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Liberty City Survivor

Danny Phoenix

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Danny Phoenix

In GTA III (a video game by Rockstar Games and Take2), a competition called "Liberty City Survivor" is occasionally mentioned on the radio. Liberty City Survivor (LCS) is a battle to death where a group of people are given weapons and full permission to kill each other.


Of course, Liberty City Survivor also opens for many great fanfic ideas. On the GTA III board at www.gamefaqs.com, a user named TimmyVermicelli wanted to make a fanfic out of the whole Liberty City Survivor concept. His idea was that other users on the board would create characters and he would write the story, slowly killing the characters as the story progressed. A lot of people were interested, including a user named Jazon Woorheez who created a character just like everyone else. Eventually, seventeen different characters were accepted into the contest and their creators were eagerly waiting for the first chapter. During this time, Jazon helped Timmy keep the topic (board thread) alive and clean from useless posts (messages). And so, they waited. And waited. Chapter 1 just never seemed to arrive and the impatient participants were getting grumpy.


TimmyVermicelli never posted the first chapter. Instead, he told the characters creators that he simply couldn't muster enough free time to manage the topic and

the story. However, to prevent the idea from dying, Timmy passed the writer duty on to Jazon who gladly accepted, scrapped his own character and started typing. Timmy kept his presence in the topic by creating a character.

Before long, the anticipated prologue was posted and the response from the participants was 100% positive. And the chapters kept coming. However, Jazon felt sad when he realized that nobody would be able to read the story after the topics on the board disappeared. But, the rescue came in the shape of his own little website.


Today, the entire LCS story is hosted on this site and the sequel is underway


BTW, I didn't create this. Jazon, a friend of mine, did. I'm just posting it on here.


The Survivors


These are the characters participating in Liberty City Survivor. They were all created by different people when the competition started in October 2004. _




Ryan Linear


Escaping from the cops after murdering a man in his home town, young Ryan was hiding in Liberty City where he got into trouble with the Yakuza. After a massive battle with them, he was arrested and sentenced to life in prison. However, he managed to escape during transport and joined LCS to get back on his feet.




Tony "Esco" Escobar


Leader of a small gang called "The Tyrantz". After killing two rival gang members, the cops raided his apartment and found a bag full of SPANK. Later, his gang busted him out of prison. Esco is now in LCS for the money and the fame.




Joey Goterelli


A few years ago, Joey's friend Peter betrayed him and got him sent to prison. They were both mafia hitmen. Joey joined LCS to regain his reputation as the best killer in Liberty City.




Marco Delioni


Former member of the Portland mob. Killed 3 cops in one night, got busted and locked up. Bailed after 1 year. Joined LCS for the money.




Marcos Rafael Chavez


Member of the Diablos. Killed five police officers during a gang war. Sadistic. Has a penchant for playing sick games with the corpses of his enemies.




John Teik


Years ago, his father was killed by Tony Escobar in Vice City. Teik moved to Liberty City to track down Esco and claim revenge. Is an expert in explosives and gases.






Killed his own family when he was eight years old. Lived in hospitals, prisons and institutions since then. Escaped from a police van during a high security transport and stole an ambulance. Dressed in a blood stained paramedic uniform.




Bill Grogan


Scizofrenic. Escaped from the hospital's high security wing recently. Little is known about him.




Franz Chavez


Former leader of "Franzchise", a money counterfeit gang. Franz betrayed his own men and escaped to Liberty City, hunted by his friends. He needs the money from LCS to save his own life.


Salvatore "Sal" DiMaggio


Owner of "Woody's topless bar" in Red Light District. Liberty City's angriest man.




Mario Cerone


Friend of Tommy Vercetti. Killed 2 people during a trip to Liberty and was automatically signed up for LCS upon being paroled after 14 years in prison.




Patrick O´Grady


Was involved with the Celtic Mafia in Ireland which intended to move their operations to Liberty City. The entire gang was eliminated during a cop raid but Patrick survived. He escaped from prison only three days before the start of LCS.




Lucas "Demon" Gill


Stormed a monastery and killed most of the inhabitants in a satanic ritual. The Liberty City Survivor producers pulled some strings and got him released so he could participate in the competition. Believes he is a soldier from hell, on a mission to kill his enemies.




Johnny Buckshot


Farm boy. Went to Liberty to buy some drugs for his mom. Got into a fist brawl and killed ten people. Spent 15 years in jail and joined LCS when he got out.




John Bennett


Respected mafia hitman. Killed 15 triads during a battle and was arrested when he tried to steal a car. Joined LCS to get money and respect.




Nathan "Mad Dog" MacMillan


Has been a member of Navy SEALS and Delta Force. Got sloppy during and operation in which his entire squad was wiped out. Got fired from the force due to this and joined LCS to be in combat once again. Good friend of Phil Cassidy's.




John Jones


Born and raised in Liberty City, Jones has managed to cover his identity. None of the other participants knows where he lives




PROLOGUE: Seventeen Armed Men


The rain was falling like small rocks against the pavement. Most people were inside, unwilling to get soaked in the downpour. However, one man was walking slowly through Atlantic Quays, whistling a slow melody. He seemed unaffected by the violent weather, as if nothing mattered to him. He was wearing blue jeans and a grey shirt. His name was Marco Delioni, and he was waiting. Waiting for something to happen. It was the day. The day he had been waiting for. Liberty City Survivor had started. Men would die. He would have to kill at least one man. Then, he would be rich, famous and safe. He smiled.


Not far from there, an ambulance was making its way through traffic. The driver was wearing a white paramedic suit, stained with blood. He was screaming frantically while driving with the sirens wailing. He was looking for someone. Someone who he was supposed to kill. It was going to be hilarious. He was only known by the name “Klaydoggy”. His name was one of the few things in the world that he actually liked.


In Aspatria, another man was walking in a slow pace. His finger touched his pistol gently. He was alone out there, and it was the way he liked it. He didn’t need anyone else. Also, he didn’t really care about the tournament. He wanted to survive, but he only wanted one thing. The death of Tony Escobar who had murdered his father. His name was John Teik, a man willing to do anything for revenge. This tournament would finally bring an end to his obsession. He would no longer have to see Escobar’s grinning face when he closed his eyes.


In the Red light district, a man was locking the door to Woody’s topless bar. He heard a sound an turned around, reaching for his 12 gauge shotgun and saw a cat eating out of a garbage can.

“Damn cat,” he muttered while entering his car. The rain annoyed him, the cat annoyed him and the traffic annoyed him. He felt like killing someone. He was Salvatore DiMaggio, Liberty City’s angriest man.


John Jones was leaving his home in Wichita Gardens. He pulled out a shotgun from the trunk of his car, got in the driver seat and drove of. He was calm. He knew that he would be able to win the competition; he had no doubt about it. He was unknown in Liberty. Nobody knew where he lived. It was time to kill.


A blonde man in farmer’s clothes was sitting on a seat in an L-train at Hepburn Heights. He was smoking a clumsily rolled cigarette and looking out through the window. His fate was waiting for him. Death or glory. Countryside bored him. He was tired of meadows and tractors. 15 years in jail had turned him into a city man, ready to kill his way to the top. Johnny Buckshot, feared by the police but unheard of to everyone else. That was going to change.


Over at Rockford, someone was talking to Phil Cassidy. The man said something and Phil laughed.

“Sorry, Nathan,” said Phil. “I can’t sell you a rocket launcher while you are in the tournament. That would be against the rules.”

“What about an M16?” asked Nathan MacMillan.

“No. While you are competing, I can’t sell you anything. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” said Nathan and left Phil’s compound.

Nathan “Mad Dog”, was happy. Combat was once again a part of his life. He missed Delta Force and the old days at Fort Meade. Now, he could fight for his life again, killing some enemies in the process. With or without Cassidy’s heavy duty armament, he would fight till the bitter end. Adrenaline was pumping in his veins.


Ryan Linear was waiting for the bus. He had received a tip from a friend, saying that one of the targets was currently in Chinatown. He put his hand in his pocket and gave his Uzi a gentle pat. This competition would be great. He didn’t know where the TV cameras were, but that was not important. All that mattered was staying focused and never leaving the home without a loaded weapon. Not that Ryan ever did leave the home without a gun. He liked his Uzi and packing heat was a good life insurance.


A Sentinel drove by the bus stop where Ryan was standing. Ryan didn’t see the driver and the driver didn’t see Ryan. The driver’s name was Joey Goterelli. Years ago, he had been the greatest mob hitman ever. There was no mission that he could not complete. Salvatore Leone, Tony Cipriani and all the other high ranked mobsters had requested his services. However, one of his trusted friends set him up and got him sent to prison. Now, Joey was participating in the tournament to shake the traitor out and finish him of.


In the sewers, another of the tournament’s fighters was sneaking around. He was wearing a dirty hospital gown and was also talking to himself. He had an old baseball bat in his hand. He had no idea where he could find any of his enemies. All he knew was that he was supposed to track them down and kill them. That wouldn’t be a problem; he was used to killing people. He was good at it.

“Bill,” he said to himself. “I’m going to kill a lot of people. And then I will be rich.”

“Sounds good,” he answered. “Who are we?”

“We… We are Bill Grogan, and no one can stop us!”

“That’s right! Now find a place where we can get to the surface.”

“Okay, Bill.”


A Diablo Stallion made the water puddles splash as it roared along Callahan Bridge. The driver avoided the other cars while keeping the pedal to metal. In the passenger seat, several Molotov cocktails were placed. The entire car’s interior smelled of gasoline. The driver took a Molotov cocktail and adjusted the small piece of fabric stuck in the bottle’s hole. He was trying to shake the TV cameras so that he could buy some more Molotovs from the armament store in Shoreside Vale. The tournament’s participants were not allowed to buy any weapons or equipment while competing. He hated that rule. He ran out of bottles and gasoline two days ago and needed more. He was Marcos Rafael Chavez. Fire and torture was his specialities.


Patrick O´Grady was hiding in a bush, clutching an Uzi in his left hand. The cops were looking for him, and he did not feel like going back to jail only three days after he finally got out of there. The Liberty City Survivor Tournament would provide him with everything he needed to start his own criminal empire and finish the work that he and his Irish comrades had started. Of course, he would have preferred a way of making money that didn’t involve danger to his life, but such opportunities were very rare in Liberty City. For now, he had to stay out of sight and try to track down his enemies.


The few people who were still outside avoided the man in black clothes who was walking hastily towards a blue Rumpo parked at Marco’s Bistro. The man was playing with a huge dagger and smiling faintly. There were 16 men waiting to be sacrificed to his dark lord and master. He was eager to find them soon, but he didn’t want the fun to end. Maybe he could keep some of the men in his basement and play with them. His nickname was “Demon”, a name that he deserved. Lucas Gill was actually not an evil man, but years of mental illness and wild fantasies had made him what he was. He was more than ready to answer the call of the kill.

Tony “Esco” Escobar was laughing. He had just found out that one of his new opponents was the son of Steven Teik, whom Escobar had killed in Vice City. It seemed that young Teik wanted revenge for this. Tony would have to kill yet another Teik.

“Sure hope this one hasn’t a son. Killing revengeful kids is boring,” he thought while switching his TV on.


A taxi stopped outside a house in Newport and a man got out. He looked around and then entered the house. His name was John Bennett, yet another mafia hitman who got arrested and registered, thus rendered useless to the mafia itself. Bennett was a man on the edge, doing small time jobs for minor sums of cash. He was an excellent hitman, but also forgotten by the people who used to look at him with awe. Liberty City Survivor would be his ticket back into the high ranks. If he won the tournament, he would be the cream of the crop once again.


Only a few yards from Bennett, another man was walking in the rain. They didn’t notice each other and no fight got started right there. The other man was a famous money counterfeiter. Franz Chavez, on the run from his old comrades. With the money he would win in the tournament, he could either form himself an empire and have his old friends assassinated or he could simply pay them to leave him alone. No matter what he did, he had to get rid of his followers.


The seventeenth man was at his house, looking at a map. He was marking the homes of all his opponents with needles. He couldn’t afford any mistakes. Mistakes kill. Outside, rain was beating the windows hard. He wouldn’t go anywhere today. But tomorrow. The D Day. In this case, D meant “Death”. Mario Cerone added the last needle and then sat down in his armchair. Sixteen men… It would take some time.







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Danny Phoenix

CHAPTER ONE: First Blood


Johnny Buckshot was driving his pony through Cedar Grove. He was holding his trusty baseball bat in his hand. Mario Cerone lived in Cedar Grove and Johnny had decided to kill him first. It was 2:00 AM and Cerone should be sleeping. He saw the house, stopped the car and turned the engine of. He got out of the car and approached the house carefully. There was no light inside.


Johnny didn’t know that he was being followed. Not far from there, a Diablo Stallion stopped. A man got out of it. He had a backpack, and by the sound of it, it was full of bottles. Marcos Rafael Chavez kept on following Buckshot silently. He pulled up a molotov from his backpack.

“What are you up to, farm boy?” he thought while keeping his eyes on Johnny.


Across town, in the Red Light District, Salvatore DiMaggio had trouble sleeping. One of the opponents could crash in through the window at any time. Being tired but unable to sleep pissed him of. He needed his rest. After a few more minutes of fruitless trying, he got up, dressed and took his shotgun. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well try to put someone else to sleep for good.


Nathan “Mad Dog” MacMillan was disassembling his Uzi and cleaning it. He was at Phil’s army surplus store, playing poker with Cassidy and a couple of other weapon freaks. Phil himself had gone to get some more Boomshine liquor and Nathan was entertaining himself with his gun. He had spent two days trying to find his opponents without result and he was bored. Maybe one of the enemies could find him if he waited.


Nathan was right. One of his enemies had found him. John Bennett was driving his taxi, headed for the Army surplus store. The passenger seat was full of molotov cocktails, waiting to be used. Bennett reckoned that MacMillan would be drunk already, and easy to defeat.


Joey Goterelli was talking to a man in a secluded area at the Hepburn Heights towers. The man was an informant whom Goterelli had hired to track down his opponents and the old friend who set him up.

“Alright, I got news for you,” said the man. “That guy Jones, he thinks he is like a secret agent or something. Hidden you know. But I found him yesterday. He lives in Wichita Gardens, and he is driving a black Patriot. Go check him out.”

“I will,” said Goterelli. “Here is your money.”

He gave the informant 100 dollars and then got into his Sentinel. John Jones was his target now, his first step towards victory.


But John Jones was not at home. He was on a boat outside Staunton Island, observing a house through a couple of night vision goggles. He saw no sign of activity. It was Tony Escobar’s house. John took his shotgun and steered the boat closer to land. He knew that Escobar was an ice cold killer and he didn’t want to be shot at while in the boat so he quickly got out of it and ran up to the front door. The lights were on inside.


In Belleville Park, a man was sitting in a tree. He was looking down at the few people who were crossing the park at night.

“Bill,” said the man to himself. “Why can’t I kill one of those humans?”

“Because,” he answered. “Those are not targets. We must find the people we are supposed to kill. Isn’t that right?”

“Right. Sorry Bill.”

“That is quite alright, my friend. Look! Over there! It is a target!”


John Teik was leaving the Belleville Park toilet. He didn’t see the man in the tree who was clutching a baseball bat in his skinny hand. The man got down from the tree and started following Teik eagerly. John was tired. He had been up all night, seeking information about Tony Escobar. He yawned. Suddenly, he heard a snap behind him.


Klaydoggy was sitting in the back of his stolen ambulance. He was looking at the body in front of him, an old woman. He smiled at it while going through the victim’s purse. He found some money, laughed happily, went into the corner drug store and bought some sausages and soda. He was just about to leave the store when two masked men with pistols stormed in and shouted to everybody to get down on the floor. Everybody did, except Klaydoggy who stood there, eating his sausages calmly. One of the robbers went up to the desk and demanded money. The other turned to Klaydoggy and put his gun to Klaydoggy’s forehead.

“Get down now!” screamed the robber.


Finally, he had found a safe house. He needed sleep and warm food desperately and this place would suit his needs. Patrick O´ Grady had been looking for a safe house since the start of the tournament. Now, he was living in an old garage in Fort Staunton which had a bed, a lamp and a small stove. It would be hard for the enemies to find him there. He took his tourist map and put it on the floor. Where would be a good place to strike first?


Right outside Patrick’s safe house was a parked Kuruma. It belonged to Ryan Linear who was visiting a friend not far from there. Neither O´ Grady nor Linear knew that the other was so close. Ryan himself was trying to convince his friend to come along in the Kuruma as backup.

“Forget it,” said his friend. “I am not going out there with you as long as you are in that stupid contest. It’s suicide!”

“Come on!” said Linear. “I’ll share the profit with you.”’

“It isn’t worth it! I’m staying here for now, thank you very much.”

“Fine! Call me if you change your mind.”


Marco Delioni was almost sleeping. He was drinking a lot of coffee while waiting for the phone to ring. He had hired several thugs to find out as much info as could be found about the opponents. Where they lived, where they were during the days and so forth. He needed to know such things to stay alive. He loved it, the joy of battle and strategy. It hadn’t even started yet. Eventually, the phone rang.

On the top of the airport’s huge dome, a man was sitting. He was chanting a strange melody while looking at the moon. He could feel the scent of blood in the air. He was ready and so was his master. Soon, he would feel the warmth of blood in his hands and hear the scream of a man who felt the dagger cut through flesh and scrape the bone. He knew where to start. It was time.


Franz Chavez was very nervous. There had been no progress in the tournament so far. If things didn’t speed up, his old friends would find him and they would no treat him good. All sixteen enemies were still alive. Status Quo. He opened his suitcase and took out some counterfeit 50 dollar bills. He was a master counterfeiter, but that would not be enough to get rid of his followers.


Johnny found an open window and felt relieved. Cerone had forgotten to close it, thus making everything a lot easier for the former farm boy. Buckshot went inside and looked around. It was a neat house with a lot of expensive accessories. It would be great to live in a house like this. He saw a door which he reckoned lead to the bedroom and moved to open it. Before he could do so, a voice spoke up behind him.



Bennett jumped over the wall into the army surplus store. The four drunken men was sitting only a few yards away, drinking boomshine and playing poker. Bennett drew his gun and leaned out from behind a container. He had a clear shot.


John Jones picked the lock to Escobar’s apartment and went in very quietly. He took of his night vision goggles. The only sound came from a clock in the kitchen. He held his shotgun at the ready, listening for sounds from the sleeping Escobar. All of a sudden, someone jumped out from a wardrobe, grabbed the shotgun and forced it upwards. Jones squeezed the trigger and blasted a hole through the roof.

“Think you can sneak up on me?” roared Escobar and punched Jones in the face.


Teik saw a man running towards him with a baseball bat. He reached for his gun but the man swung his baseball bat and knocked the pistol from Teik’s hand.

“Die, target!” shrieked Grogan and swung the bat.

Teik dodged it and gave Grogan a punch in the guts. Bill gave out a groan and kicked Teik on the knee.


Klaydoggy was still standing up, eating sausages. The robber screamed to him to lie down again, but Klaydoggy just shrugged and kept on eating.

“You asked for it!” said the robber.

But he didn’t have time to shoot. Klaydoggy forced his gun to the side and then bit him in the neck.

“What the he…!? Help me! He’s biting!”

The other robber turned around and raised his pistol but Klaydoggy used his robber as a shield.

“Let him go, you psycho!” yelled the robber.

The store clerk hit the alarm button.


Buckshot turned around and saw Cerone, sitting in an armchair with a gun.

“Did you actually fall for the old trick with the open window, farm boy?” asked Mario. “I knew someone would come for me. Kick your weapon to me.”

Johnny kicked his bat across the room to Cerone.

“Good boy. You see, I don’t make mistakes. Leaving a window open, waiting for the stupid attacker. It’s all tactics. Now, prepare to die.”

A molotov cocktail flew through the window and smashed against Cerone’s living room table. Fire spread immediately. Cerone jumped up, staring at the flames. Buckshot took his chance and leaped into the next room. Another molotov entered the house and hit the TV set. Cerone started shooting through the window. For a few seconds, everything was quiet. Then, yet another cocktail made its way into the villa. This time through the chimney. Cerone let out a cry of rage and ran for the door. A molotov came flying, landed in front of him and blocked his escape route. Then, someone breached the back door. Marcos Rafael Chavez rushed in through it. Cerone fired a shot that missed. Marcos threw a cocktail that hit the wall and spread even more flames. Cerone shot two more bullets. Both missed by inches.


Bennett fired a shot. He was expecting to see MacMillan drop dead, but he didn’t. Instead, one of the drunken weapon freaks took the bullet. He fell back with blood squirting from his chest. MacMillan, Phil and the other man jumped up from their chairs.

“It is the Viet Cong!” shouted Phil and ran for his battle tank. MacMillan grabbed his Uzi and the other man got an M-16 from a crate. They both went for cover, but Bennett managed to shoot the weapon freak in the head. Phil opened the door to his battle tank but hit his head on it. He mumbled something about a yak and dropped to the ground unconscious. MacMillan opened fire and Bennett took cover.


Escobar and Jones were fighting frantically with their fists. Jones’s shotgun was still pointed upwards. The two men kept hitting each other wherever they could.

“You conniving sneaking coward!”

“Just die, Escobar! You don’t have a chance!”

Tony took a grip around John’s throat and squeezed. Jones sucked for air and dropped his shotgun. Escobar reached for it and gave Jones a chance to strike back. John kicked Tony right in the chin. Escobar lost his grip around the neck and Jones fled. He ran out of the house, sprinted down to the dock and dived into the water. Escobar followed him and saw him swim away. Tony wiped the blood from his mouth and went back into the house. He had lost a tooth and didn’t even manage to kill Jones. The night could have been better.


Teik used a wrestling throw and managed to send Grogan flying through the air and landing hard on the gravel. Teik sprinted for his gun. Bill saw it and realized that the battle was over. He started running in the other direction. Teik picked his gun up, turned around and fired. He hit the fleeing Grogan in the lower arm before he disappeared into the sewers.


Klaydoggy snatched the gun from the robber’s hand, raised it and shot five bullets into the other robber’s stomach before he could react.

“You killed my buddy!” cried the robber who was still trying to escape from Klaydoggy’s hands. “I’m going to kill you! Kill you! I’ll kill you right…”

Klaydoggy snapped the robber’s neck. The alarm was on, which meant the cops would be there any second. He took the robber’s gun, his sausages and soda and got back to his ambulance hastily.


Bennett was running back to his car, swearing in his mind. He had failed, but there would be more chances. It was not over yet...


Cerone chased Chavez through the villa. The building was engulfed in flames and the smoke made his eyes hurt. He rounded a corner. Nobody there. He rounded another and saw Chavez who threw a molotov. The cocktail missed and hit Cerone’s refrigerator. Marcos was stuck in a dead end. The only door was locked.

“You are out of molotov cocktails,” said Cerone. “So ends the story of Marcos Rafael Chavez.”

Marcos closed his eyes and waited for the shot. It didn’t come. Instead, he heard a gurgle and looked up. He saw Cerone with blood streaming from his throat and Johnny Buckshot holding a big kitchen knife. Cerone stared at Marcos while trying to stand up. Something exploded somewhere in the house and Buckshot escaped. Cerone fell to the floor, still gurgling blood. There was no time to lose. Marcos hurried out of the house and back to his Stallion. Behind him, the fire made the villa collapse with Mario Cerone inside. The tournament had claimed its first victim.






Edited by Danny Phoenix
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Danny Phoenix



Liberty City was noisy place that day. The entire city laid hidden under a veil of thick grey fog. The meteorologists had foreseen a storm to hit the city and people were hurrying to get home. Thus, the streets were packed with cars. The drivers kept screaming, honking and giving each other the finger.

It had been two days since Mario Cerone died in Cedar Grove. The participants in Liberty City Survivor were moving about the town. Their homes were not safe places anymore and they were desperately seeking for new refuges.


John Jones had found a new hideout. He knew that Joey Goterelli knew where he lived and was after him. Therefore, he had traded his modern speeder boat for an older, shabbier house boat. He was anchored not far from the lighthouse, listening to the sounds from the sprawling city. Sooner or later, his enemies would find him again but his boat had a tank full of fuel, enough to take him to safety. Where ever safety may be. Jones had lost his shotgun in the fistfight with Tony Escobar, and all he had now was a rusty fishing knife. He went back into the boat to make lunch. He didn’t notice the dark outlines of a man, swimming under the surface towards the boat.


In Aspatria, Marcos Rafael Chavez was looking out through the window. He was currently living with one of his old Diablo friends, a man named Juan. Juan had left the turf in Hepburn Heights after being given an important mission from El Burro. He was now a spy, recovering information about the Yardies.

“Do you see anything?” Juan asked.

“Nothing,” answered Marcos. “Not a thing.”

“Nobody knows you are here, amigo. I’m a pro. You deserve to lay low after that skirmish in Shoreside.”

“I know. One down, fifteen to go. I guess I can’t ask the donkey for help.”

“El Burro? Man, you know we can’t support you. You entered this tournament, you do the fighting.”



In the sewers under Harwood, a man was crying. He had wrapped a torn shirt around his arm. The shirt had a lot of red stains. The man felt pain and it was hard for him to understand it.

“Bill… Why does it hurt?”

“Because you were shot, my friend. That target shot you in the arm.”

“I hate him! It hurts so much! I need a doctor!”

“No, you need to stay quiet. The tournament is not over yet. You are shot, but remember what we read in the newspaper. A target is dead.”

“Right. He is dead and I’m just shot. You are smart, Bill.”

“Of course I am. Now get some rest. We shall find targets later.”


Patrick O´Grady was happy. He had spotted Ryan Linear close to his new hideout, followed him and found out that Linear had a good friend around the block. He pulled out his Uzi, loaded it and put it in the glove compartment of his stolen squad car. He then took of his prison overall and put on the clothes he had bought yesterday. A couple of blue jeans, a green sweater and red sneakers. It was not time to act yet, but a reconnaissance tour would be nice.


Linear himself was busy. He was meeting a delegation from the Colombian Cartel who had agreed to let him come along on an attack against the Diablos. Since Ryan would join the Cartel on a job for them it wouldn’t count as breaking the rules. However, Ryan intended to interrogate captured Diablos for the whereabouts of Marcos Rafael Chavez. One of the Cartel men nodded at Linear and he got into their car.


A Sentinel was parked outside John Jones’ home in Wichita Gardens. Inside the apartment, Joey Goterelli was waiting with his handgun pointing at the door. Jones was bound to come back to get something, thought Goterelli. Most of John’s stuff was still at his house, much of which was worth a lot of money. The lock had not been easy to pick, but Goterelli hade once been the greatest hitman in town and he could pick locks in his sleep. John would be dead before he could put a foot in the house. Joey was going to see to that.


Klaydoggy liked the fog. He was playing a game. Driving his ambulance at top speed through Portland, he wanted to find out if all other drivers could avoid the ambulance without colliding. He was laughing hysterically while driving zigzag. Both drivers and pedestrians fled for their lives with the ambulance following with wailing sirens and wailing Klaydoggy.


Johnny Buckshot was very pleased. Since the death of Mario Cerone, he was somewhat of a celebrity in Liberty City. Once he entered a bar or diner, a dozen women came up to him, whispering phone numbers. He considered himself a real city slicker now, a ladies man and invincible warrior. Right now, he had five women at his table in a small diner in Fort Staunton and he didn’t feel like trying to track down any more opponents right now. The kitchen knife that had killed Cerone was in his Pony. He could sell it on the net and earn a lot of money later on.


Nathan “Mad Dog” MacMillan was not as pleased as Buckshot. The battle at the Army surplus store had resulted in nothing but the death of two of his friends and a failure. However, since one of the gun nuts had picked up an M16 and died, the M16 was considered part of the tournament and available for any of the participants to acquire. Nathan had taken it right away, bought some ammo for it and stashed it in the back of his Patriot. He would love to introduce his new gun to John Bennett.


“I hate this!” roared Salvatore DiMaggio. He was trying to start his Idaho. So far he had tried kicking it, beating it with the rifle butt, spitting on it and swearing at it. He had a friend who was currently tracking down John Teik not far from there and Sal needed to get there immediately. After five more minutes of kicking, beating, spitting and swearing the car started and DiMaggio drove of towards the harbour.


John Teik was swimming in Liberty City’s dark filthy water, headed for a house boat. He had rented diving equipment and was several feet below the surface, getting closer and closer to the boat on which John Jones was making lunch. His heart started beating faster as he could see the boat’s name written with gold paint. It was called “Mrs Honey”. If Teik had been on land, he would have laughed.


Marco Delioni took an extremely thick dossier from his table. It was all the information he had spent a week digging up. Everything useful there was to be known about the fifteen enemies who were still alive. Marco had once been a regular thug, but his ambitions had grown beyond that. He would make a name for himself and become the mightiest man in Liberty City. His father had taught him that good information was the way to success. Now, he had all information he needed to wipe out his competition from the face of the earth. First of, he needed a gun. He saw a police walking passed the house and smiled faintly.


Franz Chavez was hiding in a cheap hotel in Newport. He was drinking a lot of camomile tea and reading adult literature to get his mind of the danger. He was not a fighting man and he was terrified to go outside right now. His enemies were hiding in the fog, ready to kill him on sight. He wanted to get out there with his gun and slay them all, but that was not his way. He killed people silently and carefully. He wanted to plan his actions, but he was in the middle of chaos at the moment. He took a deep breath, grabbed his pistol and left the hotel.


In one of the Swank houses, a man moved the curtain carefully and looked out. The body of the house’s real owner was in the basement. The man was Tony Escobar. He was holding John Jones’ shotgun, waiting with his nerves all jumpy. Jones had been a coward attacking him in the home. There was no honor among the opponent’s. He could be attacked at any time, any place. He had to keep moving around town to shake them of him, while preparing to kill them. He could see the remains of Mario Cerone’s house through the window. Cerone had died in there, with his throat slashed.

“The farmer… Didn’t think the kid had it in him. I have to stay on my guard. Farmers are dangerous and that Teik kid wants to hang me in a tree.”


Lucas “Demon” Gill was walking slowly along the street, chanting his usual melody. Suddenly, he saw a man 300 feet away. It was Franz Chavez, he knew it. One of the men who’s blood should be given to his master. Gill pulled out his dagger and licked it. It was could and shiny, the way it was supposed to be. He started following Chavez.


Bennett was staring into the fog. He felt miserable. The gun he had used over at the army surplus store was malfunctioning. The bullets kept going to the left. That is why he had missed MacMillan in the first place. If Phil Cassidy had made sure his guns were working before he sold them, Nathan MacMillan would be dead by now. Bennett had had the gun repaired at Ammu-Nation and it was now working perfectly. If he got another chance, he would not miss.


Teik crawled onto the boat and took the breathing mask of. He could hear Jones inside and feel the smell of fried fish. He pulled out his gun, took the safety of and sneaked in through the door. He could see Jones now. He was leaning over a small stove with his back against Teik who pointed his gun right at Jones’ skull. “Don’t move!”


O´Grady was observing Ryan Linear’s friends apartment patiently. He needed to know what the friend looked like if the plan was to work. After twenty minutes a man left the apartment with a gym bag. Patrick wished he had a digital camera, but he tried his best to memorize the man’s face.


Five cartel cruisers stopped in the Red light district and twenty men got out. Ryan followed the Colombians towards Hepburn Heights. A Diablo discovered them.

“Cartel alert!” yelled the Diablo and started running away. He was shot in the back, fell forwards and rolled down the hill past Pay’n’spray. The cartel squadron started sprinting firing their guns at the hoard of Diablos that now came running from the surrounding buildings.

“Be careful, Linear amigo. This if not for babies!” shouted a cartel member.

“I am not a baby, amigo!” answered Ryan while firing a string of bullets into a group of Diablos. “Maybe you should keep your own buns covered!”

They fought their way deeper and deeper into Hepburn Heights, mowing down all resistance. Several Diablos fled upon seeing the wall of enemies closing in. Soon, they were in the middle of the Diablo turf, keeping their backs to each other, shooting down all Diablos in sight. After a while, the leader Colombian whistled and they ran back to the cars. Two cartel men got shot while running but the rest of them got away, with a few prisoners in the trunks.

“Are you happy, amigo?”

“Very. Just give me one prisoner to play with and I’m good.”


Eventually, Goterelli gave up. Jones wasn’t coming back home. He had possibly found a new safe house somewhere else. Joey was disappointed. He had hoped to be able to eliminate an enemy; instead he had spent hours waiting for nothing. He was not going to leave the house without leaving Jones a little gift first. He laughed while taking his screwdriver from his pocket.


Delioni sneaked up behind the police officer, grabbed his neck, snapped it and dragged the body into an alley. He pulled the gun from the cop’s holster, hid it in his jacket and went back home. Now he was going to show the world what he was made of.


Gill swung his dagger and hit Chavez in the shoulder. Franz screamed, turned around and saw the terrifying man with the huge dagger. Chavez reached for his gun and Gill got ready to strike again. Before he could do so, a pedestrian jumped up and grabbed Lucas’ arm. Gill yelled something in Latin, gave the man a punch that broke the jaw and then stabbed the man in the head. Gill turned around and saw Franz sprinting a way. He wiped the blood from the blade and ran after him.


Jones turned around slowly and stared at Teik.

“I said don’t move!” hissed Teik.

“You’re John Teik.”

“And you are John Jones. Nice to meet you.”

“Are you here to kill me?”

“Maybe. I have a business proposal for you.”


“My highest priority is to kill Tony Escobar, the murderer of my father. You have fought him before, you know how he fights. I need you to help me find him and eradicate him.”

“Are you kidding me? You want your enemy to help you?”

“If you help me kill Escobar, we will split up and go separate ways. If you need a favour done, I will help you. If not, we are enemies again. What do you say?”

“Since I’m looking down the barrel of a gun, I don’t have much of a choice. Fine. Let’s do it.”

“Really? Good. Steer this fish to land. We’ll use my car.”

“I don’t have a gun. I lost it at Escobar’s place.”

“It doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t trust you with a gun anyway.”

“But how…”

“Shut up and drive.”


Gill kept following Chavez without stopping. His dagger was cutting through the fog as he ran. Franz stopped running. Panting, he pulled out his gun and aimed at Lucas’ torso. He fired and missed. He fired again and missed. It was as if Gill was actually possessed by a raging demon. He reached Chavez, swung his dagger and sliced Franz’s right index finger clean of. Chavez gave out a yelp of agony and punched “Demon” in the chest with his left hand. Gill backed down for a second. Franz looked around, saw a Bobcat and ran for it. Lucas followed him while chanting in Latin.

“Your blood will be mine!”

Chavez fired over his shoulder, reached the Bobcat and jumped up onto the back of it. He then fired two bullets into its roof. The driver got scared and put the pedal to the metal. Lucas watched as the car disappeared towards Belleville Park with Franz.


Jones and Teik got into Teik’s Patriot and drove of.

“Where are we headed?” asked Jones.

“Your house. I’m not going to show you where I live.”

All of a sudden, an Idaho drove up beside their car. A man leaned out if it with a shotgun.

“What the…!”

The man fired and shattered the side window.

“Jeez! This guy means business!”

“It’s DiMaggio! A participant!”

“Take the wheel, I’ll cap him!”

Teik leaned out of the window and fired at the Idaho. DiMaggio pulled his head back into the car. Jones steered right and bumped into the Idaho.

“My car! You moron!” shrieked Salvatore, leaned back out and fired out one of the tires. It popped like a full balloon and slices of rubber flew in all directions. The Patriot went out of control and smashed into the Idaho which went out control too. The Idaho hit a light post, rotated 450 degrees, collided with a fence and stopped there. The Patriot speeded down a small slope, scraped against a wall and flipped upside down. Teik and Jones crawled out.

“DiMaggio… Is he dead?”

“I sure hope so. Man, he was crazy. I can’t see anything in this fog. Let’s go get another car.”

Jones ran up to the street and looked around.

“No cars in sight.”

“Where is DiMaggio? We can… Wait! I hear a car!”

They heard the sound of an engine coming closer. Suddenly, two bright lights emerged out of the fog. The car was a Bobcat and it was driving way too fast, as if the driver was escaping from something.

“Look out!”

But it was too late. The car hit Jones who flew backwards and smashed into the pavement. The Bobcat kept speeding and drove over Jones with a nasty sound of bones being crushed. At the same time, DiMaggio’s Idaho drove away. Teik was as stunned. He put his fingers to Jones’ throat. No pulse. There was blood all over the road. John backed away from the body, stared around him and ran away in panic.






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Is this like a fed?

Sometimes things wont go down so easily!


Evil never dies! (Under heavy construction)

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I asked is this like a fed? Meaning that is this like role playing?

Sometimes things wont go down so easily!


Evil never dies! (Under heavy construction)

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Danny Phoenix

No. This whole is done-and-done. Characters were submitted a very long time ago, 2004 I think. Jazon wrote the story using those "Survivors."

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