The following is told through the narration of Shane Connolly at an unknown date, time, and to an unknown person or persons..

I ain’t as clever as Scorsese so I won’t put some bullshit out there like Henry Hill and tell you that for as far back as I can remember I wanted to be in the life. As glamorous as that sounds this ain’t a fuckin movie. I didn’t wake up one day and just decide that. In Southie it’s either sink or swim. You either take a blue-collar trade, become law enforcement, or get mixed in with a crew. A college degree in South Boston is like having a shot at the NBA in South Central. It just doesn’t happen. It’s the shit we dream of getting, but don’t.

None of my family fucked around with college. I don’t think we were smart enough, or maybe just didn’t give enough of a shit. In one way or another we had some kinda connection to the crew that ran the neighborhood. Close-knit and family shit kept the neighborhood clean of anyone deemed unworthy to even grace the sidewalk. Irish-Amercans ain’t exactly AB, but we appreciate the movement. Blacks tainting the neighborhood was something we couldn’t stand for.

Fuckin around with other colors is only a means to an end- drugs, pussy, and business were part of that end game, but going that far with darkies is a rarity.

I won’t lie to you- any kind of education was secondary for me and the kids I grew up with. Shit you were pushed around, and had your stuff stolen from you if we thought you were too smart for your own good. Most the brainiac mother fuckers ain’t had the balls, the body type, nor the personality to do anything about being pushed around. Sink or swim held true as an adolescent.

I started out dealin drugs for the local crew that my family had run with for years. I became a natural at pushin. That shit didn’t come easy though, and you fuckin bet that I went through a lot of shit before I got to where I was.

I distinctly remember the drop I made that changed my way of thinking forever. There were these guys that set up shop in the neighborhood. A couple WOPs, now that I remember. That type of shit wasn’t unheard of though. Spaghetti and meatball mother fuckers- Irish-American organizations have a hundred fuckin years of history with them.

Lemme tell you, those ties are bloody and always have been. We clip one another when it’s convenient, we rob one another when it’s convenient and we operate together when it’s convenient. There ain’t no fuckin in-between. We ain’t there to be friends with one another. Shit is all about money, it’s how it always has been.

I went to this joint to make a drop. Right away there was some shit about it that I didn’t trust. The fuckin block was empty, and shit was just too quiet. Being new to the game, moronically I had the brick on me. The second I went to knock on the door I felt a dull and heavy pain on the back of my skull. Shit went dark. It must have been minutes later that I woke up in a haze, I was confused. I guess I hadn’t been dead but sure as shit my head felt like I oughta been. Next thing I knew the greaseballs were on me again. Sharp and rough impacts of feet and fists were all I could feel. Seemed to be that a concussion was enough, but nah.. Not where I’m from. Cracked ribs, a couple cracked teeth, a broken nose and a few black eyes is considered mild treatment. I was dumped in the streets and robbed of everything to top it off.

I shoved that blade in and out of his gut. By now I didn’t even feel in control at what I had been doing. The feeling of a sharp piece of metal piercing someone’s gut again and again, the feeling of the hot crimson liquid spilling out over the blade and the handle. You ain’t ever understand how much a mother fucker bleeds til you slice into them. Continually I stuck that mother fucker like a pig. After awhile that greaseball bastard stopped struggling. Even more when I twisted the blade around with my wrist when it was implanted deep in his stomach. It’s an eye-opening experience watching signs of life drain from a man’s eyes.

Retaliation was always swift and harsh. Anything outside of that is considered a weakness. You gotta show fucks who runs shit, and what happens when your crew gets stolen from, or your guys get hit. The first time whacking a guy fucks you up. It don’t matter how the fuck you were raised, taking a life ain’t any kind of joke. You can fuckin bet that I went on a bender of drugs, and any alcohol I could get my hands on. Wasn’t long before my father smacked the snot outta me for being a pussy. I eventually got over it, and became alright with the dark.

Eventually I became better and smarter. Burner cellphones, collecting cash before ever showin any indication of where the bricks and shit were. I learned quick how to spot a shady situation, and began workin more with other guys from the neighborhood in my same shoes.

There’s no way in hell that you become smarter in the life without losing morality along the way. The difference between right and wrong became a hindrance. I learned to live in the grey—thrive in the grey really.

I became quick to smack my woman around when she stepped outta line. After so many years of coping with issues with violence in business, taking that shit home was easy. I would tell you I regret all the shit I became and who I am, but I’d be lying. I enjoy it. The darkness pulls you the fuck in, it’s like vacuum. I got to a point where I’d do anything for the crew I was with to move ahead. It didn’t matter how fucked. There’d be guys down to rape a broad if that call came from upstairs, and shit.. It’s a fucked thought to think maybe I’d do it to look impressive and to be the coldest mother fucker out there. Your reputation is everything. You handle your fuckin business like a man, and channel your rage and volatile shit where necessary.

Making collections from places we “protected” as a crew, runnin point on the drug game, brutal beat downs, whackings and retaliation against other crews by now was the norm. The more I did the more I got recognized. I had my hands in some local businesses one of which was a butcher shop. My woman ran that shop a long with her father. Local business that had been around for a decade- Shit got turned into a drug front because her father owed us. We used to package fuckin meat, and for special customers slip a special somethin inside with it. We made a killing off that place. It was one of the many rackets I brought to the crew.

My willingness to do anything while combining that with smarts obtained from the streets led me to the inner-circle of my crew. After obtaining full membership, the inner circle was the equivalence of rank.

I had been on my merry fuckin way to having a captain position seeded. I almost had my own crew. The violent reputation we had as a group however brought so much heat. A lot of the fucks involved began slipping due to being on drugs, or just reckless. They started leavin a fuckin trail and it wasn’t long before a RICO case was on us. Indictments came down like a gavel and one by one guys I went back with were being plucked from the street. The opposition began moving in and we had a bloody war that dismantled everything we had built. I got the fuck out of Southie and landed in Hathian with a rainy-day fund. It wouldn’t be long til I was getting mixed in with a crew and back to the lifestyle I had grown so comfortable with.