Everything that slows, stops my scam or make my marks aware of the con must be discouraged, made illegal or at least immoral.

Dig this, daddy-o. We hustle in the shadows, whisper sweet nothin’s in the mark’s ear, a smooth ballet of illusion. But the straights, the squares, they wanna throw a wrench in the works. Dig, man. Anything that throws a spotlight, slows the score, or worse, makes the marks hip to the game – that’s the enemy.  Anything that shines a light on our little game, slows the hustle, makes the pigeons wise to the act – gotta be squashed, see? Declared illegal, that’s the ticket. Gotta stamp it out, make it contraband, see? Like reefer before the squares got their claws in it. But hey, even better? Slap a big, fat “immoral” sticker on it. Makes the whole thing a crusade, a righteous rebellion against the uptight squares who can’t handle a little harmless deception. 

Morals? Forget morals, those are for the suckers lining up to get fleeced. We’re artists, man, illusionists weaving dreams with a deck of marked cards. You want information? That’ll cost ya. You want a piece of the action? Gotta play our game. We control the flow, the confidence trick, the whole damn shiv. Anything that gums up the works is like sand in the Vaseline, man. Grinds the hustle to a halt. So we gotta be like termites, see? Burrow deep, undermine those so-called “truth seekers” and “watchdogs.” They’re the competition, the buzzkills to our beautiful symphony of deceit. We’ll make their methods suspect, paint ’em as squares, squares with no vision, no appreciation for the finer points of the game. This ain’t some nine-to-five grind, pal. This is an art form, and just like any good hustle, gotta keep the marks mesmerized, the deck stacked, and the fuzz lookin’ the other way. You with me?

We ain’t hurting nobody, just liberating a few bucks from their uptight pockets and putting it where it belongs – in the hands of a true artist, a connoisseur of the finer things in life, like yours truly. 

So next time some narc tries to cramp your style, remember – We’re artists, baby, purveyors of a finer reality. We show the rubes a world where their dreams are just a well-placed shell game away. You sniff out a mark questioning the hustle? You plant a seed, whisper doubts about the System, the Man, their whole nine yards. Make them feel like chumps for even thinking straight. Information? Knowledge? That’s white noise, man. We deal in illusions, and a well-crafted one can buy a whole lotta yachts and broads. Remember, gotta keep the marks mesmerized, or the whole house of cards comes tumbling down. Now, let’s go out there and separate the suckers from their simoleons!

And you ain’t a con man, you’re a goddamn folk hero. Now get out there and hustle, baby!