr Doctor will have a hard time stitching that up now wont he? So me and my friend OneTwo cut the fat fuckers belly right open, pie and all, right outside of the bank, to which we didn't know at the time, his wife was making a deposit, a deposit of five hundred nicker. The fat fuck.”

"What do we think ladies and gentlemen? Would you swap your bullets for a Chelsea Grin? Or is wacking all you know how to do?

Mumbles drops his cigar on the floor, and climbs off the crate, he pulls his knife out relinquishing it under his blazer. He gestures to the crate for someone else to take a stand.

“Now I want to hear your stories, and I don't want to just hear how you put a bullet in his head and let him swim with the fishes, that's childs play”