Posted 29 September 2008 - 12:50 AM
Edited by mark-2007, 29 September 2008 - 12:54 AM.
Here's my first story in a long time, and the first of this thread too! It's my 12th Vagos story, I think. I'll be purchasing an ounce of heroin, worth $870. Enjoy!
Los Santos Vagos
Long Way Home
“Over to James Holden on our Crime Desk.”
“Thanks George,” the reporter said. “Behind me is what, just hours ago, was a drugs-producing warehouse."
He motioned to the building behind him and continued, “In the early hours of this morning, the Police C.R.A.S.H division raided the warehouse,” he paused for effect. “We’ve got Officer Briggs of the division to tell us about the events.”
“Hello,” he said through his thick moustache.
“So Officer Briggs, who owned the warehouse?” James Holden asked.
“Well, after months of investigations,” Briggs began, subconsciously clasping at his badge. “We discovered that Koreans were using this warehouse as a production line for marijuana and crystal meth.”
I took another draw from my joint and relaxed. Our sh*t with the Koreans over, and now, crowded around the dusty television set, the other eses and I were celebrating. Not only had the Koreans been arrested, it was Jorge’s first day back at home. The Ballas had put him in a pretty bad state, with his skin red raw and peeled back after being set on fire. After many skin grafts in Jefferson Hospital Burns Centre, his skin was almost back to its old self, although was still repairing. I handed the blunt over to Santiago and he took a long draw, letting the smoke swirl around his lungs for a while before it poured out of his mouth.
“Fancy going for some pizza later?” he asked through the haze.
“Yeah sure,” Andres replied. “Go to the Alhambra afterwards too for a few drink.”
“We’ve got some guy coming round to sell us some smack first,” Raul told us. “Should be here later.”
We all agreed and I headed to my room for a nap. After an hour or so, with my head cleared, I emerged from my room. The sun was sitting firmly in the sky as I opened the sliding patio doors, casting an orange glow over the grass outside. Santiago lay sprawled across a garden chair, eyes closed and a beer bottle hanging loosely from his fingers. I walked over to the picnic table, an acquisition from a local diner, and took a seat by Raul Alvarez the hulking, alpha-male who was the closest thing to a leader that we had. He was deep in conversation with Andres and Jorge about how we the Vagos were about to be on the up again.
“We might have beaten them Ballas down,” he was saying. “But Grove Street are the real problem, they’re the ones we should be f*ckin’ with holmes.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean vato,” Andres agreed. “But we need to start small. GSF got too many guys, I think we should try split ‘em up again and attack Seville.”
“Good idea,” Raul nodded his head and took a swig of beer.
There was a knock at the garden gate and, after Santiago’s approval, a man shuffled through. Tall and black, he made his way across the patio to greet us with a slap on the back and some handshakes. He took a seat and dug inside the pocket of his hoodie.
“It’s all here,” he muttered and threw down a compact bag of coarse, brown powder, which looked like sand almost. “You got the money.”
Raul reached inside his pocket and retrieved his own air-sealed bag, “$870, right?”
“That’s the one,” the dealer said and edged his bag over the table, receiving the money in return. “Good to see you again Raul, and friends.” He nodded at us.
“Yep, we should hang out some more sometime,” Raul told him. “Just give me a ring sometime.”
With that, he got up and shuffled away. It was as quick and simple as that, a not-even five minute visit and he’d made a nice sum of money, and we’d acquired an ounce of heroin.
“So, what time are we heading out?” I said, stirring us all from money-making dreams.
“sh*t, didn’t notice it was so late,” Raul said, looking at the clock inside. “We best all get showered and ready.”
Forty five minutes later, we were all gathered around the doorway. I stuffed a fifty or so dollars into my wallet and tucked it into my jeans, before ruffling my scraggly hair. My shirt, which I had quickly ironed, lay on top of a white vest, with a thick silver chain hanging from my neck. Together, we stepped out into the humid Los Santos night, and set off for a bite to eat first. Twenty minutes later we were stood inside Well Stacked Pizza in Idlewood, waiting for the employee to hand us our boxes of greasy food. We got three pizzas to share between the five of us, each of which was devoured within minutes. Getting up, I brushed some crumbs off of my jeans and followed Raul out of the restaurant.
A further twenty minutes later, and we were just passing the petrol station in Idlewood, not far away from the Alhambra. I retrieved some identification from my wallet, ready to show to the doormen. As we rounded the corner, the queue was fairly small and not long after joining it, we were face to face with the bouncers. One of them, a rotund white man with a shaven head and a goatee, reached out his hand. I obligingly placed my identification in his palm and, after a few seconds of studying it, he handed it back to me.
The music pounded through my ears, shaking every nerve in my body. I turned round and smiled at Jorge, flashing the thumbs up to him too. This was the first time we’d been out to a club in the US, and it was going to be good. Andres got in the first round of Logger Beer, and we each took a long, refreshing gulp. We talked for a while away from the blaring speakers.
The club was beginning to fill up more now that it was nearing nine o’clock. A group of women crowded around the table next to me and, as I gazed at them, one of them smiled. I quickly looked away, embarrassed that I’d been caught looking and, now nervous, lifted my eyes to look again. There she was smiling away at me still as she chatted to her friends. She was Latina, and had smooth black hair which flowed down to her shoulders and outlined her low-cut dress.
“Go for it vato!” Santi egged me on.
Downing the rest of my beer as Dutch courage, I made my way over to her and took a seat beside her. I introduced myself and asked for her name. Alicia. She flashed another white smile and we began chatting away to each other. Eventually, after buying her a drink, I asked her to dance and, with her leading me by the hand, I followed her to the dance floor. It was crowded, with countless men and women shuffling to the music. We joined in and got closer. A few songs went by and I asked her if she wanted another drink. We went to the bar together and I put our order in, receiving a Logger Beer and Bacardi Breezer.
A shove knocked me to the floor, smashing the bottles into shards and sending their contents everywhere. Aching, I looked round to see who’d done it, sure that it was just an accident and he’d apologise, and that’d be that. I was confronted by a man, towering over me. He was also Mexican, and had a thin chinstrap beard, with a shaven head. His white shirt sat under a blue bandanna, which was tied loosely around his neck. He coughed up some phlegm and spat on my face. A crowd of people gathered round, encircling us in the commotion. Alicia looked stunned at the man and then rushed over between us.
“Hazer!” she wailed. “What the f*ck are you doing?”
“Shut the f*ck up puta! He said and roughly pushed her over as well.
I rose to my feet once again and took a swing at him, landing a solid punch in his jaw line. His face shook with the impact, but he countered straight away with a jab, which he landed square in my chest, winding me. I spluttered for a second and looked around hopelessly at the crowd around me. Santiago came barging through and yelled at Hazer, who was beginning to advance on me. He turned around, ready to land another swift blow to another man. The music blared and lights flashed, blinking and illuminating us all every few seconds. In the commotion and chaos, Santi rushed at my attacker. The lights blinked off before illuminating the resulting scene. Hazer stood, doubled over and spluttering. He clenched at his stomach, from where blood seeped out. Santiago stood there, knife in hand, over him with a shocked yet determined look upon his face.
The club erupted into full scale chaos and, in the ensuing pandemonium, Santiago and I rushed through the crowds and out the fire exit, followed by Jorge, Andres and Raul. The bouncers, noticing our desperate escape, gave chase. Mostly overweight, they were no match for us, but soon Hazer’s Azteca friends joined the chase. We rushed across the road, angered motorists pounding at their horns as we missed their cars by inches. Noticing the anarchy unfolding before him, a Police car’s siren moaned into life and joined the pursuit.
“Split!” yelled Jorge, and we all ran in separate directions.
I scaled a knee-high fence and continued across a garden at blistering pace. Andres ran just beside me, before jumping over a hedge and turning right. Sweat poured from my face and smothered my brow; my breathing was becoming deeper and increasingly desperate. I hopped another low fence and landed in someone’s front garden. My arms in a tired mess, I struggled to free myself from my expensive shirt. It was only a day old, but it could also link me to the scene, so I dumped it behind a wall. A siren sounded to my right and I dashed across the garden, behind the house, and leapt over another fence. It was going to be a dangerous trek home.
Jesus Christ! That was only supposed to be a small piece to get me back in the BUYG writing mood, but I got a bit carried away with myself.
An ounce of heroin purchased there for $870.
@skimask: Haha, I'm sure we all sucked at writing when we first joined BUYG (speaking for myself, at least!). It's good to see it improves people's writing skills, as is the case with you.