TRYING TO BE A GOOD FELLAH

The Don ain't gonna be happy with me. But it ain't all my fault neither, you know? I mean, I'm dealing with a lotta stuff her. For starters, I wanna go somewhere? I gotta steal a car. You know what kind of pick-up a '43 Ford has? I can measure my 0-60 time with a sundial. Then it’s all the way across town to a mission, right? You ever try to drive across New York when you're in a hurry? Let me tell you, there's a reason the subway is so popular. And everyone is sooooo touchy! They're all "stay in your lane" or "we have to swap insurance information" or "you just murdered my wife with your vehicle!" Is it my fault I’m a bad driver? I don’t think so. It’s genetic I tell you. My dad used to be called Jackie Pinball because of how bad he drove. Well, he was until he ran over the guys that called him that with a Deuce Coup. And of course the cops gotta get all in your face every time you "borrow someone’s car for an extended period of time." I got a news flash for you John Law. Extra! Extra! Read All About It! Entire New York Police Department Invited To Take Long Walk Off Short Pier! Extra! Extra!

Oh, and stop shooting at me when I'm trying to leave the scene. You're only making me nervous, leading me to run into more pedestrians, ergo you are the real menace, not me. And you get your salary from the tax payers? Shame on you.

But that's just starting out. You finally reach your destination and it's a whole new diner of crap. And this place is all you can eat, baby. First, there's the barricades. Everyone’s so paranoid in this town. What? A rival gang member can’t just drive by your warehouse for a casual joyride? Just because I HAPPEN to have a loaded gun in the car doesn’t mean I’m looking for trouble, I’m just aware of my Second Amendment rights to bear arms. Okay, okay, okay. I’m here to murder you and take over your territory, fine, I admit it. But that doesn’t mean you gotta be jerks about the whole thing.

Great, another car just burst into flames on me. I swear, I gotta get one of those Kraut jobs, I hear they’ve got the engine in the trunk. Isn’t that something? Oh, but don’t tell Tommy I called the German’s Krauts, he’s half German himself, so he might get a little touchy about that.

So now I gotta spend the next twenty minutes moving cars back and forth like I’m a valet at the Ritz, ducking gun fire from men much better equipped than me. No offense to the Don, he’s a great guy, but his hands must be white knuckled from the pennies he’s pinching. No bullet proof vest, no back-up against an entire battalion of thugs and oh, yeah, his ammo policy is “if you pick it up, it’s yours”. Thanks for nothing boss, I’d have taken a soup kettle to wear over my head even.

Now what the hell? Will someone tell this lug to stop shooting me in the groin while I’m reloading? Didn’t he ever hear of the Geneva Convention?

And great, now I’m lying in a pool of my own blood. Back to the doctor’s office for me, all the way back in Brooklyn, and it’s rush hour to boot. The Don is gonna be pissed.

Maybe Momma was right, maybe I should have just been a tailor.