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Grand Theft Auto: Bohemians & Blackjack

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We drop in on Julius on his way home sweet home. It's the middle of the night, nary a soul in Chinatown - you're dropped in mid-drive again, on the radio an impassioned soul justifying the recent strikes at universities cross-country. A block down from a police roadblock near the Pink Dilian, a red neon sign practically screaming AUTHENTIC KOREAN MASSAGES above dark storefront windows pulls you forward - go to it and park in the adjacent alleyway, over a sign nailed into the brick: Park here and say sayonara to your tires. Your choice: side door, front door - either way, you'll fall victim to an ambush by landlady Matilda in the reception.

"It's eleven o'clock, Julius. We had an agreement," you hear unaccented out of the darkness. She steps out, arms crossed: black hair in curlers galore lit by the blinking neon.

Rolled eyes, charm on: "C'mon, Melinda, baby, if you hadn't been prowlin' around down here you wouldn't a' heard a thing. Today was a long day."
"It's not prowling, Julius, this is my building. Don't cry to me about a long day until you've had to deny eight happy endings to a gang of Soviet ruffians."

You've been worming to the head of the stairs, an arm on the bannister: "Luckily I chose a different line of work. See you tomorrow, girl."

Up white wooden stairs past three landings: 401 is the destination, top floor - a protrusion on the flat roof. Climb up past an obscene argument on floor two and blaring Up & Atom radio jingle on three. Open the door and get an eye on Julius' flat: a big open space that used to be a storage room, now thrown-together furniture over beaten planks separated by room dividers. Quick scene: Julius tosses his jacket onto a cluttered table and grabs a Pißwasser from the fridge, makes his way behind one of the room dividers to see his brother Winston. The kid's a candlewaster, hunched reading a book lit by a waning taper like it's still 1850.

"Nice to see you home," he mumbles without taking his eyes off the book.
"Don't look up, brainiac."

Julius sips his beer as additional safehouse activities are introduced in small print: surf radio stations, raid the fridge, read the dailies, crash on the couch. Screw around a bit before the last - maybe put on a good song while perusing the paper, current headline Latino Walkouts Strike Southern SA. It makes Winston speak up: "Those Chicano pricks think they've got it hard," and a chuckle. In the missing persons, a Lonny Crowe; wed father of two, last seen after his Bravado Bolt broke down in the Dutch Flatlands.

When you're ready, hit the flowery loveseat to a fade black: a panorama of Chinatown overnight 'til the sunrise, traffic from nil to a steady morning flow. You'll wake to an agitated Winston: "Crack of dawn, lazy-ass. Freddy's callin' all cars."

"Call all he wants, don't mean we gotta show." You sit up to new info: shower at your leisure, but it's only prime to getting blood off your clothes and a shot at the current protagonist's acapella crooning. Try it - head into the remnant-from-Prohibition bathroom, then swap into fresh threads and meet your brother in the hallway. Note the clothes - lots of denim and leather jackets, not a single tee or tank in the running.

Julius: "Why you waiting on me? You said you were takin' the cable cars from now on."
"You mind if we carpool? Not for nothin', Jules, I just wanna sit comfy this morning."
"Hell, you know I don't mind. Just never been a fan of people waitin' on me."

Head down the stairs in a pair straight into a new environment: an incense-clouded hallway full of fat middle-aged men, arms wrapped around Asian girls barely a Jackson. Through the smoke wafts drunkenness; stragglers still getting their money's worth at the sunrise's rooster crow. In the waiting room, a kimono-clad Matilda argues with a man who looks accustomed to it - of note is that her American accent is suddenly gonzo; she can't enunciate her Rs. As Jules and his brother head toward the side door, the man lays one hand too many on Tilda - Julius is nothing if not a bastion of chivalry and you're on him before the hand's back down. The dude's not in the mood for confrontation - nor is Matilda, who rewards Jules by yelling something Asiatically hostile and a hand wave - f*ck off. The man glares, mutters "Bluegum bastard" in a southern accent as Julius puts his hands up and he and Winston head out the side door.

"Coffee's a good stimulant as well," Winston quips outside.

Hop into the Gaia - drive toward the motorcycle icon as it pops up on your radar: Intrepid Courier Service. As you drive by the nearby cable lines they'll be explained - three lines, three routes. Hop on, pay the toll and get some picturesque views from the rooftops as you're carried around the city. Also imperative: they can be used to flee the cops if you're feeling stealthy. Shh.

Julius: "Tell me something, genius - what'd Tilda just yell at me?"
"How the hell should I know?"
"'Cause your book smarts gotta pay off somehow, somewhere."
Win grunts. "I don't know - Cantonese, probably. What you on to?"
Julius chuckles like he's had a private joke going. "The sign outside says Korean massages. Our girl wears Jap kimonos - now you say she speaks Cantonese?" Julius laughs. "I guess our girl's representin' the entire Orient."
Brotherly melodrama: "Jesus, you're right. Is anything in this city sacrosanct?"
"I don't know what that means - but no, I don't think any massage parlors are. Cut out the egghead language, you sound like you're tryin too hard."
"So be it. Can't plow through life with your fists, Jules." He pauses. "You got blood on your sleeve."

You can hear it in their voices - Julius, hard as he may try to distance himself from his upbringing, still has that persistent Carcer City inflection. Winston on the other hand flushed it when he got into college; he's got some Transatlantic imbroglio down pat.

Get the hell out of Chinatown, past Suppleham and under the highway overpasses that zigzag through the city. It's near familiar ground: blue collar district, masonry and smokestacks aplenty - the destination stands out around highway columns and factories with its brickery painted yellow. Park in the side lot beside a blue Malpais pooling oil, get out and head through the garage entrance. As you turn the corner Julius calls back to Winston, who's heading toward the empty lot behind: "Where you goin'?"
"Zeke wanted me to meet him out back; something about his bike acting up."
"Alright. Holler if you need a hand."

Head through to a callback to Kaufman Cabs; a vast grey depot lined on one wall with Dinka bikes and another with concrete office walls that don't quite touch the ceiling. A few workers scattered over leakage stains have their attention on the office door labeled Mr. Peters - or rather, on the yelling behind it. Walk up behind one of the dudes packing his bike as the scene cuts.

Julius pats his shoulder: "Yo Zeke, Win's waiting on you out back."
"I'm headin' out to Lake Callahan, man. What's his business?"
"Dunno, he said your bike was on the fritz."
"She's golden, Jules," he gestures. "What you on about?"
Julius smirks and encourages a change of subject. "Forget it, forget it. 'Sup with Freddy?"
"Oh, the brother's fit to be tied - he got notice on our rent this A.M."
"Sh*t, it's that bad already?"
"Also said there ain't nothing to worry about - I'll take his word for it 'til the walls cave in."

He revs his engine - Julius cuts across and into the dragon's den.

Freddy Peters, back to the doorway, bitching into the yellow phone. Julius takes a seat on the tattered couch opposite Freddy's desk and crosses his arms and legs; free and easy.

"- well you better check again, my friend, because that money got sent out days ago - no, no, I suggest you get off your ass and personally check with your boss because I know that cash's sittin' in his rainy day. Oh, tough guy - yeah, you do that."

Freddy slams the handset down - it bounces off the receiver and they both fall off the desk. He picks it up and turns around massaging his temples.

"Did you pay the rent, Freddy?"
They lock eyes, Jules doesn't back down. A shameless "No."
"Crossed arms turned palms up: The f*ck?"
"I ain't in the mood for condescension, son, not now not ever. Don't think I won't axe you at a moment's notice just 'cause we're goin' down."
"That right, though? We goin' down?"
"No we are not," Freddy pauses. "Not yet."

He picks his pipe off his desk and Julius tosses him a match. Freddy strikes it on the table, finds the pipe dry of tobacco and falls back into his chair.

Julius sighs. "You didn't tell me you were so hard-up, Freddy."
"Didn't see daylight til the statements came in. Cash here, cash there, rent, Carols treatment - ain't no shame in admitting I got in over my head."
"How's Carol doin'?"
"She's copacetic for the time being, and I'd like to keep it that way."
Julius leans forward - business. "What can I do?"
"That's what I wanted to talk about, Jules." Freddy takes a breath, prepares a speech. "The tenets of any good business are that the owner's employees carry the owner's weight. With the owner's weight carried by them, the owner gets to carry the weight of his own obligations, and in return the owner offers a slice of the profits so his employees can do the same. When you and you brother disappear like you did the other day, that entire process falls to sh*t. Where were you?"
Dodge: "I was speaking more future-tense, Freddy."
Freddy stands up, the patriarchal intimidator coming right out. "And Im speaking auld lang syne, boy - answer the question."
Julius doesn't skip a beat: "Hustlin' with them bikers down the Flatlands."

A nod, a thoughtful look out a barred window and a laugh: "Hustlin'. Listen to yourself, Jules. I thought you were past this."
"Past what? Money? I'm sorry if I don't wanna get into the same fix you're in now Freddy, but cash's cash."
"Ain't my business the company you keep in your respite, Jules, but it is when it's on my dime." He turns to face his employee. "Winston's in the swim with them bikers? Ain't heard the best things about those boys and us brothers; seems against his principles."
Julius ignores the question. "Cash and principles ain't square."
Darting eyes: "I never seen that to be true and I ain't gonna start believing it now. Whatever the case you better take this to heart; I say this with love, but I can't afford to f*ck around anymore. You and Win'll always be like sons to me, but I say it's time to hang tough. Ain't gonna be a second warning."
"I hope so - you got a thick skull, the both of you, but I know your heart's in the right place."
"What about the rent, Freddy? Bull sessions ain't gonna keep the depot in play."
"Creditor's a little fish with stars in his eyes who thinks he's some fat cat - you let me worry about him. He gives Julius a stern look. Not you - me. Now go get your brother, I got a contract that'll park us in the black that I want you two on personally."
"Yeah, now. I need you two out in Birchwood noontide."

Freddy picks up the phone to make some more calls - ditch the office back into the warehouse as a trio of courier bikes begin a run out on that new contract, exhaust smoke and engine snarls in their wake.



Objective: Find Winston.

Open-ended objective; follow the cutscene clues to find your brother, a time lock in the corner: you got 'til 10:00. You grasp the subtext from Julius' reaction to Zeke - no bike needed fixing, Winston's got business on the QT and Jules is always willing to cover for him. Unfortunately it's a real workday, all hands on deck - Winston went toward the alley out back. Make a run for the alleyway - tar snakes and fresh oil poolage make a trail out of it and back onto the main road. Time to get behind the wheel again - hop in your Gaia to the tune of Elmore James and follow the fading tire tracks. Head north on the main road running through and into the Dutch Flatlands. It's early yet; you'll see the few still functional factories have their workers arrive in beaten-down old vehicles, buff union supervisors keeping watch in the parking lots. Construction on the overpasses directs you further into the district - "Hell is he?"

It won't take long before you see a row of cars parked curbside in front of an abandoned foundry, an anomaly in a district still nearly bare of vehicles - slow down, press the interaction button to focus on a sign plastered beside the door: House Of Racial Equality: Join us Monday morning! Julius mutters "Dumbass"; parallel park next to a red Karin Dilettante and get out. A door with one broken glass pane has a note taped to the other on lined paper: NI**ERS DONT YOU WISH YOU WERE WHITE. Julius, stone-faced, rips it down into pieces and heads inside; an abandoned auditorium lit by a single lantern, a circle of folding chairs. He pauses in the entryway: a woman's voice says Welcome.

Julius can barely see, same goes for you: "I'm lookin' for my brother playin' hooky - Winston."
Win plays no fool, mutters some sacrilege and comes forth: "Christ, how'd you find me? He steps up from a chair and approaches his brother."
Julius holds him by the scruff as a mother dog would a pup: "We ain't playin this game again. We got a job to get going."

Everyone's quiet. Julius looks over the circle and we see it from his eyes; four men, two women, all blue-collar black, all eyes on him. One of the girls gets up, speaks up: "Julius. Nice to finally meet you."
She extends a hand, the other clutching a couple dozen paper prints, more advertising for the fabled House of Racial Equality meetings more akin to that of the Epsilon Program.

"Charmed, I'm sure." Julius gives her a quick shake and turns to the door.
"Win, let's split." The girl gives Winston a tug on the shoulder - Julius turns, interest piqued. "What about the posters, baby?"

The situation - the girl's Wins girl, and its her and Jules' first face-to-face.

Julius smirks: "Baby, huh?"
Winston looks back and forth. "Roxy, I was gonna tell him about you."

They play out a scene - Roxanne irked she hasn't been introduced, Julius bemused and uncaring. As they quibble and the rest of the group sits awkwardly a pair of burly men approach the twin entrance doors; one's got a pen. You might infer they showed up to add some extra oomph to their racist tidings they taped and Julius trashed.

They catch Roxy's eye; she sighs and says "Not again" and panic sets in - "Win, they can't be here when Leon shows up. That's the last thing we need."
A voice from the circle: "Goddamn honkies."

Winston sees it coming but can't stop it: "Julius!". Eyes front to the laughing bozos; Julius grabs a fire extinguisher from its broken socket and stampedes. The cutscene ends to action - press the button and Jules sends the vessel into the side of one of their heads, clearing the doors broken glass in the process. Make a split second choice: before anyone can react, either swipe the extinguisher up from the ground or go the route of glass shards. Take out the guy who didn't get grounded - he's got a construction helmet so aim low, don't waste time on protection. Quick glass cuffs or heavy blows from the fire vessel's boot; let him join his buddy on the ground as the HoEs members watch in awe. When the second guy hits the asphalt, you'll be introduced to the grapple: Julius holds him up by his shirt, adrenaline'd by taking the other guy out. You're to perform a finishing move, contextual execution, whatever you wanna call it - the red Dilettante falling victim. Use the triggers to keep your hands around the guy while you walk toward the car - fingers slip and the guy gets away. You've got options; close his head in the door a few times, chokeslam through the windshield, mush him into the wheel well. Done - he's on the floor crying for mommy.

When it's over, nobody speaks and Julius snaps back to reality. Roxanne first "My car!", then Winston, calm as ever: "Lasting impressions."

"Sorry," Julius mutters, and its clear as ever there's a temper bubbling under an aloof surface; now he's a bit red in the face. "Winston."

The brother turns to console his girl; the honkey-caller eggs Jules on and kicks the downed bigot. "Now, Winston." He gets to stepping, Julius hesitates before a trite "Nice to meet you" to Roxanne, who's busy probing the damage done to her hatchback.

Go - it's not too long a drive out to Birchwood, pull a left and get on the Great Ocean Highway southbound. It's quiet for a bit, no music, and the tension builds into its inevitable conclusion on both parts: "The f*ck is wrong with you?"
"Me? What's wrong with you, Mr.-f*ckin-Albatross - all in for individual responsibility 'til some fox comes knocking with tidings of an equal nation?"
"Oh, give it a rest."
"Hard pass. We been coastin sh*t-job to sh*t-job for the better part of a Goddamn motherf*cking decade, and now that we settled in homey with Freddy on the cusp of him giving us the business, you choose now to go pachyderm?"
Scoff, avoid: "Go pachyderm? Charles Darwin, now?"
"Those age-old scrolls ain't all paperweights to me. Really-truly."
"We are fighting for a better future-"
"Why can't you do that when it ain't on Freddy's dime? Why weren't you out cavortin' with Roxy Parks when I got home last night, you gotta wait 'til daylight?"
"Don't belittle our cause, Jules. Speaking of last night - burning the midnight oil?"

No answer; easy clam. "Thought so. Let's leave it at that then."

Traffic lets up - drive past SF International as a Luxor makes its final leg overhead and head onto the minibridge out of town. Pull the softtop down with the press of a button - bright shiny day itd be a shame to waste, travelling alongside the deep blue San Fierro bay chock full of sailboats and mini-yachts, floating penthouse suites for the dignified millionaire with a hankering for seasickness, hookers, and blow. Washed up on the shore below the bridge lays Guillermo's Gullet, the craw of Holt Bay full of washed up detritus of all varieties; a famous dumping ground for the city's abused, unwanted, inconvenient women by their men who forgot about high tide.

"That discussion barred, you got anything else on where we're headed?"

Winston's had the scoop from Freddy - a simple delivery op, year-long fixed-fee contract for a legion of talented drivers to transport seafood both statewide and cross-border. Wholesale. Tasty. Report to Thomas Sclafani, Birchwood docks. Tick tick tick - depending on how fast you caught up with Winston you might be pressed for time: the meeting's set for 10.

It's on the bayside of the town, a bunch of wooden warehouses separated from Birchwood at large by a big field of cattails. Drive up to the gate; a hulk asks plain "You from Intrepid?" Julius nods and you get inside, directed to the two-story main building right along the water. When you park up another man asks which one of you is Julian - neither, of course, but Winston is escorted elsewhere to the truck-packing depot while you're to play messenger. Head up the wooden-planked outdoor stairs into an office overlooking the dock. Notice the fish factory's fond of goons sidestepping slimy planks, one-handing luparas and smoking like chimneys.

Knock on the metal door to the top office and an eyeball appears in the peephole slat - it opens to another big guy with a cigar who points you to an off-dressed fellow attempting to peel an orange with a pen, legs propped up on a desk in front of a window overlooking the dock. He ignores you until you take a seat across.

Julius makes himself comfortable. "Nah, I'm an apple man."
"Gimme a good Empire any day."

He manages the peel and starts popping slices like candy without a word; you don't feel like playing.

"I'm here for Intrepid CS. Was told you had some work for us, Mr. Sclafani."
Smirk. "May be the case, but Tommy's probably three sheets to the wind by now. I'm Moe Rothenberg, well met." He extends a sticky hand; Julius opts him to switch and they shake.
"Julius Cole. I'd introduce my brother but one of your jockeys took him for a seaside tour."
"When we seal the deal with a new service we like to have both eyes and ears on the ground to get things up and running. Way your boss tells it, you bend the ear while your brother bends the knee."
"Freddy said that?"

Moe nods, Julius sits back in his chair and looks past him at the dockworkers outside, shuffling from boat to truck bed.

"Maybe I passed judgement a touch early on you rattin' your boss out as blotto when you don't know me from Adam. I learn my boss likes to tell tall tales and we might both have some authority problems."
"Don't take it like that," Moe says between orange chunks and a half-smile. "Some men are built to lead and some are built to follow. Freddy says you like to ask questions - ask away."
Julius drops the Freddy issue. "I think the million dollar question is why you're farmin' out leadfoot work. We usually get hired when people want their goods moved on the QT. Must be some prize seafood."
"It is, but the truth is having you on contract cuts a lesser blow to our bottom line. Bunch of professional redneck schmucks on retainer from Lenapia - that crops the quota bad."

Moe waits, Julius not buying it - point in question being what's contained in those transport trucks. You've done it before - illicit goods, a quick run, even out of state - but not in full employment for 365. That never ends well.
"Contract's signed and sealed anyway. Figure the least I could do is give you the rundown when your boss assures me you're his top guy. It's all kosher, my friend."
"About the last thing I'd call seafood."

Moe laughs; he's taking a shine to the kid. The rundown he gives: ¾ of Intrepid on retainer until mid-69 - transport comprising trucks, boats, helicopters for out of state. Sclafani's goods run supply lines all the way to Couira City and east - good money and a good word for future endeavors. Drivers paid by shipment, the company at large paid off at end of contract. "The goods are factory-sealed and to stay that way."

"How could I say no?" says Julius to gainful employment.
"Glad you're on board, kid. One more thing," Moe says, and reaches into a desk drawer.

He pulls out a .38, slides it across. Julius eyes it, we get a close up: serial number etched off, funny tape on the grip.

"Stick-ups are a menace as ever. Extra precaution, pay no mind."

Julius takes it and fits it in his holster, they shake on the deal sans sticky hand. Leave through the metal door, find Winston down below with his eyes following the lupara-holders on their patrols.

Eager to split, smelling of fish, he asks Julius if he's ready. Head to your car - as you reach it, a bulky black Stretch pulls through the gates and heads to the main building. A goon puts his lupara on the roof to open a door; out comes some fella clearly feeling no pain beside a mouse of a man. The first gives the guard a firm slap across the face for daring to risk nicking the paint - he tosses the shotgun into the grass nearby and heads inside as Mr. Mouse guides the walk and the sentinel scrambles for his gun.

"Seafood my ass."


+ .38 Revolver


Post-mission phone call(s)

1st - Freddy Peters (optional)

Freddy: Gordon, if it's you again I'm gonna sh*t.

Julius: Don't do that, Freddy. It's your star employee.

Freddy: Hear no evil, son. Shoot the breeze with Sclafani?

Julius: Never heard nothing. I still ain't met the cat, just some Jew callin' seafood kosher. Odd fish you chose.

Freddy: Rothenberg? He's fine fettle, a real smooth talker.

Julius: Real smooth. Slid a gun right across the table at me - fabric taped barrel and all.

Freddy: They're finicky types these cats, wait 'til you meet Sclafani. It's all for protection, Jules, ain't gotta worry.

Julius: I ain't worried, just wonderin' what you pulled me into.

Freddy: I pulled you into your own game, son. Everything's set up above board, just play your part and we all come away flush.

Julius: If you say so. Give Carol my love.

Freddy: Will do. See you at the top.

Edited by Cebra
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Pull the Piranha curbside up to the Boccinos' bungalow, architecturally a carbon copy of your uncle's - just a bit more orange and a bit less fastidiously landscaped. Up the driveway you'll run into Sebby himself, frazzled and dazzled in a beige two-piece, wiping his nose with one hand and playing some fingertip rhythm with the other. "Ettore home?" Dante asks, and before the question can register you get your answer: "Yup yup, bedroom, gotta go, move by night" as he hops into and guns his guinea gunboat.

Head inside, past the sunflower wallpaper and shrill canary kitchen - as you're about to turn the corner to E's bedroom Dante sees him outside, perked up in a lawnchair with his eyes up as twilight beckons the stars. The night sky mirrors the strip's neon a few blocks down - cotton candy clouds misting under a purple canvas, minus all the noise, risk-takers, and drunkards. Dante pulls two fingers to the back of E's head - "Bang bang, sei morto." Ettore looks up and lets you know you scared the sh*t out of him, he could've easily lunged at you with that bottle of Stronzo he was holding under the chair and you better work on your reflexes 'cause next time you won't get him so easy. Dante squats to meet his height and chuckles: "You said you'd bring the waves but I'm only seeing the ones crashing behind your eyes."

"Stronz' brings out my best and brightest," Ettore says, taking a swig and offering it to Dante who takes one himself.
"Such as?"

Ettore acts philosophical, poses The Thinker, comes up blank. "I didn't say I was quite there yet."
"Well, take a shot. Perfect night to get into some trouble, E. Stars falling in lines over a bottle of fine Italian liquor."
"It ain't liquor."
"You buy it at a liquor store. Tastes like sh*t, though."
Ettore leans forward and grabs the bottle back from you: "We should get the old gang together."
You pause, the thoughts start running with a caveat. "We ain't sticking up that juggling gigalo that hangs around Tequila Sunrise again."
"No, we're not." E falls empowered, huffs up over his lawn chair towering over you. "I got eyes on that pork store on Sequoia, you know the one with the skinny guineas playing house out front?"
"Yeah, those skinny guineas are holding heaters because it's a Couira City drop. Try again."
"No, D - you seek the big time then this is our ticket. We cleared what, a C-note last time we stuck up some cidrul' playing tourist? We pull a heist on this joint and I guarantee we'd clear a couple grand at min. F*ck the big names, we pay tribute to your uncle and the old man - we buy our way into La Penisola's grand opening."
"My uncle's in tight with Couira. You know that."
"Money talks. It's a marriage of convenience, don't make me talk down to you."
"You know what? If your heart's set I'm in. It's been too long."

You stand tall to Ettore, who downs the remnants of the booze and throws it at his cement fence and makes the neighborhood dogs bark in unison. "Goddamn suburbia. Let's roll."

Head out through the gate and make a call - if you're fed up with the Piranha then jump into Ettore's red Hellenbach GT; he's in no state to drive. When you first sit in, there's a pause - longer one, and Dante finally speaks up: "You gonna tell me where we're headed? You think I've kept in touch with the 'old gang', you got another thing coming."
"Okay, okay," E says, and if you're in first person you'll see him pull a fifth of something fiery brown from the glovebox. "Let's lay it all out."

Let him gather his thoughts and press the gas - slow rolling through suburbia aimed toward the glitzy strip. You'd imagine that neon glow makes a decent night's sleep difficult as Ettore begins checking them off. "Danny Z's serving one-to-three midwest on a solicitation beef."
Dante butts in: "No kidding, I thought cooze cruising was legal 'round here."
"Pump the brakes Casanova, don't worry - guy was thirty seconds past the county line into Mendelson. Let's see - head up to the Red Light district. Last I heard Ricky Rouge was working a corner."
Go ahead - "Ricky f*ckin' Rouge? Don't tell me you're talkin' about Rick Vitro."
"Yes indeedio. Rouge means red like the ol' neighborhood itself but he's green as ever. You think that's the kicker, wait 'til you hear about Hal."
"All ears."
"Oh, it's a good one. After we all pulled that gas scam a few years back he scrammed off to Los Santos. Got hitched, real nice all-American honeypie, last I hear he's ready to settle down like a fine law-abiding citizen. One day he calls me up to say honeypie's screwing spics by the handful - what to do? He puts the moves on his brother-in-law's secretary to settle the score and the tramp has him nabbed for adultery. Before long he's swapping cigs up in Bolingbroke and his honey's free at home to be the town bicicleta."
"Oof," Dante mutters with a drip of sarcasm. "Greek tragedy. We all got the same thing coming."

You're gonna want to swing around the long arm of Yeardley Boulevard instead of heading through to the madness of Venturas' heart. The Red Light district belies its name - it's semi-paved streets glow in more of a nebulous pink mist. The clock's nearing midnight and you're in dreamland - corner girls and triple-X theatres drowning in rowdy sidewalk-queuers, neon outdoor signage conforming to code, daring to show a pair of ankles. "Man, I haven't been here in years."

Windows down, cross near one of those corner shops and one of those girls comes calling from out a crowd: "Buying or window shopping?" in a suspiciously deep vocal fry.
Ettore can't contain his giddiness between fits: "This place has changed, eh?"
Dante squirms. "What do I say?"
"I am still human, honey," with a twirl showing off layers of fishnet. "Test drive?"
"Err, I'll pass. We're looking for Rick Vitro. Ever sing his song?"

The walker shakes, leans on the car, still trying to show off the goods as some theatre-goers hoot and holler at the gunshow.

"Ricky Rouge."
"You got business with Ricky?"
"Not the kind of business you knuckle down, but that's a yeah."

She nods like you've spoken in secret code and fuses back into the queue.

"This place always been so Goddamn degenerate?"
E cops a chuckle: "Go smoke your sausage, you stifled sister. Get with the times."

Out from the horde emerges Ricky, not so much rouge as tan in olive threads that couldn't pull him apart from a hobo smugshot lineup; open bowling shirt leaving scars on display - behind each a story better left untold.

"Oh, the two ays! Must be near a nickle since we last stacked a deck."
"Must be," Dante says under a smirk. "Gotta say, Rick - words fail me."
"What, these finooks? Needs must when the devil drives. Took some business classes, can't say they went untried."

Someone opens the floodgates and the crowd flows into the theatre; your eye is caught to the outdoor signage as its neon triple-Xs start blinking in unison - come one, come all, and as they head in a couple more streetwalkers gather under the neon and chew some chew and give the Hellenbach an eyeful. Pink glow, exotic environs - hitherto the intro to your ladies of easy virtue.

"So what's the play here? Pay me some mind after all this time, I hope you're onto something worthwhile."
The two ays take turns waiting for the other to pipe up - the plan isn't much of a plan, but ol' Ricky doesn't need to know that. E - "Those magic fingers are gonna take a safe is all. There's a couple grand in it on ice - butcher shop, nobody's gonna know nothing."
"Couple Gs being held in a meatmarket safe? I'm real tickled you thought of me, but sounds like that wishful thinking I've gone fine without for half a decade."
Dante pipes in, creeping peeved as he's been checking his watch. "It's a drop shop, I hear some small-time crew. And you can rest easy about any browbeating, tribute to the powers-that-be is gonna be cut equally. Whaddya say?"

White lies - no discussion. "I say you'd best be true blue, Dante. I'll bite."

After Ricky hops in you get the idea that the three musketeers are now winging it; no planning and no forethought springing to faking it until you're making it.

"Who's next?"
"You know I think we're about sewn up - the picklock, the brawn and yours truly the brains. Anything more and we're taking a loss," Ettore leads into the new.

Ricky demands an approach, gives heed to an old idea: delivery truck parked metal to brick - opened side panel and the group cuts in and gets out without a head knocked. The old pals say they'll head down to Post OP HQ just up the road and swipe a van, you're on duty of getting the necessary brickbreaking tools. From a weeklong tenure at a warehouse on the east side Ettore knows they're packing the necessities and more.

They get the car. Pushed out the driver's, you'll find yourself laid bare in the Red Light District - trudge down they alley behind Rick's joint and through the bubblegum gloom you see a clean ol' Miter hugging a wall with its owner necking a tramp beside it. Your best bet is to steal the thing quiet, he's too tied up to take note. Pick the lock and you're in - the man screams bloody murder as you hightail it down the road. Crawl the streets past midnight, old school R&B humming from the AM. Street traffic's light and so are the neon clubs, jazz and pizzazz lines lining up the sidewalks alongside hoods with no innocent destination in mind.

Your destination's a masonry plant - E said no guards, "What kinda prick's gonna steal some bricks?", but a cruiser's playing nightwatch by the gates as two flatfeet gorge on donuts inside. Eye's drawn to blips, both explained - the masons' breaktime is taken outside working walls and they're fond of tossing their eCola bottles into a sewer grate. Option one's the oldschool approach, tossing one into the cop car's quarter panel and making a run for it down the streets, through empty train cars and over knocked fences until they're air behind you. Play it long enough and the opportunity presents to lock the fellas into a boxcar themselves; you'll have all the time in the world as they yell and tell until sunrise. If you're not feeling any grief then hobble over to a nearby payphone for option two as Dante mimics a street hood to the local county PD; wringing the department's desire to pillage the Lojack Lounge a couple streets down. Dispatch works fast, the cruiser lights up and takes off, and you're wide open. Keep either method in mind for future reference; you're nearly always better off playing the distraction game than an outright fight.

Once the peacekeepers are taken care of you'll make quick work of jumping the wrought iron gate. Hug the brick wall down to the southeast corner and you'll see why the cops are playing safeguard - Dick's Brickwork doubles as an overnight truck stop; keep your feet close to the ground or you'll come face-to-face with some drowsy gun-toting midwesterners all but willing to extend stand-your-ground laws to the golden state. Dante's on his own for this one, no directions in your face - use common sense to trek to the storage shed holding your fabled tools and pick the lock, a touch more difficult than that of the Miter. You need a trunk at hand, so pull the car into the lot and take your pick; if you're so inclined you can grab a sledgehammer and keep it for good measure at the same time. Once you're loaded creep back out just in time to find a Post OP boxvan barreling down the road toward Centanni's - "Oh for God's sake" - you better keep to the bumper to satisfy that competitive edge.

Follow close and the van will pull up adjacent to Centanni's - Ettore cuts it a little close and claws the starboard side against the brick grain. Pull the Miter up beside and the scene will cut to Dante tossing the drill inside; he and E get to work on boring as Rick starts sorting through the mail scattered all over the box floor: "Damn, Fran's two-timing old Tommy with Joe!"

"Quit the quidnunc and come lend a hand."
"Sorry, Dante. These hands need to be fresh in the flesh if you want any safes cracked tonight."

The minigame's similar to breaking into the Humane Labs in V - align the jackhammer with the indicated outline onscreen and weaken the structure. Grabbed the sledgehammer beforehand and Dante also gets the opportunity to deal the death blow - you're inside. The trio head in through their makeshift entry and wait for Ettore's lead. "Nice. This is your gig, Streak. Where we headed?"
Ettore plays it like a dog sniffing out his owner on a bender. "What I heard, the end of the rainbow's in the office."
"Jesus Christ, 'Tor", Rick says after you clamber out of the bathroom you've bored into. "Another foot eastward and we'd'a drilled right into the freezer. Can't hurt to case the joint beforehand."
"I do my best work off the cuff."

The office is past the freezer room of pig heads and meat hooks, wood-paneled and parquet-floored - the safe's in the corner under a brilliant gold crucifix.

"Tasteful. Very Christian; I like this guy already." Rick pulls his tools and a glove and gets to work.
"I think we're in the clear on this one, D, but I fear you'll feel untapped if I don't give you something to do. Wanna play watchman?"
"I'd love to."

Outside, out back - the front leads to dead-end foundries and a single gentleman's club frequented by ungentlemanly men. Play it by ear, no going-ons out back but a few meat trucks sleeping tight under an awning; Dante comments on the thrilling task just as some headlights signal a roadster speeding down a nearby alley straight towards you. No cutscene; make a judgement call.

Pull your gun but give ol' speed racer the time to make a move, the driver pulls the car broadside in front of you, exits aiming a lupara over the roof.

"The f*ck you doing, motherf*cker? Step away from my store or I'll blow your Goddamn head off!"
Dante's looking down the sights: "Ditto mac, put the gun down and we'll talk."

Fatty goes on a terrific rant of threats and challenges, at a few points flailing his gun into the night sky before settling - if you're confident in your decision, a headshot's all it takes to merge this approach into the second, otherwise you're prodded to listen to the man. Holster your pistol and he'll come around the car; D gets a sawn-off barrel in the small of his back. "How many inside?"

D ignores, asks how he got word of the intrusion. "Silent alarm, bub. Courtesy of The Ear of Couira."

Inside, Rick's still working the safe and E's nowhere to be found. Fatty orders Rick up and begins negotiation; he'll only call his friendlier paisan if you give up who sent you.

"You tyros are done, you hear me? I'm gonna get the brass, f*ckin' everyone down here and you're gonna tell 'em everything. Just a pair of flappin' gums when it's over."

Your cue as Ettore emerges from the shadows holding that trusty sledgehammer; press the indicated button and you'll learn how to disarm. A rhythmic button mash and D pulls his fingers back for the shotgun, bashes him over the head and E moves in, misses his shot and tumbles forward. You've got the lupara and an angry lardass so you can hit where the drunkard can't - pull the trigger and Fatty flies out of the service door you just came in, settles dead in a red mist on the concrete outside.

Alternatively, had you shot the tub earlier the rest would play out the same - only outside instead of in.

"Why can't this f*cking sh*t ever go smooth?" Ettore rises.

Camera at the lupara barrel; E and D lean out the doorway to get an eye on the corpse.

"That's him, that's Fatty Gemelli," mumbles E running his hands through his hair.
"The f*cking owner of the f*cking store, you Goddamn gagguz'! He was supposed to be down south. This was supposed to be a simple job!"
"Oh he's down south alright. Don't get maudlin on me, you prick, this whole thing was your gig."
"F*ck it, nobody knows we was here. Go pull the car 'round, I'll get Rick to scratch before the red and blues show."
D grabs his arm - "We are not coming off a job playing catch-up with a body on me. He's gonna crack that safe."
"No, Dante, he is not. I love the thrill of the chase but I am not risking an accessory bid on account of your conscience."

Dante ignores his glazed friend, turns to Rick.

"How much longer on that thing?"
"It's a dura, this one. Ten minutes give or take, but something tells me we're about to split."
"What about the sledgehammer?"
"Useless without a crowbar."
E runs up tipsy. "Rick, we're getting out of here. Chalk it a loss."
Rick takes offense, slams his tools down. "Same old sh*t. Off the cuff my ass, it's always amateur hour with you. Small-time crew - Goddamn Couira City?"
"Amateur hour? Compared to what, the trials and tribulations of peddling queer ass in the Red Light like a mezzofinocch'?"

Their quibble fades into the back as we see Dante give the office a 360. His eyes return to the safe and drift upwards, slow, and the camera pans to life-sized golden Jesus on a gilded cross. Salvation.

"E, you still know that guy that works at the foundry?"

You're saved the tedium of pulling it off the wall; cut to black and back and you're in the Miter, back where Ettore and Rick ditched the car in exchange for the van. They take off in silence, a zoom out from first person shows the crucifix pinned to the roof rack. Head two streets west to that foundry to complete the mission - Dante mumbles four-letter words at himself as he covers the car with a tarp, ditches it to wait for sunrise so they can swipe up some excuse for profit from the meltdown.



+ $150.00

+ Lupara


Post-mission phone call(s)

1st - Jacky Gallo (mandatory)
Dante: Rory's Rugs, how may I help you?
Jacky: I thought I told you to knock that off, you sound stunad. What you going to do when a would-be employer calls?
Dante: I'll answer like that and he'll think I'm a go-getter with a mind for business. Win win.
Jacky: Mmhmm. Have you heard?
Dante: Heard what?
Jacky: A friend of mine's store got hit last night. Stole a crocifisso, the animals, and shot the owner dead.
Dante: Yeah, Centanni's. I saw in the daily. Too bad, they had good capicola.
Jacky: Thieves broke in through the brick so they wouldn't set off the door alarm, Dante. I thought it sounded old hat.
Dante: Nothing particular to using power tools to get a job done. What, you think it was me? We gave that up years ago, you know that.
Jacky: Of course not. Whoever would hit a drop of our friends from the east would be throwing down the gimlet. Especially with a body on them.
Dante: Damn sure.
Jacky: At any rate, our friends are flying someone in. Jon thinks I should give you a call when the welcome wagon arrives.
Dante: Sure thing, Uncle Jacky.
Jacky: You keep an eye out for the animals that put Sal Gemelli in the ground. Stunads will've skipped town if they know what's good for them.
Dante: If they knew what was good for them they wouldn't be stunad, would they? I'll see you at home.

2nd - Rick Vitro (optional)
Rick: Bella's Bagnio, Ricky Rouge on the horn.
Dante: Rick.
Rick: Dante? Hey. Didn't think I'd hear from you again.
Dante: If a job going to sh*t stopped me then I'd have never seen you after '63. Ettore serve you your slice?
Rick: A box and a half of ziti at the cost of a life. No wonder we stopped rolling. When are you gonna cut him loose?
Dante: Rick, we all grew up in the gulch. Can't just cut someone loose like that.
Rick: F*ck, I did, and I've been doing just swell on that count.
Dante: Yeah, you did. I'll let you know when I wanna take up soliciting closet queens and we can all tell the same tale.
Rick: You do that. Come around and I'll give you a two-for-one special, my treat.
Dante: Don't hold your breath.


Las Venturas Retractor
By Titus Zell
Staff Writer

---- A nighttime burglary at Centanni's Meat Market in the North Side has left a man dead and the store light of a religious memento. Salvatore Gemelli was found dead on the premises of his famed pork store on Sequoia Street early this morning. When police arrived and combed the area, they found that a hole had been bored into the women's lavatory under the outside cover of a Post OP boxvan and Gemelli's prized golden crucifix had been filched. "We're relivin' the early years all over again," says Michael Caputo, sergeant with the Las Venturas Police Department. He is referring to the so-called Glory Hole Gang of yesteryear, known for their covert robberies under the cover of night, committed by penetrating the target's vulnerable spots using power tools. The exploits of the gang were previously believed to have come to an end in 1963, when a botched robbery in Mendelson resulted in three dead. With this new development considered, city councilman Robert Decker has vowed to outlaw the nighttime practice of parking vehicles adjacent to dwellings, much to the chagrin of both businessmen and sensible citizens alike.

Rumors had been swirling around town of late relating to Mr. Gemelli's organized crime connections to Couira City; within his office safe was over $4,500 in small bills cash and numerous unserialized firearms. District Attorney Duane Sullivan declined to comment on any further developments. Mr. Gemelli left behind a fiancée, Miriam Ordóñez, who when approached by The Retractor broke down in tears: "I only wanted green card!"

Mr. Gemelli was 46.

Edited by Cebra
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In honor of breaking 10,000 views I thought I'd provide a rundown of all the updates that B&B has received over the past few months. The overall process has been pretty slow-going (it's been three years since I first posted!) but thanks to a bunch of helpful conversation and suggestions with members over the past few months the topic has gotten another jumpstart. Instead of having to parse through the entire topic to find what's been updated vs. what hasn't, here's the list:


- The map has gone from zero to hero and is finally 100% finished.

- San Fierro's location list has been updated, with the particular additions of the districts Lusitano Hill, Sastre Outlook, Nocaro Esplanade, and The Valley.

- The Characters list has received plenty of rewrites and new additions, ranging from the virtuous yet vain Leon King to the misanthropic bunch of the Cazzini crime family.

- The Weapons section has been completely revamped with categorized icons representing each individual hand-cannon.

- The tracks of the Radio section have been both reorganized and added to, with over 240 songs representing the particular feel of the west coast 1970s.

- The list of civilian vehicles has been completed -- 154 period-appropriate vehicles ranging from the new, vaguely familiar, and oldies from the 3D era.

- The Features section has received numerous additional gameplay components, from an explanation of the lockpicking minigame to weapon storage and mailing systems.


A special thanks is due to MOB for all his advice and contributions. As always, feedback is welcome and encouraged. The next mission is in the works and suggestions for the future are appreciated.

Edited by Cebra
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  • 5 weeks later...




The mission begins through a phonecall placed at home between wetwork jobs - a cutscene at the Pryor apartment, Doug picking at his empty fridge in the kitchen as Joanna enters and almost exits with Bonnie in tow, stopped by Doug's pique with the phone to his chest: "Why have a goddamn fridge when its always empty?"

"I'm going to the market on Cristo to try and fill it, thanks for your concern."
"With what money? We got eggs; yesterday you said you wanted to make a quiche."
"An egg quiche? Eggs are the base of a quiche, not the whole shebang."
"Forget it then. Even I know fifteen different ways to cook em on their own."
"Bonnie needs formula."
"No, she needs sustenance. And I know a much better way for her to get it."
"I'll get you some fruit, too. Maybe some vitamins'll knock that chip off your shoulder."

Out she goes with the baby - "I don't wanna see the bill, Jo!"

Phone up. "Hello."
"Don't let me interrupt your marital squabble, Mr. Pryor."
"Water under the bridge. Who's this?"
"Calvin Leung. We discussed that I'd reach you through Mr. Ying when we needed you."
"Mister, mister, toss the Ps and Qs, Calvin. We're all equals here."
"So you say. Are you available, Mr. Pryor? I'd like you to come down to the Pink Dilian."
"Can I bring a friend?"
"Excuse me?"
"Friend, pal, buddy. Sidekick if you will. Assuming you need some work done; I can vouch."

Click. "F*cker."

Get going, it's only a couple blocks over. Down the steps he takes a long glance at 102 - Marcus. Joanna's taken the car so you might have to hoof it - two west and one north and you're in the heart of Chinatown again, arches and all. Early morning has nothing on Johnny-on-the-spot Oriental foot traffic, carts and pedestrians alike, vendors offering succulent smoky pork buns and fried rodent along the sidewalks. Buy something on account of Dougie's empty fridge and make it to the Dilian, still not pink but this time surrounded by Asians in red leather.

You might expect suspicion but don't get it - walk into more red, carpets and ceilings and serpents and pagoda lights. To your left behind a fish tank and wall dividers sits Calvin with a group of like-minded Chinese who don't give two looks your way. Calvin rises and meets you in the hallway, continuing the trend of abstract dress shirts with his Gordian knot now hanging around his neck.

"You made it fast."
"Yeah, and I walked. I ran track in high school."
"Of course."

His hand guides you toward a separate table near the kitchen, past old ladies sipping tea to a band of fellows significantly less sophisticated-looking than the oldies at the first - the man's in a rush, typical courtesy be damned. He lets you go: one plays with a yo-yo, another picks cuticles, another's cheek-down asleep. Calvin starts off on the first in Cantonese, words here and there, a few "gwai-lo"s of which Doug's lived in San Fierro long enough to get the gist. Yo-yo makes eye contact - cheeky, ballsy prick under long hair and a wide grin.

"Mr. Pryor," Calvin gestures, looks at you and speaks snappy. "Wei, Arnie, and Oscar. You're going for a ride."
"The royal you, or you mean with them?"
"With them. Make fast friends; Wei's new in town and I'd like you to show him a good time, even as an outsider."
"Hope were not reading the same dictionary." To yo-yo Wei: "English?"

Wei nods and continues the smile of a man with no intentions to become a fast friend.

"Tell him to head on over to Niptown for a mojo massage - they'll knead that gall right outta you. It's a good time, trust me."

You get a laugh from Oscar and dead eyes from Arnie; you might get the idea the former's been feigning sleep and perhaps he's a bit of a flake. Calvin takes off in his newfound speed - "important business" - and heads back to his table of negotiation; you notice he's walking with a limp. Oscar wipes eyes, heads up and off towards the back door. Use your intuition to follow his impressive height, passing through the kitchen of nebulous steam and curt Chinese ordering around, knife slams and tenderizers - out the back to a familiar car that you're left to steer.

"What's the gig, Greg?"
"My name is Oscar. Regular collection to show Wei here the way of the world. I don't know why you're here."
"Maybe Calvin thinks you guys are going softhave me swoop in and save the day like last time."
"Swoop all you want, but today won't need saving. To the massage parlor on Cerent Street."

Quiet down a few avenues, run parallel with a streetcar before the emigrant pipes up.

"Such hot sh*t you think you are. I been here two weeks and all you Americans the same - I have big gun and I must shoot. I don't need you to show me how things are, yang guizi."
"My friend Calvin says I do. Get into the American spirit, Wei, polite small-talk included. Spill about how your English's so good before we go beat on some folks, it'll help you grow on the inner disconnect."
"Small talk." Laugh. "In Yangshan I lived in complex with a landlord; Englishman come to study Mao Zedong Thought. Only white devil I know until America. Being a landlord not so good in Yangshan - public execution for them to disseminate land to farmers. I say I was farmer, get the house, which I then offered to the Dragon Head's cousin in exchange for higher position. Not America."
"That's what I'm talking about, amigo. Way to break the ice. Welcome to the land of the free, home of the indebted - you'll fit right in."

You'll find the parlor blends, dime a dozen; its facade somehow comes across as both prime residential property and typical sh*thole storefront alike in its position atop Calton Heights. "Anything I should know?" - Doug to Oscar, an attempt to force words, but Arnie's up to bat.

"Deadbeat's rubber stamp as they come. Name's Bertrand. Thinks his big win's on the upswing any day now - he's been from the wops to the Chicanos to us, thirty Gs in the hole. Calvin thinks we make his last wits fly out his ass and maybe he'll at least cough up the juice."
"He was talking to me."

You look inside past cheap display gimcracks to a fat stressball sitting behind the counter, white as they come in an Asian-themed establishment, hand on the thigh of a masseuse.

"What's the play?"
Oscar's already out of the car, Wei's on his way inside - "We lay into him. Simple as."

Inside you might think the very appearance of three Tongs and a pissed off vet did the job - Bertie's shaking at the sight, sweating bullets trying to look cooler than a subzero cucumber. He sends off a tattooed succubus in back and steadies: "Oscar, boy! Who're these fellas?"

A thumb at Wei - reverted to intimidation through his yo-yo - and index at Arnie, Doug takes charge: "Clarence and Maxwell. Men of the cloth come to damn this unholy place." He laughs at himself, Oscar does harder, deep and roaring, at a joke lame even by Dougs own standards.

Game time - glass displays of knock-off memorabilia, wicker chairs, tall bonsai and thin walls sitting in wait to inspire a payment. Make fists fly; kicks, breaking glass, smoke from drywall holes to the tune of Oriental massage music
; "Come on guys," Bertie pleads from behind the counter between the sound of crunching glass. "The executive game's tonight! I'll get it all back!"

A meter with a minimum and a breaking point - the damage incurred is to get it to the sweet spot in between the two extremes, but don't destroy too much; a totaled store gives Bertie nothing to lose and he'll make a run for it. The scene cuts at the right spot; Wei's had enough of the crying yang guizi, hops the counter and uses his yo-yo for a chokehold - Bertie's gone uncle in under ten and the gang can't help laugh. "I have no money!" rings too true, you realize something else is needed to cover the interest alone. The yo-yo goes limp and Wei sends Bert reeling over the counter and crashing head first onto one of those glass displays.

Back to gameplay as he howls over some glass in his eye, step over him and into the back through some beaded curtains. Arnie's hand stops you: "You go in heavy. I know the clientry." Doug pulls his piece from his holster with a smile and Oscar leads the charge - in another clouded hallway, topless masseuses and a couple knights in flannel armor. One tries to pull rank on Oscar, who promptly backhands him into the wall, and Doug feels free to do the same further down. Clear rooms, illicit actions behind closed doors, a weapon or two laid bare on cheap wood as its owners cower at your own.

The gang won't find much; all roads lead to the door at the end of the hallway - a garbage-filled parking lot out back, a slick new Sentinel gleaming in the sun between beaters. Doug gives Oscar a look, ESP permission to check the door: unlocked, f*cking idiot. He raids the glovebox, pulls the pink slip. Bertrand Young. F*cking idiot.

Oscars thrilled and doesn't hesitate to show it, but the moment's cut short by a yell and breaking glass way back in the reception. You're to stay alert, but don't hesitate to think fast and hotwire the thing in anticipation of what's to come. More yelling - something Slavic, rough, and a bloody Artie is the one to come back: "Go! Get back to the Dilian and don't f*ck around!"

No answers - get in and gun it, out the alleyway and a powerslide in either direction leaves you in the lap of gun-toting Sovietsky on your trail in a tawny Rancher. You're too close to the resto to make a beeline without the Russians riding your ass; take a detour up Elwood Avenue and use the element of surprise to toss them - a sudden sharp turn between Victorians and the ute spins on its wheels and flips; you're free. Drag it long enough and they'll start to take potshots - detracting from your payout - and the best course might be to pull down a familiar alley and return fire until they've fled or are dead.

When you pull around the back of the Dilian you're met with Calvin; a shawl draped around his neck, frantically signalling you into a nearby garage. You can sense the bemusement radiating off Doug.

"I miss a red carpet expo?"
"Can it, chatterbox."

Doug stands back and Calvin comes forward, examining the Sentinel for damagedoors, mirrors, trim, prone for the undercarriage.

"Could be worse but this covers a tenth of the float, max. Not even what the juice has amounted to. It compounds, you know."
"I don't. You asked me to tag along on this gig to show Wei the good American work ethic, and that I did. The rest is not my territory, Calvin."
A retort interrupted by a lightbulb: "Mr. Leung - where are the others?"
"Hopefully on the way with a couple heavy Reds in tow. Your friend Bertrand has a real network around him - you weren't the only one hoping to collect today."
"Yes, that was a calculated risk. I had faith in your abilities and I didn't expect you to flee."
Doug laughs, lights up and blows smoke in his employer's face: "Following orders. I'm not a fan of playing insubordinate, especially when the upshot comes so cheap."
"That's not what I've heard."
"Oh yeah? What have you heard?"

Calvin straightens himself, still a half foot short of the man hes playing superior to, and looks up at the sun before starting.

"We don't have to like each other, Doug, but you'll find I know things only a select people do. I have no doubt you'll come in use, and if you play your cards right we can do great things together. But that demands respect. Separate from our mutual friend."
Dougs thoughts run wild, Calvin answers unasked questions: "Eddie Segal. Steven Ho."

Doug swallows, more pissed than confused, but the car interrupts their own tango. Calvin snaps out of it, pulls the garage door closed and heads to greet his entourage, and Doug watches as a newly invigorated Wei jumps from the backseat in kung fu pose.

"That don't happen back home!" He comes for Doug, grabs his shoulder with a bloody hand.

"Maybe I grow to like this place."



No reward.


Post-mission phone call(s)

1st - Winky Marquez (optional)
Winky: Caller, you're on the air.
Doug: Ha, you as a disk jockey - that could've worked out, you know.
Winky: Gave it a try freshman year, didn't pan out. Dougie, I hear you've been putting in work for our Tongy friends.
Doug: I'm a summer student. Believe it or not I've got more pull working for you.
Winky: Gotta start somewhere. Under whose belt?
Doug: Calvin the crepehanger. That's why I called - what's the guy's deal? I've worked with my fair share of screwballs but I can't get a read on him.
Winky: He's just playing his part. All roads lead to the Dragon Head.
Doug: What?
Winky: Yeah, Kong, Quang, something chinky like that. The man upstairs - eventually the screwballs get tired of dealing with the John Q. Publics themselves and send you up. Just gotta fight through the fog of bullsh*t in the meantime.
Doug: Chinky, eh? What happened to extolling the virtues of your ancient ancestors?
Winky: I'm set, who gives a sh*t? That whole Ying thing might've been pushing the envelope anyway. These f*cks'll give you nothing if not a fair shake.
Doug: That's what worries me.
Winky: Worry not, amigo. I just told you we're set.
Doug: No, you said you're set.
Winky: E plutonis unum, right? Sh*t, I gotta split Dougie. I'll see you later.
Doug: Hope so.




Iron City Inquirer

By Roy McCarthy

---- A recent spate in ethnic crime of late has led the citizens of San Fierro to ask a singularly obvious question: is our great city falling to sabotage by the apparatchik agenda? Crime is surging in certain areas of note: Vista Park and Suppleham, both neighborhoods with one distinct trait in common - a demographic push for transparently pinko legislation. After falling victim to last year's public parade of anti-American exhibits of affection that has unreasonably been given the moniker the Summer of Love, both boroughs have developed a significant swell in criminal activity perpetrated by brutes of the Maoist and Soviet variety. Have we fallen victim to a systemic infiltration of our society by those who intend to provoke the downfall of America? Experts say no - that such activities can be attributed to a socioeconomic disparity that results in a last resort to achieve success through crime - but we know better than to believe them. We are being perverted from the inside out. Only we can resist this permeation of our society's fabric by the red menace before it's far too late.

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Congrats on breaking 10k views and we thank you for posting not just one, but two mission back to back. I've been waiting a long while for the next installment. Great work, Cebra.

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Congrats on breaking 10k views and we thank you for posting not just one, but two mission back to back. I've been waiting a long while for the next installment. Great work, Cebra.

Thanks man. I figure it can't hurt to try and pick up the pace - three years and I'm down seven whole missions. I keep going at that rate and I'll be done in 2028. :D


Julius' next mission will follow shortly. Stay tuned.

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  • 1 month later...




Head on over to Stanislaw Choppers any time between dusk and dawn, the place no less bustling in the absence of daylight - dozen choppers with a half dozen custom warpaints, that orange inferno of light drawing you into the blaze. Park up in the one space set aside for your kind: CAGES HERE - a first being that one’s already there.

As Julius gets out your eye’s drawn to a shape behind a nearby chain link - big, no lights, but the burning tips of cigarettes in the cab. He gives it half a staredown before heading inside to displays of camaraderie; blowtorches replaced by booze, rock and roll - Sweet Jane on scratched vinyl. Dave notices you first and tosses a beer - caught and pulled to the side Julius walks up. Dirk and his toadies AWOL, the only bikers on scene being those less tattooed and less likely to attack you with a blowtorch for your taste in records.

“Speak of the devil.”
“And appear he shall,” snipes Julius. “How’s business?”

He motions to "the man beside; black, tall, and tank-like with eyes on another realm trying to bore into the soul of a stranger.

“Julie, this is Doctor Keno Rizzo - our Providence Eye into the gutterpups of this great city.”

Jules goes for a shake, the doctor instead points a closed fist and waits on you to reciprocate, surges ecstasy when you do: a masterfully enigmatic “Motherf*cker.”

Bemused and beaming, J turns to Dave and points outside. “I think you got a couple shadows down the path. That those foregoing ‘narc probers’?”
“No, just the gooks. They’ve been pissier than a chick on the rag ever since we tried to bust up that deal up over the gate. You’d think keeping an eye out would be easier said than done for them, you know?”

He makes slant eyes, laughs, nobody budges. “I let Dirk off his chain and they’d be air.”
“In nobody’s best interests,” Rizzo butts, briefly more lucid than he gives off - a crack interrupted by his sight of something spectacular on the ceiling between spots of mildew.
“Dave.” Julius pulls him away by shoulder: “I’m impressed at this show of brotherly love but camaraderie ain’t my forte. You got something for me?”
“I do, matter of fact. Sure you don’t wanna let loose a spell?”
“Give it to me.”

He pulls away, directs you into the office of concrete as he chugs something brown. Julius follows, settles inside and keeps eyes on Doc through the window - eyes up, speaking in tongues or something, hand gestures galore - Dave watches you watch until the spell’s broken. “What’s this dude’s deal?”

“Believe it or not I don’t keep him ‘round for erudition.” He finishes off the bottle, tosses the remains of his smoke into it and lights another. “Like I said, gutterpups.”
“I don’t follow, man.”
“Matter of fact I don’t rightly know if it’s Keno Rizzo or the other way around. We’ll say Doctor Keno.” Hand waves: “Howbeit he’s a loony son of a bitch - one of my boys ran into him at the coast of the Greenie shore, sticking up some poor biddy with the brush end of a broom while dronin’ on about polar bears and tribadism.”
“And now he’s here.”
A chuckle that turns into a coughing fit: “Ain’t it something how things work out. You seen those prints been up the last few weeks? Every lamppost from Elwood to Burgundy, every f*ckin’ corner.”
“Not my grounds.”
“Seems your grounds to me, but what do I know. The uh, the acid tests, I think they’re callin’ em. Y’know, dust. Never bought into that sh*t - eternal consciousness at three bucks apiece? Sucker a minute.”
“I dunno. All some folk need is the promise of wild blue yonder to get through the grind.”
“Oh man, you’ll fit right in with these fellas. It’s his work. Tonight’s the night, matter of fact - you’re gonna hitch Dr. Livingstone over there to the promised land. His car.”
Eyes back out: “Can I put him in the trunk?”
“No, that’s the gig - trunk’s full up, San Andreas sunshine. Not usually my wing but these fellas were cryin’ for it.”
“That’s it? Straight delivery?”
“F*ckin’ A, I got no other use for the sh*t. Time to liquidize. Maybe you’ll make some friends.”
Julius walks: “You got it,” but gets stopped short in the doorway.

“One more thing. The chinks outside, they gotta be dealt with. Doc’s right, you know, so no rubbing out by misadventure or anything. Just dealt in the way we deal.”
Julius stays silent, receives elaboration: “Dirk wouldn’t show. You know,” Dave points to the good doctor, “considering. He got some guys playing license plates down by the distillery down on Borrachera. Hit the road with ‘ol bruiser over there - draw ‘em to Dirk and the harbingers and give ‘em some three dollar haircuts. I don’t want that cage driveable neither.”

Julius exits the office, drops the beer, and heads backs into the garage, gives Keno a pat and a point: “Let’s go, daddy-o.” He follows you out, follows your gaze as Jules again eyes the stalkers down the way: “We time pressed?”
“Daylight.” He starts to hum a tune.

Hop into his car, the anomaly under the cages section - brand spanking new Voodoo. “Two streets west of Windy Windy. Big brown stone.”
Julius lumps it: “Brown ... stone?”
“Brown brownstone.”
“We call ‘em townhouses on this coast, doc. We got a little detour to make, anyway.”

Ride slow up to that field fence - Tong cigarette tips flagging you down. Jules rolls the window down and makes it count, flips the bird: “Eh goo-goos, let’s go for a ride! Arnold got something to show down!” and pops two off into the night sky before speeding off. You gain control as the Triads start their engines, pull out of the lot - Jules cackles at their eager virtue. You’re not going far with them shadowing; dead-of-night void gives way to a spattering of yells, bikes revving.

“You in a state to throw down, Rizzo?”
“You buy the ticket, you take the ride. Turn up the music.”

The beginnings of That's Not Me - twelve bikes next to the distillery, Dirk clasping his .44 before he makes an I.D. - slam the brake as the Triads slow, slide it broadside as everyone comes to a stop in sync. Julius hops out, points Dirk and his cronies to the Surfer and they register before you can say assault. The Triads try their hand, five come out, three armed - knife, knife, and a goddamn nunchuck. Get to work, Rizzo going kamikaze at the fellas as they play defense against fourteen gorillas. If you can get in on the chaos before the Dirk wing finishes them, throw down with Nunchuk to get a chance at swiping the weapon unsold in stores. For good measure Dave asked you to wreck the ride - simple as slashing the tires, though no one’ll stop you from wrecking some glass on the way out.

After the vehicle’s taken care of the scene cuts to Dirk, hollering with his pals as one of the Triads tries a death crawl across the street. He passes his booze along, gives Julius a look: “So he’s got some stones after all!” and hones in on the Chinaman.

“Bought myself a television just to watch your people starve. Better than any cheap sh*t on the radio.”

Triad makes a swipe at him, knife tucked in pants, hits his mark low at Dirk’s ankle and gets a flat foot in the back of the head as the bikers holler at the scene. Dirk’s famous rage steps in, grabs the Tong by the hair and drags him to the curb as Julius watches from afar and Rizzo plays with sky demons. The picture comes clear to J - Dirk pulls the man face down, teeth on the curb, grating, razing, and you gain control just in time to play hero - you can rush him before the other foot comes down. If not the sound’s not a pleasant one - a hard stomp, a scream, teeth flying left and right as half the bikers palpitate and the others go wild. The first option brings you Julius’ own wrath - “Arnold said no more blood than needed, and that means no poor motherf*ckers gettin’ their f*ckin' jaws snapped!”, met by Dirk’s assertion that some lessons only come through teeth in the gutter. He splits with the help of two others, limps away before an argument can be had, choppers roaring as they head back to home base, leaving Julius and the doctor and a crawling Chinaman potentially toothless.

Eyes on the body, limp, half-dead in the street. Red mist. “Let’s go, doc. Let’s split.”

Settle back in, ride uptown through little to no traffic and plenty of panhandlers and do-no-gooders under crumbling overpasses - not a word over the little diversion, the Tongs, the task at hand. SF at the wee hours is a sight - a ghost town broken apart by bums and dope fiends alike driven home by the hauntings of Sun Ra.

“So, uh... how’d you get in with those fellas?”
“They have killer mescaline. Dabble a bit in brown, too. A taste here and there and we’re all rainbows. In exchange for very little, such situations excluded.”
Julius snorts at doc’s sub-Saharan accent playing funny against slang: “Yeah, I’m familiar. You know I think I got an idea by now, but maybe you wanna clear the air on what the hell an acid test is in the first place.”
“An event like no other, brother. Dallas procured us some live music for this one - grooviest stuff I heard since Los delfines maricas down in Argentina. Have you been?”
“To Argentina? Nah. Who’s Dallas?”
“Dallas is the star.” He dies down. “I’m feeling a bit faint, my friend - maybe you should drive.”
“Mhm, I don't know what you drivin' but it ain't this car. Who’s Dallas, my man?”
“He organizes. Procures the product. Dallas is the man.”
“Looks like you’re procuring tonight.”
“He’s preoccupied. Writing a book. Oh, I feel this will be a very difficult night.”
“Don’t say that, man.”

The conversation’s a dead end - but by then you’ll be up in the heights anyway. You’ll see the destination; indeed brown, a miracle. Jules gives his retinue a nudge who tells him to back it up the alleyway, stop at a green garage of corrugated metal, pop the trunk. Someone’s standing at the ready, hops out a back door and gestures you in as a couple more concrete chumps start to bring the trunk packages through and in.

Doc looks back: “Trust me, brother. Come meet the band.”

The doorman bumps Rizzo, leads you up a flight of stairs surrounded by peeling wallpaper leading red brick - an electric guitar growls, loud voices, laughter. Around the corner the scene is entropic, a good dozen men and women on tables, on the floor, on each other; one shirt for every three, purple canopied walls, blackout curtains.

Julius laughs and whispers “This nigga'.” A separate group of merrymakers huddled around a guitar turn to you and give Rizzo a standing ovation for his artful act of turning the corner.

Resumed guitar tuning - one fella walks up as Rizzo walks away, offers a shake: “Bikers or backers?”
Julius shakes, says “What?”
“Bikers it is. I see you’ve come with Rizzo - you look a little too square to take that on alone.”
“Maybe so.” A call to Dave. “Is it Keno Rizzo or Rizzo Keno?”
“I doubt he knows himself to tell you the truth. I’m Dallas Bloomfield.”
“Julius Cole. Nice to put a face to the name - I read your articles. Doctor said ‘Dallas’, I shoulda supposed.”
“I know what you’re thinking, man - no, he’s not licensed in the state of SA. I don’t think he’s licensed anywhere, but he’s a loyal friend. You gonna hang around?”
“Might for a while. What’s the whyfor?”
“Expanding horizons, man.” He gestures you to the ball of hair tuning his ax in the corner.

“You heard’a the Suicidal Failures? Local guys but real men of the world - that’s their frontman Rocky Muñoz. They’re our track tonight. You talk to him, whatever you do, don’t bring up Milk. Chick on the floor is our woman Mona.” Topless, hips like a wild rose. J doesn’t push.

Guided walk, big suit standing by: “Slick dick next to him’s their manager Hyman Katz. Thinks we’re bosom buddies ‘cause he pals around with the f*cks at ZAP. Scumbag supreme.”

Dallas begins checking them off, rotating: “Ol’ pig commissioner Jack Lange, Post columnist Artie van der Linde, disgraced scion Noah Shrewsbury. We get an assortment.”

“Rest of the band’s fashionably late - as in two hours - but we got all night. Rest of the crowd wandered in off Hedone. We got enough to go ‘round thanks to you.”
“Off the streets? You don’t worry ‘bout UC?”
“A pig can samba with the best of us given the motivation. I’m not vexed.”
Julius gives the place an eyeful. “Alright ... but what do y’all do?”
“We drop acid and listen to Rocky and the band.” He points to a desk by a broken window covered in papers and pot. “You scratch down your address on the notepad, pocket it, and we get going, man. No holds barred. Sometimes we get a couple wake up in the valley, sometimes in the back of a caddy car. You’re in it to win it but at least you got your address down.”

You’re in it now - you know the names, you know the score. Acid test indeed - the intentions of man. Jump into traffic with your eyes closed but at least you’ve got your addy. Julius gives the place a final lookdown - voices come calling from another room: “Dallas! We need one more to unpack!”

“You in, man? It’s alright if you ain’t, but I got a feeling this is your scene whether you know it or not.”
The job at hand - make friends. “I think I'mma kick back and watch this one. Rain check?”
“We’ll be here ‘til PD raids us. I give it a month, tops, so we got a couple left in us.” He looks his groupies over. “Arnold’s garage - we’ll run into each other there.”

A man of no goodbyes - Dallas runs off to what looks like a kitchen without appliances and leaves you to mingle. Hobnob with the madcaps - Commissioner Lange on a tangent about the department’s approach to psychedelics, Shrewsbury sh*tting on the submachine gun, Muñoz practically getting down with Mona with his guitar in one hand. Katz eyes you, keeps his gaze wherever you go but hasn’t a word.

You’ll find a friend in the ol’ doctor, who makes conversation about the Argentinean dream while gradually losing layers of clothing. The door’s open for when you’ve had enough, but stick it out long enough to find the missing links of the Suicidal Failures stumble in to immediate applause - they gather as Muñoz disappears behind a curtain with Katz, reappears invigorated a moment later as the set begins. The dozen merrymakers pop microdots in unison to the easing in of an electric guitar gradually growing, growling, popped to a synthesizer and haunting tenor.

Stay for the ride of dimmed lights and red candles or prowl the streets to find a cab in the hours before dawn. The guitar will keep.



+ $75.00

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  • 1 month later...

I've seen this thread once when I used to roll on this website anonymously in the past, I remember Julius Cole used to be Samuel L. Jackson. I guess you decided to change it?

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I've seen this thread once when I used to roll on this website anonymously in the past, I remember Julius Cole used to be Samuel L. Jackson. I guess you decided to change it?

Kudos for the 69th post. ;)


Yeah, you're correct. Jackson was the first one that came to mind for the role. I had envisioned his role in Pulp Fiction somewhat influencing the sort of character Julius becomes over the course of the story. I thought it over a while though and I think it's hard to separate him from his voice, which I think would've worked to the detriment of the character considering his role as Frank Tenpenny in SA.


I wasn't sold on Chiwetel Ejiofor at first because, well, he's English, but it helps that his voice isn't so distinctive as Jackson's that it's the first thing you think of when you imagine him in the role. He was solid in American Gangster, even in a minor role.

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I've seen this thread once when I used to roll on this website anonymously in the past, I remember Julius Cole used to be Samuel L. Jackson. I guess you decided to change it?

Kudos for the 69th post. ;)


Yeah, you're correct. Jackson was the first one that came to mind for the role. I had envisioned his role in Pulp Fiction somewhat influencing the sort of character Julius becomes over the course of the story. I thought it over a while though and I think it's hard to separate him from his voice, which I think would've worked to the detriment of the character considering his role as Frank Tenpenny in SA.


I wasn't sold on Chiwetel Ejiofor at first because, well, he's English, but it helps that his voice isn't so distinctive as Jackson's that it's the first thing you think of when you imagine him in the role. He was solid in American Gangster, even in a minor role.


Hey, hope you remember me, the guy with the Little Jacob DLC idea. I was away for the a year but now I'm back and ready to invest more in the DLC.

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I've seen this thread once when I used to roll on this website anonymously in the past, I remember Julius Cole used to be Samuel L. Jackson. I guess you decided to change it?

Kudos for the 69th post. ;)


Yeah, you're correct. Jackson was the first one that came to mind for the role. I had envisioned his role in Pulp Fiction somewhat influencing the sort of character Julius becomes over the course of the story. I thought it over a while though and I think it's hard to separate him from his voice, which I think would've worked to the detriment of the character considering his role as Frank Tenpenny in SA.


I wasn't sold on Chiwetel Ejiofor at first because, well, he's English, but it helps that his voice isn't so distinctive as Jackson's that it's the first thing you think of when you imagine him in the role. He was solid in American Gangster, even in a minor role.


Hey, hope you remember me, the guy with the Little Jacob DLC idea. I was away for the a year but now I'm back and ready to invest more in the DLC.


That I do, glad to see you back. I hope your father's doing alright.


But yeah, last I recall you were planning on giving my missions a read-over. Whenever you're ready I'd be happy to hear your feedback. :)

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  • 2 months later...




Don’t sit around too long after the disaster at the butcher shop - Jon Gravelli’s waiting on you. He’s at a house not too far from your own digs - the south part of Arcadia Willows where the outlands are made not of sand blown in from the Ahwati Desert but carefully manicured lawns.


Keep to the street - driveway’s full up, lime Roachee boxing in a begrimed Schyster Bayadere, rental tags still hanging from the rear view. Up the drive it’s birds chirping across palms, sprinklers peppering - then a low-flying Hunter blazing saddles across the sky, over the mountain range to the area-not-to-be-mentioned. Dante shields his eyes from the sun and watches it disappear, rings the bell and waits. Gravelli answers in a blue velour robe and a mutt comes charging between his legs to nip at your heels: “What the f*ck is that thing?” Dante asks between defensive kicks.


Gravelli nudges the thing, gestures in: “Pain in my ass is what that is. Chihuahua. Not my choice.”

“That’s not a dog, it’s a f*ckin’ rat.”


He closes the door behind you, walks and talks as he leads you to the back living room. “This place - can’t walk two feet without some kinda animal sinking his teeth into you. What can I do for you, Dante?”


Cut short by the entry of a model-worthy blonde in orange who scoops the mutt up with one and a purse in the other: “I’m late for work, Jono. Gimme a call later, alright?”


Nod, kiss goodbye, Jono’s hands low, and she goes out the front door with a half abashed bow at Dante as her little monster snarls. “Hey, ain’t she from the Bahama?”


Pink Swan sunlighting at Queen’s Crown Jewels.” Gravelli leads you into a conversation pit, pops a glass on a bar cart and begins pouring before asking what’s your poison. “Drink?” He’s cooled since the girl left - you get the idea that a no would probably mean doubling up his own.


“Sure. Something brown,” Dante says to an already-poured something brown.


He gives a glance outside: professionally trimmed hedges, stone walls against the back of the lot leading into a waterfall pool: “Mr. Cangelosi’s a generous man.”


Hands the drink: “That he is. Siddown.”

Sit on one of the loveseats - cute place, healthy variety of orange shades and wild plants and carpet and sunlight. Professionally decorated most like, Cangelosi’s contacts not settling for any less and Gravelli opting not to put up a fight to prolong the process.


“How’re things, Mr. Gravelli?”

“How the f*ck d’you think, kid? Your uncle tell you about the casino?”

“Don’t think so. What’s up?”

He sits across a red table on cabriole legs. “When we signed you onto Silver Sixes it was made unduly clear to you that it was not a no-work and definitely not a no-show. I told you that - specifically. Carlo says you only been by twice in the past month.”

“I been occupied on the side. My uncle said it’s alright, Mr. Gravelli. Something about Local 369, that it’s all covered.”


Gravelli downs his drink, gets up and pours himself another one from the cart - Dante still hasn’t touched his own, plays it sober to a quickly mellowing Jono. “Sure. Look, kid - when I was your age I got pinched on a 1040 discrepancy and ended up doing sixteen months for attempted murder. A bunch of bullsh*t you can be sure, but the whole thing’s a goddamn house of cards.”


He sits back down, gives Dante a chance to speak who instead opts to sheepishly sip at his liquor.


“All I’m saying is you’re a far f*ckin’ cry from bein’ equipped to take on the IRS - that’s how they took down Vin Falcone, you know. We all hold our own in this thing. You need to put in some hours before the curtain-raiser.”

“You set a date?”

“A couple weeks, give or take. Carlo’s been having some, eh, headaches, and if he keeps it up that’s something else you can add to your fast growing list of responsibilities.”

Dante downs his drink, stands up and goes for a shake of fault: “I’m sorry, Mr. Gravelli. I don’t want to let nobody down.”

He takes it, corrects. “Anybody. Your uncle sees something in you. I’m waiting for the day.”


He leads you back out front and stops short at the door, opening a new line of thought on the front stoop.


“Not all business, though. I want you to do a favor for me, though. Personal. The girl you seen, her name’s Dee - works the stage at the Swan, we’ll say she has a way of drawing the flies to the honey. Sonny and I want her brought over to La Penisola. I made an offer, Sonny made another - her boss is a mule-headed Jew f*ck.”


Jono’s worked himself into a tizzy: “Who ever heard of forcing feather girls into contracts? F*ckin’ cocksucker.” He’s got a strange way of showing it; no kicks nor flaring veins, just a straight gaze ahead of irate words.


Dante uses the trail off to push and lighten: “Fellas who wanna rehash a Bobby Fontaine situation?”

“That’s cute. You know the club. Two-bit Pavano joint ran by Baby Bats.”

“No sh*t, he's still around? You really want me to put the squeeze on him?”

“Within reason. He don’t know you from Adam, kid. Play the jealous steady, take a bat to his car, I don’t give a damn. I want the honor of taking her contract to the shredder myself.”

“I’ll get it done.”


Dante starts walking, Gravelli calls back: “Show this out, kid. I’ll see what I can scare up with Carlo.”


As close as it’ll come to a promise of the big leagues, at least for now - jump back into your ride and pull out into the hot sun. You’re served a reminder of the tool shop on Coventry Parkway; plan ahead if you’re going to brute force your way into a breach of contract. The streets up there are cool and quiet, the tendency of Las Venturas - nightfall and daylight reversed, sidewalk jaunts of bobbing cowboy hats and covert millionaires in tennis gear alike headed to the courts.


The Pink Swan sits at the southernmost end of The Strip, perilously straddling the line between the glory of its neighbors and the seediness of Champlain Avenue’s joints further down. It testifies to its name - a giant pink swan, wings extended, backing red cathode rays; a cursive name, restaurant, coffee shop, casino, the whole shebang. The lot’s mostly empty, a couple night campers excepted and a silver Benefactor Magnum parked by the side entrance; vanity plate OHBATS - bingo.


You can head inside and things’ll play out all the same, but gift OHBATS a few dings courtesy of your newfound inner demolition man; a hammer, sledge, metal bat to the windshield, target the shiny gleaming rims or play some golf with the side mirrors. As intended the racket brings out a skinny Vinnie with a million questions, slicked hair with matching leather jacket who flies back inside the second he finds his answer. The scene cuts to Dante heading under the entrance awning with his weapon; leaning against a pink marble column and lighting a cigarette while waiting for the inevitable uproar to make its way outside.


It does, fast.


Baby Bats - fantastic three-piece navy blue suit on a skeletal frame; he comes running out in his bifocals with slick Nick at his side, a seething rage arching his shoulders to a height exaggerating his minuscule frame: “What the f*ck are you doing to my car, you f*cking wop?”, a dig that finds his ginzo buddy unperturbed.


Dante plays it up, pops the smoke between his lips, lifts his weapon sky high and brings it down on the roofline, - it dents like it’s made of clay with glass and premier grey enamel seesawing across the lot. He’s having a grand ‘ol time: “Totaling it! You should get a better pair of glasses, pal!”


Bats sics the unarmed goon on you with a wrinkly finger - a decent sized unarmed goon; he comes charging like you’re holding a muleta in front of your face, rallies you into the side of the car and pulls your bludgeon from your hands. He tries to bash your head in but you can dodge it - he f*cks the car up even worse in the process. As you continue to skirt his blows Bats runs back inside yelling for help but it seems nobody’s around. Avoid getting squished until the goon’s out of juice and disarm him if you can’t brute force your way to completion - get your weapon back and turn his head into pulp until he falls to the concrete mumbling sorries in the crunching of broken glass.


Run in through the open doors. The place’s barren inside, a sight usually reserved for those from the inside track - gilded adornments and a whole lot of pink neon left unlit in the daytime. It’s almost eerie; the floor, the pit - rows upon rows of slot machines sitting empty, silent, but the adorned pink wig wags above still flashing back and forth like some pony playing phantom. Find Bats - he’s around, playing some f*cked up sort of hide and seek around or under the roulette and craps tables. Dante taunts him with playground derision, knows he can’t be far - both exits are wide open, open season; the only alternative the padlocked count room that’s still cinched down the hall. Maneuver through the table-made corridors, crouch to check underneath the tables. You might come upon a wallet or two dropped in the huff of a losing streak; help yourself at the cost of some unlucky midwest schmuck realizing his dilemma at McCarthy International.


If you don’t find Bats fast enough he’ll find you; a golf club to the back of the head that knocks you flat. The man’s got a mean drive but the follow up’s not great, not swift enough to kick your own weapon away. Dante rises feeling around for blood, a bit dizzy, met with “Who let you loose, cocksucker? Think some gonif’s gonna take me down after all, huh? Think so?”


Up, a bit wonky - sidestep him through a shaky cam, balancing Dante in the process. You’d think you’re an easy target in this state but the pioneer of Las Venturas isn’t the most nimble despite his name. Tire him out like his goombah shield outside with a new approach - a hit with the club will knock the wind right out of you. A kick here and lopsided punch there and you know he’s no match when he goes down flat onto a blackjack table with the golf club hovering above in Dante’s hands, panting and sweating buckets: “Uncle, uncle! You want money, is that it? You want--I--I got money, loads of it, a f*cking boatload of cash in the safe in my office. That's what you want, right?”

Dante drops his threat, plays along. “That’s the spirit, you f*ckin' bull. Lead the way.”


He lets Bats down, shadows him, finds himself hard pressed to keep his mouth shut. “I gotta say, I expected more outta you. The tales I heard growin’ up, the ire of Baby Bats and his metal sock...”

“I knew you weren’t some two-bit hood. You know whose radar you’s gonna be on now?”

“Hearing folk tales don’t make me any more than a two-bit hood. But I ain’t worried.”


Bats fidgets with his office keys as he makes his way there, tries to single the one out, fails and relents to Dante: “It’s the one with the green sticker on it.”

“Bifocals ain’t doing you justice?”

“Not anymore.”


Dante finds it and lets the man in - the situation’s taken a bizarre turn, the facade of a brazen robbery turned a pity for a man long ago feared far and wide; remnants of the first play, Dante’s still holding the club as he follows Bats’ mope to the safe in the black marble wall and leans on a centered desk. The room overlooks the parking lot, a couple palms; no strip sights, nothing that can’t be found at the Checkout further on Las Cruces - as they say, God ain’t making more real estate. Bats fiddles, Dante looks over his shoulder - stacks of paper, dollar piles rubber-banded, a pistol; he steps forward and swipes the gun from a Bats growing agitated who’s taken to mumbling to himself, Yiddish and English mixed and matched, fetching the bills and placing them on the desk like a gambler’s cashed his chips.


“Ain't money.” The mumbling rises to a heat: “Ain't money.”


“Just get it over with, you mamzer. I told you I won't be taken by no gonif. Never! Who sent you - was it Mazursky? After all this time? No - Costigan. Soon so shall it be by you. The veneer has faded.”

“What the f*ck are you talking about?”


Bats steps forward ready to throw hands again, instead takes one more and collapses in the desk chair.


“I know what you're here for. I want to know who. I won't be taken by no gonif and in lack of a reasonable request.”

Dante's out of his element, unsure whether to reach for bemusement or amusement - settles for neither. “You're outta your tree. I wanna see the contracts for your feather girls.”


“The contracts. They in the safe?”

“The contracts? You're here for the contracts? That's what this’s for?”


He’s howling now, slaps a palm down on the desk to get across the hilarity of his little fit. “Yeah, yeah, they’re in the safe,” he squeaks out between roaring whoops.


Dante holsters his gun, head shaking, and goes for the goods. Bottom shelf next to a box of Cubans and two fifths of absinthe, a pile of brass fastened papers. You’re in control to take it all or stick to the mandate; the contraband’s worth a pretty penny in the right markets, otherwise the smokes are good for a sunset dinner to watch the Strip scenery at Watcher’s Eye.


He flips through, each a second glance until he lands Dee Hofstadter; executive dancer, whatever the f*ck that means, details of the non-compete clause complete with the penalty laid out in green terms.


“Poor girls.”

Bats echoes, wiping his tears dry with a handkerchief. “Poor girls, poor girls. We’re putting them through school. Tell that to your ungrateful c*nt.”

“I got what I came for.”


That’s it - the money Bats laid out on the table in his moments of clarity’s still there for the taking if the pity factor’s run dry - $2500.


“I thought I was done for,” he mumbles to no one in particular.

“This ain’t no Fort Knox, I’ll tell you that.”

“Nobody’s had the gall to rob a casino. Not even in the light of day.” He pauses and gives a second thought: “Lemme guess. It’s Kathy. No, Dee. It is, eh? I knew the shiska was getting ideas. You tell her to enjoy her time in the kitchen.”

“Will do.”


Dante gets to walking: Bats takes a tone worthy of his name: “Don’t let me ever see your f*ckin’ face again.” Half way down the hall you hear the laughs start growing again.


Leave from where you came in. The protection’s still writhing next to the Benefactor, gives off an extra moan when he sees your return. There’s a payphone on the south wall - head over and make a call. Gravelli’s home phone rings, rings, no answer on the end - Dante makes it to La Penisola instead.


It picks up, a voice on the other end: “Yeah?”

“Carlo, hey - Dante. I got something to give Jon, he around?”

“You mean Mr. Gravelli?”

“Yeah, I mean Mr-f*ckin’-Gravelli. How many Jons you know out here?”

“I got three on the moving crew alone. Lotsa Seans too.”

“That’s what happens when you run to the Micks for all the manual labor. He around or not?”

“Yeah, he’s around, you f*ck. Come on down.”

“On my way.”


It’s a little walk if you’re feeling it - cutting through an artificial pond between the Swan and The Algiers leads you right into the back entrance. Pre-landscaping; lots of unmarked asphalt and gravel under mismatched Biffs, construction crew giving Dante a nod as he walks by.


Inside’s ramping up; workers on scaffoldings a couple feet from the ceiling, on their backs wiring electrical for the chandeliers the Johnny Q. Publics can swing from during their cataclysmic loss tantrums. They’re everywhere - maneuver through the brow sweat Michaelangelos into the same back office in which you first met Dante - Carlo’s behind the executive desk with his sleeves rolled up, in the midst of getting sh*t from Gravelli. The two give a quick glance toward Dante as he walks in the room but Jon finishes his sh*t-shoveling duty before daring acknowledge a job well done, something tied off with a “but don’t let Valentino catch you saying that.”


“Who’s Valentino?” Dante makes himself comfortable, sits deep on one of the plush brown armchairs facing the desk.

“You don’t know no Valentino?”, Carlo asks.


Dante shakes his head, gives Gravelli a look in the corner to ask if he’s being f*cked with, gets met with stone.


“Don’t matter, it’s nothing. Settle up your business with Jon.”


Gravelli approaches the desk seat, tells Carlo to get to stepping without a word and takes the seat. It’s been adjusted to compensate for Carlo’s height - can’t have the big man looking small - bringing the already lanky Jon Gravelli to tower over you. Carlo stands idly by the door - “Go play in traffic,” Gravelli orders.


The door closes. “Like a vulture, this guy. Likes it up there by the sun and you know he’ll pick your bones clean. You get it done?”

“Done as dust.” Dante slides the papers across the desk. You can tell he’s trying to hold it in and fails: “Give it to me straight: the f*ck is wrong with Baby Bats?”

“Lots,” Gravelli spits, donning reading glasses and giving the papers a lookover. “Narrow it down.”

“The man I heard about growing up’s gone with the wind. F*ckin’ nutso. Went after me with a golf club and started rambling about Lou Mazursky and veneers and c*nts.”


“Don’t get too excited; as in ungrateful.”


Gravelli waves it away, drops the glasses satisfied with his lookover, interlocks his fingers on the desk. “I’d think you youngins would have your finger on the pulse of this town.”

“Not when it comes to the old-timers, funny enough.”

“He’s got cancer of the brain or some sh*t. Gone oobatz like his car plates. The Pavanos’re trying to save face by keeping the man up, but it ain’t working out so well. He still breathing?”

“Far as I know. Disgraziad’.”

“Never meet your heroes, kid. Especially when they ain’t long for this world.”


Gravelli stands with the paper and heads to the back wall; a cut-out section in the oak paneling juts out and he places the contract in to be shredded.


“I had a talk with Carlo.”


“Yeah. His plate’s full and your uncle thinks time spent sitting on your ass at home might be better used solving our problems.”

“Can’t say I disagree. Gets numb after a while anyway.”

“Right.” Gravelli sits back down and cracks knuckles. “Come down here whenever and I’m sure he’ll have something for you. See what it’s like to work with a deadline breathing down your neck.”

“I’ve always found those motivational.”


Gravelli looks up at the grandfather clock in the corner, ticking away, and to the window next to it - hardhats hauling in baccarat tables smothered in stretch wrap.


“Give it time.”



+ $75.00

Edited by Cebra
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I live!


For those of you still following along, I've had to nix my radio stations because the forum update is from the hell zone. 


Should any of you be yearning for the days of yore where the forum was functional and still had a discernible style, you can find an archive of B&B here.


That said, please try to enjoy:




Pocilga Lodging, apartment 10. It’s familiar ground but you’d be forgiven for thinking otherwise — down a flight from Doug’s quarters it’s somehow a whole world darker and dingier, peeling forest paint and wood blinds coming off their rails half-covering smudged windows.


The chained light bulb fizzles and burns out, the red end of Doug’s cigarette all that can be seen around shade as he knock-knock-knocks. He leans on a cranking radiator in wait, tosses the cig on the floor and eyeballs down the hall at strange sounds coming from 9.


The door opens a peep, an eyeball above the chain lock: “Doug? Sh*t. Come in.”

“I would’a made an appointment if I’d known it’d be this f*ckin’ complicated.”


Marcus hurries you inside, shuts the door behind, relocks the chain. The place is stuffy visualized; incense and tobacco clouding throws and clothes strewn willy-nilly in a place maybe half as big as your own. Bay windows papered-over; SAN News, protests and paragonism. Doug looks around: count your blessings, as they are.


“You’re acting more uptight than a nun in a whorehouse. I come at a bad time?”

Marcus sits at a formica table covered with ashtrays: “They’re all bad.”


A good in, but then he continues.


“I borrowed some dough. Don’t you get involved.”


“Gave that up a while ago. Look, I finally got us a job, Marc.”


“No bullsh*t?” He goes still: “Don’t bullsh*t me on this, Doug.”


“No bullsh*t.”


Marcus hits the table, turns the frown upside down. He lights a cigarette in his fervor, speaks through his lips.


“F*ckin’ A—knew you’d come through eventually. When do we start? Where?”

“ASAP. It’s a deterrent gig, you know. Nothing heavy, just gotta look tough. That kinda thing.”

“For who?”


Doug hesitates. “Marquez et al.”


Marcus does the same, two beats too long. “F*ck that.”

“You don’t got the luxury of being fussy, amigo.”

“F*ck yes I do, unless I wanna wash up in the Gullet with no fingers. That’s not how I get my rocks off, but you do you. I’ll take my chances.”


Doug knew it was coming, didn’t prep. “That...hasn’t even been established. Look, it’s not Winky himself per se, it’s the Triads. Y’know, on his behalf. F*ck, you don’t need to know the ins n’ outs, just stand still and look like a hard-hitter.”


The two have a stare; ritualistic, as old as the friendship.


“You stopped being able to bullsh*t me back in the Corps, Douglas.”

“I’ve never been a great pitch. I know you know I owe you.”


Marc smiles all teeth: “You do. Shall we go?”


The rhetorical answer speaks for itself; back out and go down the steps as Marcus follows you. The car’s been idling streetside — a hobo gawking through the window for goodies takes off with a shopping cart in tow as you approach. You’re headed to the docks, San Fierro this time — the unnamed tract between the official port and the bayou of the Flatlands. It’s a short drive peppered with late—day street corner panhandlers seeking small change or spare dust, whichever comes first.


Marcus tunes the dial to WCTR - union brat John Tamburlaine, AKA Union Jack, quacking back against the growl of Harbormaster Andy Bialek; back-and-forth aplenty about the very destination you’re headed to, filling the silence:


“- stark changes in worker’s rights. Instead, we’ve seen decreases in every little component and piece of the docklands: 12% down on imports and 5% in employment count, 32% decrease in average lunchbreak time, 19% decrease in injuries…”


“Alright, who’d you borrow from?”

“Jesus, I almost thought you’d let it slide. Is it really so much to ask that you butt the f*ck out?”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Too bad. You ain’t my priest.”


Someone sputters as you trudgeon through the financial district, through 5 PM traffic luckily absent a gridlock; the Hasselhoff Monolith’s construction site finally broken ground, cement trucks to spare.


“But you’re still gonna confess. I’m vouching for your talent here and it really ain’t gonna help our prospects if you start waxing liable in the near future.”


“If this deal works out you should be able to cough up the vig at least. Get ‘em off your back, whoever they are. Come on.”

“I went to the payday loans on Vannatter, alright? F*ckin’ Ruskies up to the rafters. By the time I found one that could speak the local tongue I’d talked myself into 20% tacked onto the principal.”

Doug whistles: “20%? Maybe I spoke too soon.”

“I’ll tell you right now, I ain’t doing this unless it’s worthwhile.”

“No, you’re doing it unless you wanna get kneecapped — don’t kid yourself.”


The exchange is bookended by Tamburlaine overprounouncing: “ ...and facts don’t care about your feelings. This is the 20th century, and your techniques and your management processes are stuck in the 18th.”


Crossing the gate into Port Authority, there’s no resistance — PA on strike, union issues, political issues, something about a reduction or renaming or reorganizing, thanks given to the very same hardass union brat John Tamburlaine on the radio, AKA Union Jack — outstepping his Las Venturas roots in Local 369, sticking his nose into the ports across the river.


Marcus asks where you’re headed — “the waterfront”. Nothing further — scope the place out. You might have to start riding headlights; the orange sky’s tasting a burnt flame as the city’s famous fog sets over the bay. Pull around warehouses, some barren from floods — the Quest Sound retaining wall having split half a year past, high tides spilling onto concrete, companies splitsville; traded for higher elevation.


Get to the payphone.


After a short time Doug’s patience will run out; nobody’s around, the legit workers are sitting in standstill on the 416, the nightcrawlers are held back yet by the orange tinge. Doug kills the engine as the radio makes a cut after Bialek loses it and calls his adversary a “sniveling little f*cking rat.”


Make for a payphone nearby, get out and let Doug dial.


“It’s me — yeah, it’s me. Listen, your guy ain’t showed.” He snaps a couple times to dissuade Marcus from fiddling through the glovebox. “I don’t like it. You told me this wasn’t gonna happen or I wouldn’t’ve stuck my neck out.”

Calvin on the other end, unmoved through static: “Relax, take a breather, have a smoke. This guy is A—1 on a scale you haven’t even tipped. If he wasn’t going to show, he would have let me know.”

“He’s not f*cking here. You said the waterfront — another step and I’m practicing my backstroke.”

“He’ll show. Red Blade — wait it out.”


Click — Doug hangs it up and kicks the pole. He heads to the concrete edge, looks down into the watery abyss and lights a cigarette. Before long Marcus’s next to him, bumming one for himself and trying to look thoughtful.


“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I heard down the grapevine that Marquez was the Tongs’ new connect.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So, you said this was on his behalf.”

“Out with it, bucko.”


Marcus takes a long drag and looks around; the place is too quiet — just buoy bells and waves hitting the retaining wall. “Just ‘cause it’s my first day on the job doesn’t make me a schmuck. Word travels fast in our little complex, Doug. Winky Marquez is a two—timing bum — the Wing Wangs don’t trust him further than they can throw him. They’d take him out just as soon as they put him in.”


Doug hits back: “That’s a very insightful take from a man busy running scared from the Ruskies.”


“I hold all my Bolshevik bands in equal regard — conniving. So, am I right or am I right? We’re here over Winky’s head. Maybe in exchange for Winky’s head?"


Nobody’s right, nobody’s talking — Marc cuts in on the answer when he catches eyes between warehouses, a tone reserved for situations that befit it: “Is that our guy?”


A Red Blade indeed — shadowed by a trio of red-and-blues waving their colors into the sky.


“I’d put money on it.”


The two stand idly, bemusedly; Marcus cusps his holster in anticipation as the fracas comes racing down the concrete, sirens wailing — and the chase shoots right past, hair flailing in the slipstream, further into the docks.


Whatever he was expecting, Doug springs: “That’s our payday on the run! Get in!”


Jump back into the driver’s seat and try to catch up.


Your ride tops out at about 120 HP, sad to say — you might be driving the same model as SFPD standard issue but it’s clear as day they’ve been tuned sky high — so keep deft at the wheel as the police poach your payday through the docks.


Try to stay close around tight corners and wailing sirens as the pair try to form a plan, hoping the heat hasn’t called for backup. “Doug, you’ll lose the front half of this piece of sh*t if you try to take out their fender” — plan one’s out. They come to a compromise — level your car’s right side with the copper’s left and Marcus will “christen this new gat with the pigs’ tires”.


Your timing needs to be spot—on, as do your alignment skills — there are long stretches of straight concrete running parallel to warehouses, but an equal amount of hard turns in the dead—end district.


After the first shots are fired you know backup’s coming in fast, but not too fast; if you’ve a steady hand Marcus will make quick work of the other two cruisers — a crash into bricks, barriers, boxes — before they can return fire. If not, you’ll face down a few more — two or three until you figure out what you’re doing. Feel compelled because once bullets start flying the coppers get more aggressive, if not against you; they’re after the Blade’s precious cargo. As they ram your payday the trunk will open and bricks will fly — and the payday’s lost for everyone.


When one car remains someone makes a crucial miscalculation — a concrete barrier between them and a 20 foot drop into the bay. The Blade drifts 90 degrees to a broadside stop, the cop hitting breaks, you hitting them harder — two beat cops jump out, too far from their element; the driver aiming at the Blade and the passenger looking her sights down at you.


A waterside standoff.


The cops try authority phrases — “Hands up! Now!”, spread between you and the escapee. You and Marc have your doors for cover — he’s already drawn his piece, you’re left with little choice but to follow suit over the driver’s door.


The female cop calls for advice from her partner; he snaps back “Keep on ‘em!”. Taking advantage of the impasse, the Blade’s driver crawls out the passenger side — the car’s whole body giving him leeway. But rather than run, he opts for dialogue, plops a sawed—off down on the roof and talks turkey:


“This is all a big misunderstanding. Get back in your cruiser and hit the dirt and we’ll all forget about this.”


The cops have less leeway, continue their marching orders: “Put your f*cking hands up!”


Doug looks for an angle, Marcus pipes up: “Someone better come up with an out here or I’ll gladly shoot every Goddamn one of you!”


“Shut the f*ck up, Marcus!”


He’s too slow on the draw; Blade continues, points down the next alley easy peasy: “Run. There, just down there. Run.”


The demand doesn’t ring; they don’t budge. Doug starts off: “Alright, look —”


Buckshot—everywhere. Gameplay segues in as you and Marcus dive for cover behind your doors, paint chips flying and shell casings hitting pavement. It might seem time to pick some shots off but its not; cutscene’s back, people yelling, a sawn—off cracking on the ground, someone making a run for it.


Nobody says a word before you’re on the run too—a quick look at the coppers: the guy prone and pooling red; girlie writing in pain but alive, reaching for her revolver a short step away. Looking back, Marcus walks up and kicks it, wags a cool finger like he’s no worse for wear.


Before things can settle down, a cruiser pulls up—then another, and with them another contingent of contentious cops whose barrels you’re looking down before they can even step out. Blade pumps the forend, blasts slugs through windshields and hoods as Doug and Marcus fly prone when the police return fire over screams.


Marcus yells “Go!” over bedlam, gestures his pistol toward an idling step van with its ass halfway in a loading dock.


“Get in the f*cking truck, Doug!”

“We go together!”


Time your sprint just right to avoid flying bullets—sideways blindfire to encourage a ceasefire on the blue boys’ end and it’s a go.


You make it, so does Marcus—holed up on the other end of the step van you see Blade dive and disappear.


“We can’t move with these assholes shooting at us, Doug!”


Lean out of cover and make your shots count; a pop-up encourages you to shoot legs, arms, when it comes to public servants—a swift kneecapping or disarming brings about a lot less attention than an outright cop killer. Dispatch as many as you can with Marc’s help; when enough are down he starts pulling on the truck’s sliding door and it gives. Inside, you come face-to-face with your new found ally Blade - you’ve got the same plan and the other side door’s given for him too, but that doesn’t stop guns from being drawn at faces.


Doug, backed by Marcus: “You made this pop off—find your own truck, asshole.”

“Now ain’t the time to split hairs, baby.”


He’s familiar.


Bennie jumps into the driver’s seat and tells you to hold on as the remaining cops surround the van—slam the door shut as instructed and he guns it in reverse, scraping the top of the van across the garage and into the warehouse as workers yell and scatter out of the way. Out the other side he guns it again—this time with tight turns around barrels and shipping containers as everyone’s too tense to speak. He comes to a stop in a tight alleyway behind another warehouse; Marc jumps out first, clearly pissed, takes a little stroll down the way and lights up.


Bennie steps out, beaming. “I’ll take my word of thanks.”


Doug gives it in the form of a right hook to the jaw—Bennie topples.


He’s flat, Doug’s got a gun on him. Bennie whines.


Cupping his nose and speaking between his fingers: “Goddamn! Uncle, alright? Uncle!”

“Give me a reason why I shouldn’t pop your f*ckin’ skull open, asshole.”

“Well, your boss wouldn’t very much like it for one, fella.”

“Yeah? You think he likes to find cop corpses on his bill?”

“Lemme up.”


He reaches out for a hand—Doug hesitates, contemplates more blunt force trauma; settles on holstering his piece and helping red man rise to his feet.


“Sh*t. I ain’t had the blood pumping like that since track.”

“Answer the question.”

“It couldn’t be helped. What, d’you and your buddy wanna take a rap for pig poaching? You should be thanking me, baby.”


Doug steps back, looks down the narrow alley they came from to see if Marcus is around—nay but fog.


“Listen.” Bennie scoffs. “Listen to me. I don’t know much about Calvin Leung, but I do know he’s got a stick of epic proportions up his ass. And now all I have to answer for this deal is cops with holes in ‘em and a car I’m gonna have to go liberate from impound. So yeah, you want thanks, you got it. Thank you for making my life just a bit more complicated.”

“Aw, sh*t,”—there was a reminder somewhere in there. “Goddamnit, I just bought the damn thing. $3200 in the hole to ditch in a deal gone bad.” Bennie laughs. “That shine was custom.”

“I wish I could commiserate but my only problem’s with the 15-odd kilos in the back.”


Sirens start wailing in the distance. Doug and Bennie peek around the corner—Marcus hightailing it himself, springing along the water wall’s edge back to Port Authority, .45 in hand.


“Your friend can run.”

“He ran track too.”

“Look, man— I need that car. I got a little something inside too that really don’t need to get into the pigs’ hands. Throw me a bone here.”

“Who am I, Recovery Ray? You f*cked this deal, my man. I don’t know if the Tongs won’t gut you and toss you into the Bay after this.”

“Hundred bucks, come on. A little markdown for busting my nose up but I’ll do you one good, baby. The name’s Bennie B. and it comes with a rep.”

“Never heard of you. And I got bigger things on my plate now by your grace.”


Doug starts to walk in the direction Marcus ran; Bennie calls: “$250 and whatever else’s in the car’s yours. Just get me my stuff.”

Doug doesn’t look back: “Good luck, baby.”


The cops are out for blood—follow Marcus’s lead in sneaking out the docks, avoiding the perimeter being set up, and blend back into the curious crowds forming on the outside. Images come to mind: a distinctive muscle car impounded in the company of the family sedan and 15 kilograms of heroin.


A sigh full of “Sh*t.”



No reward.


Post-mission phone call(s)

1st - Calvin Leung (mandatory)

Calvin: This is Leung.

Doug: Wasn’t my fault.

Calvin: Oh, you. I solemnly hope you haven’t f*cked us over so soon.

Doug: Believe it or not I’m angry too - I’m short a couple hundred rounds of ammo and my wife has no car.

Calvin: I don’t want to hear your sorrows, I have enough. I trust you plan to return our wares to its rightful owner, one way or another?

Doug: Trust you may.

Calvin: Good. You can bring it to Oscar’s apartment when you’ve delivered. He lives on McAllister Street.

Doug: Sure. But first tell me the deal with your contact—Bennie? Real eccentric you picked. Hope you realize it kicked off thanks to him.

Calvin: We’ve assessed the situation as we see it. You need not worry about him, just recover our product. I’ll be in touch with you, Mr. Pryor.


2nd - Marcus Vogel (optional)
Marcus: If you call here again I’m gonna find your ass and kick it six ways to Sunday.

Doug: No Ruskies here, just calling to see if you’re alive. Practicing your disappearing act?

Marcus: Doug - yeah. Think I made the right choice, you listen to the news?

Doug: Not the worst kickoff we’ve had.

Marcus: Ha, remember Papa Lupe’s chop-shop? That was a sh*tshow.

Doug: I’ll never be able to look at motor oil the same way again.

Marcus: The not-so good ol’ days. Fair to say I’m not welcome back next time?

Doug: F*ck that, I’ll try to square it with the Tongs. They’ve taken to me.

Marcus: We getting paid?

Doug: Collect on delivery, so it sounds like I’m gonna be making a once-in-a-lifetime trip to the impound lot in the Coastlands. Wish me luck.

Marcus: Sh*t, you’ll need a damn sight more than that.

Doug: Hmph.

Edited by Cebra
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On 1/9/2019 at 10:23 PM, Money Over Bullsh*t said:

Welcome back. And happy belated 4 year anniversary 😊

I think I'm a month late and a dollar short.


Thanks though man. I won't acknowledge the 4 year part though, I'll develop an existential crisis. ;)

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  • 4 weeks later...


Special guest spot by slimeball supreme




You’ll be cruising down West Greenwich when you spot him, nestled up in Saratoga Hill on a park bench, whittling away into a notepad, muttering to himself with the backdrop of the Painted Ladies right behind him. Take a moment to check your surroundings, strollers clashing with hippie types staring into the clouds, skyscrapers poking out in the distance. You get in proximity: by approaching or even just walking by absentmindedly, he’ll snap out his trance, look toward, and wave you over.


Mon ami, my friend!”


Doug stops. A scrunch of the brow, “Uh…”


“Yes, you! Come on, sit down.” He pats the empty seat, “I don't bite!”


Unsure, Doug pauses. Looks to his left, his right, then shrugs.


“Okay. Sure.”


What’s the harm? Take a seat, hold a moment as the camera swoons to keep the Victorians in view and the man, rubbing his nose, center stage.


He puts an arm back. “Ah. This town… it’s a modern day Florence, eh? Paris of the Pacific!”


“I mean, sure. Try to imagine Paris being a little more… grand.”


“I take it you haven't been?”


Doug doesn't reply. His look says it all.


“What's your name, mon gars?


“Uh… Doug.”


“Doug! Doug. I like that. Doug. I’m Stephane. Stephane Le Roi.”


“You French?”


“Québécois, good man. Montreal, eh. Not the best town to get the mind going. But this?” He gestures out, book on his lap, to the park in front of him. “Inspiration centrale. I'm a writer, you see.”


You get a look into the journal for a moment. Garbled chicken-scratch, barely legible. He slams it shut. “Nice. I guess.”


“You look like you can handle yourself, friend.”


“Sure. I was, uh… I was military. Marines.”


Stephane gets up, brushes himself off. “How about you and me, we take my car, you can tell me all about it. Might give you a little cameo in my book.”


Doug’s face is blank.


“...and a few bucks for your trouble. I need to get somewhere. Down Sollozzo, crosstown. Near Little Hanoi.”


Doug shrugs. “Fine.”


Do the same, dust yourself off, exit the park. Across the road, through the square’s dusty gravel and cut grass, lies Le Roi’s steed - a Pfister Rebelle. Pristine. Doug'll wolf whistle, “Nice whip, padre.” He laughs, “Y’gave me the whole, ah, starving artist vibe there.”


“Partly am now, heh. Mon bébé, she’s about all my royalties. But I'll double it this go, believe you me.”


So far, you likely haven't driven the most luxurious of vehicles, so admire the red leather bucket seats and the cigarette lighters while you can. You're eastward bound - trading prime real estate for tenant-free townhouses. Le Roi, ever giddy, starts the conversation.


“You got any war stories?”


“Everyone’s got stories.”


“I mean some real stuff. Rough and rugged terrain, crawling through the muck on your bedaine, knife in your gritted teeth kinda’ stuff, you get me?”


“And this is going in your book?”


“Something like it. It's called Hashville Horizon. Or, think I will, I don't know. Contemporary crime novel, cusp of the 70’s, three wiseguys in a city called Hashville.”


“Why Asheville?”


“No, no -- Hashville. You know... hash.” He does a little ‘puff puff’ with his fingers.


Doug, bewildered, just nods. “Uh… I don't think there are any cities called ‘Hashville’ though.”


“Hashville is kind of, like, based on San Fierro. I'm renaming all the landmarks, a bunch of brands, all kind of stuff.”




“Going for satire. We live in trying times, good man. Communism, hippies, the war, all kinds of things. Puttin’ a man on the moon. Crisse, they'll be writing about us come a couple decades, I promise you that much.”


“So it’s a satirical crime novel about… communism?”


“Oh, no. Not just that. It’ll be about, kind of like, everything. It'll be the next great American novel.”


“Written by a Canadian.”




You slow on Sollozzo, block or two away from Doug’s own pad, parallel a couple storefronts. Two tough looking Suppleham scumbags milling around in the alleyway.


“This your spot?”


“Yessir. Well. Not quite. Just wait here a second, I'll be back a moment, don't you worry.”


Let him go, he waddles off, starts conversing with the tough guys. Asks for blow.


Of course.


La Roi pulls a wad out a plump pocket, slicker of the two dealers pulls a baggie full of white to match. You can just make out the thank you's when crack - Stephane tumbles to the ground.


One has a bat. The other’s rifling his jacket pockets. Hop out the car, rush on over, though Chucky won't be pleased:


“Để lại bây giờ, người đàn ông nhỏ bé.”
F*ck off, little man.


“Để thằng ngốc một mình,” Doug snaps back.
Leave the fool alone.


Charlie with the baseball bat can't help but laugh. “Quỷ có một nền giáo dục, eh? Tiệc tùng nào!”
Devil has an education, eh? Let’s party!


It's a two-on-one, so stay nimble: bat means slow swings but counter too sloppy and fists’ll be on you fierce. Tackles mean the same outcome, fists behind you while bat boy pummels you in the stomach. You can ease the fight by pulling a weapon yourself, skip it entirely by pulling a piece and the hoodlums’ll scatter quick.


La Roi’s knees are shaky, help him up: “You speak Vietnamese?” he’ll stutter.


Doug’ll shrug, through bruises or otherwise. “Picked up a bit in the corps. One of the few. It helped.”


“T- thank you.” In an instant he perks up a bit, spots the wad of cash dropped by either frantic or sprawled goons. “You can have this,” he says. “I already got my tricks. You get the treat.”


“You said you were gonna pay me anyway.”


“Did I? Yeah, yeah. Yeah. Sure. Thanks, Doug. Hey, I'm not feeling so good. On account of the, err,” he stops, feels his back. “Yeah. You mind taking me to my place? I'll throw in an extra few bucks.”


The player has a choice: accept, decline. Saying no leaves you here, wish-you-well’s and La Roi'll hobble off back to his ride. But who can pass up driving that baby again? Throw up a thumb and help him back, hop on in and drive. You're westward bound again, La Roi’s spot is up East Greenwich. Doug opens this time.


“You still want that war story?”


Through scars, La Roi’ll perk. “Certainly.”


“Okay. You wanted some good sh*t, right?”




“Okay. Well…” Angle the camera right and you’ll get a good glance in the car, La Roi pulling out his journal again and readying a pencil. “We were up the gulf. The Tonkin.”


“So naval combat?”


“I mean, sure, I don't know. It's hard sailing, squad’s on a PCF tryna’ keep it low key. Sea isn't choppy or anything but there's always that worry guys’ll spot you. Boats moving to Da Nang, y’know, it ain't abnormal, but if you land wrong you got the dinks on you heavy.”


“So you're sneaking up the gulf?”


“I wouldn't say sneaking. Just, being careful. I remember, it's funny. There was this fella named Dutch, y’see we called him that because he reminded us of, y’know. Dutch London. Real cowboy, scowly, had these lines on his forehead. Guy‘d get pissed if you called him that to his face.”


“What was his real name?”


“Funny enough, it was Cal. Like the guy from Bullwhip Fury. Like it all pointed to him, but he hated the name, said it's because Dutch never served and all that. And he was a Freemason. He didn't like that, either.”


Dutch London was a Freemason?”


“I don't know if half the sh*t that came out his mouth were true, so take it with a grain of salt. But apparently, yeah.”


Beat. “Huh.”


“This loony motherf*cker, the boats slowing down and going the long route, up a river with these twisting inlets and all that. He dunks his hand in the water. We’re going pretty fast upstream so water’s lickin’ us all, he tells us it's warm.”


“So what?”


“So the guy rips off his shirt, throws his boots, jumps on in. Nothing else, no warning other than ‘water’s warm’.” Doug chuckles, “He's from Delisle so I'm half thinking he can't even swim. Babić is shouting, like, ‘Brother what the f*ck are you doing?’ and--”




“He's driving the boat. But Dutch, he just, he doesn't say sh*t back. He's just in the water like it's nothing. So of course we gotta turn the boat around, try pick him up, Babić is going nuts. Yelling his head off at Dutch, Dutch just says we got time to kill.”




Doug cracks up, “So we said f*ck it. All jumped in.”


“So you just… you went for a swim?”


“The water was warm.”


“And nothing else happened?”


“That's where it ended. Dutch didn't even get nothin’ for it, Babić ended up goin’ in himself. It was fun.”


“No action or anything?”


“Buddy, you know how much a hardass Babić was? This was a blue-moon experience, might as well be action. Throw that in your book.”


“It's a crime book. I need, y’know--”


“You asked, I told. Not everything was doom-and-gloom, partner. Remember that. Saw a lot but I had my lucky breaks.”


La Roi just sighs.


Roll up to La Roi’s pad on Charge Street, half-stingy apartments, weeds by cement. “This is it.”


“This is it?”


“This it is. Budget living is a luxury that cannot be overstated.”


Doug smirks. “That, I don't know.”


He’ll thank you, throw a few more bills in your lap. “On me.”


Out the car, he’ll walk the stairs and you can only watch. Don't touch the whip, it's locked and alarmed, but examine. 


Won't be the last time you see it.



+ $75.00


Edited by Cebra
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  • 2 months later...




Hot morning, shimmering air radiating off the tar—hotter coffee offset by lots of milk from the cart under the I-75 viaduct on the Flatlands-Conquest line. Julius buys, tosses the lid down a gutter and sips it as he makes for the chop shop down the block—a wake of Westerns taking the opportunity to fly past and into the lot first. As he approaches they hop off, and from the head position Dirk spots you and waits for your approach with two tattooed shadows looking tough behind him.


He steps forward and chuckles: “I did say it was your risk to take, brother.”

“I remember. Ain’t a betting man but I thought I’d take the odds.”

“You don’t seem the type to leave things to chance.”

“Only for work, my man. Only for work.”


Dirk doesn’t invite you, doesn’t even gesture, but heads into the shop as his goons follow. It’s Julius’ cue and he does the same—heads into the place in a newfound state, absent odious bruisers, blowtorches or music; bare natural light, dust floating through sunbeams. Just bikers with Schutzstaffel tats, a black man, and the indelible image of teeth in a gutter.


Julius stops at the door, watches and waits for directives—Dirk heads into a kitchenette and calls “Don’t be shy” so his goons hold back. Inside, he puts a kettle on the boil and leans on the stove, lights a cigarette with the flame. Doesn’t offer J a thing.


“I know, place just ain’t as gay and lively as usual, right? You can thank DOPE for that, had to clear out last night. 2 AM no-knock, f*ckin’ bedlam.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“Yeah, I bet.”


Bet and a beat.


“David’s had the title for this shop for four years, y’know. Got it at a foreclosure auction up in Princeton. Good business, we had some good times—I gone through three choppers, Muñoz blew through three guitars out back before they were even gettin’ booked at Eden Hall. We ain’t heard so much as a peep until the last month or so.”

“Mhm, your boy mentioned when we first met up. I think he called ‘em narc probes.”

“Probes? If probes are a nonstop sledgehammer jam-packing the chute he’s right the f*ck on. We got the tip-off and got away warm this time but they’ve got eyes now. We gotta find a new place, they’re staking our homes. It’s happening too goddamn fast.”

“Shame. This place had a charm to it if not much else.”


Dirk turns to fiddle with paper filters, grabs a mug from the shelf—Korean scrawl on war-battered copper. He laughs, mumbles something.


Julius leans on the wall, scratches his neck. “Look man, is Dave around?”

“He’s got business down in the valley, fallout from the raid. You belong to me.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”


He sips it black from his war memorabilia, gets in closer—a return to Schoolyard Tactics 101. J sees it coming and doesn’t budge.


“I will. You work for me and do whatever I say. Ground rules. You hear me?”

Julius steps in too. “You got something you wanna say, man?”

“I’m not your man. I don’t believe in coincidences is all.”

“Speak then, get it all out. I don’t work with dudes got that whole pent-up inner turmoil thing going on—doesn’t do no favors to judgement.”

“Don’t worry your little head about my judgement. I never thought twice about calling a spade a spade.”


Dirk winks, drains his coffee, grabs Julius’s mostly-empty paper cup and tosses it too on his way out. “You want work, you got it.”


You’re Jules, following him back into the mid-morning air with a below-the-breath dig.


“Nigga’s playing on borrowed time.”


Follow Dirk outside; more sh*t shooting broken up when an army green Bravado Calhoun pulls up spitting fumes. The driver steps out with a twinkle in his eye; a middle-aged, bowl-cutted, turtlenecked individual with energy to spare, who’s clearly using all his might to hang back and not engage. From the side, Dallas Bloomfield comes around, Iron City Inquirer pawed.


He forebodes pissiness: “I don’t control the printing press, Dirk, so don’t get splenetic on me.”


Dirk grabs the paper, flips through; Dallas takes the reprieve to greet J with two fingers, cut by angry spiel:


“F*ckin’ degenerates, how can you write for this sh*t? Community correspondence on coons and fags. What’s left to go to sh*t when the fourth estate’s down the drain?”


The new arrivals cringe, the bikers spread around grin—Julius stays stone-faced and Dirk takes no heed whatsoever. He keeps on.


-a nighttime raid on Stanislaw Choppers in the Dutch Flatlands left the department with little in the way of illicit contraband, and even less in their efforts to secure a warrant on serial yardbird Theobald Dunne, who is believed to be an active participant in both The City’s and the national narcotics trade—


Dirk crumples and fumes, Julius cracks half a smile: “Theobald?”


Back to Dallas: “I should gut you like the gefilte fish you are.”

“Like I said, not my doing. I guarantee you ‘media columnist’ gets treated more like a mad dog with mange than the exaltation you think.”

“The shop’s in Dave’s name, for f*ck’s sake! I’m gonna have more eyes on me than a f*ckin’ tarantula. You can’t get this squashed you can kiss your exclusive gonzo.”

“I’m not sure you understand the concept of news media, dude.”

“Then you should explain it to me before I squash your goddamn head, brother.”


Dallas has to think it over, loses analogy: “It’s like jumping off Crimson Way and realizing that dreams are made to die and gravity don’t value your life any more than you do.”




“It’s done, it’s over, you can’t unring the bell or unscramble the egg or close the goddamn barn door after the horse’s bolted. Every suitcase packer from here to the valley read your name along with their third cup ‘a joe this morning—count your blessings it wasn’t the Tribune with their afternoon circuit and buck up like Fairbanks after Dodd Escandeaux.”


“The f*ck are you talking about? The Tribune? The Tribune would’ve been a damn sight better considering nobody reads the goddamn newspaper at 3 PM!”


The group’s at a standstill as Dirk cools and ponders—his goons having taken to playing bloody knuckles further down the lot, he calls out to them.


“Kurt, Gerry, bring some boys to take care of you-know-what. Otto, get Dave on the horn before I get back. Bobo, you’re with me.”


He bumps shoulders with Dallas on the way out.


“If you really want your scoop to make it to print then you better hope this pans out.”


Dallas nods, rolls eyes. He hops back in the Calhoun, his friend whispers:


“You weren’t kidding. F*ckin’ goon squad.”


Shadow Dirk as he makes it to his baby fenceside—Western National on a mean black chassis, sun-shimmered, flag flying in the breeze.


“What, we riding together?”

A cabriolet is still a cage and it’s a beautiful day, Julius. I don’t bite.”

“Gonna need that in writing. Got a helmet?”


Dirk just laughs.

Let Dirk mount first and hop on—J opts to hold onto his own seat rather than his newfound employer as he hurls it out of the lot, twists the tail until the chopper starts to roar. Leaving the shop in the dust, Julius yells over revolutions:


“Where we goin’ anyway?”

“We are going straight to the Inquirer, my brother. See if I can’t request myself a retraction!”

“Are you f*ckin’ kidding me?”

“Hold on tight, cowboy!”


A bout of pissy silence throughout dangerous traffic maneuvers until Dirk roughs it through the downtown border and Julius budges:


“Hope you got a plan at least, man! I ain’t gonna pull muscle on any folk ‘til I hear you got game.”

“I got game. Thought you’d have figured that one out when I kicked Gook Number Four’s teeth down the street.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. Dallas said it right, the fat cats at the top of the chain don’t give a damn, it’s over and done.”

“You don’t know me at all, Bobo. I’m very convincing when I wanna be.”


Dirk pulls up curbside—Hauptmann Heights, clean bronze animal medallions stretching up the front facade in a final beckoning to some sort of forlorn zoolatry. Julius’s eyes follow up.


“This ain’t it.”


Julius tires of yelling, yanks the keys out and the engine goes idle. “The Inquirer. This ain’t it. You ever read the paper you so hellbound on steamrolling?”

“Not really. Gimme my keys.”

J tosses them. “Maybe you should, man. They moved two, maybe three months back. Unless you lookin’ to sign on some new real estate or grab some animal blocks to add to some collection this ain’t the right place.”


Dirk double takes, acts like looking at the building long enough’s going to change who’s inside.


“You sure?”


J points across the redwoods of Sutter Squareclocktower spire sticking out above stories of brutalist car park.


“You really gotta read some more, man.”

“Couldn’t pay me to con that rag. Hop on.”


Julius looks through greenery and considers. “Nah, this thing’s less subtle than a woodie in church. Park up behind The Mint and meet me in front, Ima head on through the park.”

“You can’t park at The Mint, Bobo, and they got traffic cops on standby.”

“They’re reopening or some sh*t and you can park on 14th. Read. For me?”


Dirk tut-tutts, gets joined by his engine when he blasts down the ave. Cross commuters into the park and you’re halfway into a cityscaped Arcadia, a minute reprieve from hustle and bustle through tall redwoods, yucca and trimmed hedges on the outskirts—but asphalt paths driving you forward, faced with a row of department stores on each side, the Inquirer Building and Bonaventure Hotel straight ahead. Dogs being walked by, newspaper hawkers, bourgeois lunching under umbrellas; someone walks into Julius’s shoulder—he about-faces and double checks that his pockets are still full. Orient yourself with the yellow-framed stork of the Juank Air billboard atop Bonaventure, burgundy Bourgeoix on ice over the Inquirer; head toward the cello player on the corner of Conquest. A voice on a nearby platform echoes Brecht.


At the doors to the Inquirer, Julius waits—too long. He paces, hangs around the corner with an eye on the Mint and finds out why; Dirk in conflict with Traffic Cop on Standby in the back lot. Of course.


Help Dirk.


At this juncture help comes in few ways—just as you walk up the cop pulls a baton from his waistband and Dirk starts laughing, sparring, manages to keep his mouth shut when he sees Jules. The Mint’s back facade’s under repair, loose bricks abound—your best bet is to pick one up and smack Traffic upside the noggin and he’ll fall flat and bloody; otherwise you’re brawling against a metal rod and drawing a bit too much attention and too many scrapes in the process. A pop-up explains the backup dynamic; that the conflict will stay local as long as you keep radio traffic to a minimum—toolbelt walkie-talkie making a point of it.


Man down: “You can’t even park a f*ckin’ bike?”

“I said something the guy took the wrong way. Just a lark, Bobo—happens to the best of us.”


You’re prompted to give the cop’s toolbelt a once-over, Julius grabs a keychain: “We’ll put the cat in his booth, lock the motherf*cker.”

“Now you’re talkin’.”


Dirk grabs arms, you grab by the ankles—drag him into his little office in the lot’s corner, pray nobody comes around until he’s safe and sound in a fold-up chair under a Pussycat pinup and the door’s locked from the inside out.


“I’m fixin’ to tie you to a radiator if you pull something inside. Ain’t here to clean up your messes, that ain’t in the job description.”

“I’d love to see you try. Come on, tough guy, let’s get down to it.”


You walk, they talk as you round the corner you came from.


“Fixin’. Is that anything like goin’?”

“Would be if you spent any time below the Mason-Dixon.”

Wyoming born and bred, Bobo. I like my mountains and my milk and my straight-American vernacular. You a southie?”

Julius hesitates. “No. Michigan. And passed through about six others on the drive here.”

“Shoulda’ guessed. You got airs.”


You can ignore him alongside Julius—your attention’s drawn inside as you head through the double brass doors: the place is decidedly unceremonious, linoleum and acrylic floor to ceiling with an unbecoming golden chandelier dangling from three stories up. Shirtsleeves workers cross from one double-door to another; a lone secretary centered under the newspaper’s namesake watches—keenly.


Julius plays the nonchalant, speaks: “Now what?”

“Dunno. Who we looking for?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“We’re already knee deep—start swimming.”

“Sh*t,” he thinks out loud. “It’s in Hauptmann hands now. There can’t be that many of ‘em in this place.”


Front desk bird watching.


“Go ask her.”


“Go ask the lady where her boss is.”

“I heard you.”


Dirk gives him a nudge. Julius budges.


He walks up as she stares, darty eyes—he puts palms on the desk and clears his throat.


Standoff: “Can I help you, mister?”

“I, uh—I’m here to see Hau—Mister Hauptmann.”


The sweat practically drips, but her face suddenly takes on a whole new glow.


“Oh! You must be—you’re Lenny Couillard. I’m so sorry! I didn’t—um, I didn’t recognize you. I guess I should have, the papers, you know.” She laughs at something. “I had you penciled in for 1 o’clock but that’s alright, I’m sure Mr. Hauptmann will be glad to accommodate. Have a seat and I’ll be right with you.”


Julius—shellshocked—wanders to a few lime green chairs positioned alongside the stairwell wall. We segue back to fluid gameplay as Dirk wanders over in his spirit, sits, crosses legs. Julius cuts in:


“Don’t say nothing, man.”

“Who the f*ck is Lenny Couillard?”

“Black man penciled on a white sheet, I suppose.”

“This is gold, brother. I was ready to start cracking skulls.”

“I know—but now you gonna be my PA if you wanna get to the man.”

“This sh*t. Your what?”

“You’re Ichabod, Lenny Couillard’s personal assistant who made this business with the paper. You my shadow. You go where I go.”


“Even hand when your cards say Theobald, man.”


Secretary walks up before Dirk can say boo.


“Are you together?”


Julius stands and puts on half a Winstonish imbroglio, introduces his newfound PA. Secretary lets you know you’ve unlocked elevator privileges. “The boss is ready for you.”


Follow the lady—who cuts in to let you know her name is Barbara—as she approaches the lift operator; months into his twenties at eldest. Black. In third person you can see Julius praying, Dirk blank, Barbara placid—enough to say it anyway.


“I don’t want to sound out of line, but Mr. Hauptmann was thrilled when he heard we’d received an exclusive with you, Mr. Couillard. He thought you’d be hesitant considering the new ownership but—”


The kid looks, crooked. Knowing.


“Yeah, uh—yes. Let me just say the Tribune has been more than receptive to Aldridge so it wasn’t a difficult choice.”


The ride is awkward and palpable—followed through in silence unless you prompt Julius to utter generalities about the weather with the contextual button. On arrival Operator Kid sighs, speaks with the tone befitting: “Luck, Mr. Couillard.”


Exit the elevator and follow Barbara down the hall—bamboo parquet and mouldings tell you it’s nothing if not an important floor, capped at the end by an important door. Someone important-looking crosses paths looking frazzled.


Barbara leaves you be, heads back to the elevator all smiles.


Jules: “Ima be honest man, I wasn’t expecting to make it this far without throwing punches.”

“Would’ve been fine with me.”


Julius actually laughs: “Alright."


Doors open: small man behind a big executive desk; coiffed and silver-foxed, dressed to the nines, writing away in a black book, Augustus Hauptmann stands and outstretches a palm.


“Mr. Couillard, it’s an honor. Sincere thanks for agreeing to meet with me so promptly, we’ve been under the wire here of late.”

Julius stutters at the prospect of improv: “No problemo.”


He sits, invites you to do the same, gestures at Dirk hanging around the door—”And who might this be?”

Cue. Indignant: “Ichabod.”

“He’s my uh—my personal assistant. Gonna be taking some notes.”

“Sure, sure.”


You’re gestured to sit—comfy blood leather. As they get to talking, you realize it’s your call when to put an end to it with a pull of the trigger and the speech prompt. Wait too long, Dirk does it for you; but the conversation begins first—and against better judgement Julius begins to play the role.


Fingertips touching: “You understand that above all we can’t afford to endorse you.”

“Mr. Aldridge called me an enemy of the community, sir.”

“Yes, and it’s in poor taste, but it’s our mandate to report in an impartial manner. We take no issue with reporting in your favor - the Tribune has all but signed off on Aldridge himself - but endorsing outright we cannot do. You’d think the JOA factors in but...”


Hauptmann enters verbosity bordering on tirade—of the bad blood between the two men, their position in the greater place of San Fierro civil rights orgs with Couillard at the helm of the local NAACP. If you let it go on long enough, it breaks when Julius flows:


“What a crock a’ sh*t.”


Hauptmann acts like you mooned his mother; Dirk reads it as a cue, flies into action with a meaty jolt. He kicks the chair beside you, sweeps the desk - contracts, notebooks, fine china and an elephant statue onto fine mahogany flooring while the patriarch screams. Julius stands in a rush when Dirk grabs the silver fox by the throat, calls at you to “open the f*cking window”.


The f*cking window is blocked by an AC unit made to match the drapes - and roaring like a fast approaching end. Fidget with it if you’re feeling dainty but it won’t budge until you kick the thing out of its spot once, twice, send it to a wood splitting crash three stories down as passers-by scream. Julius lifts the window and it slams against the frame; open, big, human-sized. Room for two.


Dirk passes Hauptmann off, who calls for help to someone, anyone, and Julius knows what to do - grabs the thick noose of his tie and promises him that he’s gonna “see if that motherf*cker can act as an airbrake.” It’s a balancing act where Hauptmann better hope he can tie a good Windsor, you too - because money going splat won’t do much good for publicity. Keep him dangling at the waist, suspended over a sidewalk newsstand 40 feet down while Dirk barks:


Dirk Dunne, you sad sack of slimy sh*t. I don’t know where you get off putting his name in print about that whole drug business, but if I don’t see myself a retraction in the next 24 you’re goin’ for one hell of a fall!”

“W-what are you talking about? I’m not the editor, I don’t sign off on every story about every two bit hood that haunts this city. Give me a break!”

“I don’t give a sh*t, you got nothing tying him to that. Nothing! It’s f*ckin’ slander, and if this news—”

Julius looks over as Hauptmann whimpers: “Libel.”


“Libel. Slander’s about spoken sh*t.”

“Call it whatever the f*ck you want brother, but if this suit wants to see another day he’s gonna be picking his words about me—about Dirk—a damn sight more careful from here on.”


The point sinks in—but quickly loses its standing when a big fellow in doorman garb comes rushing through the door, tackles Dirk to the floor. Julius lets Hauptmann have his tie; he runs for his life as Julius gets the lug off Dirk, throws him into built-in cabinetry strong enough that a dozen books come tumbling down. You get the jist through cursing on three parts—keep him away, get to connecting punches, feel free to introduce a book spine to his forehead while Dirk recovers enough to grab a pen; he lunges into the doorman with a “jig motherf*cker”, sinks it into his midsection one-twice-thrice.


The man stumbles, leaking blood, looks to Julius, to you: J recoils. “F*ck.”


He makes an eleventh-hour decision to go for one last shot at Dirk, only he charges into a fakeout, gets thrown—right to and out the open window.


No time to look—J calls Dirk to run, and they run: down the hallway, down the stairs, past oblivious workers and suits alike, back into the lobby where Barbara calls after you. On the street, a crowd surrounds Big Lug—writhing, not quite dead.


You’re on a sprint down past the Mint, into the lot Dirk pulled the parking stunt—the traffic cop banging on the locked door, begging, yelling, attracting attention—just in time for the SFPD Cruiser pulling around the corner to spot it all. “It never ends, does it?”


It doesn’t, and Dirk welcomes it—of all things throwing you the bike keys as he makes for the cops himself. Hop on, twist and turn until it roars again, let Dirk distract for the better part of ten seconds before the pigs are ordering hands up. Pull up, let him hop on; enough time for the cops to get back in themselves. You may be good on a bike, but Julius ain’t—some trouble with distributing his weight means you better calculate your turns proper, but there’s enough versatility to cut through alleys the cruisers can’t pull off.


“The f*ck was that?” Julius yells over the chaos.

“You can ask all you want when these pigs are off our backs, Bobo.”

“You threw the motherf*cker out the window, man.”

“Yeah, he grounded me. What is this, f*ckin’ SSA football?”

“I dunno, man. You think that worked?”

“I think we got what we came for, yeah. If a suit like that can’t be inveigled by some light terrorizing then this country’s going to sh*t faster than I thought. Now get your eyes on the goddamn road—if my baby gets one scratch on her you’ll be up on a pike before the day’s out.”

“I ain’t wearin’ a suit, Theobald.”


The chop shop is still sitting pretty with the usual suspects off your back—but an SFPD unmarked lurks under the overpass down the road. When you pull into the lot Dirk hops off, reaches for his wallet and gives them the finger in the same motion.


“I smell bacon. You smell that, Bobo?”


Silence as Dirk hands him a double dub, then as he pockets it: “Hope it works out.”


“Sure. Might have to give the goddamn rag a read after all.”

“Them’s the breaks. Might do you some good.”



Leave Baby—spotless by virtue of your skill—and head off a couple bucks heavier as Dirk gets back inside, yells that Dave better be on the line. Pass by the cops playing suave under the overpass—mustachioed and loose-suited, fat eyes straight ahead.


Julius mutters “sowbelly motherf*ckers”.



Post-mission phone call(s)

1st - Winston Cole (optional)

Winston: Winston Cole.

Julius: Brother, my brother.

Winston: Y'know, you can always just...come home. Talk there. Visit me across the Bay sometime.

Julius: Eh, phone calls get me the same amount a' eye contact anyway, hate to tell you but you're not the best conversationalist. Hey, I was thinking about you today. Had myself an appointment at the Inquirer.

Winston: Ah, the jewel of the Hauptmann crown.

Julius: Huh?

Winston: Spokesmen for the capitalists, Jules. Liars and birdcage liners.

Julius: Thought you'd be into the wordy sh*t.

Winston: Not that kind of wordy sh*t. What're you doing at the paper anyway?

Julius: Got confused with some fella, wanted to ask you about him. You know about a, er, a Lenny Couillard?

Winston: Yeah, I heard. Got my disagreements, not the kinda organizing I'm so passionate for these days. Ain't a fan of their talks with King. Disrespectful. But the movement's the movement, help's help. Why's this?

Julius: Ah, just wondering. Might take you up on that offer, cross-bay, been curious lately. We'll chat later.

Winston: Stay safe, brother.




Iron City Inquirer

By Benjamin Dover


---- A vicious attack on this paper's Chairman of the Board Augustus Hauptmann has resulted in a day of unadulterated pandemonium at its headquarters on Conquest Street. A Negro man portraying himself as The City's respected member of the Board of Supervisors and advocate for incrementalist civil rights Lenny Couillard arrived in the early morning and infiltrated the building under a guise of cordiality. He was accompanied by Theobald Dunne, known do-no-gooder described as having the "obdurate heart of a vulgar, witless blackguard" and wanted for questioning by the SFPD under suspicion of narcotics trafficking. The attack, as described by Mr. Hauptmann, consisted of a stream of menacing obscenities at the hands of Mr. Dunne followed by the unidentified Negro man dangling him out of his office's third-story window. Mr. Hauptmann saved himself from a sure defenestration and fought off his attackers until they fled with trepidation. 


The motive appears to be Mr. Dunne's insistence on this paper publishing a retraction; Mr. Dunne was named in its morning edition in relation to his continued pursuit by the authorities, a man behind crosshairs that show no sign of waning in the impudence of this new fledged criminality. This paper, championed by sources within the SFPD, stands by its statements issued earlier today.


Lenny Couillard, reached for comment, stated that he had no knowledge of the Negro man's role in the attack and "could not condemn in higher words the use of any violence in pursuit of any goal, political or otherwise, but especially political". 


The Inquirer will not be intimidated. Mr. Hauptmann will return to work tomorrow in the company of an eight-man security detail provided for by the police department.

Edited by Cebra
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You got a call from Ettore in the preceding hours — suspect breakfast date at the Misbrook Isle Cafe just off casino grounds two lots east of the New Benison, big neon sign offering free-for-all flapjacks for a deuce.


You pull into the lot in the early hours, 8 AM rendezvous — place has a spread, hotel staff before walking-distance shifts or nighthawk gamblers on the comedown, but you’ll still find a spot tucked around shaggy hedges by the building. It’s a diner as diners are — prefab lunch car backed into a building extension, squeegee streaks lining booth windows. Head inside for Dante to look around, once-over, twice-over, eyeing everyone but his date as waitresses run the rush around him, over linoleum, under faux-grandiose pendant lights, at blood-red benches and leaving fried food trails. He heads to the counter:


“Looking for a friend of mine. Tall, lanky, dumb. Likes wearing leather.”


Old broad, bottle-dyed, stained apron, wipes the formica. “Find that type aplenty here, kid,” in a nicotine croak.


Maybe so, but not yours — head back outside as the game instructs you to look for Ettore’s ride; the Hellenbach in angry red. It doesn’t take long to find in a sea of monotone cut with the odd turquoise — and your guy’s there: in the back seat, prone, writhing on top of leather bucket seats.


Dante hits the window, palm then a punch for no acknowledgement, before trying the handle. Unlocked; opens it. Doesn’t hesitate before kicking his friend in the shin.


He stares daggers as Ettore rouses, yelps, clutches at the leg and Dante speaks: “The f*ck you doin’?! This is breakfast at eight?”


E wipes his mouth, a bottle rolls out from under onto the floorboard. “That f*ckin’ hurt, Dante! What, a man can’t nap in peace no more?”


Dante leans on the car, hand on roof. “You’re a degenerate. Look the f*ckin’ part.”


“I been telling you for years, one day you’ll learn to value sleep. You only get so many hours.”


“Whatever. I’m hungry, I’ll get you a full fry-up if you can still use your legs, c’mon.”


“Get in.”




Slowly, E rises — stretches. “Get in the goddamn car.”


You have the option. Either slip into the back bench seat for an intimate talk or remain outside; Dante leaning over, Ettore looking up. 


“How long you been here, Eddie?”


“I was at the Atacama ‘til close so uh,” he scratches a brow, yawns. “Not that long. You try playing baccarat with a house edge like that and see how you come out.”


“That’s why I don’t gamble on the strip, you stunad. What’re you in for now?”


He shrugs. “What’d I have before?”


“Yeah, that’s my point. You play Martingale again?”


“I, uh — I dunno. Don’t remember. Burnt through the meltdown take at one point but that could’a been days ago tell the truth.”


“Nice, E. Sure playin’ your f*cking part.”


“Alright, shut up.”


Ettore gets serious, straightens, the look washes over — jarring change of pace gets D’s attention.


“You wanna take a score?”

It breaks quick. “F*ck off, Eddie.”


“I’m serious, we’re back at square one. What’d we get from that sh*tshow, huh? Zip zero, nada ‘sides a crosshair the size of f*ckin’ Oliver Dam on our heads. I got a lower net worth than that geek on Kearney’s always screamin’ about Zappo agents.”




“Whatever. This sh*t cannot go on, Dante. I’ll eat with you if you gimme your ear in the meanwhile.”


“You got it now and it’s running short, c’mon. I already lost my appetite.”


Ettore steps out the other side of the car, stretches cursory calisthenics, lights himself a cigarette as Dante kicks dust. He watches a troupe of nylon-clad keno runners giggle their way out of the diner.


“E, we played your scattershot game one last time and came out with no take and a body on us.” He counters as Eddie begins to cut in: “Ay, ay — and not just any body, guy probably got his button before we were born. Has that sunk into your thick f*ckin’ skull?”


“Sal Gemelli was a lech and a drunk—”


“And you ain’t? I known tinhorn grifters with more pep in their step.”


The words are heated, tensions mounting, but instead of boiling over E hands his cigarette over the roof and lets Dante drag. Doesn’t get it back.


“Least I got ambition. March ‘58 — what was the pact?”


Cig between teeth: “We were fifteen.”


“Do whatever it takes. Whatever it takes to get into the big leagues, the executive games, bringing the Adrian Siquos or Adrian Leonards or whatever the f*ck he goes by now and the Sonny-f*ckin’-Cangelosis their atrip' and Vin Santo by night if it means a one-day pat on the back. But first you gotta make some waves. These are the waves, Dante.”


“These are half-baked, booze-fueled schemes that should’a breathed their last in Mendelson ‘63. This ain’t it, E. This ain’t it.”


This is it. Listen up.”


E pulls around the car, grabs keys, pops the trunk, beckons Dante over and takes his cigarette back from between lips and puts it between his own. He points at each individual item sitting on a towel; you get the God’s eye that moves to focus on each with the signifier:


“Balaclava times two, cow-something gloves times four, Yutzi, Sumpmark 50.” Pause, a reach under the towel. “Stronzo for all.”


Dante eyes. “This sh*t is heavy, E.”


E uncaps with the towel’s help and tosses them; offers: “Hair a’ the dog.”


Dante chuckles, takes, they clink before Eddie starts examining the label.


“Swear they named it this to f*ck with the medigans. You think they named it this to f*ck with the medigans?”


“You’d hope — straaawnzo. If only they knew.” A laugh breaks. “This is f*ckin' warm. Whatever, just give it to me, Eddie.”


“Not yet. Take my car, we’re going up to Darden. I’ll explain on the way.”


“Yeah. So much for my goddamn bacon and eggs.”


Climb into the Hellenbach — Ettore hands you the keys.


He readies. “‘Kay, so I was at the roulette tables maybe a dozen deep, right? I’m sizing the crowd up when I see Chuckie Del Ponte—”


Dante cuts quick, feigned zeal: “No sh*t, how the hell’s he doing? Last I heard he’d got the clap from one of the girls at the Quadrille Room, had to get out to New Martis for some special R&R or something.”


“Yeah I heard, yeah. That didn’t come up. Got liquored up with him though and he starts blatherin’ on like old times, ‘bout his old man, his old man’s old man — hey, you remember his pa Egidio, right? Used to put five smokes in his ashtray every night ‘fore Beneke would come on the set. Had to prepare ‘cause he didn’t want Chuckie’s dirty fingers on ‘em and Chuck’s ma would just tell him to go f*ck himself.”


“Not in so many words but yeah. Yeah, I remember.”


“Well his pa’s still around: Carmelo, runs L’Isola, that er, that coffee shop up on Darden. Chuckie gets to telling me that these old farts, they gather ‘round every Sunday morning, close the shop up and play Texas Hold ‘Em for keeps. And I mean for keeps.”


“What do you think that means?”


“It means they’re loaded, Dante. Look, it’s a friendly game but they play hard. Grandpa’s got rules — no heaters, no booze, you come in cash heavy and that’s it. We just waltz the f*ck in and take them for everything they got, worst case one of the old-timers breaks a hip ‘cause he moves the wrong way while emptying his coffers and we put the fear of God in ‘em. We walk away pockets heavier, you can’t ask for nothin’ easier.”


“All these f*ckin’ jury-rigged schemes, Eddie. Whaddaya want from it all? Say we make our moves, do it again, we rob the whole goddamn city sh*t-blind ‘til all they got out the dust is three 7s on our heads courtesy of a blood-hungry DA. What you expecting at the end? Just tell me that.”


“Don’t act like you don’t know.”


“I don’t know, Eddie, I don’t. I know you got this idea, this stupid goddamn idea, that what — my uncle, Cangelosi, Cazzini, one of ‘em’ll hand over the burning saint ‘cause you forked up a couple Gs at the right time? Something to do with the f*ckin’ casino too, right? I hope you ain’t that naive Eddie but I’m starting to wonder. All these years. I really am.”




Firm: “Are you in, or are you not?”


Dante sighs. “The whims of better judgement don’t mean sh*t in this godforsaken town, so I’m in. Again.”


You pull up with those words — cafe sitting pretty in the middle of a wedge-shaped block near the city courthouse, buildings Venturas-old, adobe beige, some brutalist. 


“There’s no alleyway, E.”


‘We’ll be in an’ out in three minutes flat. Just park in front.”


Front, storefront — glass. Glass and glass, glass and signage, hours posted, newspaper clippings, A+ rating courtesy of the Robada Department of Health. Sandwich/espresso deal for 75 cents.


You know the gig’s been done a thousand times by the duo if maybe not you. They primp and prime in an instant, no pretensions: “Ready?” not a question but a green light.


Go — out, back, trunk popped; balaclavas, an instant choice: semi-auto or shotty — and a sprint to the door over an empty sidewalk, guns cocked, at the ready, E’s hand on the latch when Dante happens to look up and pulls rank: “Eh, check this!”


They check, perspective zooms to semi-cursive:





“Ah, Jesus Christ.”


“Don’t you f*cking Jesus Christ me, asshole — couldn’t have scoped the place out first? Couldn’t have figured out they’d be gone for Sunday-f*ckin’-service? Christ, the Del Pontes never missed a goddamn mass, Eddie!”


Ettore yields. You can peek inside through the looking glass: bistro tables lined up against quaint brick, wood fire oven, face cards strewn willy-nilly beside espresso cups and their saucers, not a single green bill. Barren.


Eddie goes “f*ck”, pulls the mask off. 


“What now?”


“I don’t know. Sh*t.”


Someone — or something — answers: in the form of a church bell ring-a-dinging from nearby. Saint Anthony of Padua two blocks up — the duo listen, impotent and aimless on the sidewalk despite the vessels of their virility dangling from each hand.


A light. “Who’s richer than the church?”




“Who’s richer than the church, Dante? Who else got a monopoly like those f*ckin’... uh, those relics they got? You remember Saint Aloysius as kids? Those jeweled chalices, ciboriums, the turnbuckle. That sh*t is the holy grail for us. What degenerates’re gonna stick up a church, right? It’s calling us.” In the general direction of the tolling: “That’s a goddamn sign.”


Dante cooks in the thought, barren streetcorner thoughts masked and gunned: “They don’t make ‘em any lower than that, Eddie.”


“Grow the f*ck up. Let go of that f*ckin’ moral barometer or whatever it is you got stuck up your twat and let us rake it in the way we should be.”


“Yeah, you say that ‘til you need someone t’hold you back the next time you talk up smashing through the front door of Caligula’s with half a stick of dynamite. Weren’t for me you’d probably be six feet under by now, I know that.”


“I’m doing this with or without you, Dante. We’ll be like Percy Parrish only ‘stead of civilians on train benches it’s church pews and there’s more than rye and rice in the hold. I’m talking jewels. Cushion cut clarity.”


Dante pauses in place and considers his weapon; long, evidently too long  — because faced with consideration Eddie stares him dead in the eyes before making a noise, something animalistic, bestial, screechy, and with his own gun in hand starts to book it down the sidewalk.


“What the f*ck?”


Right in the direction of Saint Anthony.


“Oh sh*t.”


Dante gets to stepping himself, sprinting — shadowing E down the walk, masks on and weapons in tow as unavoidable passers-by have no choice but to swerve and shriek at the sight of you. Past a couple storefronts, Dante pants past low wrought-iron fencing terraces where customers watch unmoved under umbrellas, maybe assuming Kearney Street drunken spillover as it’s early yet — but just past them on its own block the church lies bare in direct sunlight, Mission Revival stucco atop stairs car-lengths wide, Eddie at the base.


“We go now, Dante. Now.”


Dante spits the beginning of words, Ettore charges up the steps.


He tries his own animal sounds on for size while staring down arched wood doors creaking open with the barrel of E’s weapon, shakes his head hard for clarity or determination or both before running the steps himself, joining E across.


Dante issues orders: “You take the right row, I got the left. We find some way to man the doors when we got their attention, see what they got in the back once every last pocket and purse’s unloaded. Don’t say nothing but ‘alright’.”


E beams, cocks the hammer for effect. “That’s my Dante.”


No more thoughts or excuses before springing into action but it’s still your call when to make the move. A slow crawl of the thumbstick allows a peek inside — three quarters full, think two dozen pews at a tight squeeze of 3 per, faced with a crimson-and-gold cloaked priest at the pulpit, incense-surrounded and gesticulating wildly in a voice that echoes:


...ut in confessione verae sempiternaeque Deitatis, et in personis proprietas, et in essentia unitas, et in majestate adoretur aequalitas…


Strategic move — you hear the words: Pax Domini sit semper vobiscum, and when the response signalling a kneeled prayer leaves the lips of the enamored crowd —


Et cum spiritu tuo.


 — it’s go time. It means a rush in as whoever’s got the shotty uses it to crack down on a collection of ceramic sh*t on a nearby display; attention-getting, head-turning every kneeling worshipper on their knees for Eddie to yell: 


“Every last f*ckin’ one of you better empty your pockets, wallets, purses, coin pouches and goddamn fanny packs ‘less you’re ready to look God in the eyes ‘fore the day’s out!”


Gasps abound with the crowd and clergy frozen stiff, Dante works the crowd at the tip of the barrel but thinks out loud: “We ain’t got a bag.”




“A bag for the f*cking cash!”


Eddie goes limp but keeps his sights on the right side, concedes early defeat — Dante’s intuition sparks in response, tells Eddie to keep an eye on the civilians as he lights a path straight down the aisle, straight up to the pulpit with his gun right in the aged and pockmarked face of God’s interlocutor: 


“F*ckin’ collection plate. Now!”


The priest reaches below the cloaked pulpit, hands it over. “Move it, paisan!” Ettore yells from behind. Dante lags, mask-eyes locked on the silent priest half-frozen before he snaps out of it and gets moving.


You’re to start from the front-down: a wordless weapon in the face is all it takes for row upon row of churchgoer to throw their last pretty penny into the collection plate between equal parts squeaks and outrage, and on the odd refusenik a light bash on the head sets priorities straight — Eddie meanwhile spouts canned crowd-control lines years-old, Mendelson remnants neither as menacing or amusing as he thinks to keep them on their toes.


When the left side’s barren of cash Dante reconvenes with Eddie — their haphazard plan leaving you in the way of crowd control for his side as E gets his turn to pillage. He scans the crowd above the barrel of his weapon — moving the camera in the right place leaves the insinuation clear: the L’Isola expats cowering one row down, Carmelo Del Ponte staring hard behind wire frames.


Eddie finishes quick — the camera gives you God’s eye, an overhead view from 40 foot wood ceiling as he heads over to the pulpit with Dante, encourages the crowd to stay frozen and drops an obviously all-too-light collection plate onto it — and they pause, a kaleidoscope of color grace of filtered sunlight singling them out through stained glass, an accusation. It breaks with hostile words ringing too true:


“In God’s house? In God’s house?!”


Priest now indignant, beset by deacons behind: Eddie hops the table of sacraments and swiftly bashes him over the head with the butt of his gun. Priest skull cracks, tumbles in unison with the thuribles releasing their incense: the crowd jeers, Dante grimaces through his mask and calls him out for the count, instead you set your eyes on a young deacon: “In the back, let’s go.”


D avoids looking at the priest, puts the barrel against the deacon’s back as the nave takes on incense clouds. The deacon tries to plead, not to cry, fails as he reaches through pockets to find the key. And in you head as E holds back momentarily, faced with the prospect of controlling an unstable crowd of dozens from behind a brick wall.


A small room, stuffy, stuccoed walls, a relative jackpot laid bare across tablecloth against the nearby wall — things, some jeweled, shiny, heavy-looking. Gold. Enough to call E back in as the deacon practically loses his lunch, begs between whimpers.


“Check this sh*t out.”


E does — lunges for the spread, gun on cloth, and starts shaking, poking, prodding like a new-fledged metallurgist. “Goddamn jackpot!”


“What’d you do with the civs?”


Doesn’t split attention. “Let ‘em make a run for it. Safety’s still on, we got time.”


“Let ‘em run for it?” Face-to-face now, veins bulging: “Are you f*ckin’ kidding me you f*cking moron? You let fifty civilians who just spent the last ten minutes with us at gunpoint off the hook so they can run off to the cops posted down at the courthouse?!”


“Yeah. But it’s fi—”


Dante flips sh*t, pushes E hard. His back hits stucco, drops a goblet: they stare when it hits the ground hollow instead of solid, rolls away too easy — “This ain’t gold.”


Eyes on the deacon, blubbering, watches the guns and spills his guts without a foreword: “I—I, the abbot, he—we painted the mementoes, alright? He—he told us to, for the service! For the High Mass, alright? They’re copper, just copper—worth nothing, a buck fifty each, o—okay? Take ‘em, don’t take ‘em, just get outta here while you can, leave us alone — please.”


Ettore well-nigh vibrates and Dante goes still, a behind-the-eyes rehash of their very latest failure at the market, so he gets a little frantic — you’re in control and told to find something, anything valuable in the constricted little room; trinkets galore but little in the way of solid, jeweled, significant looking enough until you stop foraging and look up: by the back wall with the stained glass circle up in the gable, a jury-rigged scaffold. Atop it an unframed canvas — camera pans out to see Saint Catherine of Siena, stigmatic under her crown of thorns, looking forlorn on slick oil. Climb the short way up and Dante calls back to E, who flies to the bottom ready for a toss. Dante pulls it delicate, easy-like on descent.


“This is what happens when you go for broke E, you motherf*cker. This is gonna have to do. Be f*ckin’ careful with it.”


“Easy — let’s go out back here, leave the bellyacher to pick up the pieces.”


Eddie eyes the deacon, the mess of trinkets  — “You hear me, bellyacher? Pick that sh*t up.”


“No,” he goes. Meek. “No, no, please, not the portrait. That’s going to the mission up in San Fierro next week, please — her namesake. Anything else. You got all the pocket change from the parishioners, right?

Take that and go. Don’t rob us of this too, I beg—I beg of you.”


He does beg — on knees and all. Dante watches the pitiful scene unfold, bewitched until Eddie gets him moving from the other end of the canvas. Makeshift, make-do — awkward canvas lugging, guns and collection plate filled with green atop it as they grab hold and shimmy to the back door and Dante kicks it open from behind flat-footed style. The sooner you figure out it doesn’t fit the better, try as you might, so the pair utter sacreliege and make the awkward move back into the nave — almost barren save a few stragglers, the divested elderly still making their way out of pews watch the vestiges of this mess of a heist; two greaseball goons shuffling their way down the aisle with their disorderly yield of pocket change and unframed consecrate art.


Outside, more accusing light — church crowd dispersed across the street, on the sidewalk, around the block, they see you and point, yell, heckle. Sounds cut short when you and E take one hand off the canvas to return gun to grip, aim it for gesture one and all. The ride’s where you left it: L’Isola, down the block you oughta hoof it, being careful to keep Dante balanced in order to keep the painting in safe hands. If you’re too slow you’ll get the attention you’re begging for in a couple of foot patrollers clapping pavement behind you, no cruisers but nonetheless a wrinkle if they catch up. At the car a cutscene cues: E too shaken to open the trunk, keys, keys, no luck, punches it and it opens wide, Dante shoves the painting inside and they get going with you in the driver’s seat: “F*ckin’ disaster!” as the radio tunes right into the chorus of Defecting Grey.


They take their masks off when you hit the gas. “Where we goin’?”


“Just f*cking drive, God help us they set up a perimeter or something.”


“Don’t think He’ll be doing that any time f*ckin’ soon, Eddie.”


Drive aimlessly as you wait it out; easiest to make a beeline into the industrial district southwest where the roads run parallel with the Strip. Mumbles as E reaches back and pulls the collection plate and starts counting, counting; calls out the final number in the tone that suits it: “$144. One-four-four, that’s uh, it’s—”


“$72. That’s $72 each.”


“That’s still a score, that’s—”


In lieu of a rebuttal from Dante you’ll turn the corner and find a police cruiser sitting in wait — D hits the brakes and you’re at an impasse for one, two, before they hit the lights and siren and you hit the pedal, the third chorus swells and suspension slinks over curb and onto sh*t-laden sidewalk to get around them; trash and ash, Ettore holds the roof and yells over the music and the pigs make a 180 to keep in your slipstream. It’s only one car but they mean business, keeping to the bumper and unhesitant to spin you out if you let up on the pedal. Deeper into the industrial district traffic wanes and so do civilians, replaced by cargo vans, unhitched trailers streetside an opportunity to slip by and past the cops, sit tight in an alleyway — else Ettore speaks up, points out a long-abandoned box warehouse where the doors rusted off a decade past, gap befitting a Hellenbach. Park up inside and wait for the siren to die out, hoping no do-gooders saw the car sneak in and flag the pigs down.


They step out — Dante gone weak, doubles over. Eddie holding a new bottle. Place’s acoustic in its emptiness, leaky tin roof drip-dripping damp onto concrete, echoes.


D speaks. “Why’d I think this would go any different? Huh? F*ckin’ moron I am.”


“Will you cut it out with that pity sh*t? You ain’t impressing nobody. We pulled something off, alright? $75 ain’t nothing to sneeze at and that ain’t accounting for what we get for Santa Catalina in there.”


A laugh despite himself. “You really are stunad. No, I say it a lot but you really are. You know any fences around here gonna take on unframed stolen consecrate art? How we gonna move it, huh? Ain’t just that neither — you read the news, see how the DA, f*ckin’ Sullivan, how it was him and the archbishop cutting the ribbon for the new DA’s office last week? You think that means something, Eddie?”


“What it means, what it means,” Ettore says, drinks. “Why you always gotta be so f*ckin’ negative? Saw a payphone next door — give the Turk a call and he’ll tell you what he can turn that goddamn painting for.”


“F*ckin’ Turk. He’s still alive?”


“Last I heard!”


Eddie starts making nervous circles around the car as you go back out. The payphone sits outside a cab depot next door — Dante huddles his shoulders and keeps watch as he tosses it a dime, dials from memory. Rings drowned out by industrial noise — drills, doors slamming shut, disembodied clanging and the odd semi-truck peeling past.


A rough voice, sleepy: “Eh, Desert Village Thrift, how can I help?”


D puts a finger in one ear. “Haluk, that you? It’s Dante. Gallo.”


Perks up: “Dante? İnanamıyorum! It has been years, I thought you were out of this place. How you been?”

Dante? I can’t believe it.


“Thought so too, my friend. Might pay you a visit at the shop sometime soon but I got a question needs asking just now.”


“Right back to it, eh? What can I do for you?”


“This line still clean?”


“As much I know.”


“Uh, got my hands on this painting. Saint on oil, this big thing just been finished these last few days. Was supposed to head up to San Fierro to feature but uh, that don’t look too good right now. Need it moved pronto.”


“Saint, you say. From a church is this painting?”




Pen clicks. “Eh, this is not very good to me, Dante. The auction house cannot move such hot items no more. I’d put it up in shop here, not very big bucks still, but in honesty when you say it is from church I think of District Attorney—”


“Yeah I got it, Haluk.”


“I am sorry. Come to shop sometime soon, alright? We can catch up.”




Dante slams the phone, hands over face, and mires through increasing clangor back inside the empty warehouse — Eddie sitting on the trunk now, cigarette lit, the echoes not drowning out the noise but making reverberations.


“What I f*cking tell you?”




“He says it ain’t worth sh*t. Ain’t no way we’re movin’ it ‘tween the heat from the heist and the interest the DA’s office is gonna take in turning this into something it ain’t. F*ckin’ worthless.”


“I been thinking though. We got what,” Eddie starts counting off fingers, voice shaking, “we got straight robbery, right, kidnapping in the second, maybe the priest moans enough to get a battery charge on top of it. How they gonna valutate some commissioned schlock-sh*t like this painting to make it Grand L? This ain’t nothing worse than old times. You’re worrying over nothin’.”


Dante freezes, speaks slow. “E, the painting is f*cking worthless. They’re gonna want our heads on a goddamn platter for something we can’t even move. We are at square one. Nothing to our names.




Switch: Eddie throws the bottle across the warehouse, it hits the wall soundlessly as a jackhammer breaks ground nearby. He jumps off the trunk, almost falls, throws a fist into the car — and another, and another, and Dante stands back and watches as knuckles turn bruised and bloody in the dents made, watches as Eddie kicks and kicks and kicks along with the words: “F*ck you f*ck you f*ck you f*ck you you f*cking f*ck, va fangool a chi d’è morto, puozz’ jettà 'o sang’ you ricchione piece of sh*t motherf*cker! F*ck you!” barely audible over the noise until the trunk pops open again and he slams it, slams it shut and pushes and pushes until the car bounces on scraggly springs, kicks it again as joints crack crooked and kicks it until the bumper comes loose and hits concrete and he flatfoot stomps it into the concrete.


He turns to a stoic Dante, out of breath, saliva-covered. Dante watches him.


Ettore runs for the driver’s side and tosses the f*cking door open and hops inside, fires the car up and gears it into reverse. He backs a beeline out of the warehouse, dragging snaggled bumper beneath, tires screeching as he makes the turn onto the road outside.


Dante stands still, barely breathes as the jackhammer goes silent. The camera zooms out, isolating him in the middle of the damp — back in the shadows as the roof can be heard drip-drip-dripping.




+ $72.00


Las Venturas Retractor

By Berzelius Zorzi


---- Armada County District Attorney and prosecutorial trailblazer Duane Sullivan held a press conference earlier today in response to a recent robbery that transpired at Saint Anthony of Padua church on Darden Street. The perpetrators are said to be two erratic young men, one of average build and one lank, who entered the sanctuary during morning Mass and proceeded to individually liberate parishioners of their funds before escaping with sacrament artwork. The painting, an oil depiction of Saint Catherine of Siena, was intended for her namesake mission in San Fierro in the coming days and is said to be invaluable. Also present at the press conference was commissioned artist Abraham Espinar, who momentarily took to the dais to plead for his work's safe return and question why it was targeted in the first place.


DA Sullivan, a renown hardliner who has seen conviction rates soar under his guidance since his upset against then-interim DA Lawrence Hogeboom last July, pledged to see justice done for "these two brigand chumps who think they can elude the wrath of a God scorned". Sullivan has recently attracted the ire of civil rights ideologues from San Fierro who claim that the prosecutor's office unjustly targets ethnics rather than a supposed surge in underworld activities involving the Las Venturas casino scene. The District Attorney's Office has called these claims the "delusions of a bored inner city intent on dragging ours in the mud".


A single casualty of the robbery, Father Luca Chiavaroli, 60, is in convalescence at the Southern Robada Medical Center for head injuries. Saint Anthony of Padua remains open to the public. The District Attorney's Office is pursuing all charges related to the heist and requests that the public come forth with any and all information related to the perpetrators.

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Holy sh*t.


I just read through the first few introduction and description messages and I have to say, the amount of effort and dedication you've spent to achieve all the detail for this concept is amazing. Kudos to you.

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I'm all caught up from mission five onwards... what an experience so far.


First of all let me take a minute of appreciation for the location you've created. We're getting in on Las Venturas and San Fierro at the ground floor and it's an exhaustive effort on your part to develop the look and feel for the two cities. You're making great use of the multiple time periods the story spans by using the earliest of the three to establish not just the status of the criminal cast but the social and political underpinnings influencing the world at large. You've done this in a number of ways, but my favourites must be Julius tracking Win down at a House of Racial Equality meeting, the union disputes in Blacktop Blues and the throwaway line referring to the Great Chinese Famine in One More Saturday Night -- nice callback to Billy Grey, by the way. It's endlessly fascinating working through your descriptions and picturing San Fierro as both bohemian and blue-collar -- we've rolled through acid parties and cut up business in the back of a combi van like an Avery Carrington with a flower in his ten-gallon, passed through docksides and factories ; about as far from the dot-com boom as you can get! -- and Las Venturas on the cusp of maturity, populated by hungry and ambitious mafiosi who are finally seeing their Senator Geary connections pay off.


Talking about pay offs... I've only been through seven missions and I don't feel like I've reached 'Mission Passed!' through the same sequence of events once. This isn't just a nod to your creative talents but you're also managing to repurpose past features to be period appropriate and reinvigorate tired old GTA tropes at the same time. Moth and Rust has to be the best example of this -- an old fashioned sledge and jackhammer score written so brazenly that it feels like you've been out on the prowl with Frank Cullotta himself. There's also a heavy Sopranos influence here and I hope the upcoming Newark movie set during the same year is half as good. You're doing a great job of building up character traits and back stories through the dialogue, which is where the Sopranos influence really shines -- hoodlums being hoodlums and talking old scores & partners in crime. I went through the mission not knowing if certain characters would appear, or if I should have a reason to care about them, but I was interested either way.


Now, if Moth and Rust reminds me of The Sopranos and Newark, the opening phone exchange of Conflict of Interest calls to mind the recently dropped teaser for The Irishman, with all the clipped telephone patter of a lifetime crim and his next payday. There are a couple of observations this mission and the next two following on led me to make and I'm curious if they're intentional or not.

First is the shift in writing style. When I'm reading Doug, description and dialogue is tight. Precise. To the point. Onto Julius and things are smoother -- thinking of the bigger picture, more observational -- eyes are drawn towards actions, locations and we're hearing a lot more of the soundtrack that you're throwing in. Dante is quick to locate himself in a monologue, and we're treated to more freewheeling conversation between him and his associates than we are with Julius and Doug.


The other observation is how the three protagonists go about their violence -- it's distinct. Doug, like the writing for him, is precise, professional -- he's held up by Calvin as the gold standard to the young Chinese hoodlums. Julius, again, is smooth; he can (if the player/reader chooses) be outraged at Dirk's Theobald's overt violence against the Tongs. Part of me thinks that his choice comes from a genuine place of conscience and the other part of me sees him looking at the bigger picture of what the blowback might be, which does manifest itself a few missions later anyway. And then there's Dante confronting Baby Bats in Shrinking Man; a thoroughly enjoyable showdown underpinned by a strange sense of respect emerging between the two men through violence -- it's just how these mob guys communicate. Barely a shot (if any) fired in three missions and I'm able to observe more about how your protagonists operate than I might learn across an entire game.


My favourite of the three so far is Julius -- strong when working out his end of a deal, streetwise in the way he navigates the criminal and cultural melting pot you've built up, seems to have his own motivations. I like his relationship with Win and I have a sad, sneaking suspicion that his number's going to get called by Uncle Sam as we move through the years. But you've created three captivating main characters and their journeys, even four missions in (each, I think?) have been interested and varied. In one instance we're dealing with the professional mob in Las Venturas and later on we're encountering sleazy middlemen peeling oranges with pens. I'm going to keep my eyes peeled for those San Fierro mobsters -- not often anyone hears of them, but they're a fascinating subset of migrant organized crime not unlike the New Orleans family that provided the inspiration for Mafia III. Their brief appearance gave me the same vibes of the bumbling but effective goons going about their business around Port Bourbon.


Anyway... bringing this post to a close, I think it's only right to draw attention to a few throwaway exchanges of yours that stood out to me. Either made me think or made me laugh and sometimes even both:



"Julius Cole. I'd introduce my brother but one of your jockeys took him for a seaside tour."
"When we seal the deal with a new service we like to have both eyes and ears on the ground to get things up and running. Way your boss tells it, you bend the ear while your brother bends the knee."

Loved these two chipping away at each other and racking up points.



"Yes indeedio. Rouge means red like the ol' neighborhood itself but he's green as ever. You think that's the kicker, wait 'til you hear about Hal."
"All ears."
"Oh, it's a good one. After we all pulled that gas scam a few years back he scrammed off to Los Santos. Got hitched, real nice all-American honeypie, last I hear he's ready to settle down like a fine law-abiding citizen. One day he calls me up to say honeypie's screwing spics by the handful - what to do? He puts the moves on his brother-in-law's secretary to settle the score and the tramp has him nabbed for adultery. Before long he's swapping cigs up in Bolingbroke and his honey's free at home to be the town bicicleta."

These were the two minor character (Ricky Rouge and Hal) I mentioned up above. I know we ended up meeting Rick but the two lines I've underlined, the whole stream of dialogue in fact, had me invested in the world these characters exist within.


Bicicleta. Adding that one to my lexicon!



"What kinda prick's gonna steal some bricks?"


Not my finest hour...



Gravelli nudges the thing, gestures in: “Pain in my ass is what that is. Chihuahua. Not my choice.”

“That’s not a dog, it’s a f*ckin’ rat.”

Had to laugh at future boss of bosses Jon Gravelli being coerced into housing a Chihuahua. But he's courting a Cybill Shepherd lookalike so I can't blame him.



Calvin: This is Leung.

Doug: Wasn’t my fault.

Calvin: Oh, you. I solemnly hope you haven’t f*cked us over so soon.

Doug: Believe it or not I’m angry too - I’m short a couple hundred rounds of ammo and my wife has no car.

Calvin: I don’t want to hear your sorrows, I have enough. I trust you plan to return our wares to its rightful owner, one way or another?

Doug: Trust you may.

Doug's one cool customer. He's got the laconic constitution of a Clint Eastwood, or dare I say it, Niko Bellic type -- and a sense of humour to boot.



“I don’t know, Eddy, I don’t. I know you got this idea, this stupid goddamn idea, that what — my uncle, Cangelosi, Cazzini, one of ‘em’ll hand over the burning saint ‘cause you forked up a couple Gs at the right time? Something to do with the f*ckin’ casino too, right? I hope you ain’t that naive Eddy but I’m starting to wonder. All these years. I really am.”

Be proud of this one. Rarely do you see the mob summed up with one succinct line of dialogue. Evoking some Scorsese level imagery right there.



“Bought myself a television just to watch your people starve.”

Not just a golden throwback to Billy Grey but also a great insight into how certain mindsets are formed and persist, even forty years apart.


Oh and as sneaky past GTA references go, I was amused to learn that future IAA conspirator Jon Gravelli lives so close to the area that shall not be mentioned. Nice touch.

I'm afraid I can't offer much in the way of critique... this is excellent work and should stand as a treasured document on these forums and hopefully beyond. At times some of the descriptions were a bit too thick and abstract for me to grasp and I also got this with some of the dialogue. I have to remind myself this is written from the perspective of someone in-the-know of 60s slang and cultural movements so I had to work harder to digest it... but you shouldn't compromise that in any way -- it's adds to the authenticity. The pictures (!) and soundtrack (!!) dotted throughout definitely help. Can't wait to see how you'll handle 70s jive talk as the story progresses.


Excellent work.

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4 minutes ago, henrardwal said:

What happened to the radio section? I can't find it. I could've sworn this thread used to have it...

Well, there was an update to the site, and in the process, it f*cked up all of the embedding music links, resulting in actual videos showing up instead of being embedded in text, therefore slowing down the site to a halt if you had tons of songs in your post. And, for some reason, they removed the source editor, too!

Edited by Ivan1997GTA
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13 hours ago, henrardwal said:

What happened to the radio section? I can't find it. I could've sworn this thread used to have it...

Yeah what Ivan said, the update totally ruined a good deal of formatting stuff and the linked music videos would make the browser crash on loading. I'm going to compile the music list once again and link it as a Google Doc in the near future but for now you can see the topic in its pre-update entirety here.


Gonna take the opportunity now to thank both you and Tyla for your words of appreciation, I really really do appreciate it


On 8/3/2019 at 10:13 AM, The Coconut Kid said:

I'm afraid I can't offer much in the way of critique... this is excellent work and should stand as a treasured document on these forums and hopefully beyond. At times some of the descriptions were a bit too thick and abstract for me to grasp and I also got this with some of the dialogue. I have to remind myself this is written from the perspective of someone in-the-know of 60s slang and cultural movements so I had to work harder to digest it... but you shouldn't compromise that in any way -- it's adds to the authenticity. The pictures (!) and soundtrack (!!) dotted throughout definitely help. Can't wait to see how you'll handle 70s jive talk as the story progresses.


Excellent work.

I don't think I can even individually acknowledge some of the incredible inferences you made here for fear of both ruining future plot points and getting into a 'muahah look at how I was foreshadowing this step of the narrative schema and informing future events mhahaha' tangent, but just know again how much I appreciate this. Like really really do.

I'm still extremely grateful for such an in-depth analysis and I think I'm gonna have to refer back to it constantly. I've had time to absorb some of the things you said as I've been writing mission 13 and I'm realizing that as much as your response was an incredible acknowledgement of the work B&B's collaborators have put into it, some of it was probably extending me more credit than I deserve -- but it's actually really cool because I think your assessment will actually serve as a benchmark for future installments in kind of a backwards 'death of the author' kinda thing. Like take Doug's pseudo-militaristic conduct contrasting with Dante and to an extent Julius's not exactly careless but much less regimented approaches to conflict -- as much as that's been intentional to reflect on their backgrounds and the growing pace of their respective storylines (the chaos of the last mission being something that Doug certainly would've somehow circumvented or avoided altogether, for example), I think having that be explicitly demonstrated in my prose is something I hadn't (at least consciously lol) yet taken into consideration but absolutely will from this point forward. It's something I should've done but hadn't actively considered until you pointed it out.


That aside I also appreciate the recognition that pop culture has had a major say in the events underpinning the story -- despite being 30 years off and a coast away I can't escape The Sopranos in the way that it influences the way Dante and his associates behave, that naturalistic, free-flowing, sometimes syntactically-flawed back-and-forth that I've tried to embody in his interactions with Eddy and that'll hopefully continue to showcase as his social circle expands along with his part in the underworld. It's the basis for something that I'm trying to explore through films not only contemporarily illustrative of San Fierro -- Bullitt and the Dirty Harry series obviously -- but also ones that serve as a guide of the zeitgeist moving into the 70s as a whole: The Graduate, Dog Day Afternoon, blaxploitation flicks. Hell, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood is a different medium entirely but has the potential to inform interactions with Las Venturas showbiz while that storyline as a whole is obviously influenced significantly by Casino. Using films, music, and brands both already established and new has been key in likewise turning San Fierro into as much of a character as those who speak, or at least trying to -- the hub of counterculture at its absolute best being subverted by missions taking place in the dark and damp alleys and docklands of Dogpatch and Tenderloin, some hippie reading Brecht in Union Square while flanked by rooftop ads. The same goes for Las Venturas and its transformation over the 6 years: from the prospect of a literal mecca for the mob and their feudalistic pursuits only for their idealism to become bogged down in the monotony of crime as conglomerates begin swooping in and pushing them out by 1974, jumpstarting the uncaring hellhole of excess Hunter S. Thompson described it as in Fear and Loathing. I'd be lost at sea if it weren't for all these works influencing and informing B&B in so many ways.


Anyway like I said. Tangents lol


Keep an eye out for an explicit focus on pop culture in the coming weeks ....

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Switch to Doug and you're met with a still shot, rain slamming the window and washing the street, trash flowing down the gutter with the water. Folks dashing headless, looking for cover, umbrellas and newspapers; window held open a crack with a piece of wood lets the sounds of a city that rarely sees rain soak through, tires through puddles and horns through fog.


Cut to Marcus. Screwface, staring out, lost in space. Doug snaps a finger, “Hey, hey.” Pan past the face to the rear, both guys seated, cards splayed on the coffee table. Gin rummy.


Marcus blinks hard. “What, my go?”


They’re barely playing. “I asked you a question.”


Behold the table - by the cards ashtrays, loose ashes, glasses. One empty, one emptied. Ain’t even five o’clock. 


Marcus shrugs. “Doug, I got two hours last night at best. I’m not all there right now.”








“The f*ck does that mean?”


“It means what it means. Frankly Marc, you’ve been a sh*t conversationalist these past few days and I’m starting to take it personally.”


“You’re f*cking vain, you know that? It ain’t always about you and your latest kick in the teeth, hope as you might.”


“I do know that. Now either play the turn and answer the goddamn question or you can go back downstairs and sulk on that couch ‘til you fall through the rotting floorboards.”


Marcus picks from the discard pile, doesn’t even look at the card.


“They sent this big bruiser prick the other day, think his name’s Chekhov or some sh*t. You seen him?”




Huge f*cker. Hung ‘round the steps for an hour or two and gave up. Saw him talking to some of the neighbors. Fell asleep and he was gone, thinkin’ Winky showed up and scared him off maybe, that or that f*ckin’ bum always going through our trash.”


“Willy? He’s a good fella. Lost a foot in Hamhung, someone lit up in a munitions tent he told me.”


“Oh yeah? Told me he lost it to frostbite at Chosin Reservoir.”


Doug pauses before a laugh that lasts. “Sh*t.”


“It’s not funny -- f*ckin’ charlatan.”


“Y--ehh, it’s kind of funny. Farce meet farce funny.”


“Think maybe you’re just losing the plot. You never been good without something to do, some kinda project at least. Your mind goes places better left ungone.”


“Don’t start.”


“Too late, I want back in.” Marc’s serious now: “Play all the card games and open all the bottles from the corner store you want in the meantime but don’t act like you’re sitting pretty, Douglas. You do this every time the going gets tough. You’re running on fumes and I ain’t had the means to cough up a single cent to my friendly creditors -- outlook’s f*cked.”


“We aren’t f*cked and I don’t need no goddamn psychoanalysis. I just ain’t that keen on walking right into the slaughterhouse where the pigs got guns, alright?” Doug leans in. “We’re talking kilos of scag here. It ain’t still in the impound, that’s for damn sure.”


“Only ‘cause you been sitting on your ass all this time.”


Beat. Air’s thick.


Marc connects the punch: “Hey, maybe you can reach out to Randy.”


“Maybe you can get f*cked.”


Marcus laughs, breaks the tension and pours himself another drink. “You even talked to him since?”


“God no. He wrote me a letter ‘round Christmas last year, I tell you that? Some kumbaya sh*t about new beginnings, all but invited me to come see him down at the station.” Pause. “Typewritten, too.”


“F*ckin’ love to see that. You still got it?”


“Jo made me keep it. Hold on.”


Doug stands, pulls for the bedroom -- just as he rises Joanna bursts through the front door holding the baby with one hand, dragging a lopsided stroller carrying a half-empty paper bag with the other. Hair soaked, blouse through, eyeliner streaking downward: “F*cking pears in the gutter!”


Marc’s looking out the window again, spaced. “Like the trash.”


“What?” Doug shakes his head, turns to Jo. “F*ck you mean?”


“I swear to god, Dougie, you need to get the car out the shop. I can't take this anymore!”


Doug stays still, puts palms on the back of his chair. “Calm down and tell me what the f*ck happened.”


“I went to the stalls on Cristo ‘cause if you hadn’t noticed the bananas were turned to mush -- I had to go get Mrs. Vandertramp upstairs ‘cause the fruit flies were out of control and I don’t know how to get rid of those and--”


“Today. What happened today?”


She breathes. “I got some goddamn fruit and was on my way back when the wheel on Bonnie’s stroller just popped the f*ck off like it was nothing. Just went flying! I almost fell, I lost half the fruit, Bonnie went careening down the sidewalk ‘til this old Oriental got hold of her, thank god. We were on a decline!” She pauses, pitch raises. “I scraped my knee, Dougie.”


Doug walks up, gives a cursory glance at the knee, Bonnie calls “daddy!” so he takes her into his arms, bounces her around. 


“I need the car back, Doug. I don’t care what you have to do to get it. I didn’t ask for this sh*t and neither did your daughter. Going up and down those hills--”


“So f*cking what?”


Marcus comes back to life. “Doug, c’mon, she’s two--”




“Three and she’s goin’ up and down f*ckin’ hills. San Fierro hills. Jo’s not wrong.”


Doug keeps bouncing in place as both Jo and Marcus stare him down. Bonnie squeaks “Lot of hills!” and laughs -- Doug puts her down and lets her fly to a coloring book under the window. He stares back, one to the other, one and back until Jo crosses her arms in silent resolve.


“Everyone’s on my f*ckin’ ass today, swear to god. Fine! Fine.”


Jo half-claps, drags the stroller to the formica and asks Marcus if he can lend a hand. Card suits tossed aside.


With that, you're booted into play: Marcus much too liquored up to fix a stroller, Doug much too sober to get the car back. Make sure to check your safehouse storage locker before you go, in Doug’s case a little footlocker concealed in his bedroom closet. Charming.


Hit the pavement gatted-up or otherwise, rain not intending to slow and still washing slurry into the drain. Not exactly walking weather.


A short scene plays out ahead of you; a little Chinese woman squeals her car to a stop across the street, slams the doors of her lowkey Roachee and rushes inside her apartment with a tabloid for cover. This is your encouraged ride.


Stealing a car in B&B is a two step process. Doug (and the other protagonists) is equipped with a two-buck rake pick for a way of getting into a vehicle without drawing attention, simply by holding down the contextual button. Cheaper and older models like the Roachee are easy enough to jimmy open, with the difficulty of a short minigame leveling up depending on the quality and make of the car in question. There's still a chance you could get made by a beat cop, but with the streets abandoned aside from self-absorbed stragglers in pissing rain, it's unlikely.


Or, you can just smash the window. Your call.


Regardless: whether you picked out the Roachee, or another ride, or are gritting your teeth and strolling to the goddamn bus stop, Doug curses to himself. Raindrops pattering hard, windshield wipers working double-time and radio yabbering news about the local newspaper and the weather (talking classic Fierro Fog coming any minute now despite the thunder not looking like it’ll let up).


Doug’s got his fingers crossed. “Please… please be there.”


Go to the police station in the Dutch Flatlands.


The rain lets up on the halfway mark -- settles for a drizzle but the dark clouds aren’t going anywhere. On the corner of Jacobin and Ursine the camera takes over, shoots over the roof of the cop shop and into the back: singlefile paved alleyway leading to sprawling marsh cordoned by cattails and chain link, dozens upon dozens of cars like dominoes sinking into mud puddles within. 


View takes you for a ride, lays it all out: the family sedan getting pitter-pattered by rain somewhere in the lot, a reminder that Benny Bartok’s red Blade shouldn’t be far off either. Approaches are fully open-ended with mechanics explained: a brute force raid an option as ever but also trite, if not vaguely suicidal regardless of the firepower in your holsters. Doug makes himself look casual as a cop leaves through the station’s front and starts hobbling down the alley -- stops to light up as the opportunity for a disguise presents itself.


It’s intuitive: your easiest go is to knock him over the head with the butt of a gun, either your own or his so long as you can pull it from his waistband with some brevity -- an idea worthy of consideration in other contexts as well. If you’re not quick with it he’ll put up a fight -- something easily solved with a double ear clap followed up with some fists. Copper goes down after a few bashes, easy -- you’re guided to drag Sleeping Beauty somewhere discreet, a prime location the drainage ditch on the far side of the alley and use his handcuffs to keep him isolated in unkempt brush until the job’s done else the whole thing’s blown. Doug mutters “f*ckin’ dress-up games again” as the screen fades, back in to him in full getup and cop in skivs - he climbs back out of the ditch and adjusts his new service cap: “Never thought I’d wear one of these again. F*ck.”


Recovery can unfold in either order but the station beckons you forth -- through the front door now that you’re outfitted, but if not you would’ve had options in numerous windows and a single unsecured storm drain as a means of infiltration. Inside it might be dry but the air’s just as humid -- thick with cigarette smoke drifting down mahogany-paneled halls. Embossed script on brass plates directs: EVIDENCE ROOM ahead. 

At a desk built into the wall: fat cop looks up, watch commander maybe. Strut past - he mutters "Hey, Ross."


Whoever the f*ck Ross is, take your opportunity for Doug to tip his cap: "Howdy."


It opens up at the end of the hall, double doors into a square room. Populated, desk jockey a-watching. Fellas behind him muttering away, raincoat-cop playing superior: “I don’t give a sh*t if you’re only here ‘cause Fitzpatrick called in, you don’t ask Kline nor his goddamn posse for credentials. Got it?”


Doug echoes the name with some familiarity. Another crossroads: dialoguing through the seated cop, say the right things and pray the right prayers vis-a-vis badge numbers and he’ll let you straight through otherwise you’ve got a real pickle on your hands with four toughs in one small space, batons and filing cabinets -- loud.


But even if you avoid it outside, you’re met with bedlam on the in -- no labels or organization; rows upon rows of metal shelves with god-only-knows on them. 


Find the heroin.


On the way you can grab some stolen property if you’re feeling it, but nothing that can’t fit in your pockets -- it’s bad karma, sure, but also an opportunity to grab some firepower that hasn’t yet been made known through vendors. Trinkets and the like can be pawned off for some extra cash down the road.


No clock ticking but you’re being timed; Klein the deputy DA on his way down for some business with a couple of shadows. Armed, naturally. Be quick about finding the H because if you lag the little crew shows their faces before long -- avoidable with some speed but if you left four cops in your stead on the outside it’s not off to a good start. Whoever shoots first don’t matter, Klein instantly makes a run for it as his men fire away, semi-auto bullets through boxes, paper, bouncing off the odd metal trinket between shelves, the already-crowded room quickly opaque with gunsmoke and deafening with reverb. When the two are prone under the red mist, moaning or dead silent, your best bet is to play it cool outside -- duffel bag of scag under his arm, Doug can holster the piece and make a jump out the nearest window: alleyway’s cool as more pigs swarm the evidence room inside, he follows when the bag hits the concrete by scraping knees and dusting himself up on gutter trash and tossed coffee cups.


Dusts himself off. Picks up the bag as sirens wail and shouts can be heard from inside, playing it cool as cool, cool as cold, cold as f*cking ice. Camera shaky on the close-up as Doug marches down the alley to the tune of chaos ‘til he’s in the clear.


Round two. Car.


It’s as easy as heading to the end of the alleyway if you’re in uniform, of getting through chain link gate and sending polished duty boots stomping into mud -- but if you’re in civvies there’s a swampy cattail field embanking off that drainage ditch and into the Bay that leads up to the fenceline. A hole in the facade leaves room for entry and you’re inside; a sea of sedans in various stages of being chopped. Tires, bumpers, windshields -- threat-wise a few cops out looking for a car themselves with the help of the tow yard owner and some guard dogs, flashlights piercing through the murky weather. Don’t get to close if you’re playing cop, don’t be seen at all if you’re not. 


The lightbulb goes off for how to pull off a double whammy: toward the back of the lot, ‘sides a shed serving as a guardhouse: towtruck -- flatbed with a hitch, f*ckin’ bingo. All that’s left is the challenge of pulling it off in silence: nigh impossible so the cars should be hit first -- the rusted Messier easy as pie, the brand new Blade requiring a bit more finesse through the rake pick minigame; start the engines and split. Then it’s go time: it’s unlocked and as soon as the tow truck spits exhaust into the sky your position is known, Doug tosses the duffel bag onto the bench seat, tires squeal and spin and send mud spitting onto the shed, stuck in the muck before lurching forward. The couple of cops come running with their dogs -- hungry dobermans about as fast as the truck, so be quick and careful. Pure skill: pull the level for the flatbed to lower, hop out and pick one of the two cars -- drive it up, no time to lock it, and jump back into the cab from the bed to avoid the dogs nipping at your feet. Doug yells “f*ck off” at the mutts and pigs playing catch-up alike as you pull the lever back, tracks retract, and move onto the other straggler.


Easier -- preempt any snags by lowering the hitch beforehand and just back the truck up to the car’s bumper for it to catch a little too rough. But it hooks -- and if the cops haven’t taken the chance to catch up and throw you out of the cab yet they surely won’t when you barrel out of the lot once and for all, sending the closed gate flying down the alleyway with the satisfying clangor of metal hitting metal. 


Deliver the heroin to Oscar.


Calvin’s words echo back: Oscar lives at MacLean Tower, knows you’re coming but not when. Check your rearview for a tail: shouldn’t have had the chance just yet but radio chatter moves quick -- you’re not exactly incognito. It’s not too far: a stretch up 7th Street cutting diagonal across downtown. Automatic wipers do their thing as droplets splash the windshield with speed: Doug takes several deep breaths, calms himself against the static, transatlantic droning of Firing Squad -- Oake Blackwood Charlesford Esq. still going off on some poor schmuck who hung up five minutes ago: “... or why a cowardly, limping, delinquent, traitor-to-my-country commie punk like yourself would ever even consider debasing yourself on my radio show. The cheek of it! My suggestion for the next time your mind fails you so acutely is to take a long walk out one of the windowsills your kind so love to smoke reefer in and hoping a stray bullet catches your fall from grace.”


Meanwhile the rain clears once and for all: sun peeks through, turns everything reflective. 


Oscar’s tenement sits in the shadow of MacLean on its namesake street: clean, unassuming -- street in front full of cars curb-parked, double-parked, abandoned for some underground scene at one of the clubs further down. Slow the truck to an idle in front of an olive Sabre lopsided by grace of the curb: a shirtless Oscar underneath it, fidgeting, clanging. Doug waits patiently against the building’s wall, puts the bag down and lights a cigarette. He looks around until Oscar comes out from under. Catches his sight.


“Pryor? That you?”


“That’s me.”


He steadies on his feet, wipes his hands on his pants. “You uh, nobody told me you was coming around here. ‘S’goin’ on?”


Doug lifts the bag. “Made things right,” he tosses it at Oscar’s feet. “As promised.”


They stare, Oscar not taking his cue. Doug opts for clarity: “The uh,” he whistles. “The sh*t from the deal went bad the other day, Oscar. Leung told me to deliver to you, gave me the address. Said paid on delivery, actually.”


“Oh. Oh!” Oscar jumps into action, opens the car door and tosses the bag onto the passenger seat. “I knew you were good, f*ckin’ knew it from the minute you walked into the Dilian.” Smiley. “Uh, I don’t got anything on me right now -- might have some spare change upstairs or something, I dunno what Calvin promised you for the job but--”


“It’s fine. Gonna go see him anyway.” Casual now, looking at the mess of tools strewn on a sidewalk towel: “You know what you’re doing under there? Even I wouldn’t f*ck with the chassis of a Declasse, gotta tell you.”


Oscar leans on the car, shakes it. “Try and error, right? She’s a beast on the open road but the nose just porpoises every time I hit a bump. These damn hills.”


“Yeah, you ain’t gonna get far tinkering -- ‘Classe four-speed’s janky as hell, always has been compared to the Bravado linkages, even Dundreary. I’d spring for some new shock struts maybe,” he gestures over at the tools, “‘but I’d do it professional ‘cause that lug wrench ain’t gonna get you far.”


“You know cars?”


“Know somethin’. Did a couple summers at a chop-shop-cum-mechanic down in the Lower Avenues. Maybe it was the other way around. Learned that a marque playin’ catch-up ain’t always so bad.” Doug pats the car. “Suspension aside, she revs ferocious.”


“Sure does. Heard the same from this grease monkey in East Grennie -- Mitt something. Ruskie. Bought the thing at his word, actually.”




“Yeah.” A switch flips, Oscar snaps once-twice: “Oh hey sh*t, Leung tell you what’s going on with that? You oughta know.”


“About what?”


“Those f*ckin’ Ruskies. Fallout from our collection on that sad sack Bertrand, happy-ending fella. Long story -- Mitt’s got a brother or brother in law or something, don’t remember his name, Bert was into him big. More-than-Leung big. We got the car to us but now Bert’s out of assets to collect on and he’s in some depression so he won’t cough up.”


“How’s that your problem?”


“Well -- it shouldn’t be, but the brothers and the Triad have this uh, what you call it -- mutually beneficial relationship.” He gleams at having found his words. “Mitt cuts up cars, the brother, uh -- Nikita! -- his brother’s name’s Nikita, he sharks, runs benefits fraud, insurance stuff, that whip-smart sh*t. We go in on it together. I dunno all the specifics, Pryor, but this little snafu’s really throwing a wrench into things. Nikita’s holding his share, wants the car to himself. Maybe you can reach out.”


“I’ve never met these people in my life, Oscar.”


“Yeah, but Mitt’s a good guy, likes his cars. You like cars. Go down to his garage, East Grennie like I said -- be a charmer, see if he can talk some sense into his brother. With what we got going with those f*cking biker ham gaa caan motherf*ckers we don’t need more trouble.” Oscar gives Doug’s shoulder a pat, hard: “Think you came in at just the right time.”


Without another word he crouches back down, rolls himself under the car. 


Doug looks around. “Yeah, loan-sharking Russians. Yeah. Guess we’ll find out.”


The mission’s over if you didn’t spare for the Blade -- but if you went all out the last thing to do is head over to the payphone outside the club next door, dial for Bennie downwind dozens of bohemians heading inside. It rings.


“Bennie B, what’s your beef, baby?”


“Car’s on MacLean, unlocked and considering the crowd I’d get here quick. Drop my pay by the broken fence at the construction site -- 1471 Solozzo. Before nightfall.”


Bennie makes sounds. Doug doesn’t wait to hear ‘em.


Cash from the evidence room (max. $250.00) (optional)

+ Pawnable items from the evidence room (optional)




By Pati Krishana



---- SOME pigs were shot yesterday at the Arquero Pike police station: may we take the time in its wake to acknowledge 1968’s first boiling over of an undercurrent of angst against this city’s salaried agents of capital that first reared its beautiful, bald head and its unshackling, freedom-starved hands during last year’s Summer of Love? Details are yet sparse but shots are said to have been fired within the confines of the station -- the inference of a political statement being the unlikelihood of such a suicidal venture being without revolutionary motive. Officers of the city’s police department were injured in the exchange, but the extent of the casualties -- and the confirmation of any deaths through the Arquero Pike police precinct-- have yet to arrive through any official means. The San Fierro District Attorney’s Office released a statement this morning;


 “An attempt was made yesterday on the life of our Deputy DA Joseph Kline at the Arquero Pike Police Station. The shootist has yet to be identified nor has a motive been unearthed, but the suspect can remain confident that the DA’s office will do everything within their power to ensure that justice will be done on a scale far beyond the reach of some measly bullets.” 


Deputy DA Kline’s involvement is unknown beyond the incidental, and yet word has spread for months of the man’s intentions to appease The Man, that man -- and hardliner Kline, of unbridled ambitions, known for working hand-in-hand with the police department not only to castigate and censure the oppressed masses for rampant displays of the most egregious opprobrium: public protest, but to usurp San Fierro’s current DA Barlough in the hope of stepping forth in his shadow magnified: ever a servant of the elite, the oppressor, a hark back to the San Andreas we knew during Biff Cochrane’s reign as a subservient footstool for the establishment, or of San Fierro before counterculture lifted its long-beaten foot into the stirrup of contemporaneity and rode its horse onto the battlefield. Until The Man inevitably captures and places his boot on the throat of this dichotomous manifestation of the man now labelled the “aggressor”, the “suspect”, the “offender”, the “assailant”, before The Man dangles a bayonet before the man's mouth, ready to cut a compliant grin into his face ere he mumble the hollow words of the penitent, dig the knife deep into his revolutionary soul and slice it beyond disfigurement and rob him of his last dignity before shipping him off to the gas chamber -- I say to that man: Godspeed, brother. 





By Xavier van Snautenhauser



---- IT has been three months to the eve since Uncle Holden solemnly spread word across the television sets of America: the valiant USAF Captain Hunter Segal captured in Hanoi’s bowels of hell by the North Vietnamese Army following a combat air patrol mission gone horribly awry. In the days and weeks that followed, conflicting information on his condition has been relayed to the United States government by the propagandic mouthpiece of North Vietnam and his status shrouded in the mystery of a mendacious regime -- but not enough to fracture the faith of the American public in his perseverance and eventual recovery.


The USAF announced from Washington yesterday that Captain Segal is indeed still alive and has been held at a Hanoi facility for American POWs -- known to GIs as Vietnam von Crastenburg -- since his capture. USAF spokesman Jasper E. Dixon went on to reveal that only after his imprisonment did the North Vietnamese become aware that Captain Segal’s father was now-retired USMC Sergeant Major Edward Segal, and consequently offered him an early release and return home. The USAF and Sergeant Major Segal jointly issued a statement in response:


“We have not and never will submit to acts of terror by communist regimes, so antithetical to American values of freedom and liberty are their mere existence. To entertain the North Vietnamese ploy to appear compassionate to our brethren abroad for propagandic purposes would be akin to strategic suicide for a conflict in which we are on the cusp of victory. The United States makes the demands. Captain Segal is a man of enormous moral standing, and like his father is ever-familiar with the military code of conduct. He will not accept preferential treatment from the enemy. The North Vietnamese, in their moral turpitude, have built themselves an army hellbent on oppressing an enlightened South through a series of lies and misdirections: from the treatment of its foes to the nature of the conflict itself being shrouded in mystery, we will never allow Americans to fall victim to such propaganda.”


Spokesman Dixon was interrupted by a series of remarks from anti-war protestors within the crowd, who were promptly beaten into submission with batons and arrested by the capitol's police forces. He resumed his remarks by calling Captain Segal a bonafide war hero, still resolute in his mission to ensure continued freedom to the South Vietnamese.


Sergeant Major Edward Segal, a resident of San Fierro, was requested to comment on this story from his Calton Heights home. Having just arrived from a white-tie veterans' affairs fundraiser at city supervisor Gregory Hatch's home (pg. 5), the Sergeant Major declined and stared at the press from his balcony until they left the premises.

Edited by Cebra
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On 9/10/2019 at 4:58 PM, DownInTheHole said:

You should redo the soundtrack if possible.

I intend to! Currently a wip though I'll be posting it as a link to a Google Doc in the hope of forum update-proofing it for the foreseeable future. Shouldn't be too long

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1 hour ago, Cebra said:

I intend to! Currently a wip though I'll be posting it as a link to a Google Doc in the hope of forum update-proofing it for the foreseeable future. Shouldn't be too long

Damn guess i gotta do the same for mine too

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Every era is forged in the historical record by the mass media - 1968 to 1974 were certainly no exception. With a country seemingly on the perpetual verge of upheaval and a new generation moving in with the intention to upset the social order, what do you look to in your desperate search for stability?


Well, celebrity, of course.


From spending the night in a smoke-filled theater to crashing on the sofa with a TV dinner in front of the boob tube, that's it. That's your escapism. Worries begone, you dedicate every last brain cell to filmic, to music, to the big names and the buxom dames. You check the freezer for another bottle of Cherenkov. You're out. That's okay. Casey Edwards is already cooing you goodnight between Redwood commercials featuring Dutch London and if that's not enough you can head down the block and go see Good Apples as a reminder: you're American. You're set. Ever the good guy: The Simian has no subtext and Malik Evander is a blowhard and a fool. Country on the verge of collapse? God, no. Vietnam'll be over soon, Biff Cochrane in the White House. Life is good. So sit back, put on a First Degree Willie record and watch other people live it, big man. You'll do fine.




Parasite concept art courtesy of Jero Pastor


In the lacuna between the classics and New Vinewood, cinema is anything but dead.



  • Sewer - An action-packed web of intrigue following functional alcoholic and SFPD lieutenant Larry Sewer as he whips across the Iron City in an effort to ensure protective custody over a mob informant scheduled to testify before congress. Famous for its prodigious car chase sequence zipping through the streets of San Fierro that wrecked a handful of Dominators, had numerous homeless trespassed from public thoroughfares, and crippled the city street-by-street until filming wrapped. A chunk of Americana.

  • Good Apples - A film self-financed by Dutch London. The story of a bunch of loveable warriors doing what’s right for their country in the name of patriotism, and that’s murdering every stinking f*cking gook in Asia.

  • The Simian - After a 3000 year journey through spacetime, a trio of astronauts crash land onto a desolate wasteland ravaged by consumption and find themselves subject to the rule of tyrannous primates. A morality tale well complemented by exiting the theatre, tossing your ticket stub into the wind, and then antagonizing the Soviets.

  • Nelson in Naples - “See, the ships are coming in, but the walls will hold us!” - A preeminent tale of torrid, serpentine love and the intersection of passion and physicality, Nelson in Naples found the performance of a lifetime in stars Mitch Dexter and Pamela Drake - enough to keep Richards Majestic afloat, if not their own careers.

  • Percy Parrish and the Piker Posse - Revisionist western. Infamous outlaw Percy Parrish rides with a gang of fiendish outlaws in the Rockies in the last days of the Wild West - when the heat gets too hot, the gang departs to a foreign land: Australia, where faced with aggrieved aboriginals and f*ckoff huge critters the bounty hunters and Pinkertons on their trail might not have been so bad after all.



  • The Denouement - The Gattofiga family runs a patriarchal crime organization on the streets of 1940’s Liberty City. When next-in-line to the mob throne - Chip Gattofiga - returns from the Second World War, the family is shocked to find out he intends to become a gynecologist instead of a gangster. On the cusp of all-out war, a venerable score and dim cinematography backs a series of shootouts targeting thinly veiled analogues of Pax Ancelotti’s enemies. Made in special collaboration with the IAAAD. 

  • Spooks - Four entrepreneurs from Vinewood decide to go on a sight-seeing road trip to parts unknown: inner-city Los Santos. While there, they are confronted by horrific sights: uppity negroes and crazy chicanos. They must fight to survive.

  • Chasing the Zodiac - A Byron Fu triple-threat production: a martial artist fights mystical warriors on the streets of Kowloon with only his hands - thankfully they’re on par with the atom bombs levied upon the Robada desert in their license and ability to destroy and send those warriors back to their confused origins. 

  • Sovereign Justice - San Fierro’s best cop, Inspector Tad MacDougal, stops robberies on lunch break and kills crooks off-duty as his superiors lambast him for doing the job too good. When the city is faced with a serial killer who demands the mayor kill himself to stop the murders; MacDougal must break down phony pinko bullsh*t restrictions like ‘due cause’ or the fourth, sixth and eighth amendments to enact justice… by any means necessary.

  • Brung Brincklewich’s Sugar, Sweets and Scrips - In a company town after his name, iron-fisted robber baron Brung Brinklewich rules over a confectionery factory fraught with human rights violations and slave labor. Having back in the day smuggled an entire South American pygmy tribe to work under his wing and be paid in cocoa beans, Brinklewich is abhorred to find the little buggers trying to unionize during take your nephew to work day -- and in the company of little Dougie Brinklewich, Brung devises wicked plans to keep them quiet with some crafty industrial accidents before someone alerts the Civilization Committee.



  • The Denouement: Part II - After vanquishing all his foes, Chip Gattofiga expands the Gattofiga family’s operations to Las Venturas while battling congressional inquiry. Runs parallel with his patriarch father’s early years in Sicily and beyond as he makes a name for himself by killing local crime lords in stuffy hallways. Blew the lid on the word ‘mafia’ as Pax Ancelotti and the IAAAD’s influence on production waned along with the bullet in his neck.

  • Lucifer Crimes - Starring Clip Lee as the eponymous Lucifer Crimes P.I., this independent blaxploitation movie unravels when super-heroin hits the streets of Carcer City, being financed by a man only known as ‘The Man’. Film debut of Minnie Stapler as Cleopatra Shabazz.

  • Deep Inside - The 12th film in the Endeavour Chambers series follows the eponymous agent of capital, sex predator, and violent drunk as he attempts to foil the plans of a midget supervillain and his dwarven henchmen, intending to harness the moon’s gravitational field from a base in the Earth’s core in an effort to bring about one final collision.

  • Playground of Saints - “Screw it, Skeet. It's their playground.” Who is Skeet Beatty? Former LSPD detective, now PI. Enactor of justice by his own terms beyond the city’s corruption. A dame walks in with a red dress talking disappearances, and boom, Skeet is wrapped up in a plot by the rich and powerful to sh*t on the poor and needy via the city reservoir. A story of bourgeois tomfoolery.

  • Home Run! - Sportsman-turned-actor Ace Jones stars as Clive Boehner, disgraced former player for the San Danado Feud convicted on underage sex trafficking. Due to loopholes in San Andreas law, however, he's presented an out; two teams of sex offenders must play a game of baseball, and the winning team gets their freedom. Battling rowdy rapists and his own struggles with alcoholism, Boehner's only chance at life on the outside is helping these boys on the innings.



In the days before Weazel and CNT, two of the big three step forward.





  • Cosmic Conquest - In a Utopian future where humanity has set aside their differences in the name of campy space exploration, Captain Kip Vega pilots the USS Smithereen with the help of his colorful crew. From heart-on-his-sleeve medical officer Poltroon, to sociopathic not-just-a-dude-in-makeup alien Bosh: an ensemble cast travel the Milky Way and solve problems with long scenes of conversation and the occasional low-budget laser gun shootout.

  • Negroes Up North! - An kooky clan of negro hooligans strike gold when the floorboards under their Davis house reveal a literal vein of gold. Moving into a Richman mansion, their neighbors must deal with hilarious antics and silly stereotypes all in the name of racial harmony.

  • Burly’s Boys - Col. Delbert ‘Burly’ Burl and his plucky platoon operate a Japanese internment camp on the shores of San Andreas: getting up to wacky shenanigans and kooky scenarios in their line of duty. Oops, a cholera outbreak. Someone forgot the vaccines!

  • Prat and Quack - CCC reruns of the prototypical Saturday morning cartoon: Prat the foxhound’s kooky, murderous, always-doomed schemes ever foiled by that cocky little duck f*ck they call Quack. But it’s not the content, it’s the longing. You hark back to days gone by: kiddos cross-legged on shag carpet, soggy Coq-o-Pops in teal vitrelle bowls, coffee on drip as the wife lays the funny papers out on the tablecloth and pecks you on the cheek. You smell bacon on cast iron, the one-two snipping of a manual lawn mower, radio drone inflating Soviet aggression and the smells of hydrangea and leaded fuel wafting through unscreened windows -- you tighten the Windsor around that collar and watch your children glue their faces to the cathode. Bliss.

  • Late Night with Casey Edwards - Vinewood up-and-comers drool at the prospect of the 11:30 time slot while no shortage of A-listers loath at slogging down to Lumbo 60 to let Edwards propel them into the tabloid light with improv affronts of personal ridicule and toilet paper shortages. But it’s a rite of passage in front of a live studio audience: omnipresent on the nightly as America enters its prescription pill slumber.



  • Days of Yore - Dukes, Liberty. In the Irish neighborhood of Steinway lie the Kennefick family, their patriarch Angus a lovable loudmouth bigot drunk working city construction. All the goofs, gaffes and ‘gosh-darn-it!’s you can muster as Gus just randomly screams at his black neighbor, or starts crying before lapsing into Korean War flashbacks.

  • P.A.S.T.E. (Pessimistic Apathetic Soldiers Tackling Existentialism) - In between making flies go splat and staring out on the jungle searching for giant centipedes to throw rocks at, the men of a mobile medical unit in the Vietnamese wilderness stumble upon existentialism when they find a compendium of Nietzche’s work left behind by a patient dead of gangrene. A gunshot is literally never fired; friendly folks discuss fine literature, scouring a poor nation for Viet Cong that never show.

  • Yaller-Heel Yimyam - Variety show set in the small town of Podunk Pass, a completely nonsensical clusterf*ck of goofy redneck jokes produced by two Canadians and a score of comedians who’ve never been south of the Mason-Dixon. Knee slapping, whistling, and casual racism galore! Solely and inexplicably popular in urban areas.

  • Spake Unto Me - Through the sepia tones of small town Utah, two Mormon dynasties and their polyamorous members spy, sleep, and sin their way through their already-intertwining lives in the pursuit of the highest kingdoms of glory. Replete with a weekly filming schedule, one take scenes, mindless recasts, and constant commercial breaks, housewives folding laundry at 4 PM are sure to enjoy the incessant reminder that maybe next time they’re out they should pick up some Blox.

  • Pandora's Box - Classic sci-fi horror anthology from the family friendly Fifties. Presenter Bertram Sykes weaves spooky yarns with daunting morality tales: such as ‘What If You Had Dog Hands But Nothing Else And You Were Just Normal Otherwise’, or ‘Imagine If A Monkey Could Talk Spanish, Wouldn’t That Be Nuts?’





  • Brown Streak - With his trusty sidekick Skidmark, The Streak dispenses justice on the streets of Outlast City. Teaching the audience about the merits of exercise, seatbelts and vegetables while defeating baddies like The Taxman and King Commie who infringe upon our red-white-and-blue democracy.

  • Gibbs, the Kids, and a Gibbon - When Jimmy Gibbs, meek-minded Santo Zacaria dentist, loses his father in a mysterious Crocodile-related accident in the Philippines, he and his wife Joan are left a shocking surprise. Seven former child employees of his father’s sweatshop and a monkey from the space program! Delightful, heartwarming antics ensue.

  • Neander Valley - A biting satire of the vapidity of contemporary suburbanity that flies higher over its target audience’s heads than the magenta pterodactyls it portrays as coexisting with its star Neanderthal family. Follows the banal life of patriarch Igor Occipitus as he whips between wage slavery at the Crude Tool factory and back home to his planned community Sunny Stalactites in the company of his doting Denisovan wife and their twisted, deranged, very large children. A morality tale for young viewers: just move to the city.

  • Spotty - A retired marine biologist steals a killer whale from an ocean-themed amusement park and keeps it in an inflatable kiddie pool. Oh god. Timmy. Timmy don’t go in there. Don’t go in the pool Timmy please he’ll eat you oh god oh f*ck

  • Eye for an Eye with Lazarus Jones - Test screening participants called Laz Jones many things: insufferable, cruel, near-constantly drunk. But what's democracy to good old greenbacks? In this wackadoo trivia game, participants must choose the right answer to the right question or risk getting pelted with stones and sharp objects. Talk back and risk a bullet to the arm.



  • Iron City, Iron Soul - Two cops on the gritty streets of San Fierro; steely eyes and steel lungs full of cigarette smoke for a city of iron laden with degeneracy. Written in special collaboration with the SFPD’s PR department with even helpings of stone-cold detective work and gat-blasting combat, if there’s one thing this show is known for, it’s authenticity. Some authenticity. To a degree. A little.

  • Counter-Intelligence - Patriotic defenders of the nation from all threats domestic and foreign. The Counter Intelligence unit of the FIB tackles and defeats foes from every walk of unfamiliar, freedom-hating pinko life that dare threaten the public safety in 60 minutes or less, all with the swagger of balding men in the latest tight-cut suit and slim tie combos -- have no doubt; they’re the good guys. 

  • Mother Money Millionaire Mistress Miscellany - Game show produced by Elmo Kink. A dating-show-trivia-game hybrid where contestants are forced to pick from bachelorettes exclusively made up of step-mothers. There’s also a guy in a gorilla costume they haven’t quite figured out yet, but they’re sure he’ll have a reason to be there next season.

  • Agent Archangel: Bionic Boy Scout - In the near future, astronaut Imo Lubbrick wakes to a horrible realisation: after an experiment involving trains and live panthers has gone awry, he’s left with nothing but his head and spleen intact. On his deathbed, he’s given an offer he can’t refuse: a fully robotic cyborg body as long as he does clandestine assassinations for the IAA in South America. The fate of the world is in his steely hands.

  • Mullholiday and Dulaly - Blazing by in a Vapid Mantova are two desperadoes with a softer side. Detectives Zeke Dulaly, hard edged Broker transplant, and flamboyant cud-chewing Ohio boy Dex Mullholiday. Prowling the streets of Vinewood, they may soon find out the only thing stopping them from solving crimes… are their feelings for each other.




WCTR - State shows and national syndications.

  • Firing Squad with Oake Blackwood Charlesford Esq. - A patrician cadence and wit sharper than a Vietnam bayonet masks discussions bathed in ideological bankruptcy -- but that’s why it’s so goddamn fun to listen to while kicking back and cracking open a Pisswasser in the middle of the afternoon. Firing Squad is a revolving door of hippies and anti-war ideologues diving straight into and bailing straight out of the radio waves in the midst of Charlesford’s unparallelled, knife to the heart diatribes; perfect for the audience that never tires of hearing leftist fall victim to some variation on the same punchline: walk out the nearest ten-story window, you milksop!

  • Hell to Pay with Lazarus Jones - What a bastard. A peg-legged, fork-tongued, peaky voiced, self-righteous git -- and all the more fun it is for listeners when Lazarus strings together the most inventive, half-slanderous rope he can muster and let his guests inevitably hang themselves with it. Capitalizing on uninformed opining and spouting off the latest and greatest reactionary takes, it’s all fun and games until someone starts throwing chairs and the other pulls out a Hawk & Little .357 in the studio. Just pray he never has children.

  • Gather Round the Tree with Pastor Richards - Who loves the prosperity gospel more than the most prosperous self-proclaimed prophets? Recorded between estates in New Bourbon, Vice Beach, and Mars, Alabama, the newly-syndicated sermons of Pastor Clarence Richards serve up only the spiciest scripture intercut with the occasional speaking in tongues when he’s not coordinating to extoll the virtues of the American south with presidential hopeful Biff Cochrane. A confidence man through and through -- wide-reaching radio sermons ever successful in evangelizing the almighty dollar.


WHHH 130.7 - ‘We have honest hosts’: Robada’s state talk station with a variety of local shows - infamously easy to hijack.

  • Wily Druthers with Jerry Lee Cyrus and the Culture Cauldron - Dialectical battleground, except completely inept. Under the connecting thread of broadcast pirate Jerry Lee Cyrus and his mobile operations unit somewhere in the Robada desert, the golden trio of debate assemble on the daily: the assuredly abrasive, God-fearing Jerry Lee pinned against Summer of Love organizer Marmaduke Fenn and hulking black power activist Claudius Hale. Behind perpetual static and signal drops, they hit the current political climate from all angles - and inevitably butt heads enough that they’ve devised an outlet in the odd roughing it out in the pig pen and occasional shooting at satellite dishes.

  • Good Green Thumb with Hymie Sheffield - A semi-popular gardening show with lovely 78-year old Hymie from the east side. In the hills overlooking Venturas, he tends to a famous plant nursery with his nephew Wheeler, who slowly decides to take a more advantageous role in his business. Wheeler and his new motorcycle enthusiast friends intend to make the most out of the old greenhouse with special plant imports from Colombia and beyond, and Hymie gets an extra special role as ‘cupboard inspector’ while the boys work their magic.

  • Don't Tread on Me with Lips Buckner - Father of six children in six different states, Lips hit the sands a long time ago and now only has two worldly belongings: a radio transmission and a Shrewsbury rifle. A nomad, he travels the state espousing Ayn Rand lingo, cooking gourds and searching for treasure. Whether that treasure’s hikers being picked at by vultures, or mobsters digging graves, or a steel-toed boot triggering the metal detector - depends on the day.

  • Nancy Lepage’s Sundowning - Former high society matron, the long-widowed Nancy Lepage still maintains airs of superiority under the beehive hairdo and that veneer of shakily-applied pastel eyeshadow. She catered banquets by the dozens through the height of the 50s, forked out a cookbook per year, saw every coast and every coast saw her fine cuisine. Well past her prime (prime rib, if you will - as she would say!), her few loyal listeners left have little to look forward to but a monotone reading of often-mistaken ingredients in often-mistaken amounts - and when she scalds her hand in the boiling stock pot for the fifth time this year there’s little left for them to do but listen to the old bat’s confused screams and yearn for the olden days.


  • Iron City Inquirer - SF’s number one broadsheet. Owned by the prestigious Hauptmann dynasty, pioneers of yellow journalism.

  • San Fierro Tribune - The city’s second paper, settled for the evening edition and with significantly less prestige -- but no less for the libel lover.

  • Las Venturas Retractor - Robada state’s number one for who they dug up from the desert today.

  • Birchwood Medium - The presses from across the bay run hot with tales of crime and grime.

  • Zacaria Valley Beeline - South of the City, where the suburbs lie and the Lost Generation die.

  • Daily Globe - National paper from coast to coast, regional headquarters in Birchwood downtown.

  • Bulwark Magazine - Beautiful realist artworks of Communist leaders and community activists in deep reds and blacks, overly verbose articles on pigs and sheep.

  • Pussycat - You naughty, naughty man.

  • Eastern Sophisticate - From Algonquin penthouses to New England country clubs, the young aristocrat’s top pick.

  • Real - Pretentious magazine that writes way above its station. Publisher of the famed Real Person of the Year award.

  • Backdoor - An innovator in the rag genre, colorful covers and saucy snapshots before photo editing hit the mainstream.

  • Public Canard - Black and white supermarket mag on celebrities, human interest stories, and the occasional alien.

  • Fly-by-Night - Scoops and interviews on the music word, plus columns from intellectuals.

  • Spectators Digest - For the ball enthusiast in you. Your father’s favorite magazine.

  • Headshot - Tips for the rifleman, from hunting seasons to the best calibers to kill a man. Your stepfather’s favorite magazine.

  • No. 2 Comics - The name befits; escapist tales for the young and old, from Impotent Rage to Brown Streak to the Lynch Mob. From silver to bronze.

  • Washout Comics - Little brother of the comic industry sure to make big bucks. All the characters you know and love: Parasite, Sergeant Sectarian, and the infamous Dogwhistle.

  • American Angler - What the hell are you gonna catch out here? Buoys?


  • Lothario Keyes - Probably the most famous man to grace the silver screen, the long dead icon still lies on the tip of many tongues.

  • Dutch London - One of Vinewood’s best scowlers. A man of many interests; mainly conserative causes, scotch in the afternoon, six packs of Redwoods a day, and the good old days of frontier justice.

  • Sidney Capuano - Once upon a time box office draw, now washed up fat nobody who drinks on stage and breaks out into tears mid-take when he’s not forcing co-workers to laugh at his pranks or getting pretentiously philosophical on the talk show rounds.

  • Travis Heathrow - A failed cowboy actor many years ago, now riding on a new reputation as the film industry’s newest hardman. Riding Ol’ London’s coattails with Sovereign Justice, America’s favorite fascist cop.

  • Beverly Brandt - The woman’s been dead for six years but her legacy lives on in technicolor: having bombshelled her way through major comedies at her expense throughout the 50s, Beverly left a permanent imprint on the lurid minds of teenage boys and the self-image of spurned housewives alike.

  • Nelson Altieri - Burlesque stage actor turned Vinewood up-and-comer, Nel Altieri seeks stardom on the screen with a role in Ancelotti-produced mob movie The Denouement. Young, handsome and vain. Y’know. A theater kid.

  • Royce Webster - Dreamy eyes and a voice like honey; one of Richards Majestic’s standout stars known for roles in syrupy romances where the guy always gets the gal.

  • Guy Bristol - Tough guy actor with an incredibly odd face. Typecasted to hell and back and incredibly resentful of it. He’s serious, goddamn you!

  • Dorothea Lange - Golden Age Vinewood starlet and cover-girl for French fashion house Ponsonbys, thus almost a brand herself. Now recovering from a controversial marriage and recent divorce with noted svengali Johenne Querios, dominating just about every rag in the country through 1968.

  • Chet Conway - The strong, silent type. In touch with his feelings? No, of course not, a Conway role is someone who does what they have to do, who smokes cigars and it’s not even a Freudian thing, the common, blue collar man with a heroic edge. You smell that? It’s tobacco. Cologne and bourbon. Don’t forget it.

  • Betsy O’Neil - America’s sweetheart first broke into the biz courtesy of Linwood Kennedy’s vision -- selling her contract out from under her in 1951 saw her become the go-to leading lady within the year. But Betsy’s always been a fan of maintaining her own agency and if that meant bedding her way through the Egyptian cotton of 1960s Vinewood producers, so be it. Never say she didn’t forge her own path.



  • The Suicidal Failures - Headlined by abrasive guitarist Rocky Muñoz, pioneers of a near-revolutionary sound, local legends, and above all - counterculture icons. Psychedelia, gospel, rock-and-roll and a bad motherf*cking trip all rolled into one.

  • Milk - Legendarily transcendent psychedelic rock band with a guitarist who could melt anyone’s face off from the front row, Milk has nothing if not a penchant for railroad photo ops, denim, acid, and an extra special affinity for the wah pedal.

  • Moe Consoli - Every Italian’s favorite lounge singer and good-old-days Vinewood heartthrob. Close friends with a variety of colorful figures from Liberty’s Italian-American community, and now frontman of the famous Donk Herd; a fraternity of swing musicians trawling the Venturas casino scene.

  • Nate Valentine - America’s former funnyman and crooner extraordinaire. Also a liquor hound and problem gambler. String of hits in the 50’s and early 60’s, now given new notability as a headliner for the upcoming La Penisola Casino.

  • Wesley Carter III - Forever a vaudevillian at heart, Carter III trailblazed his way through a segregated Las Venturas performance scene in the early 60s and has seen it fit to self-deprecate through prosaic TV comedy-music fusions ever since, interspersing cultural handicap jokes at his expense with the occasional Carter-Consoli duet half in the sauce.

  • Bean and the Babies - Family funk-soul-pop band managed by patriarch Bisman Bean, cane enthusiast and charisma vortex. Lead singer Garlan and the three babies; Angie, Algie and Huey, quiet kids despite their booming tunes.

  • Fabulous Frederic Boudreau - Fabulous Freddie from sensational Saguenay, a trumpet player with lungs made of steel and a septum made of cellophane. The product of a questionable relationship between brother and mother, but that hasn’t stopped him from raising the roof or enjoying a bennie or two.

  • Oliver Biscuit - The Ladykiller himself, soul musician with the deepest baritone in the business - the very personification of swagger, what’s more to say?

  • First Degree Willie - Blind soul and jazz musician from New Bourbon with a penchant for classy vibes and genius compositions. As recognizable a voice as any and a whiz on the sax. King of the tuk-tuk sound.

  • Randy Tops - In the 50’s, a night club lounge singer with disgraced pal Nate Valentine. Today… something more. An artist, a director, a lounge singer on the side but aspirations aplenty. Clowns and concentration camps, the ideas of a savant.

  • Orson ‘Bay-Beach’ Brosnan - They call Bay-Beach a Venturas bombshell: dulcet tones like the sound of the sea even if the ocean’s a hundred miles away. He’s the city personified. A man born elsewhere moved here for the sun and songs. Horse fanatic, say hi at Rancho Roanoké, damn near 40 acres of paradise on Earth for the Arabian enthusiast.



  • Malik Evander - Once known simply as Emmett Evander, now Malik after a fated outing with the Muslim Brotherhood and the word of Malcolm X. The world champion: a showboat privy to the theatrics of the game, presenting himself firmly as a mascot of the civil rights movement.

  • Purcell ‘the Heartbreaker’ Calhoun - No doubt one of the early decade’s top contenders, the Heartbreaker’s 1964 Vice Beach bout and decisive loss by the golden gloves of Emmett Evander shattered those dreams and led him down a path of dragon chasing: debt running and dope fixing, glory and gratification, the two have since traded the hardest of blows through the headlines. As Evander sits in the corner of the revolutionary the white man takes hold of Calhoun’s strings: a rematch is overdue and the cultural kettle screams for a boil.

  • Merrill Sipes - For the struggling San Fierro Packers, the team’s star saves all. Since a devastating ‘62 loss to the Swingers in the World Series they’ve been floundering like fish - just three feet higher and the title would’ve been theirs. Fierro ain’t recovered since.

  • Abd-al-Matin el-Malak - Fresh off a conscious decision to trailblaze his way onto the court after a busy year boycotting the Olympics and playing the game of the century, debuting for the Nagadawee Juice in ‘68 comes el-Malak -- taller than some trees and with the bark to match.

  • Trenton ‘Totty Lang’ Langworth - The MVP of the LOB; giraffe neck tall and hands that stick to the ring. Sticky fingers, too, amorist and braggart supreme. A Republican and Cochrane campaigner at heart, an opinion that'll bite when he moves to the Panic.

  • Zagal - You Americans might not know him, but he's one of the best. An international idol with goals aplenty, in the world’s game he's the man with the plan. Will try his hand on creating a US market for football by 1974, lending his boots to the fledgling LC Beavers.

  • Ventosa - Flamenco dancer and guitarist from Spain, famous to American audiences for her completely mangled English and cutesy, vaguely foreign catchphrase. She can play instruments good, sure, but the big bucks are in making a clown of yourself to fat tourists at Caligula’s.

  • Couira Crimson - Raunchy, bawdy, crude and lewd: all words used to describe the man from Couira (An accent like Coy-rah and never Co-wee-rah) with a tongue like a whip. Mothers in the audience wail, cover the ears of their innocent babies as he curses loud. God forbid, he said tushy!

  • Scintilla - Flamboyance to a tee: glitter, sparklers, frills and an ascot. Fingers on fire blazing down the piano keys leaving a trail of red in their wake, a prodigy if nothing else. If the music’s one thing, the entrances - driving a Benefactor through a crowd, parachuting in, suspended by wires above the stage - are a whole different class of showmanship.

  • Devilish Denny Dahrendorf - Clad in a red-white-and-blue jumpsuit and a whiskey or two away from a coma, watch as Triple D rides a tiny motorcycle over a ravine, or through a ring of fire, or into the seats as everybody screams and disperses and the engine roars for blood.

  • Kitty Isobel - Protege of Wes Carter III, shareholder in the Liberty City Swingers, rising queen of Venturas -- Kitty has played her way through the campiest of camp and sleaziest of the silver screen to earn herself a self-sustaining foothold in the industry: and she does it with all the class and intrigue of a gal who knows the score and never fails to disappoint in the latest Ponsonbys cheetah print.

  • Babette Gherkin - Her shtick is to make herself look as repulsive as possible to an audience frothing at the gills. Greasy wigs, greasy clothes, grease grease grease.

  • Bobo Molasses - It seems a paradox, but Bobo’s real. The most Jewish Italian to ever live. Songs and stories and a Lower Easton accent, slang that passes by the normals like cars on a highway but gets the locals laughing. An American staple.

  • Reuel Mulligan - Put-down comic icon. Fat guy in the audience? A black? A woman? Doesn’t matter if you’re goddamn Mac Panza, you will get the sh*t kicked out of you ‘til your brain bleeds and your wife don’t love you no more. Nobody is safe.

  • Slick Mickey Catacoff, the ‘King of Zing’ - “Where’s the love?” cries Slick Mickey simultaneously slicking his combover back and sighing deep. Nobody loves Slick Mickey. Not his kids, not his spouse, not his doctor or his accountant or his milkman. And by the end of the show, he’ll make sure you know that nobody loves him. You damn well better.

  • Casey Edwards - The undisputed king of late night. A face fit for radio and an uncanny ability to jumpstart careers on a whim, since 1960 he's been the teller of America’s bedtime stories.

  • Holden Beneke - The most trusted man in America, CCC News’ star anchor and reliable broadcaster of the latest. The Gulf of Tonkin? PLQ? The elections and Apollo and the World Series? Uncle Holden was there, and first, and whispering sweet nothings. That's the way it is.

Edited by Cebra
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