Vice City II

February 5, 2014

Since this is a rough draft of sorts, forgive the bland title. Vice City II is not what I'm going with for this, trust me. Anyway, please read and any advice is welcome to me.

Prologue

"Tommy!"

With a sudden jolt of his muscles, Tommy Vercetti was sitting upright in his bed. Immediately, a refreshing breeze swayed over his face and upper body, cooling his damp and tepid skin.

"Tommy, wake up."

The sobering voice brought Tommy to his senses. He opened his eyes, but was temporarily blinded by the sunlight flowing into the bedroom from the open door that led to a balcony. He attempted to lift his arm, but it was forced still by a stronger force. Opening his eyes entirely, Tommy observed that his arm was pinned under a woman that he didn't recognize and couldn't help laughing.

"Good, you're awake. Get dressed and meet me at the gazebo in ten."

The voice belonged to Ken Rosenberg; Tommy's partner in crime, his lawyer, his friend, or as close as you could get to one in those days. As Ken walked out of the room, Tommy looked to his right. A pair of red curtains were flowing in the breeze of Vice City air, and the distinct scent of the sea filled the room. Tommy took a moment to bask in this beautiful scene, then discreetly pulled his sore arm out from under the anonymous woman. He stood motionless, the woman only awakening for a fraction of a second before turning around and falling into a deep slumber yet again.

Tommy walked down the narrow, well decorated hallway plastered with beautiful contemporary art and freshly watered plants to the bathroom. He had a quick shower, then dressed in a red Hawaiian shirt, beige pants and sandals. He walked down the spiral staircase into his living room, which was technically not just that, but also the kitchen due to the open-floor plan. This was Tommy's home; a 2.25 million dollar Spanish Renaissance-styled mansion that he purchased in 1986. Now, this was his secondary residence aside from the Vercetti Estate.

As he sauntered across into the beige tiled kitchen, complete with dark hardwood cabinets, enameled lava stone countertops and an overpowering scent of coconut, Tommy felt a sense of overriding success. He had everything he wanted, and was happy with it. Maybe all the bloodshed was worth it, after all. The wall mounted calendar was approached, and Tommy changed the date to present day: June 16, 1987. Just yet another diurnal cycle for Tommy.

Tommy snatched a green apple from a fruit basket on the counter and rubbed it against his shirt. He bit into it, and the succulent yet acidic taste overpowered his taste buds. He then exited the kitchen by the patio door and made his way to the gazebo out back.

Sweet, flowery air seeped into Tommy's nose and he smiled. The day was beautiful, the sky totally clear; not a cloud in sight. The distant commotion of car horns coming from downtown was nearly unnoticeable. The yard itself was secluded; a high fence and large trees gave a feeling of solitude that Tommy appreciated. It was crowded with beautiful plants and bushes, yet enough room remained for a pool, hot tub, and a path that led to the far back of the yard where the small gazebo sat.

Tommy took a final bite of the savory apple, and threw it in a trash bin to the side of him. He greeted his gardener, Marisa, and ascended the few steps to the gazebo. Sitting at the circular table under it was Ken, tightly gripping a cup of coffee. His appearance hadn't changed for quite a while; he still wore pastel suits in every color possible and had the same white horn rimmed glasses. A small amount of weight had he lost since 1986, but he looked otherwise the same. He was nibbling on a donut when Tommy approached.

Tommy took a seat across the table from Ken.

"How'd you get into my bedroom?" Tommy asked with a bold grin.

"Mario let me in. Listen Tommy, we got trouble," Ken responded humorlessly.

"Of course we do. What is it?"

Ken grabbed a large file from his lap and placed it on the table. "The Leone family."
He opened the file, a considerable amount of dust flying in the air along with the smell of old paper. Tommy took the paper at the top of the pile and read it carefully. ______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Leone crime family operates mainly in Liberty City. They were recently involved in a power struggle after the death of Giuseppe Leone (1894 - 1985) and a new leader was not properly elected. However, Salvatore Leone (1928-) appears to have came out on top and is the new Don. Wiretap surveillance indicates that there are plans to expand their operation to Vice City, Florida, by July 1987, which presents a problem to already existing crime in the area, such as the Vercetti family led by Tommy Vercetti (1951-), Haitian gang led by Jessyka Poulet (1910-) and newly introduced Columbian Cartel led by Gonzalo Morales (1941-). The Leones are not known to have any alliances with any of these groups; expect major bloodshed.

He grunted and said nonchalantly "We have PD contacts? I did not know that." He took a cigar from his pocket along with a small matchbook and lit it.

Ken's accusing glare made him defensive. "What, I gotta think of everything?"

His compatriot shrugged. "You're the boss. Anyway, you wanna be careless, it's still something to ponder."

Tommy took another puff of his cigar and put it out in an ashtray off to the side of the table.

"I'll handle it, Ken. Don't I always?"

"Like I said, you're the boss."

Tommy gave a small chuckle that would be the final sound he would make in seventeen months.

The emphatic report of the rifle, then the bullet whizzing through the air broke the peace. Tommy's smile was quickly replaced with an expression of anguish as the bullet pierced into the right side of his forehead and he tumbled backwards, onto the cold ground of the gazebo. The rest could only be described as hazy for all witnesses involved. Marisa's hysterical scream pierced the eerily silent sound of the day, and chaos followed. Ken sat motionless starting at Tommy, his jaw comically hanging below his face for seconds before he came to his senses.

He mumbled something unintelligible, a He unhooked his legs from the table's benched seats and spun went to the other end to see Tommy. His skin was already a deathly shade of grey, his veins fully exposed to the naked eye. No effort could be made to help him, other than the obvious.

"Call 9-1-1!", he bellowed to whoever was listening. "F*ck, f*ck, f*ck!"

In all the commotion, not Ken, nor Marisa, Mario or the woman in the bed who was now fully awake and stunned, looked out in the distance. Maybe if they had, they would have seen the man in the standard tourist attire, who was also holding a rifle that was still smoking. Maybe if they had, they would have prevented Vice City's War of 1988 that proved unfortunate for all involved. Maybe if they had, they would have saved lives worth more than Tommy Vercetti's. Maybe, a world that would be used a lot in the months that followed this day.

= END OF CHAPTER =

So this is my first crack at a Vice City sequel of a sort. I desperately need feedback, its best form being constructive criticism and advice. The official chapter one will soon follow.

Thanks for reading.

Edited September 8, 2015 by PhilosophicalZebra

February 5, 2014

Since this is a rough draft of sorts, forgive the bland title. Vice City II is not what I'm going with for this, trust me. Anyway, please read and any advice is welcome to me.

No worries - PM me if you want it changed at all.

"Tommy!"

With a sudden jolt of his muscles, Tommy Vercetti was sitting upright in his bed. Immediately, a refreshing breeze swayed over his face and upper body, cooling his damp and tepid skin.

"Tommy, wake up."

The sobering voice brought Tommy to his senses. He opened his eyes, but was temporarily blinded by the sunlight flowing into the bedroom from the open door that led to a balcony.

Firstly I would change this to "and" not "but". Also this sentence is a little long-winded for me. I would consider cutting a bit of it.

"He opened his eyes and was blinded by the sunlight flowing through the open balcony doors."

He attempted to lift his arm, but it was forced still by a stronger force. Opening his eyes entirely, Tommy observed that his arm was pinned under a woman that he didn't recognize and couldn't help laughing.

Two things here. "by a stronger force" implies it's being pinned down intentionally - i thought we'd see a heavy-set thug holding him down. The language doesn't fit with a lover in my opinion. I'd go with something softer.

"He tried to lift his arm, but the naked form of a naked woman he did not recognize lay atop, her head laying peacefully on his shoulder. He couldn't help laughing."

Also why does he not recognize her? Did he get drunk last night? Drugs? A quick note to show that would be nice:

"He slid his arm out carefully and sat up. His head started pounding. Must have been a crazy night, he thought."

"Good, you're awake." Tell us who's speaking here. By this time I feel Tommy would recognize Ken's voice, and there's no sense holding out. "Get dressed and meet me at the gazebo in ten."

The voice belonged to Ken Rosenberg; Tommy's partner in crime, his lawyer, his friend, or as close as you could get to one in those days. As Ken walked out of the room, Tommy looked to his right. A pair of red curtains were flowing in the breeze of Vice City air, and the distinct scent of the sea filled the room.

Now when i read this, i had to re-imagine the scene. I'd already imagined the windows on the LEFT, and the curtains thin and white silk. Perhaps mentioning this sooner might avoid this (not saying this is your fault, of course).

Tommy took a moment to bask in this beautiful scene, then discreetly pulled his sore arm out from under the anonymous nude woman. Again, this is detail that should be delivered sooner - as soon as we see the woman we should know she's nude. He stood motionless, the woman only awakening for a fraction of a second before turning around and falling into a deep slumber yet again. I liked this bit, though removed "deep" - if you wake, you won't return to deep sleep so quickly.

Also, when Tommy basked in the beautiful scene, it didn't work for me. I was being told he did. I wasn't shown. What is the scene? What's out there? His garden? The beach? The sea? Is there a gardener hard at work, or people sunbathing on the sand, walking their dogs, throwing a frisbee, swimming or jetskiing? A tiny little detail would go a long way.

Tommy walked down the narrow, well decorated hallway plastered with beautiful contemporary art and freshly watered plants to the bathroom. He had a quick shower, then dressed in a red Hawaiian shirt, beige pants and sandals. He walked down the spiral staircase into his living room, which was technically not just that, but also the kitchen due to the open-floor plan. This was Tommy's home; a 2.25 million dollar Spanish Renaissance-styled mansion that he purchased in 1986. Now, this was his main residence.

Is there really any benefit from saying it's narrow? Hallways are usually standard width, and i doubt people will assume it's ten feet wide. But is this a crucial detail? Will it hinder the story if you just say "well decorated hallway?"

Also, well decorated, plastered with contemporary art - i would not say both of these.

Tommy walked down the hallway, the walls plastered with contemporary art and freshly watered plants. With a quick look back toward the sleeping woman and a smile, he slipped inside the bathroom.

I also would remove the word "beautiful" because i don't feel it adds to anything. I'm not sure about "plastered" either tbh - it makes me think of teenagers' bedroom walls with a hundred posters.... I'd considered toning it down: lined with, or "contemporary artworks hanging off of the stucco walls" or something. Still, i liked the imagery.

Lastly here, I did not like the description of the living room - it seemed to tread on its own toes. You say it's a living room, then say it's not, it's also a kitchen.. now it's open floor - go straight to that last detail.

"He walked down the spiral staircase into the open-plan living-room." (I don't think living room works brilliantly here, but apart from saying "main space" i can't think of a better word at the moment.)

As he sauntered across into the beige tiled kitchen, complete with dark hardwood cabinets, enameled lava stone countertops and an overpowering scent of coconut, Tommy felt a sense of overriding success. Too much for my liking here. I love the detail - dark hardwood, enameled lava stone countertops, but it feels too.... clumpy. You could break this up with some action.

As he sauntered across the beige-tiled kitchen, he felt a strong sense of success. He switched on the coffee peculator, which sat on one of the lava stone countertops, and opened a dark, hardwood cabinet, pulling out a single, white mug. Once the coffee was ready, he sipped at it and sighed with a content smile.

He had everything he wanted, and was happy with it. Maybe all the bloodshed was worth it, after all. The wall mounted calendar was approached, and Tommy changed the date to present day: June 16, 1987. Just yet another diurnal cycle for Tommy.

I'm slowly learning this myself, but this is, i think, passive voice. "The wall mounted calender was approached." Feels like i'm reading a report.

"Tommy flicked the wall-mounted calender to the correct day: June 16, 1987." Shorten it down and remember where the viewpoint is from - we're following Tommy so show things from his perspective.

Tommy snatched a green apple from a fruit basket on the counter and rubbed it against his shirt. He bit into it, and the succulent yet acidic taste overpowered his taste buds. He then exited the kitchen by the patio door and made his way to the gazebo out back.

The problem i have this is it feels over exaggerated. It's an apple, not the world's best meal. An apple is a simple food, so keep it simple here. I don't feel you need to say "succulent yet acidic taste overpowered his tastebuds." It's like he's never had an apple before. Yes, apples had a sharp flavour, but don't focus on it too much. We're wanting to push the story on now. I can clearly see his kitchen, I can see the apple. What does Ken want?

Sweet, flowery air seeped into Tommy's nose and he smiled. The day was beautiful, the sky totally clear; not a cloud in sight. The distant commotion of car horns coming from downtown was nearly unnoticeable. I found this contradictory. It's peaceful, this little slice of paradise. Don't mention the contrasting image of downtown. Instead focus on what Tommy sees and smells, paint this scene, not another. Perhaps, instead, say something like the only sound was that of birds, or the lapping of water or something. Mentioning downtown seems to muddy things up imo. The yard itself was secluded; a high fence and large trees gave a feeling of solitude that Tommy appreciated. It was crowded with beautiful plants and bushes, yet enough room remained for a pool, hot tub, and a path that led to the far back of the yard where the small gazebo sat.

"Crowded" implies a negative image. I can't move. The bus is crowded. It's never really a good thing. It's a garden, saying it's crowded makes me think of a pokey little back yard in a 2 bedroom terraced house. I think you'd do better to say it was very open, as that will strengthen the image of a mansion and lush gardens. Play on the architype, perhaps.

Tommy took a final bite of the savory apple, and threw it in a trash bin to the side of him. He greeted his gardener, Marisa, and ascended the few steps to the gazebo. Sitting at the circular table under it was Ken, tightly gripping a cup of coffee. His appearance hadn't changed for quite a while; he still wore pastel suits in every color possible and had the same white horn rimmed glasses. A small amount of weight had he lost since 1986, but he looked otherwise the same. He was nibbling on a donut when Tommy approached.

If this is a film, the camera would be zoomed right in on the apple. Zoom out. You've described it once, keep it simple and focus on the character and scene - not the apple. It's distracting.

"Tightly gripping" - this is a strange image to me. Is he nervous? At first i was going to suggest changing it to "sipping at" but then thought perhaps you want to paint him as nervous - hell, Ken would be nervous changing the toiler roll. If so, maybe throw in another little clue, like him tapping his foot nervously or hammering a finger on the table....

"A small amount of weight had he lost since 1986" - Speak like yoda you do. Flip it round. "He'd lost some weight since 1986"

Up until now you've avoided fan fiction's biggest trap - assuming familiarity of your reader. You haven't made any specific references to the game of VC. Now you're meeting Ken, and it feels to me like your referencing and comparing THIS ken to that in the games(s). Now most will know this, but some won't,they might not remember him or might not have played VC. So: give us a little description, assuming we've never met him before. Think of it like this: describe "a man with a penchant for pastel suits in every colour possible, a pair of white horn-rimmed glasses sitting atop his twitching nose. His hair was golden-brown and curly." - new readers will be able to paint this image, and those that know Ken will likely think: "That's Ken!" - it's tricky to do because fans of the games will feel the description is unnecessary, but those unfamiliar will crave it. You got to get the balance right, and i think you need a touch - just a tiny bit more - description of him. Home in on his biggest traits - the hair is a big one, look at this. That's ken! haha. also the way he sits, or acts - remember in VC and SA he's a nervous wreck, a cocaine addict who can't sit still. Play on that.

Tommy took a seat across the table from Ken.

"How'd you get into my bedroom?" Tommy asked with a bold grin. I'm not feeling this. Tommy's quite blunt, almost even bullying toward Ken at times. It sounds here like he doesn't care. I feel Tommy would be a little bit annoyed at this. Ditch the smile and show a little bit of displeasure.

"Mario let me in. Listen Tommy, we got trouble," Ken responded humorlessly. I don't feel "ken responded humorlessly" is needed. With the above, it won't make sense, and with the two of them there's no need to have any of this. Don't label the speakers when you don't need to. Let the scene move along. We've got trouble - tension's rising, so you want to keep things short and snappy now.

"Of course we do. What is it?"

Ken grabbed a large file from his lap and placed it on the table. "The Leone family."

Tommy opened the file, a considerable amount of dust flying in the air along with the smell of old paper. Tommy took the paper at the top of the pile and read it carefully. I'm confused; where's the dust from? Was the file kept in a basement for a month? In which case it undoes the urgency. I like the "smell of old paper" but the dust? Doesn't make sense to me.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Leone crime family operates mainly in Liberty City. They were recently involved in a power struggle after the death of Giuseppe Leone (1894 - 1985) and a new leader was not properly elected. However, Salvatore Leone (1928-) appears to have came out on top and is the new Don. Wiretap surveillance indicates that there are plans to expand their operation to Vice City, Florida, by July 1987, which presents a problem to already existing crime in the area, such as the Vercetti family led by Tommy Vercetti (1951-), Haitian gang led by Jessyka Poulet (1910-) and newly introduced Columbian Cartel led by Gonzalo Morales (1941-). The Leones are not known to have any alliances with any of these groups; expect major bloodshed.

He grunted and said nonchalantly "We have PD contacts? I did not know that." He took a cigar from his pocket along with a small matchbook and lit it.

Ken's accusing glare made him defensive. "What, I gotta think of everything?"

His compatriot shrugged. "You're the boss. Anyway, you wanna be careless, it's still something to ponder." Ken shrugged. We know Ken by name, keep it simply.

Tommy took another puff of his cigar and put it out in an ashtray off to the side of the table.

"I'll handle it, Ken. Don't I always?"

"Like I said, you're the boss."

Tommy gave a small chuckle that would be the final sound he would make in seventeen months.

The emphatic report of the rifle, then the bullet whizzing through the air broke the peace. Tommy's smile was quickly replaced with an expression of anguish as the bullet pierced into the right side of his forehead and he tumbled backwards, onto the cold ground of the gazebo. The rest could only be described as hazy for all witnesses involved. Marisa's hysterical scream pierced the eerily silent sound of the day, and chaos followed. Ken sat motionless starting at Tommy, his jaw comically hanging below his face for seconds before he came to his senses.

Up until now your description has been great. But here it's a little off.

"The emphatic report of a rilfe broke the peace. Tommy's smile was quickly replaced with an expression of anguish as the bullet pierced into the right side of his forehead. He tumbled backward, onto the cold ground. Marisa screamed hysterically, her shrills breaking the eerily silence. She ran, her arms flailing wildly. Ken sat motionless, staring at Tommy. His jaw hung comically before he came to his senses.

Get rid of the vagueness of "the rest could only be described as hazy..." Show us what's happening - not what will and don't reference anything else. Chaos can't really ensue, unless there's several people present, several shooters, and conflict. If you want chaos to follow, you gotta bring it. It's gotta be fast, furious. Here, the "Chaos" consists of a woman screaming and Ken staring.

"F*ck, f*ck, f*ck!", he yelled to himself. He unhooked his legs from the table's benched seats Quick note - you should mention the seats are benched when we see Ken and re-mention it here. When we meet him outside, have him "sitting at a picnic bench" or something and spun went I'm not sure what you mean here. to the other end to see Tommy. His skin was already a deathly shade of grey, his veins fully exposed to the naked eye. Now this has pulled me right out of the story. He's shot five seconds ago, and he's already "grey" - seems a bit quick to me. I'm imagining a corpse, dead for days here. Instead I'd have you describe the blood from his head, the glazed look of his eyes... No effort could be made to help him, other than the obvious.

"Call 9-1-1!", he bellowed to whoever was listening. "F*ck!"

In all the commotion, not Ken, nor Marisa, Mario or the woman in the bed who was now fully awake and stunned, looked out in the distance. Maybe if they had, they would have seen the man in the standard tourist attire What IS standard tourist attire? , who was also holding a rifle that was still smoking. Maybe if they had, they would have prevented Vice City's War of 1988 that proved unfortunate for all involved. Maybe if they had, they would have saved lives worth more than Tommy Vercetti's. Maybe, a world that would be used a lot in the months that followed this day.

This last paragraph seems out of place. All of a sudden you're jumping forward, telling us what's going to happen - never have i seen this happen. So now there's going to be a war? That surprise is ruined. I can see what you're going for but i dont think it worked.

= END OF CHAPTER =

So this is my first crack at a Vice City sequel of a sort. I desperately need feedback, its best form being constructive criticism and advice. The official chapter one will soon follow.

Thanks for reading.

I've done my best to go through this. For the most part it's pretty good - you've got some great description going on at times, you just need to apply it with less of a heavy hand.

The overall scene is good - i didn't see the assassination coming (i did not like "the last words he would say for seventeen months" - is tommy dead? If so then this statement makes no sense. If he's alive the last paragraph contradicts that.

The last paragraph is just wrong in my opinion. The scene sets things up nicely, and im curious but the last bit doesn't add anything decent. I'd end it after ken shouts call 911.

Good luck with this, and PM/post if you want any more advice or if you need something clearing up

February 5, 2014

Thanks, Mokrie. You're always the most thorough and give great advice.

February 5, 2014

-

Edited July 15, 2014 by PhilosophicalZebra

February 6, 2014

Don't double post man - click the EDIT button if you want to add something.

To be honest, it hadn't occured to me. I've read several stories in english written by non-english speakers and at times, they can be very problematic. Every language varies, and some simply can not translate properly. IIRC, Polish often have problems with "the" (I've heard a LOT of polish people (in person) say "I'm going to shop" instead of "I'm going to the shop".)

But what you wrote, considering english isn't your language AND you're 14, well let's see what Barrack Obama has to say about that...

There was one or two parts of your story that were a little awkward or clumsy or backward (see my above post for details) but on the whole, i see no language barrier at all. Well done on that front.

May 12, 2014

Chapter 1: 17 Months of Headaches and Anxiety

The constant beeping of the EKG was the only sound in Room 113 of the Ocean View Hospital. The room was cold and bare; faded grey walls enclosed it, dark streaks where it had been recently cleaned. The black-and-white linoleum floor was in the same condition. A large hospital bed was positioned against the back wall, covered with a dull green blanket. Inside this bed lay Tommy, wearing a maroon hospital gown. The blanket was pulled up to his chin, and if it wasn't for the large jagged scar on the right side of his face, he would have seemed to be sleeping like a baby. To Tommy's right, Ken sat on a dark blue Morris chair with ripped and stained fabric, but still a comfortable one.

He was looking to the floor and rubbed his temples with his index and middle fingers; he had another migraine. The beeping wasn't helping. He stood abruptly causing him to lose his balance, then forgot why he had stood. A quick glance around the room reminded him, and he shuffled over to a window to the left of the cot and opened it. Immediately, a cool breeze suffused the room. There was no screen; Ken peeked his head out the window and allowed himself a couple of deep breaths. Maybe I'll grab some aspirins on my way out, he thought.

The sun was just rising, and it was slowly casting a bright glow on the water of Vice Bay. Seagulls glided and gawked in the sky above and their babel made Ken put his head back inside. He glanced over at Tommy. It's not looking good, Kenny, Doc Kavanagh had said earlier in the morning. The day was November 17, 1988. Seventeen months to the day Tommy was shot, and he still was still in a dark abyss, the depth of which only he could fathom.

"Come on, Tommy," Ken said. "I can't be you for much longer. This isn't what I do." His response was the perpetual beeping of the heart monitor, nothing more.

Ken was dressed in a black flannel suit with a turquoise undershirt. As usual, he wore mahogany horn-rimmed glasses and his hair was a frizzy mess. He grabbed his glasses and softly wiped them against his breast pocket, then placed them back on. A light knock on the door was followed by Mario, Tommy's bodyguard, entering the room.

"Ken," he addressed. "the meet's in half an hour. I'll wait for you out front." Without waiting for a response, he gave a faint smile and closed the door behind him. Ken checked his watch. 7:30AM on the dot.

He went back to the window, closed it and rolled down the Venetian blinds that hovered above it, then said a silent farewell to Tommy and left the room. The hallways were relatively quiet, and he caught sight of Dr. Kavanagh near the reception. Ken approached the doctor, who was talking to a male nurse. Ken cleared his throat, and Doc Kavanagh said farewell to the nurse and turned his attention to Ken.

The doc was a tall man with protruded cheekbones, blond hair and dark, smart eyes.

"Leland," Ken said. "You got anything to battle an ungodly headache?", he asked, again massaging his temples.

The doctor grabbed a pen light from his breast pocket and shone it in Ken's eyes. "Have you been using again, Kenny?"

Ken was caught off guard. "No," he said. "Of course not." Leland grunted in dissent.

"Wait here a moment. Actually, go to the waiting room," he said, pointing to the large area. He nodded, then disappeared through a white door and Ken went to the waiting room.

It was in somewhat better condition than Room 113; the walls were painted a light orange and adorned with charts and diagrams, and the floor was a clean beige and black linoleum. Four rows of affixed red chairs lined the room, and about a half dozen patients sat in one or another. Ken sat next to the only person in the front row, a man he guessed to be in his mid-forties, with light brown hair and a sunken face. His eyes were green, but glazed over and stubble made him look older. Despite his apparent unhealthy state, he wore a brown suede suit with a crisp white shirt and green tie that looked expensive. His attention was fixated on a magazine, but when Ken sat beside him he put it down and looked Ken over.

"Hello," he said, exhibiting an Irish nearly identical to the doctor's.

"Hey."

"You look troubled."

Ken twisted his body to face him.

"Troubled? I'm not troubled," he said.

"Your face betrays your words," the man responded, smiling. "My name is Liam."

Ken nodded. "You look just as troubled as I do, Liam," he said.

"I don't doubt that. Spent the last night getting bolloxed and woke with scutters and feeling like sh*te. Thought I might's well come here."

"Uh-huh."

"My da' died last week. I've been feeling like bollocks since."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Ken said sincerely.

Liam grunted. "He was a good man. A cop, but a good man. He had a temper, though."

"He was a cop?"

"Yeah," Liam said, staring blankly ahead. "when he died he was Deputy Chief, he was. He made a name for himself. James Donnelly, Deputy Chief," he finished, spreading his hands as if imagining a picture.

Ken nodded again and left Liam to his thoughts.

Doctor Kavanagh exited from the white door and stood in front of the reception desk. Ken walked up to him. He was holding an orange pill bottle in his hand.

"This is Sumatriptan," he said. "It's not available over-the-counter yet, so you ain't getting much more."

Ken snatched the bottle from his hand. "Don't take more than eight in 24 hours, or you'll be getting worse than a migraine," Leland continued. "and only every two hours."

Ken nodded, then opened the bottle and popped three pills. "...and always take them with liquids."

"Well, I don't seem to have any liquids with me. Where can I get some?", Ken said sardonically.

The doctor rolled his eyes, then went back to the door and returned with a Styrofoam cup holding cold water. Ken took the cup and downed it.

"Get out of here, Kenny," Leland said. "and remember what I said."

Ken walked out of the hospital, almost running into a group of four paramedics rolling a stretcher up the stairs. The commotion continued behind him into the hospital, then he noticed Mario toying with the wrapper of a cigar nearby.

"Ready?", Ken asked.

"Was waiting for you. Let's go."

Mario ripped the transparent wrapper off the cigar, threw it on the ground and placed the Cuban between his fingers. He grabbed a set of keys from his pants pocket and walked to his car, a teal Sentinel. It was brand new, the paint shimmering in the now risen sun.

Mario entered the front seat, Ken the passenger. It was stuffy in the car, and so Ken opened his window immediately. Mario turned the key in the ignition, backed the car out of the lot and entered the steady stream of traffic on Washington Street. On the radio was an interview with Jezz Torrent about Love Fist's concert at Hyman Memorial Stadium in the evening. Ken turned the dial to a channel playing Gloria and sat back in his seat. Mario lit his cigar and threw the match out Ken's window.

"Who else's coming to the meet?", Ken asked.

"Billy and Christian are meeting us there. Why?"

"Why?", Ken echoed. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because this could just as well be an ambush. Tommy wouldn't have trusted these f*cks, would he?"

"It doesn't matter what Tommy would've done! Madon', Ken, you're the boss now. Face it; he might never come back."

Ken was silent. His migraine was already dissipating, and he sighed in relief. Mario glanced at him, still waiting for an answer, then focused back on the road.

"Where the hell are we going, anyway?", Ken inquired.

"Crapitto's. Little diner in Pann, I've been there lots a' times."

"I thought this was gonna be a private meeting?"

"It will be. We're meeting upstairs."

Ken nodded, then put his head back and fell asleep.

"We're here."

Ken opened his eyes to see Mario staring at him. They were parked behind a small, beige-bricked building with a two white Washingtons parked on either side of them. Other cars were parked in a separate lot to the left. Through the four windows in the back of the building, Ken could see a few people eating in booths, but the rest of the restaurant was empty. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then replaced them. Mario reached over Ken's lap to open the glovebox and his hand came out holding a Walther P88. He shut the glovebox and looked over at Ken.

"German import," he said. "Great quality."

He placed the gun in the front of his chinos and pulled his orange Hawaiian shirt over it. Mario was a tall, heavyset man who was balding, but still young looking with tan skin and dark brown eyes. He was clean shaven and had not a wrinkle on his face, which had to be pushing fifty.

"Close the window," he requested.

Ken complied and exited the car. He then noticed the stench coming from the dumpsters and blocked his nose.

"That's not a welcoming smell for a goddamn restaurant," he said.

Mario grunted and led Ken around to the front. The restaurant was the lone building on the short block of Eaton Avenue, and it took on the look of an American '50s diner, somewhat uncharacteristic of the city. The front of the restaurant had ceiling-height windows where, inside, burgundy booths lined them. A cursive sign reading Crapitto's lay above the door.

Inside, the place smelled of bacon and fresh coffee. A series of wooden tables were placed at divergent angels, and booths lined the front windows and the right of the diner. To the left was the service station, where lit-up menus lined the ceiling and an old man stood waiting for a customer. At the back of the bistro were three doors; two leading to restrooms and one that said Private on the front.

"We're going there," Mario said, pointing to the latter door.

As the pair walked across the restaurant, Ken noticed that two or three of the half dozen diners were casting gazes towards them every other second. Spies, he thought. Mario looked over at the elderly cashier and he responded with an almost indiscernible nod that meant access to the Private door. The door was made of a light polished wood, and Mario opened it for Ken and let him lead ahead.

"Ladies' first," he joked.

Ken smiled faintly and walked through the door. It lead to a small corridor with a matching wood staircase leading upstairs at the end. The two walked up, and at the top reached a pair of French doors. Ken knocked and after a brief murmur of voices inside, it opened. The room was adorned with expensive furniture, a bar off to the right and a couple of red-felted pool tables in the middle. Dark harwood floors and two chandeliers made the room even classier. A half dozen or so men stood at the pool tables, playing and drinking along with another three sitting at the bar. A small door leading to a fire escape lay next to the bar. At the left was yet another door, where two men stood on either side.

"Hello, Mr. Rosenberg," the taller one addressed. "he's waiting for you."

Ken nodded and looked back at Mario, who then turned around and went to sit at the bar. The guard opened the door for Ken, and he stepped into the dimly-lit room.

"Nice to finally meet you," said Salvatore Leone.

Edited September 6, 2015 by PhilosophicalZebra

May 12, 2014

Mostly well written and definitely a step up from the prologue. No real problems in the writing besides some errors in grammar and punctuation:

A mistake I've commonly made, you switch from past, to present and back to past tense in this sentence. "He was looking to the floor and rubbed his temples with his index and middle fingers; he had another migrane." Should be "Looking to the the floor, he rubbed his temples with his index and middle fingers; He was having another migraine" Or "Ken looked down at the floor, rubbing his temples with his fingers; another migraine was coming on." Something to that effect. Other instances where you switched tenses are present, but this sentence stood out. Something to watch out for.

I understand you're reminding us that the story is set in Vice City here but "The sun was just rising, and it was slowly casting a bright glow on the water of Vice Bay." to me sounds pretentious and corny. There's no purpose here to tell us this bay is in Vice and 'The Bay' would have sufficed. For better effect, describe what the bay is like; in a way that reminds us what it was like in Vice City. We know the story is set in Vice so there's no reason to point it out unless there is a higher purpose.

You describe the seagulls as 'gawking'. I presume you meant 'squawking'. Gawking means to stare with a dumb expression.

"then said a silent farewell to Tommy and left the room." Doesn't make sense as you can't literally say something silently, even as a metaphor this doesn't work. Simply changed to "then gave a silent farewell to Tommy and left the room." would make sense.

"I don't doubt that. Spent the last night getting bolloxed and woke with scutters and feeling like sh*te. Thought I might's well come here." Small errors: Bollocksed not bolloxed. And I don't know what you mean by 'scutters' but usually it means something that's moving quickly with short steps. 'Stutters' perhaps? As in when some one who has pauses and prolongs their words involuntarily; also called a stammer.

Mostly, well put together and nicely paced. The detailing is good, however some areas get overly descriptive and can kill the tone. This line was great "Come on, Tommy," Ken said. "I can't be you for much longer. This isn't what I do." His response was the perpetual beeping of the heart monitor, nothing more." As if to Rosenberg; Tommy was being coy with his ignorance while at he same time, a reminder of Tommy's state. Also The build up to seeing Salvatore was nicely done.

May 12, 2014

Mostly well written and definitely a step up from the prologue. No real problems in the writing besides some errors in grammar and punctuation:

A mistake I've commonly made, you switch from past, to present and back to past tense in this sentence. "He was looking to the floor and rubbed his temples with his index and middle fingers; he had another migrane." Should be "Looking to the the floor, he rubbed his temples with his index and middle fingers; He was having another migraine" Or "Ken looked down at the floor, rubbing his temples with his fingers; another migraine was coming on." Something to that effect. Other instances where you switched tenses are present, but this sentence stood out. Something to watch out for.

I understand you're reminding us that the story is set in Vice City here but "The sun was just rising, and it was slowly casting a bright glow on the water of Vice Bay." to me sounds pretentious and corny. There's no purpose here to tell us this bay is in Vice and 'The Bay' would have sufficed. For better effect, describe what the bay is like; in a way that reminds us what it was like in Vice City. We know the story is set in Vice so there's no reason to point it out unless there is a higher purpose.

You describe the seagulls as 'gawking'. I presume you meant 'squawking'. Gawking means to stare with a dumb expression.

"then said a silent farewell to Tommy and left the room." Doesn't make sense as you can't literally say something silently, even as a metaphor this doesn't work. Simply changed to "then gave a silent farewell to Tommy and left the room." would make sense.

"I don't doubt that. Spent the last night getting bolloxed and woke with scutters and feeling like sh*te. Thought I might's well come here." Small errors: Bollocksed not bolloxed. And I don't know what you mean by 'scutters' but usually it means something that's moving quickly with short steps. 'Stutters' perhaps? As in when some one who has pauses and prolongs their words involuntarily; also called a stammer.

Mostly, well put together and nicely paced. The detailing is good, however some areas get overly descriptive and can kill the tone. This line was great "Come on, Tommy," Ken said. "I can't be you for much longer. This isn't what I do." His response was the perpetual beeping of the heart monitor, nothing more." As if to Rosenberg; Tommy was being coy with his ignorance while at he same time, a reminder of Tommy's state. Also The build up to seeing Salvatore was nicely done.

Thanks for the imput. I always need more constructive criticism.

As for my use of the word scutters, it's an Irish term for diarrhea.

I've already started on the next chapter. Should be soon.

Edited May 12, 2014 by PhilosophicalZebra

May 14, 2014

Waiting for your in-depth analysis, Mokrie.

May 14, 2014

Mwahah. I wasn't going to go in depth as ainsz had already done a little but hey, I better not let you down. I won't be as deep as usual as I'm sitting with flu, so my minds' not that sharp. Well, I say flu, It's actually bubonic plague, or gangrene... (kudos if you get the reference)

Chapter 1: And So It Begins

Bear in mind the following saying: "What's in a name." I read this then saw the chapter title and thought, How does it connect? Might be my flu'd mind, but it seemed a bit tacked on - lacking of deep meaning. If that's the case, ignore this sentence.

The constant beeping of the EKG was the only sound in Room 113 of the Ocean View Hospital. The room was cold and bare; faded grey walls enclosed it, dark streaks where it had been recently cleaned. The opening sentence is bang on. Straight to the most critical detail, no fat, instantly putting us in the scene. Well done. That first sentence can be hard. Worked well i feel. The second is good but i feel it could have been combined: "Cold and bare walls enclosed it, dark streaks where they had recently been cleaned." I omitted grey because it doesn't matter - hospitals often have different colour walls, but green is a common colour (it's synonymous with healing), but if you say "hospital wall" no one is going to think of a masonry mosaic - we'll all imagine bland, dull walls.

The black-and-white linoleum floor was in the same condition. A large hospital bed was positioned against the back wall, covered with a dull green blanket. Inside this bed lay Tommy, wearing a maroon hospital gown. Too passive for my liking. "A hospital bed was positioned against the back wall...." that don't work for me.
"A hospital bed sat against the back wall" - shorter, snappier, and more personification. Instead of saying this object had been put there, i'm saying this bed is there. "sat" is something usually used for people - he sat on the chair, so using personification (where you turn an object into an almost living thing) it makes the scene a bit more alive and less wooden. Tommy is also too much of an afterthought here too. I'd flip it round:
"Tommy lay in a large hospital bed which sat against the back wall, covered with a dull green blanket."
Note that if Tommy's covered up to his chin in a blanket, you won't see what he's wearing so the gown is irrelevant. we can't see Tommy's body so we can't see the gown, so we won't know what colour it is. If the blanket is only up to his chest, then we'd need to know it, but as he's covered, it's irrelevant, like saying what underwear Ken's wearing. This is a viewpoint issue - imagine, if you will, the entire scene as a film. Where's the camera, and what does that camera see? Only what that camera can see is what you can show us. If the camera is inside Ken's head, then only what Ken can see is what we can see. .

The blanket was pulled up to his chin, and if it wasn't for the large jagged scar on the right side of his face, he would have seemed to be sleeping like a baby. Again, why not turn this round?
"The blanket was pulled up to his chin, and Tommy seemed to be sleeping like a baby." I can't remember what the scar's about but if it's from his injury, maybe say: "The scar on the right side of his face the only remnant of the incident so long ago"

To Tommy's right, Ken sat on a dark blue Morris chair with ripped and stained fabric, but still a comfortable one.

He was looking to the floor and rubbed his temples with his index and middle fingers; he had another migraine. The beeping wasn't helping. He stood abruptly causing him to lose his balance, then forgot why he had stood. A quick glance around the room reminded him, and he shuffled over to a window to the left of the cot and opened it. Immediately, a cool breeze suffused the room. There was no screen; Ken peeked his head out the window and allowed himself a couple of deep breaths. Maybe I'll grab some aspirins on my way out, he thought. I really liked this. When i have headaches, I often stand up so fast the blood rushes from my head and I forget why I did so. It's also a good insight into Ken's character - he's a bit of a klutz, so to speak. There's a hint of worry and fear disguised in here, in very simple actions. Subtle.

The sun was just rising, and it was slowly casting a bright glow on the water of Vice Bay. Ainsz is right about this bit. We know it's Vice so instead just gently remind us of the game's vibe:

"The sun was just rising, and it slowly cast a golden red over the sparking cool water of the bay. A yacht bounced on the gentle currents, reminding Ken of how good life had been for a time. Each day the sunrise gave him hope, but then he turned back to see Tommy and the reality of the situation."
One of the Vice City's trademarks is the sunlight in the game. The golden flame that it seems to emit, the glow, that strong beach feeling - no need to name the bay, you could just say "water" - but a gentle reminder of that sunbeam would be a very powerful thing - as ainsz said, we all know VC, so a gentle nudge will be more effective than even a length description.

Seagulls glided and gawked in the sky above and their babel made Ken put his head back inside. He glanced over at Tommy. It's not looking good, Kenny, Doc Kavanagh had said earlier in the morning. The day was November 17, 1988. Seventeen months to the day Tommy was shot, and he still was still in a dark abyss, the depth of which only he could fathom.

"Come on, Tommy," Ken said. "I can't be you for much longer. This isn't what I do." His response was the perpetual beeping of the heart monitor, nothing more. I'd have this on a seperate line and say "Tommy's response was nothing more than the steady beeping of the heart monitor."

Ken was dressed in a black flannel suit with a turquoise undershirt. I think we should have seen this detail as soon as we saw Ken. I might have already pictured him in a pink suit, and remember, we see what we see - we've seen ken so we would have seen what he wore. As usual, he wore mahogany horn-rimmed glasses and his hair was a frizzy mess. He grabbed his glasses and softly wiped them against his breast pocket, then placed them back on. A light knock on the door was followed by Mario, Tommy's bodyguard, entering the room.

"Ken," he addressed. "the meet's in half an hour. I'll wait for you out front." Without waiting for a response, he gave a faint smile and closed the door behind him. Ken checked his watch. 7:30AM on the dot.

He went back to the window, closed it and rolled down the Venetian blinds that hovered above it, then said a silent farewell to Tommy and left the room. A little too "list" here - he did this and that then this and that. Break it up into sentences:
he went back to the window, closed it and rolled down the venetian blinds that hovered over it. He said a silent farewell to Tommy before leaving the room."
But why not have him whisper the farewell? that'd cut down on the list factor even more.

The hallways were relatively quiet, and he caught sight of Dr. Kavanagh near the reception. Ken approached the doctor, who was talking to a male nurse. Ken cleared his throat, and Doc Kavanagh said farewell to the nurse and turned his attention to Ken.

The doc was a tall man with protruded cheekbones, blond hair and dark, smart eyes.

"Leland," Ken said. "You got anything to battle an ungodly headache?", he asked, again massaging his temples.

The doctor grabbed a pen light from his breast pocket and shone it in Ken's eyes. "Have you been using again, Kenny?"

Ken was caught off guard. "No," he said unconvincingly. "of course not." Leland grunted in dissent.

"Wait here a moment. Actually, go to the waiting room," he said, pointing to the large area. He nodded, then disappeared through a white door and Ken went to the waiting room.

It was in somewhat better condition than Room 113; the walls were painted a light orange and adorned with charts and diagrams, and the floor was a clean beige and black linoleum. Four rows of affixed red chairs lined the room, and about a half dozen patients sat in one or another. Ken sat next to the only person in the front row, a man he guessed to be in his mid-forties, with light brown hair and a sunken face. His eyes were green, but glazed over and stubble made him look older. Despite his apparent unhealthy state, he wore a brown suede suit with a crisp white shirt and green tie that looked expensive. His attention was fixated on a magazine, but when Ken sat beside him he put it down and looked Ken over.

"Hello," he said, exhibiting an Irish nearly identical to the doctor's.

"Hey."

"You look troubled."

Ken twisted his body to face him.

"Troubled? I'm not troubled," he said.

"Your face betrays your words," the man responded, smiling. "My name is Liam."

Ken nodded. "You look just as troubled as I do, Liam," he said.

"I don't doubt that. Spent the last night getting bolloxed and woke with scutters and feeling like sh*te. Thought I might's well come here."

"Uh-huh."

"My da' died last week. I've been feeling like bollocks since."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Ken said sincerely.

Liam grunted. "He was a good man. A cop, but a good man. He had a temper, though."

"He was a cop?"

"Yeah," Liam said, staring blankly ahead. "when he died he was Deputy Chief, he was. He made a name for himself. James Donnelly, Deputy Chief," he finished, spreading his hands as if imagining a picture.

Ken nodded again and left Liam to his thoughts.

Doctor Kavanagh exited from the white door and stood in front of the reception desk. Ken walked up to him. He was holding an orange pill bottle in his hand.

"This is Sumatriptan," he said. "It's not available over-the-counter yet, so you ain't getting much more."

Ken snatched the bottle from his hand. "Don't take more than eight in 24 hours, or you'll be getting worse than a migraine," Leland continued. "and only every two hours."

Ken nodded, then opened the bottle and popped three pills. "...and always take them with liquids."

"Well, I don't seem to have any liquids with me. Where can I get some?", Ken said sardonically.

The doctor rolled his eyes, then went back to the door and returned with a Styrofoam cup holding cold water. Ken took the cup and downed it.

"Get out of here, Kenny," Leland said. "and remember what I said."

Ken walked out of the hospital, almost running into a group of four paramedics rolling a stretcher up the stairs. The commotion continued behind him into the hospital, then he noticed Mario toying with the wrapper of a cigar nearby.

"Ready?", Ken asked.

"Was waiting for you. Let's go."

Mario ripped the transparent wrapper off the cigar, threw it on the ground and placed the Cuban between his fingers. He grabbed a set of keys from his pants pocket and walked to his car, a blue and white Glendale. It was brand new, the paint shimmering in the now risen sun.

Mario entered the front seat, Ken the passenger. It was stuffy in the car, and so Ken opened his window immediately. Mario turned the key in the ignition, backed the car out of the lot and entered the steady stream of traffic on Washington Street. On the radio was an interview with Jezz Torrent about Love Fist's concert at Hyman Memorial Stadium in the evening. Ken turned the dial to a channel playing Gloria and sat back in his seat. Mario lit his cigar and threw the match out Ken's window.

If you're going to mention a song, include the artist too. I think i know the song you're referring to but i'm reminded of something said to me - does the title of this song add anything to this work? Sure, I argued that it added to the atmosphere but that only applies to anyone who knows the song well. On the flip side, however, is it's sometimes really cheesy having the song included reflect the events of the chapter.

"Who else's coming to the meet?", Ken asked.

"Billy and Christian are meeting us there. Why?"

"Why?", Ken echoed. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because this could just as well be an ambush. Tommy wouldn't have trusted these f*cks, would he?"

"It doesn't matter what Tommy would've done! Madon', Ken, you're the boss now. Face it; he might never come back."

Ken was silent. His migraine was already dissipating, and he sighed in relief. Mario glanced at him, still waiting for an answer, then focused back on the road.

"Where the hell are we going, anyway?", Ken inquired.

"Crapitto's. Little diner in Pann, I've been there lots a' times." Haha, Crapitto's!

"I thought this was gonna be a private meeting?"

"It will be. We're meeting upstairs."

Ken nodded, then put his head back and fell asleep.

"We're here."

Ken opened his eyes to see Mario staring at him. They were parked behind a small, beige-bricked building with a two white Washingtons parked on either side of them. Other cars were parked in a separate lot to the left. Through the four windows in the back of the building, Ken could see a few people eating in booths, but the rest of the restaurant was empty. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then replaced them. Mario reached over Ken's lap to open the glovebox and his hand came out holding a Walther P88. He shut the glovebox and looked over at Ken.

"German import," he said. "Great quality."

He placed the gun in the front of his chinos and pulled his orange Hawaiian shirt over it. Mario was a tall, heavyset man who was balding, but still young looking with tan skin and dark brown eyes. He was clean shaven and had not a wrinkle on his face, which had to be pushing fifty.

"Close the window," he requested.

Ken complied and exited the car. He then noticed the stench coming from the dumpsters and blocked his nose.

"That's not a welcoming smell for a goddamn restaurant," he said.

Mario grunted and led Ken around to the front. The restaurant was the lone building on the short block of Eaton Avenue, and it took on the look of an American '50s diner, somewhat uncharacteristic of the city. The front of the restaurant had ceiling-height windows where, inside, burgundy booths lined them. A cursive sign reading Crapitto's lay above the door.

Inside, the place smelled of bacon and fresh coffee. A series of wooden tables were placed at divergent angels, and booths lined the front windows and the right of the diner. To the left was the service station, where lit-up menus lined the ceiling and an old man stood waiting for a customer. At the back of the bistro were three doors; two leading to restrooms and one that said Private on the front.

"We're going there," Mario said, pointing to the latter door.

As the pair walked across the restaurant, Ken noticed that two or three of the half dozen diners were casting gazes towards them every other second. Spies, he thought. Mario looked over at the elderly cashier and he responded with an almost indiscernible nod that meant access to the Private door. The door was made of a light polished wood, and Mario opened it for Ken and let him lead ahead.

"Ladies' first," he joked.

Ken smiled faintly and walked through the door. It lead to a small corridor with a matching wood staircase leading upstairs at the end. The two walked up, and at the top reached a pair of French doors. Ken knocked and after a brief murmur of voices inside, it opened. The room was adorned with expensive furniture, a bar off to the right and a couple of red-felted pool tables in the middle. Dark harwood floors and two chandeliers made the room even classier. A half dozen or so men stood at the pool tables, playing and drinking along with another three sitting at the bar. A small door leading to a fire escape lay next to the bar. At the left was yet another door, where two men stood on either side.

"Hello, Mr. Rosenberg," the taller one addressed. "he's waiting for you."

Ken nodded and looked back at Mario, who then turned around and went to sit at the bar. The guard opened the door for Ken, and he stepped into the dimly-lit room.

"Nice to finally meet you," said Salvatore Leone. I don't think R* ever reveal how these two meet, so this is kind of nice. Another thing came to mind, which i hope you bear in mind:
In San Andreas: The introduction, Ken tries to contact Tommy, but Tommy ignores him. Two things - 1) Tommy has to recover, otherwise this has canon problems. 2) What happens that makes Tommy shun Ken? After Ken's loyalty, him keeping his business afloat etc - I'm curious how you'll showcase this.

On the whole this was very well written .The odd grammar error, one or two spelling ones but your setting-of-scene is very good in this. You managed to grab me and pull me right into the scene, which can be hard to do. I feel I'm good at doing this through the characters - I make you feel connected to the characters, but you made me feel connected to the world - i felt I was in that hospital, cafe etc.

It's good, and you've got a lot of potential to be a really great writer. As far as fanfics go, they often get given the label of lazy or poor - but this is well written on the whole. Definite improvement and if you keep improving, you're next work could be excellent. Your next original work could be very tasty indeed. Keep it up, my man.

May 14, 2014

Thanks. I didn't know you were sick; if I knew I wouldn't have asked. Anyway, thanks for the encouragement.

May 15, 2014

Well how would you know?
Doesn't affect you asking man; that's what this section's for. If i couldn't deal with it, i'd simply wait until I could. I hope it all made sense anyway.

July 10, 2015

So after just over a year of procrastination and Blank Page Syndrome I decided I want to continue with this story. WD has been very quiet recently and I figured now was a good a time as any to finally post this, especially since I now have time to continue with no interruptions. This is a bit short, but I'll be posting chapter 3 shortly. Enjoy.

Chapter 2: Shoot The Breeze

Ken walked in and felt overwhelmed. It was dark, but he saw the outline of a figure step up from a desk to the back of the room. It pulled an arm upward and the room brightened immediately; he had opened the blinds. Intimidation Tactics 101 - Ken refrained from making a nervous joke about the Don spending his time in darkness.

Salvatore was dressed immaculately in a double-breasted navy suit worn over a cream dress shirt and red tie. His facial features were harsher; aging skin and a balding hairline over dark blue eyes and a greying mustache. He stuck out his hand to meet Ken's and they shook.

"Siddown, Rosenberg. You wanna drink?"
"Sure," Ken responded before remembering the Sumatripan. He kept silent.

As Salvatore walked to a minibar, Ken took the opportunity to look around the room. It was lived-in, very office-like. Beige walls over white paneling, a mahogany desk and mini-bar. The desk was strewn with papers; newspapers, police files, reports and mugshots. The Don had his sources. A large window looked over the parking lot.

Salvatore returned with two shot glasses and a bottle of fiery orange liquid, placing them on the table.

"What is this?" Ken asked.
"It's grappa, my nephew ferments it in Sicily. It's the best of the best, but if you ain't had it before let me tell you - it burns going down."
"Yeah, I've-I've never had it."
"Well, you're about to. You might wanna call it a token of our soon-to-be friendship."

He poured the liquor into both glasses and capped the bottle, then sat down.

"Salute." Salvatore raised his glass.
Ken fumbled with his. "Uh, salud, Mr. Leone."
"Really, kid? Salute, I just said it. Salute. Also, call me Sal. No need for formalities."
"Sorry. Salute."

They clinked their glasses and downed their drinks. Sal was right; it burned Ken's throat like hell on the way down.

"You like it? I always have, it's got real furore. A real drink."
"Yeah," Ken responded hoarsely.

Salvatore put his glass down and crossed his arms.

"You ain't talkin' much with me, and from what I hear you're a real talker. What's the matter?"
"N-nothing."
"I ain't gonna clip you, if that's what you're worried about. I wouldn't invite you into my own office to kill you, so get that outta your head."
Ken laughed nervously. "Okay."
"Seriously. Look, I was real sorry to hear about Vercetti - real sh*tshow that was. We had a mutual enemy."

Ken noticed a gleam in his eyes.

"You ain't found out who did it yet, have you?"
"Not yet."
"Well, it'll come out eventually. Can't keep something like that under the radar forever." Sal tried to smile, but it came off crooked. Sympathy wasn't his strong suit.
"I don't wanna be rude, Mr. Leone-"
"Sal."
"Sal. But-but what am I doing here?"
"Relax, kid. I like small talk. Not enough of it nowadays. Everybody's always in a rush, always wanna get straight to brass tacks. A little conversation goes a long way. You wanna cigar?"
"No, I don't smoke."
"Yeah, I heard that you prefer that birdie powder." Sal shrugged and imitated a bird with his hand. "Ah, I don't judge."

He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a cigar wrapped in cellophane. He ripped the wrapper and placed it in his mouth, using a zippo to light it. Smoke clouded the air.

"Alright. You wanna get to business, let's get to business then." Sal took another puff of the cigar and placed it in an ashtray, crossing his arms.
"I said before that Vercetti and I had a mutual enemy - the Forellis. You heard what's happening in Liberty City?"
"Not recently."
"Well after Vercetti took out that gavone Sonny, his brother Marco took over. Now Sonny was a prick, but he knew how to run his people. Marco, not so much. The Sindaccos took the opportunity and started thinking that they was gonna run LC by '87. I arranged a sit-down with them instead, and we made a temporary deal: we f*ck over the Forellis and share their businesses. No pointless killing."
"Smart."
"Don't patronize me. So the Forellis realized they were f*cked, and they stuck to their corner in Saint Mark's. Long story short, the Sindaccos are a bunch of selfish stronzi. I realized that the smart thing to do would be to expand out here to Vice - lots of opportunity, nice weather. The only problem was Tommy owned it. Now I respect the guy, real initiative in him, so I was thinkin' of arranging a meeting. Maybe he could've let me in on some action down here. Now that must've been...May of '87?"
"Tommy was shot on June 16th. Seventeen months today, actually." Ken nudged toward the grappa. "C-can I have another?"

Sal chuckled, clearly pleased that Ken took a liking to his liquor, and filled both of their shot glasses.

"So June 16th, you say? Then yeah, must've been around May. So like I was sayin', I thought maybe Vercetti would be happy to let me in. But just when I got to seriously thinking of getting in touch with him, the news came down that he got shot."
"How'd you hear?"

Sal seemed taken aback.

"You don't really know what kinda influence Vercetti had down here, do ya? The papers wouldn't shut the f*ck up about him until earlier this year because he did the smart thing - lots of legit businesses under his belt, they thought they were gonna lose a decent guy. Your name got thrown around a lot."
"My name? Really?"
"Yeah, your name. Don't you read the papers, watch the news?"
"Well I've kind of been overwhelmed the past few months. I mean, I'm the only one keeping Tommy's businesses afloat while losing good people by the f*ckin' dozen, and I always need eyes over each shoulder 'cause people know I ain't Tommy!"
"Yeah, and I see it's getting to ya."

Ken hadn't realized he was raising his voice, and he rarely got mad. He took a deep breath and massaged his eyes - it didn't work.

"So please just tell me, why the f*ck am I here?"
"I was gettin' to that, slow your f*ckin' horses."

The door behind Ken opened and a head peeked in. The tall guard.

"Everything ok, boss?"
"It's fine, f*ck off." The door shut.

"Like I was saying, I wanted to have a sit-down with Vercetti, maybe join forces down here. By the time I got to makin' the decision he was already breathing through a tube. Before I could think of a new move, the Forellis started pushing in on my businesses in Liberty and it all got put on hold. But here we are."
"So, you..you wanna collate our forces?"
"In as many words, yeah." The Don leaned back in his chair, puffing on his cigar.
"You and me?"
"Yeah. Look, like you said you ain't Tommy, but you've still got control of Vice and I know you're running out of loyal men. You need us. I ain't one for negotiation but I think this would benefit us both."

Ken was surprised. A deal like this was the last thing he was expecting.

"On what terms?"
"What kind of profit are you making now? I've had some a' my guys keeping a watch over your businesses, and I know they ain't backed out on you just yet."
"Well, the Malibu Club is still bringing in the most of our income, and-"
"A number, kid."
"In a month? Around seventy-five thousand."
"Seventy-five g's?" The Don whistled. "So that's what, around nine hundred a year?"

Ken nodded.

"Alright, so lemme be frank here. I know Vercetti's loyal men ain't so loyal no more without him. With us helping you, you'll have some more manpower and that should help you get back on your feet. So in exchange for that, I think half your profits would sit well."
"Half?"
"Half."

Ken grabbed the bottle of grappa, poured himself another shot and downed it.

"Can I think about it?"
"Yeah, you can think about it. Just remember; I'm doin' you a favor here. You got until tomorrow night to decide, I ain't waiting around."
"Okay. Well, uh, thank you Mr. Leone - Sal. I'll definitely have you an answer by tomorrow."
"Good."

The two men stood up and shook hands once again.

"Don't leave me hanging here, Rosenberg. I'm doin' this out of respect for what Vercetti built."

Ken nodded and left the office. He took a deep breath, relief washed over him for a moment before the stress returned. Salvatore's proposition wasn't even resonating within his mind yet. Mario was still sitting at the bar, shooting the sh*t with some of Salvatore's guys. He got off the stool when he saw Ken and approached him.

"So?" he whispered.
"We'll talk in the car."

The tall guard eyed the pair as they made their way back downstairs and out of the diner. Outside, the sun was in full blast and the stench from the dumpsters wafted.

"Seriously, someone ought'a clean those f*ckin' things. Hey Ken, you mind if I go in and grab a burger? I'm hungry."
"You're thinking of food now?"
"What do you think about when you're hungry? You want something?"
"No. Hurry up."

Mario hurried back inside and approached the cash. Ken ran his hands over his face.

"I need a bump," he muttered.

He went to Mario's car and threw his jacket in the backseat, then leaned on it. Inside, Mario gave some money to the elderly cashier and left with the chime of the door. In his hands was a paper bag containing two burgers and a Sprunk.

"I said I didn't want anything."
"When's the last time you ate something?" Mario retorted, taking the packaging off the burgers and handing one to Ken.

Ken shrugged and took a bite as Mario brought the bag and wrappers to a dumpster. He flipped the lid open and immediately started a coughing fit. Flies flew out in droves.

"Motherf*cker," he said between hacks.

Ken walked up beside him and looked into the dumpster. Inside was the corpse of a middle-aged man, drenched with matted blood. Maggots crawled out from dozens of bullet holes - the smell was revolting.

"I need a Goddamn bump."

Salvatore looked out his office window smiling.

Edited August 25, 2015 by PhilosophicalZebra

July 15, 2015

Nice to see this living again, and to see you back. I won't do an in depth critique, (yet) but a few minor points i noticed.

When Salvatore gets his cigar out and unwraps it - I'm not into cigars but I do remember seeing people cut the end off.. That we don't see Sal doing that came to mind.

At first I started to think Sal was too nice, but I began to see cracks in that, and that it's probably a facade and that makes his niceness seem unnerving - which is nice. I don't know if that's my interpretation or if you deliberately inferred that.

"Tommy was shot on June 16th. Seventeen months today, actually."
Ken nudged toward the grappa. "C-can I have another?"

I got a little lost here. Is Ken saying both lines? If so, put it all on one line.

I did like how the body in the dumpster escalated - thought i found that section rushed - It was like a jump cut, then another. A bit jolty, if you get me. A few more descriptive words would have sat better with me.

I am feeling Ken's character, though. The dialogue felt a bit like what I've been writing lately - just dialogue, but having the actions of Ken just taking another drink without asking do well in conveying how he's forgetting himself, not thinking clearly in front of Sal.

Sal though? I'm not quite getting that sense of "big bad boss" from him. Sure, he's giving Ken a deal, and sure the deal's benefiting him but he feels too nice to me.

July 15, 2015

Thanks for the imput.

You're right about the cigar. When I first wrote that part I had him cutting the end off included, but I rewrote it and forgot that part. Oops lol

You're on to Sal's character. I didn't want to push it but that he's trying hard to play nice is what I was trying to infer. Vice City has lots of potential, and if playing nice to the current "owner" is what he needs to do then that's what he'll do, at least temporarily.

July 16, 2015

Yeah. I would work on the undercurrent of relentlessness that a mob boss and indeed sal has - he's always seemed quite blunt to me, even to those close to him, so perhaps that's why him heing 'nice' seems so unnerving

I'd definitely have the cigar cutting in. In fact, I would have him make eye contact with men as he does so, just for intimidation. As tempted as I would be to have him imply that ken's finger or manhood could be in it, it would likely be cliched, but wouldn't you just sh*t yourself if sal stares deep into your soul as he cut the cigar?

August 6, 2015

Just read through this whole thing. Nice to see you decided to pick up on it even after a whole year's pause. I'm quite into GTA fanfics, so figured I'd like to write up some sort of feedback to encourage further writing. I haven't reviewed anything in ages, so I'll just keep this simple, and leave the deeper analytics to the more experienced fellows.

The plot, with the implication of an upcoming big mob war, is quite intriguing, especially when we didn't see a whole lot of that stuff in the games themselves. Not much more to say for now, but I suppose I like the pace you're proceeding at. The suspense is building up slowly, but surely.

As for the narrative, I don't really see major problems with that. You're being just as descriptive as I like - making it clear what's going on while not overdoing things. That leaves space for imagination, which is always nice.

Maybe it's just me though, but the font you're using feels more difficult to read than the default GTAF font.

August 7, 2015

I haven't reviewed anything in ages, so I'll just keep this simple, and leave the deeper analytics to the more experienced fellows.

Think of it as a muscle. If you haven't used it in a while, the only way to strengthen it is to use it again. I play football and had almost 2 years off due to a bad injury. I came back and i've played pretty poor at times. But I will only get better by playing, and by enduring the bad performances. Critique someone's work. Just go for it. Make a note saying you're rusty, and people will offer advice in what you're saying. Things like spelling and grammar is easy to do. But check the pinned/locked topic of mine with advice in editing your work - the same thought process can be applied to critiquing others' works.

It's good to see a little more activity this last week. Keep it up, fellas. There's a dozen still-unreplied-to stories on here, and I'm really looking forward to seeing more works posted!!

September 9, 2015

So here's #3. I decided to submit it in the normal font; personally I thought the other one looked better but if it strains peoples' eyesight then I'll continue it like this. Enjoy.

Chapter 3: Spring Cleaning

The first few minutes of the drive were spent in silence, but Ken's mind was racing. He had to question every aspect of the Don's proposition; would the Leones follow through in protecting him? How would they even respond to being told no? Was the corpse in the dumpster some sort of message? Eventually he sighed, trying to put the thoughts at bay for the moment.

Mario stopped at a red light and rolled down his window, then looked at Ken.

"Really, though. Who the f*ck gets rid of a body like that? I mean, I been in this business long enough to know of much better ways to get rid of one, especially if it-"

"Shut the f*ck up," Ken snapped. "I don't wanna think about it right now." He took a pause then looked at Mario as if disappointed with himself.

"Sorry. You know how it is lately."

Mario looked away. "Okay. I accept your apology, but promise me something in return."

"What?"

"Never f*ckin' say you need some coke around me. I swear to God if you ever do it again I will drive you straight to rehab."

Ken snorted derisively and looked out the window. A homeless man was going car-to-car pandering for money ahead of them and was approaching them empty-handed. He pulled a ten dollar bill resting in the cupholders and sighed.

"Okay."

"Seriously, you don't need that sh*t. Don't you think you're enough of a mental case without it?" He placed his hand on Ken's shoulder.

Ken chuckled lightly. "Probably."

The man approached the car. He wasn't in horrible shape for a bum, with light stubble and combed hair. A plaid muscle shirt fell over worn jeans, and he smiled with yellow teeth as he began in a frantic voice: "Hey man, you got any change? I hate doing this but-"

Ken deposited the money in his hand, interrupting his spiel.

"Grab a meal from the burger stand near the precinct," Mario chimed in.

The bum seemed surprised but smiled brightly. "Thank you so much," he said as he walked away.

Mario laughed. "Good deed for the day?"

Ken nodded as the light turned green. Mario sped forward.

"So tell me, what happened back there?"

Ken took a breath. "Salvatore Leone isn't as direct as I was hoping. He tried to y'know, shuck around the point. Apparently he wants us to work together."

"Us?"

"Yeah. The Vercettis and Leones."

"That ain't what I would've guessed."

"Me neither, but I think we're a last resort. His businesses in Liberty City are dwindling and he wants to expand out here."

Mario chuckled. "That sounds familiar."

"How?"

"How'd you get started out here? Sonny Forelli wanted to expand out here too."

Ken shifted in his seat and looked down. "This is different."

"Is it?"

"Yeah, well...yeah. I don't owe the Leones sh*t. Sonny had me in his pocket before he shipped me out here - this is gonna be my choice. My choice."

"I sure as hell hope so." A pause. "When you gotta answer him?"

"By tomorrow night." Ken put his face in his hands. "I really have to think about it."

"You don't need to tell me. Where am I takin' you?"

"Home. I need peace and quiet for a while."

Mario nodded and took a left onto Washington Avenue. In the silence, the invasive thoughts returned and Ken tried to wash them out - all to no avail.

* * * * *

Mario dropped Ken off at the curb of his apartment. Ken walked in to the building - all glass, nice and modern. He had bought it right after Sonny died, anything to move out of his office. The lobby was clean - white tiles, white walls, a black desk placed between the two elevators. Late modernism to the extreme. At the desk sat Danielle the receptionist; she flagged him over with a hand.

"Ken, you have an extended Russian family?" she said as he approached.

"What?"

"Just asking - two guys showed up asking for you earlier, real tough guys. I didn't peg you as distantly ruskie so I told them to take a hike."

Scared: "Russians? Are you sh*tting me?"

Danielle craned her neck. "No. Should I not have told you?"

"No, no - always tell me. sh*t. I just don't have the best track record with Russians. Or Serbs, Czechs, Poles, the Chinese-" Ken stopped himself and sighed.

"Thanks for letting me know."

He turned to the elevator, ignoring Danielle's stammering beginnings of an interrogation, and pressed the big fat ominous 13 - his floor - then entered. Ken let his mind race for a moment, thinking Russians. He hadn't personally had contact with one since 1972 - one of his father's buddies, Oleg, a stereotype in and of himself. He gave up when the doors opened to the hallway; industrial grey floors and walls contrasted against vibrant landscapes on each wall. He walked down the corridor, felt the walls closing in - an anxiety attack - but knew how to curb it. Ken closed his eyes and made fists, not breaking his stride. He shrieked when he bumped into something solid.

"You okay, buddy?" A perpetually overly-friendly voice whispered. Anderson Bedlam - he owned the penthouse on the top floor. Big and oily, he owned Vice City's chain of Fleeca banks downtown and was known in Ken's building for sticking his nose where it didn't belong.

"I'm fine. S-sorry." Ken didn't bother to ask what he was doing on this floor and tried to keep walking.

"Hey, hey, why don't you join me for a drink upstairs? You look like you need one." His southern drawl was shining through.

Ken spun around pointing. "Raincheck."

Bedlam pointed back. "Hold ya to it."

Ken fumbled for his keys as he reached his door. He found them, unlocked it and walked in. His place was dark; black walls with red trim, full of moribund plants and the blinds were half drawn. It was open-plan and Ken threw his coat onto the couch as he walked to the windows. They were floor-to-ceiling with a view north; Ken's eye automatically drew to his old lawyer's office near the beach. Pink, unique to the blue stucco dwellings around it. He opened the blinds all the way one-by-one then sat down in an armchair, mind ever busy. He rumpled his hair with his hands and half-sigh half-growled.

The concrete coffee table in front of him was strewn with clutter; cigarettes, magazines, half-empty liquor bottles, a broken bottle and half inch of dust. He marked a line in the table with his finger and sat back, then leaned forward and grabbed a magazine and pen. He began to scrawl on the back of an old copy of Rogue:

Pro: More protection

Con: 50% of profits

Pro: People are afraid of Sal Leone

Con: I am afraid of Sal Leone

Pro: Out of spotlight?

Con: Leones could get stronger...

Ken threw the magazine back onto the table and checked his watch. 9:04. He had been up for all of three hours and felt like he could drop any second. Pros and cons flew back and forth in his mind, then he remembered the small wooden chest under the table. He hesitated, then crouched down and grabbed it, placing it on the hard surface. The polished cherry finish was covered in dust - a testament to Ken's 72 days of sobriety. He flipped the lock, opened the lid to a small mountain of white powder and an invalid credit card. He just wanted to see it - to come face to face with his biggest pitfall. The temptation was always there, though, a little nagging feeling that a bit wouldn't hurt. A bit would hurt though, and Ken knew it. He pushed the lid back down, grabbed the chest in his hands and walked - to the bathroom. With one hand he hoisted the wooden toilet seat up and with the other he turned the chest upside down. The coke tumbled into the toilet, a small cloud of dust left in its wake. He gave the chest a final shake and, satisfied, flushed the toilet. It went down the drain in swirls as Ken stepped out of the bathroom. It was a small action - he could always find more if he pleased - but he didn't, and it worked as a confidence boost knowing he was no longer a slave to it. He looked left and right as he stepped back into the desolate living space, spirit lifted; it was time for a spring cleaning.

* * * * *

Mario had nowhere in particular to go, which was a feeling he despised. He drove around Vice Beach, grabbed a donut from Rusty Brown's and went through a pack of cigarettes in an hour before he finally heard the familiar tone of his carphone. He lifted the receiver to his ear.

"Yup."

"It's Sil. You busy?"

"Sh*t, haven't heard from you in a while. I wrote you off a few weeks ago."

"Yeah, well you better put me back on the books. So are you busy or do I give Bill a call instead?"

"I'm free," Mario said bitterly.

A pig-like chortle. "Damn right you are. Look, I'd rather not talk on the phone, y'know, crackdowns and all. Meet me at the usual place."

"What f*cking place?"

"The uh- the beigeish-yellow one. Come on, you know exactly where I'm talking about."

Silence on both ends.

"Il mulino, idiota all'oscuro. Lo giuro su Dio, se la-"

Mario slammed the receiver down and made a sharp left down an alleyway. He smiled, knowing that he had somewhere important to go.

* * * * *

Ken collapsed into his armchair, satisfyingly tired. He pulled his rubber gloves off and put his feet on the coffee table - the place had never been so clean. Unfortunately for him, having nothing physical left to do typically had bad results and his worrisome thoughts crept back into his paranoid mind. Instead of letting them take over as he so often did, Ken got up and went to the kitchen to make a tea. He grabbed the kettle off the stovetop, filled it with water and placed it back turning the heat knob. He turned to the island and leaned his palms on it - lavastone countertops, the ones Tommy had gifted to him when he bought the place. He sighed. He was - is - a bit of a prick, but he has his moments. Ken's mind flashed back to '86 - meeting Tommy and Forelli's two guys at the airport, nervous out of his mind - the drug deal, what a mess. Planning Tommy's gradual takeover of Vice, one coke baron at a time. The weeks spent fearing retaliation after he finally offed Sonny - but smooth sailing... until November 1987. F*ck.

He came back to his senses as the kettle whistled to him, then grabbed a mug from the nearest cupboard and a teabag from the box, poured it in. Ken overpoured a little, bringing boiling liquid right to the brim. He smiled, likened it to his own state of mind, and brought it back to his armchair to do some deep thinking about the future - both his and Tommy's.

Edited September 9, 2015 by PhilosophicalZebra

September 11, 2015

A more descriptive chapter you've got here this time, I see.

I notice you are also creating a bunch of new angles in here. Between the Leones, Russians, Mario's old friends and the odd banker, there's plenty of reasons for me to stay on the watch for more chapters. So far though, I suppose I'm once again at a loss of exact words to make a proper review.

On a slight note, there was what looked like an unintended size discrepancy at the paragraph early on featuring the homeless guy.

Edited September 11, 2015 by Carbonox

September 12, 2015

A more descriptive chapter you've got here this time, I see.

I notice you are also creating a bunch of new angles in here. Between the Leones, Russians, Mario's old friends and the odd banker, there's plenty of reasons for me to stay on the watch for more chapters. So far though, I suppose I'm once again at a loss of exact words to make a proper review.

On a slight note, there was what looked like an unintended size discrepancy at the paragraph early on featuring the homeless guy.

I'm trying to not get too personal with Ken's character because I want to keep it consistent with the earlier chapters, but tbh I've found my writing flows better when I give a little perspective into his mind. I think this is going to evolve into slightly more descriptive chapters.

And yeah, that paragraph was formatted badly. That's the joy of copying from MS Word.

More soon.

Vice City II

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