conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about div><B>Roger, Wilkes</B, I>The with the genre: Biographies & Memoirs, True Crime?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Mammoth Book of the Mafia'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the first four paragraphs for this book? Start with the sentence 'The Mammoth Book of the Mafia
  Unless, of course, they really wanted me to talk, and decided to hit me if I didn't'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Mammoth Book of the Mafia
  Unless, of course, they really wanted me to talk, and decided to hit me if I didn't. They could whack me out over there and dump me in the Gowanus Canal where I wouldn't be found until I was unrecognizable. Nobody would know.
  Mirra was silent. We drove to Third Avenue and Carroll Street in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn, not far from Prospect Park. We parked and waited. Carmine Persico drove up in a white Rolls-Royce convertible with New Jersey plates – 444-FLA. I recognized him from pictures. A sturdy guy in his middle forties, with thinning hair, a long neck, baggy eyes, and a fleshy nose and mouth. He and a much younger man, maybe in his early twenties, got out of the Rolls and talked to Mirra for a few minutes.
  When Mirra got back in the car, he said, "That was his son with him, Allie Boy. He just got straightened out."
  A shylock business between the Bonanno and Colombo families was all it was. I was so primed, I actually felt a letdown. Given the options, I'll take a letdown.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is five more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Jimmy bootlegged quietly in Cicero, a suburb of Chicago, with another boy from the Brooklyn Mob named "Scarface" Al Capone. While officially attached to what would become the Profaci Family, Jimmy was on loan to Capone's Mob. When Prohibition was repealed in 1932, Jimmy came home to Brooklyn.
  Over the next three decades he would do all kinds of jobs for the Profaci Family. Jimmy Brown had served the Profaci Family faithfully since its inception and he would continue to do so until he died. He was a true old-liner, a skipper who believed in keeping your word and your place, which is why he watched with distaste as the Gallo Brothers kept trying to butch in on the Profacis' action.
  Throughout the 1950s, Larry Gallo, Joseph "Crazy Joe" Gallo, and their youngest brother, Albert "Kid Blast" Gallo, worked as assassins for Nicholas "Jiggs" Forlano. The New York State Commission of Investigation would later identify Forlano, a member of the Profaci Family, as the biggest loan shark in New York City.
  The Gallo Brothers got tired of waiting to move up the Mob ladder. In 1959, they formed their own gang of about twenty with guys in the Profaci Family who were equally dissatisfied with Profaci's leadership. While Crazy Joe was the one to be feared in any encounter – he had been certified as insane by a psychiatrist at Brooklyn's King's County Hospital in 1950 – it was Larry who was the brains. If Larry were out of the way, Joey, Kid Blast, and the rest would fall into the gutter.
  Before anything like that could happen, the Gallos, with their ranks swelling to one hundred disaffected, got some of their guys to kidnap four of Profaci's closest advisers. Held for ransom, they were eventually released. Profaci then convinced most of the one hundred insurgents to come back into the fold. The Gallos, though, were a different story. Profaci believed they deserved retribution for the rebellion they had fomented.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What is the last five paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Something burst inside, and blind with rage, I lost control completely. I tried to head butt the officer, kicking wildly as they subdued me. One of them pepper sprayed my face while they shackled me, and I collapsed to the ground, blind and writhing in pain. I felt like a trapped animal.
  A few minutes later I was thrust into a jail cell where I was shackled to the wall, still cuffed. The struggle had aggravated my skull injuries, and the pain in my bad eye was agonizing. The rank smell of the man they chained me next to nearly gagged me. There were nearly twenty men crammed in the cell with me, most of them ranting and raving, spitting, and urinating on the floor. It was like being plunged into a nightmare. When a police officer walked by the cell a short while later, a tall black man a few feet from me unzipped his pants and began urinating on the officer. Within seconds a barrage of officers descended on the cell, and all hell broke loose. The man they were after squatted and filled his hands with his own excrement, then began throwing it at the officers. Other prisoners followed suit. I sat against the wall, sickened. How had I ended up in this madhouse? Eventually officers restrained the men they were after, but no one attempted to clean up the pool of urine and bowel movements that littered the floor. The stench was overpowering.
  I remained shackled all day and most of the night. The arresting officers "forgot" about me for more than twelve hours, finally rediscovering my paperwork shortly before dawn the next day. When I was taken before a judge at last, he informed me that the original arrest was for failing to appear in response to a series of traffic tickets. The odd thing about this was that I had never seen any of the tickets they showed me. God knows, I had been guilty of speeding, but I always paid my tickets. But the pile of citations they put in front of me – these, I had never seen before, and I didn't recognize any of the cars I had supposedly been driving. When I pointed this out to the judge, he sarcastically inquired if someone else had been driving other cars while using my name. I was finally released to my lawyer, but I was very disturbed by what had happened in that courtroom. What was going on here? Who was making up charges against me?
  A psychological war was being waged against me, and I was losing. I wasn't yet eighteen, but I had already developed bleeding ulcers. Home once again, I spent over an hour in the steam room and shower trying to feel clean. Afterward, as I lay in bed, I mentally listed every crime I had ever committed. Speeding and carrying a concealed weapon, yes. Collecting packages for my father? Yes, probably a crime, for some of them had undoubtedly contained illicit cash or stolen property, though I never opened any of them. Aiding and abetting a felon? But my father hadn't been a felon at the time; he'd never even been charged. Failing to report crimes I had known about? Was that illegal? Did it make any difference that I was a minor during all of it? I didn't know. Drenched in fear, confusion, and guilt, I struggled to sort out the nature of my misdeeds. I had never thought of myself as a criminal; I had thought of myself as a son helping his father. Had I been wrong? And what if I had? I knew that if given the same choices tomorrow, I would help my father again. Did that make me a criminal, too? I didn't know. How long was this going to go on? How far would they go? Sometimes I wished they'd just sentence me and get it over with. Anything was better than this constant anxiety.
  The real question that haunted me, however, was not what I had done, but why they hated me so much – and they obviously did. I knew that in their eyes, I was a junior wiseguy, an obnoxious adolescent with a chip on his shoulder. That much I understood, but it didn't explain the passionate contempt they treated me with. One night, sleepless as usual, I went into the bathroom to rinse my face with cold water and caught my own reflection in the mirror. It startled me. Funny, I thought, I never realized how much I look like my father. And that was when it hit me. It wasn't me they hated. They hated my father, and every time they looked at me, they saw my father's face. In their eyes, I wasn't just the mobster's son; I was the mobster. I had spent a lifetime trying to walk, talk, and dress exactly like my dad. In a moment of wrenching clarity, I realized I had succeeded.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: In a moment of wrenching clarity, I realized I had succeeded.. I had spent a lifetime trying to walk, talk, and dress exactly like my dad. In their eyes, I wasn't just the mobster's son; I was the mobster. They hated my father, and every time they looked at me, they saw my father's face. It wasn't me they hated. And that was when it hit me. Funny, I thought, I never realized how much I look like my father. It startled me. One night, sleepless as usual, I went into the bathroom to rinse my face with cold water and caught my own reflection in the mirror. That much I understood, but it didn't explain the passionate contempt they treated me with. I knew that in their eyes, I was a junior wiseguy, an obnoxious adolescent with a chip on his shoulder.
  The real question that haunted me, however, was not what I had done, but why they hated me so much – and they obviously did. Anything was better than this constant anxiety. How long was this going to go on? How far would they go? Sometimes I wished they'd just sentence me and get it over with. Did that make me a criminal, too? I didn't know. Had I been wrong? And what if I had? I knew that if given the same choices tomorrow, I would help my father again. I had never thought of myself as a criminal; I had thought of myself as a son helping his father. Drenched in fear, confusion, and guilt, I struggled to sort out the nature of my misdeeds. Failing to report crimes I had known about? Was that illegal? Did it make any difference that I was a minor during all of it? I didn't know. Aiding and abetting a felon? But my father hadn't been a felon at the time; he'd never even been charged. Collecting packages for my father? Yes, probably a crime, for some of them had undoubtedly contained illicit cash or stolen property, though I never opened any of them. Speeding and carrying a concealed weapon, yes. Afterward, as I lay in bed, I mentally listed every crime I had ever committed. Home once again, I spent over an hour in the steam room and shower trying to feel clean. I wasn't yet eighteen, but I had already developed bleeding ulcers. What was going on here? Who was making up charges against me?
  A psychological war was being waged against me, and I was losing. I was finally released to my lawyer, but I was very disturbed by what had happened in that courtroom. When I pointed this out to the judge, he sarcastically inquired if someone else had been driving other cars while using my name. But the pile of citations they put in front of me – these, I had never seen before, and I didn't recognize any of the cars I had supposedly been driving. God knows, I had been guilty of speeding, but I always paid my tickets. The odd thing about this was that I had never seen any of the tickets they showed me. When I was taken before a judge at last, he informed me that the original arrest was for failing to appear in response to a series of traffic tickets. The arresting officers "forgot" about me for more than twelve hours, finally rediscovering my paperwork shortly before dawn the next day.
  I remained shackled all day and most of the night. The stench was overpowering. How had I ended up in this madhouse? Eventually officers restrained the men they were after, but no one attempted to clean up the pool of urine and bowel movements that littered the floor. I sat against the wall, sickened. Other prisoners followed suit. The man they were after squatted and filled his hands with his own excrement, then began throwing it at the officers. Within seconds a barrage of officers descended on the cell, and all hell broke loose. When a police officer walked by the cell a short while later, a tall black man a few feet from me unzipped his pants and began urinating on the officer. It was like being plunged into a nightmare. There were nearly twenty men crammed in the cell with me, most of them ranting and raving, spitting, and urinating on the floor. The rank smell of the man they chained me next to nearly gagged me. The struggle had aggravated my skull injuries, and the pain in my bad eye was agonizing.
  A few minutes later I was thrust into a jail cell where I was shackled to the wall, still cuffed. I felt like a trapped animal. One of them pepper sprayed my face while they shackled me, and I collapsed to the ground, blind and writhing in pain. I tried to head butt the officer, kicking wildly as they subdued me.Something burst inside, and blind with rage, I lost control completely