Talk to nicely.

The grand battle of what would go down in mobster history as the All Saints Civil War

was fought amongst the long dining tables on the ground floor mess hall of the St. Matthew's wing of the prison complex.

As snow swirled above the skylights high above, casting a dim and ghostly glow upon the fray, hundreds of prisoners, belonging to a dozen

different criminal fraternities, were engaged in bloody combat, wielding clubs and shanks of every

sort, and spilling so much blood that the white tile floor would forever after be stained a shocking

shade of vibrant pink.

And on the balconies of the levels above, watching the battle-like spectators in a stadium,

stood many of the older and more mellow inmates.

Some of these men were cheering, others attempting to shout instructions to those combatants

that represented their own criminal interest.

One particular old prisoner leaned forward over the railing, peering beyond the battle, to the northern entrance of the mess hall,

and the strange figures who had just emerged there. The elderly mobster's name was Romulus Scarpanado.

He had spent the last 50 years behind bars, and had been over 50 years old when first arrested.

In other words, he was old.

Very, very old.

And though his sallow skin hung in vainy curtains from his jowls and arms, his eyes

were still keen as an eagle's eyes,

and his mind was as sharp as an eagle's talons. Well, well, hissed the old mafioso,

watching the four shadowy figures moving cautiously into the mess hall, trying to avoid attention.

Romulus grinned and straightened up.

The orange jumpsuit he wore had been altered,

...