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Grand Theft Auto: Portland Chase


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Alright, well let’s get this bit out of the way. There’s two things that I had in mind of telling you about Portland Chase, and I don’t think this as much of a justification. It is fanfiction, but it’s probably one that’s as old as my membership. I began writing the original Portland Chase back in early 2010 I think, and at the time I had no idea about plot, characters, or even prose. I like to think I’ve improved but I can’t say much on it. The second reason is that this was the first real piece of writing I've taken seriously in the last year, which isn't to say I haven’t been doing any out of apathy. Things were tough, I’ve lost a few family members and things were put on the back-burner, and I was very hotheaded and easy to annoy following the tragic incidents of 2012/2013. This story kind of knocked me out of it and made me keep my eyes on some sort of goal. It has helped me see a path forward with writing. It gave me a chance to write a story with sixty percent pleasure and forty percent pain, due to the indulgence of originality and cliches. It’s a GTA III fanfiction so it’s going to be over the top, dark, funny, and maybe even a little sad if I’ve done this right. So regardless of those things, I hope you enjoy this as much as my first reader did before she moved on.


- Magically delicious, eight-inch, Zigman.




“I’m gonna find ya eventually!” With his bloodied hands slipping onto wet gravel below, the thunderous cracks of the storm rumbled above, hidden away in patches of darkness. The roof trembled as if thousands of tiny hands had begun to bang below. From the swinging, torn frame of the roof-exit door stood Trixie with her pink and bloodied, torn nightgown. The hair on her head damp like the teddy in her hands. From the corner he waved his arms towards her. Go downstairs! Please! HIDE! PLEASE! How had it come to this? Minutes earlier, a warm bed and peace was all that occupied their room until he had booted open the door with a fierce crack.


“I’m gonna find you, and you’re gonna watch me stick her like a man should.” The man coughed violently and belched a loud series of burps. How much had he drank this time? The empty bottle of Kong scotch had smashed across the wooden floor on the second floor, the tiny shards in every direction like a shimmering firework. The stench made him gag as he ran from the dark figure up the stairs.


Oh no. Trixie’s feet lit up with the lightning, and bloody patches within the small, skin creases of her toes were noticeable. She had stood in that damn glass.


The coughing man, Manuel, stumbled around in the dark, continuing an assault of belches which almost rivalled the ones from above. Out here, the rain was freezing, but he had no chance now. “Eh there, Trix! Come ‘ere. Got somefin for you.” He could imagine it now, his bulky hands slipping down into his jeans. Trixie remained still, her bright-blue eyes transfixed on the fat man who groaned and moaned as his hand slipped near to his belt. With metal chinks and groans abound he slowly began to unbuckle it.


“Come ‘ere,” he said as he slipped closer to the edge of one of the rusty air conditioning fans. They had hidden him well so far but didn’t shelter him. His pyjamas were soaked now, and much bloodier then he’d noticed at first. Fresh patches of crimson remained and the gash on his arm from the slice had cut deeper than he thought, not enough to make him feel woozy, but the pain definitely was there. His arm would burn fiercely if her ever escaped Manuel. The cold rain was soothing it, for now. “Alright, babe, here we go. You know how to suck it from last time.”


The voice got closer, Trixie didn’t move from the doorway. Manuel came into view, but he remained in the shadow, Trixie still didn’t move. Manuel reacher into his baggy jeans and began to lightly tug at it in the rain, and still, Trixie did not move. He took a deep breath, from here the roof was only six feet, and Manuel was closer to it. Then, as rational thoughts slipped, as Trixie moved closer, to stick out her arm in a sick, curious way. No f*ckin’ more. He charged from the vent.


“NOOOOOOO!” he screamed, his bare feet burning as stones cut his feet. He ran, the fat pervert slowly turned, unaware, and as the force of a grown man’s punch came in the form of an elbow, Manuel slipped backwards and let out a gasp of air. He slipped back and stumbled to the edge of the roof. Gravel slid from under him landing him on his front. As he slipped, the bastard held onto the edge and let off half-gasps as his legs disappeared into the darkness below off the roof.


I winded him I think, he thought as he watched the fat man slowly slip away off the edge with eyes wider than he had ever seen. In his eyes, as the thunderous rumble began again, he saw something. Was it fear or anger? There was no hint of sorrow though. Both his feet had slipped off and he clawed, grabbing wet clumps of gravel to no avail as they gave no leverage. With his arm bleeding and body burning, he stood exhausted and watched, as if seeing a sinking ship. No…


He couldn’t let him fall….Could he? He turned away, and something screamed at him inside. HE’S LEARNT HIS LESSON. “ENRICO! HELP ME!” he screamed as the scrawny boy limped away. “DON’T YOU WALK AWAY FROM ME…I’M SLIPPIN’!” He looked to Trixie who remained still once more and gripped her bloodied top tightly.








Say you’re sorry…

Edited by Ziggy455
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Mokrie Dela

Manuel reacher into.... oops Ziggy.


I'm so glad you've redone this. I remember reading this back in the day, and i liked it, but iirc, it was never finished, or never went anywhere.

Now, me being me, i have to reply to the forward, and to the FF mention. What makes this fan fiction? I do remember it was set in LC, but with no correlation to GTA III. Therefore I have to ask: Why not set it in NYC? Why tie it to GTA? If there's a specific reason, then fair enough, but one thing people ask me is: can this stand on its own two feet, outside of the FF world? Knowing you, Ziggy, I can't help but feel that'd be more your thing. But hey, your story is your story, and your choice in setting is exactly that; yours.


Now on to my thoughts.



He ran, the fat pervert slowly turned, unaware, and as the force of a grown man’s punch came in the form of an elbow, Manuel slipped backwards and let out a gasp of air. He slipped back and stumbled to the edge of the roof. Gravel slid from under him landing him on his front.

Two things here; the force of a grown man's punch came in the form of an elbow - this seems a little too circumlocutory for me. I began to imaging a punch, and then had to adjust my imagery, something I've always thought best to avoid. Better to replace "punch" with something else, imho, because the word punch says to me, well punch.


Second, you repeated the same thing : "he slipped backwards... he slipped back" now that might be intentionally repetitive, but if it's not, I would cut the second "slipped" and have it as: "HE stumbled to the edge of the roof".


As I expect with you, there's not a whole lot wrong. The odd tiny error, that tbh, I've seen in published bestsellers.
There is this sense of impending.... something. Almost like a foreshadowing. I think you've nailed the atmosphere. There's very little dialogue, but where there is, it's snappy and punchy. There's an urgency to it. You can just tell bad sh*t's going down.

Talking of the weather, btw, I found it slightly unbalanced that, with multiple mentions of lightning and thunder, there was almost no attention on the rain (I'm aware that thunder DOESNT always happen when it's raining, despite The Corrs' claims). I found myself wishing there was more description about the characters' skins being glossy from the rain, and their clothes dark and damp, but there was only the briefest of mentions. Perhaps I'm simply peering too closely at it, trying to spot the details, and in doing so simply getting bogged down.

A nice piece, which does what I want everything i read to do: pull me in. How? It raises questions. This isn't going to be a bright, cheerful story, and that makes me salivate - notionally. As a taster, my appetite is whetted. In short: bring on the next.




P.S. Oh, and get innocence and loneliness going again! ;P

Edited by Mokrie Dela
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  • 3 weeks later...


Just one ounce would do, man. Just one. It kept repeating in his head. The snow continued its lazy three-day torment upon the streets of Portland with a slow buildup. The L-Train tracks above not shielding much in the way of freezing ice and pervasive wind that invaded every hole, crease, and nook within Junk’s skeletal-thin frame. He wiped his greasy, slick-black fringe to the left and continued on up the hill, watching as the light clouds slowly slid down the horizon to give way to the colder ones. As he slipped past an electronics store, the red buzz of a neon light coating him, he let out a wheezy cough and shivered. God-damn, Enzo, making me do the night shift as if I weren’t feeling like sh*t already, man. He bit his tongue as he trekked up the hill. Enzo had given him a job, and that was the important thing. Why without that precious seven dollar an hour wage, he’d have never been able to see another bag of powder again, not since Jessica.

The bar was on the top, overlooking the docks, or what once was the Portland docks and had transformed into an inhabitable, unworkable graveyard of cranes, containers, and sinking ships. He eyed it for a few seconds until he felt a heavy weight on his back. To his left stood a man dressed in a raggedy green-trench coat. He was Korean, or maybe Chinese, or whatever. Junk could never tell them apart. The man raised his arms and opened his mouth quickly.

“Watch where you’re goin’, man!” he said to the chink who immediately clamped shut and lowered his arms. He pulled down his red wooly hat and nodded as he slipped away, cradling his chest.

“I am sorry for my mishap,” he mumbled as he turned and faced the man. Junk watched him for a second until he just stood there, expecting some sort of change or something. f*cking Portland hobos, he hated when they said things like ‘God bless you!’ or stuff after you denied them their Spank money—as if that was going to make Junk fork out more for them.

“Whatever—“ he wanted out of the snow, it was already numbing his hands. Junk slipped inside and shut the door behind him. What hit him before the warmth was the permanent stagnant aroma in here: of piss and raw fish, mixed with cigarettes and pungent ash. It was once a welcoming smell but lately, since the Spank had made his patience thin, he found himself finding it more and more intolerable. The regular patrons of fishermen, drunks, and foreign drunks all chatted away while he headed to the bar. A bearded statue of a man stood cleaning the glasses, Joe was the day shift guy. He grunted to Junk as he passed him and headed upstairs.

“Eh, J!” he yelled up, the greasy-haired kid poked his head down under the doorframe. His eyes wide, waiting.

“Enzo don’t wanna see anybody right now.”

“It’s fine, he’ll want to see me, man.”

“Aight, your problem.” He returned to cleaning glasses as Junk turned and headed back up the narrow stairs. The walls on either side were white and cracked, dirty and left to the business of roaches. At the top was a small hallway, leading into the only door: Enzo’s office, which had no official plaques on the door, just a simple sticky-note saying: Enzos place. Do NOT Disturb!!! With lazy black-marker letters. Junk strolled toward the door and yanked open the rattling knob, inside the six by six room sat a desk, a chair, a tiny window overlooking the old docks, and of course Enzo who was sat rubbing his temples of his hairy head. “Go away,” he grumbled as his hairy hands continued to gently rotate.

“Hey, E, it’s me!”

“Wonderful…Go away.”

“What’s goin’ on tonight?” asked Junk as he sat down on the opposite chair, an old dining-table one with duct tape on the leather.

“I’m shifting eighteen pounds of the final stash.”

“I’ll be on backup—“

“No, no…” He raised his hands and squinted. “I don’t need extra problems tonight, really.” He folded his arms and sat still, eyeing Junk who felt only a little offended. Asshole. He felt his mouth fill up with saliva and tried to sit still, the leather creaked under him loudly.

“I didn’t know I was such a burden,” he said as he pretended to look at his nails.

“I want clear heads out there just in case Mister Son Li decides I’m worth the trouble.”

“I’m clear headed and ready for action!” retorted Junk, louder now. Enzo sighed and shook his head as his raised his arm out he began:

“Look at you, you’ve got the same clothes you had on last shift and that was what? Three days ago? You—“

“Yeah but I—“

“—your nose is running, and you’re lookin’ real rough again. I think we both know what’s been doin’ this to you.”

“I’m not using again…” replied Junk with a whisper as he looked away, his eyelids lowered with a look that Enzo knew too well.

He leaned forward placing his hands on his desk, making it look comically small. “Tell me I’m wrong again, Junk, I dare you.”

“What’s it to you anyway, huh? It’s a free country! I earn my money and what I spend it on is my business…” he mumbled, looking away.

“You know what? Go out and do all the Spank you like but just know it’s my business to know what my employers are doing if it’s f*cking with my business. Jesus Christ, J, don’t you remember the last time at all?” He was gonna bring her up, and that was just a ruse to piss him off. He knew it was. He was waiting for them. “Jessica? The ER? The late night crying? Don’t even get me started on the f*cking detox.”

“You don’t have to remind me.” There was no retort this time, only a deep pain he felt inside. He was a mouse as he sat there on that duct-taped chair and he knew Enzo knew it too. Only a few words and his boss had turned him into a blip of putty, ready to agree to anything, or had he? No.

The stocky boss looked at Junk and spoke with concern in his voice. “I’m not doin’ this to spite you, J. I just want you to stop this sh*t. The drugs, they ain’t helping you and they never have.”

No. No more. He swallowed hard and gulped and felt the demon inside him, the scrawny, almost-dead one that begged for Spank like an Ethiopan would to water. “No. You know what, you ain’t in no position to be judging what I do, man. What makes you think you’re better off?” Enrico stared blankly at him now, no look on his face. This was an indecipherable mask that he’d seen only a few times, but as the Spank rose in doses, so did the times Enrico kept pulling this sh*t and Junk hated it. He sat back down slowly and looked away. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed, breathing deeply, unaware of himself.

He sat still now in his own world. It was one of bad memories, and now more than ever he felt like running, turning the till out and snorting as much powder he could physically consume while getting away from this prick. Enzo had pulled out his phone and was beginning to dial. “I’m still doing this last one alone,” he said as he put it to his ear.

“You know what? Fine!” said Junk as he stood up. He stepped closer to the door and stared at Enzo who was reaching into the tiny desk of his. “Enjoy not having somebody to watch your back,” he said lowly as he yanked open the rickety door.

“Eh!” yelled Enzo, putting his hand to the phone. “Just do your shift and go home an sleep, you look dead for Christ’s sake.”

“I’m walking on f*ckin’ sunshine, man!” he replied as he slammed the door. f*ck sake.

f*cking Enzo. The Italian f*ck acted like his father most of the time. What business was it of his to bring up Jessica. He’d have to bring up the only girl who had ever had a connection to him. It was a good one too, the whole bundle of walks in the park, steady jobs, and the fact he’d never even wanted to pick up a bag or a needle since she paid attention to him. f*cking Enzo can’t use her against me like that. At the end of the day, drugs made the pain disappear if only for a few hours. It was only last week that he’d picked up his first bag in eight months.

Down in Red Light his dealer had explained it was in short supply and was steadily slipping away, but it didn’t matter. If there was still some, he’d find it sooner or later. It was lately that he had discovered no drugs cut it like Spank did anymore. Ganj and Golden Brown? Downers? They were just inferior products to what was the Holy Grail of methamphetamines, and they didn’t cut it like that powdered heaven. It helped him forget the crushing pain inside. It would keep that behind white powdered bars and for a few seconds, he would feel peace. Swimming around in a blissful euphoria of powder and highs, man, just thinking about it got him sweating.

As he headed back downstairs to begin work, he realized that at that very moment of the beer and smoke-stained clock behind the bar he was slowly coming down off his last hit, and the sweat was just the start. Jake, a muscle-clad, wife-beating prick and one of the regulars wanted a Kong scotch and as he reached for the bottle, he couldn’t help but deal with the sudden urge to itch all over his frail body. The bugs would be here soon, and with them would follow shakes, pukes, and stomachaches.

“Need fresh peanuts here, kid.”

Tonight’s gonna be something else…

Edited by Ziggy455
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Mokrie Dela

I don't have time to run through that like i often do, but in truth there wasn't a whole lot wrong.

I'm wondering about the narration though. When, in narration, you use slurs like "chink", it tells me that the narrator is of a certain character, almost like he's in this whole Spank-culture. But for the most part, it's just plain narration - nothing wrong with this, but it makes the use of the word "chink" seem out of place to me. The narrator is another character and you have to consider that too - Personally I wouldn't use the word chink, but if there's a reason you did, fair enough.


There was the odd part i didn't like - "his hairy head" for example, not a very good description imo. Just head would suffice, or more specifics. "hairy" doesn't add anything.

Well written, though, and some nice detail at times.

Edited by Mokrie Dela
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  • 1 month later...
  • 1 month later...

A few miss steps in the writing where I had to go back and check who was speaking or who the narrator was referring to. Also one or two metaphors that broke the overall tone. The best part by far is the setting. You've done well to paint a unique place and manage to still hearken back to GTA III's Portland. I could picture Saint Marco's (at least that's how I imagined it) in greater detail than the game ever could. For the most part, the detailing of the setting, Junk's thoughts and the dialogue come together to provide grim tone that makes Portland seem like a district in Basin City.


Also interesting is how you've explored the effects of Spank which were mostly left to interpretation in the game. It's cool to see how much it has already taken over Junk's life.

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