When you're in La Cosa Nostra-this thing of ours, you won't always get that far. It is an honor that not every one gets to be made. It's not all that likely that you will get put in charge of a crew. If you play your cards right, though, you will get made, you will become a crew leader, and, if you're good enough, and if you're lucky enough, you can become a Godfather/Godmother. This nearly unreachable feat makes it all the more for you to strive for. It makes us all strive for it. To be someone other than some name in the phonebook. To go out, into the world, and say "I'ma mafioso!" Did we all expect to be trhrust into this? Did we ever think it would come to us being the people we are today? Well, I never did. I never thought that I'd amount to any more than a crapppy little law-breaker. I could remember how it all went down, too. What brought me into this world.

It wasJune, 1929. I was a recently discharged from the army as a colenel, and if I may say so, honorably. I went out for a night of drinking with my friends, and that's when it all went wrong...

John Puccini walked up to me. I was so drunk I could hardly understand what he was saying. His Southern drawl didn't help too much.

"Hey, theay, fellar? How a... a?"

Either he was drunk or I was, for it took me what felt like hours to figure out what he had said.

"Ohs, me? I is doing good, thanks you bery much!"

For some reason, John seemed offended. I couldn't figure it out, but something seemed wrong.

"Whz, is dere a pwoblem?"

"Wut bout meez, huh? Donchya wanna ask how I'z iz feelin?"

I roll my eys. Wacky kid. Everyone had to be polite around him. The sucker was easily offended.

"Sowies, how is you?"

"There, dat's betew. You should show me some respect, dmams it!"

My jaw dropped. Did one of the soldiers that served under me say I should be the one respecting him?

"Listen, damis it! Yuz dun take bach tuz me!"

"Hey, you'z not me occcifr any mowaz! I can does wuteber I want!"

The boy must be eitherr drunk to his hearts content or whack. I wasn't going to be disrespected. I jump off of the stool, stumble a bit, then start screaming.

"Uz gonna respcect me, daz it!"

The bartender jumps up and jumps between us.

"There is no reason to fight!"

I punch the bartender in the face, shattering his nose and cracking his jaw. John stared down at the bartender, bleeding and unconcious. All the soldiers and their girls are staaring. The music stopped. I was the center of attention, and not the good way. Is he dead? Holy shit, what am I going to do? It's strange, what alcohol does to me. All it does is make it hard to talk and get angry more easily. I could still walk fine, and, other than anger, think clearly. Doctors say there is a problem with the connectors in my brain. Parts of it are more connected than others. It affects the left side of the cerebrum, but the right side and cerebelum are fine. This, plus other medical shit I can't fully understand, make the difference between me being drunk and the average Joe.

John stares up at me. So are all the tenants and customers. John is the first to talk.

"Waht did yuz due?!?! You killed him!"

I can't comprehend what is going on. My knee started to hurt. My painkillers were at the hotel. I was, in so many words, fucked.

John stared at me, then his gun. As he reaches for it I grabbed his arm, twisted it around his body, then pulled his pistol from his holster. John was crying. The kid may be a dick, but he's a kid all right.

I let go of him. There is a sudden movement. One of the soldiers stands up and whips out his pistol. He fires three rounds at me. I feel wetness on my arm, thinking he shot me. I stare at the "wound" The shot missed, and a bottle shattered. The booze was on my shirt.

Therre is a sudden scream. I stare down. There, on the floor, is John, two wounds in him. One in his arm, the other right above his eye. He was dead. I stare up at the crowd of people, screaming and frightened. The soldier that sshot him seems more upset than pissed off. I pull my pistol from my hloster and fire three  rounds into his hst, killing him instantly. There is a sudden panic, and people start creaming.

I get up and start to run. I see a man on the phone, probably trying 911. I fire a shot from my pistol, destroying the phone. I run down the stairs of the bar and out through the back door. There are police cars traveling at both end of the alleyway. I see a metal ladder, and stare for a moment. Should I really keep running? I quickly decide, either way, I'm screwed. I grab onto the ladder and scale up the wall. I start jumping across the buildings, bright and beautiful. If I wasn't being chased by the police, I swear I would have stared for hours. There are screams behind me "STOP!" Of course, as you can imagine, I didn't. I feel strange for a moment, then looks down. I ran straight off the roof! I fall thirty feet from the building, only too land in a dumpster. I was cut up by shards of broken glass and cans. The police stare down into the alley below. The streets were too dark to see me, so they decide to run back and take a look close up.

I run away from the dumpster, and see my car parked over at the next street. I could feel the alcohol starting to affect my reflexes as I run. Oh, geez, doc. Why ya always gotta be wrong? I grab the keys from my pocket and unlock the door.I jump into the drivers seat and start the ignition. I take off into the Vegas streets, wobblilng through traffic. I quickly find my hotel, and scream at the receptionist.

"Room 793, I'm checking out now!"

I run up the stairs, and get to my room. I reach into my pockets, only to remember.  Oh, shit! John had the keys to our rooms! I shed a quick tear, thinking of John. Suddenly, the elevator opens on the floor. A rich woman walks out of the elevator, with the elevator operator sitting down. I pull the chair out from under him and slam the chair against the hotel room door. The door quickly gives way, and I quickly grab my breifcase, holding all of my files, a lighter, and a vial of pain killers. I shove a feew changes of clothing and some fancy soaps and shampoo bottles from the bathroom and stuff them in a bag. I run out, go down the stairs, and get into my car. I drive away as fast as possible. After finally lose the cops, I find another place to stay at.

Well, this coudn't get much worse...

only 1 word can discribe this WOW

Some interesting memoirs, Mr. Stracci. Roof jumping tests aside, will these continue down the road on how you turned from a government operative to a member of the Mafia?

Yes. Yes it will. If it didn't, trust me, I wouldn't be telling such tales. I was doing hits, robbing banks, and countless other troubles from my past. I will tell the next chapeter of my tales soon.

While, nice this seems awfully familiar.

How so?

Perhaps he thinks one of your ancestors told very similar stories?

Hmm, no, I don't beleive so.

-Prophet- reads the memoirs, "Wow!?" In equal astonishment and confusion, "Gee one hard punch you got there, also Not intending to be rude here but, if I was you and was a colonel of the army, granted you were drunk... I think punching the bartender was kinda silly, I mean he's just stopping a potential scene which was caused because of him. But... you were obviously pissed off your arse. But a magnificent tale I hope the second will be just as EPIC! as this one I'm looking forward to the second part."

The second part is already out.