All about respect. At least that’s what it says in my book. I play by the rules of this book you know, and this code we have established. They say, “Boss, what do with this guy, eh?” Then I asks, “Does he respect ya?” If he did I’d say “Give ‘em another week.” I feel sorry for that last fella that dat disrespected my guys. I see myself as a father to them ya know. Every family needs a paterfamilias. So they are my family and I theirs. Oh man that guy had it. Broke nearly every bone in his body, dragged his sorry self out to the forrest and shot. Poor fella, he shoulda respected my family. Gang? No, no, no- Mob? Nah, like I said, they’re family, around here everybody is family. If you respect us then we won’t hurt you. That’s how it started. All I wanted was a little respect. They tried ganging up on me. But I found a few guys and we fought back. They were like me; smart, good lookin, and made outcasts of society cause we looked different, spoke different, and ate different. Papa always made the best sausages, and he knew his way around the spice cabinet. Mama made the best bread in the whole block. What about me? Well I struggled with being good with people and good with school. Every time I went overboard with the people my grades would fall. I could never get back up after the fifth time I got caught up with them. Did I tell you people never really liked me because I’m different, ah yes-yes. Where are my family? They’re right here around me, you can’t see them? Huh strange- wait what place are we again? The New York Mental hospital? Never heard of that place, then again I don’t really remember that much and as far as I know I’ve never been anywhere. The name of the guy? Yea, I think his name was Jacob Streavens.