The Introductory Demise of Mister Chompers

Your name is Chompers. You remember your first armed robbery like it was yesterday. But then, you tend to remember everything like it was yesterday, 'cause nothing of what gets inside your half an inch thick skull ever gets out, see? And when you don't have a decent night's sleep for some thirty years in a row, yesterday is pretty much literally when everything took place. But that's not the point. The point is a guy like you got to be smart. There's little room for error when you boss over a bunch of dunces like these. You are quite fond of dancing, but lugs this dumb give this gentlemanly activity a bad name.
Yes, this pun never got a single chuckle out of your auditory. Not even once.
But you never claimed comedy as your bag. Your bag is whole different can of worm entirely. And those worms swear on their ugly mothers' graves - your bag is being a hard-nosed, square-jawed, ham-fisted, spare-the-lip and shoot-from-the-hip gang boss. Or second-in-command of successful computer-related company, but who's concerned about it?
The answer, of course, is you. You are concerned. It's your job to be concerned.
As number two of the outfit, it is also your job to do what number one says. Number one naturally, gets his orders from some magical scrying orb or the god himself, because you are sure the successes of his schemes can't come out of simplicity or good luck. He's got quite a cunning mind, despite sometimes looking kind of like some undead myffikal fairy tale character.
Hey look, you just follow orders. No mater what kind of eldritch monstrosity or freak show is being a particular superior barking them at you.
You call your current number one Governor. And right now, Guv'ner made it clear he wants you to round up the boys for a meeting in his study. In your opinion the boss is a real mystery man and his designs are about as fruitful as a bursting gift basket. So if you had to bet, you'd bet dollars to donuts there's another artful plan he wants fulfilled.
The first step along the way is number three. No, not by rank, you stupid boob, by the order of appearance in your hard-boiled internal narrative. Probably sitting behind that locked door, up to god knows what kind of atrocities. You spend half a second contemplating if you should respect his privacy. You spend the other half tearing the doorknob out and barging in. Here he is, sitting in the corner and chugging his usual homemade and utterly gut-churning moonshine.
Patrick. Irishman. Mostly uses a shotgun. You call him Seastar, though. Comedy is not your bag, yeah, but god damn you if you aren't trying.
You tell him to follow you, 'cause boss is having a meeting in his study. He predictably replies with grumbling beginning of a drunken, drawn-out remark about your mum. You leave the room to round up more men. The end of his sentence is not falling upon someone's ears anytime soon.