Crime in Adventure – The Mysterious Life of Mickey Cohen

I’ve never been a fan of the Witness Protection Program. If I were given the option to rename that pitiful organization, I would probably choose something along the lines of The Witness Transportation to the Middle of F***ing Nowhere Where the People Smell Similar to My Morning Crap Program – WTMFNWPSSMMCP for short.

We wouldn’t have had to deal with those idiots in the first place had it not been for the damn Westies,  a loose confederation of Western Manhattan-area organized crime figures, a subset of the New England Irish Mob. Big time scumbags. What was supposed to have been an honest deal between them and us, The Jewish Mafia, (who I was with at the time) for control over the New England Seaports and a fair percentage of the North-Eastern drug trade, turned into a total #$%&storm. We made a sizeable offer to reduce conflict, and they decided to deny that offer. To explain why these selfish #$%&s said no, I should tell you a little bit about our history…

So, once we recognized the potential America had, we scurried the hell over there in attempt to take control, as well as to escape the Holocaust and the systematic killing of our entire race. You know, that dandy #&%*. Sadly, we were disappointed to realize that we hadn’t arrived there first, and thus, had no control. Over a short period of time, through various acts of bamboozlement, hoodwinking, hornswoggling, swindling, flimflamming, and duping, we made quite a name for ourselves.

By 1950, we had pioneered one of the greatest money schemes in history: a city centered directly around gambling – (Las Vegas – for all you special types who needed that explained). A few trusty associats who I’d been in cahoots with since the very beginning, Bugsy Siegel and Meyer Lansky, a few friends we brought in, and I built the Flamingo from the ground up for the hefty price of 6 million dollars. At the time, we didn’t have all this money. However, we were going to get it. We pulled some strings, and some of the smaller Irish Mob Chapters of the East Coast were the unlucky victims. Don’t you worry – nobody found out due to the fact that we used third party connections to get the job done. Yeah, we robbed some people. Got a problem with that?? Didn’t think so. Nonetheless, we got paid, and the Flamingo was born. It was quickly dubbed “The West’s Greatest Resort Hotel.”  We turned a barren desert into the most profitable money scheme imaginable. It was amazing.

Anyways, we expanded quickly and were nearly the size of  the American chapter of the Irish Mob. We gave them significant competition, constantly putting pressure on their monopoly of the North-East. Before long, their nosey, closely monitoring every speck of s*** style of doing business was becoming too difficult to continue due to rapid expansion, and was changed abruptly. Adjusting to the new policies and functions left a temporary weak spot in their establishment – This made it easy to infiltrate, and ultimately cripple them. That is exactly what we did. We got one of ours on the inside, and our only goals were to progressively weaken ties with the international merchants and various drug lords to set a path for our expansion in the industry, as well as quietly embezzle some of their revenues off the top.

However, things got out of control when one of our men decided to get piss drunk and go into a little too much detail with some of our friends in some of the other crime factions in the area. Usually, this isn’t something to look twice at, given that we tend to fill our associates in on our various and sundry ‘business ventures.’ What we didn’t know is that our friends had had their own questionable experiences with The Irish, and were looking to settle some scores of their own.  Our drunken associate happened to also disclose certain dates, places, etc. to some powerful members of the Italian Mob who decided to show up at one of The Irish’s rendezvous points, and blast every last one of them to smithereens.

A few dozen car bombs later, The Italians had taken some high-ranking Irish Mobster’s hostage and proceeded to torture every last one of them in some of the most distasteful ways possible in order to get them to reveal the location of various headquarters in the North East. They got those chumps squealing in under 24 hours. Within days, nearly every Irish Mob Boss had bitten the dust but hard. In the wake of this, we did what any expanding crime faction would do – absorb all of the crumbling mob’s resources. We were now in control of the entire drug trade, human trafficking rings, as well as every last Northeastern seaport we could find. It’s truly ironic. The ones who had originally had the whole pie to themselves, are now coming to us on their trembling little hands and knees to have us break off a slice….

After some deep consideration, and a few busted heads, we realized that it all wasn’t worth going to war over, and decided to set up a meeting in which we would divide up control – for a price. On a brisk Thursday morning we sat complacently on one side of an abandoned warehouse off the coast of the Hudson, whilst the Irish sat on the other side, pussyfooting around and treating us like kings in order to sweeten the deal. For Pete’s sake! It wasn’t my damn fault that the Irish lost their contracts. What the f*** do they want me to do? Hug them and tell them everything is going to be okay? If they want that, they can go work at a preschool in Who-Gives-A-Crapsville, South Dakota. We’re businessmen and we don’t take pity on the weak. Our offer stood. (Now that I think back on it all, our heads may have been lodged a little too firmly up our asses!)

I say this because what happened next is why I live in the basement of some duplex-condominium type craphouse in the south of France instead of my hollowed-out 5-floor mansion in the top floor of the tallest building in the Upper East-Side. What happened next is why I can’t take a shower for a good half hour after I flush the toilet unless I want to be washing my hair with human waste! What happened next is why I’m writing this damn monologue (or whatever the hell it’s called!), instead of overlooking the Manhattan Skyline whilst puffing a Cuban. Within moments of our refusal to re-vamp the deal, dozens of Thompson-toting Irishman burst through the doors and windows, guns-a-blazin’! Within moments, blood and glass coated the floors, and my associates were dying a merciful death right in front of my very eyes. Don’t get me wrong – i was prepared for this kind of thing. I had a dozen or so guards of my own in the room. However, it was pointless – we were outnumbered exponentially. I never expected this amount of firepower. But, I wasn’t gonna die that day. I had half the remaining guardsmen smuggle me out of there untouched and unscathed. It was a friekin’ miracle, I tell ya!

Soon after, I arrive at my estate – only to realize that it had been raided, ransacked, and looted. It was totally destroyed. Thank god my family had been out. I make my way back downstairs after assessing the damage and taking the money and other valuables out of the secret safes I had hidden in false walls throughout, only to find 4 FBI vans waiting for me at the main door. They ask we to take a ride with them. You’d think I’d be worried, huh? Nope! I’d taken special consideration into each of my actions to make sure my nose was clean as far as law enforcement was concerned. However, I have been to jail a few times..

I arrive at the station, only to see my family in Interrogation Room 3, presumably answering all question as I have taught them to. They move me to Room 2, only to tell me that my family and I are being placed under the Witness Protection Program for the foreseeable future. I had no say. But damn did I have what to say.

“You think you can cross me? Tell me where me and MY family are going to live??!” I viscously exclaimed, “You think I’m gonna just run away from these pansy little #$%&s??! They don’t scare me. I’ll kill every last one of them myself if that’s what it takes! But I’ll be damned if you think I’M being sent away!”

It was no use. I was under custody,  and no amount of cursing, death threats, or anything else would change it. It was over – all over.

To make the entire situation even more spectacular, to leave no traceable connection between us and our old lives, we were not allowed to take ANY of our possessions with us. No Rolls-Royce. No Rolex. No indoor pool & jacuzzi. No hefty pile of cash under my giant mattress. Nothing. And here I am, in this dreary, boring old town. Here I am, sitting by the window of my small portion of this crappy little duplex-condominium type building, writing this damn thing. Here I am, wishing it all hadn’t gone to #$%&.

– May 4, 1959: Mickey Cohen

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