Dr. W. A. Frost's Ides of Revolution

Benjamin Howe walked into the Lamplighter, sweat dripping from his quaking chin. Slowly, hesitantly, he made his way past the men at the bar- each massive man glaring at the skinny young fuckup. For years he had screwed up deals. For years he had pissed off the members. For years he had insulted the legacy of his father. This time. It was different. The air in the room was noticeably tense as he shuffled to the black velvet curtains, breathing heavily and shaking visibly. Their eyes shot daggers at his back, as he pathetically stood there, delaying the inevitable. Benjamin slowly walked through to the back room, and was met with a sight he dreaded. Mack was the beast of the League. He towered over every single man, and tripled their size. For 38 long years, he was the loyal, obedient enforcer for Benjamin's father: silently and ruthlessly carrying out whatever orders came from the top. He was feared, but he was respected. He had paid his dues, he had hearts and minds of the League,

 Browsing through Sniffies, Maurice sighed gruffly. After six or seven weeks of coming up with zero responses, he was ready to throw in the towel. He was lonely, working a dead-end job downtown with no real trajectory or path to self-improvement, living alone in a house crumbling to debris around him. He was hoping one, just one guy would return his advances, just one little victory to put under his belt amongst the plethora of disappointments. He felt the ever watchful eye of his manager looming over him as he sat behind his desk, looking for any reason to have a "meeting" about his efficiency. Scrolling under the desk, he hoped that as long as his work was complete by lunch, he would avoid any unpleasant lectures. Under his breath, he muttered the names of the nearby guys looking for trade. "BigDaddy69... Cockinator5000... Scatterino... TitsMcGeeTheGreat... Ugh, what the fuck, man. This is bullshit. None of these guys are even interesting to me, and I still can't e