GTA: Bohemians & Blackjack

[Cebra]

A blinding white light slowly fades into a hazy yellow. As the screen becomes clearer, the theme music and credits begin to play and we focus on the scene; the soon-setting sun beads a dark orange cast onto blocks upon blocks of rundown concrete buildings. In the shadow of the nearest lies a rectangular wooden structure, its chimney billowing smoke into the atmosphere. A man walks his dog down a gravel path nearby, but aside from them the place is desolate. View from the ground: from the gravel path a convertible pulls in behind the building, slowly, tentatively.

The camera shifts abruptly and we see two vehicles, a Dundreary Brigand followed by a Déclassé Rancher, speed up the same path. As the first car turns into the wooden place's parking lot, its passenger signals with a hand for the pickup to continue down the road. It speeds forward kicking dirt as the Brigand comes to a stop in front of the building, a sign reading Iron Inn now clearly falling off its distinctly wooden hinges at the entrance. Bennie Bartok steps out of the passenger seat, removes his sunglasses and stuffs them into his red leather jacket. The music fades down but the credits continue as he leans into the window.

"Keep your ass planted to the seat, fella. Make sure your hermanos keep circling the block and if I ain't back in ten minutes you all come in guns-a-blazin'. Got it?"

The driver - a skinny Latino - nods and hands Bennie a suitcase from under the seat. He grabs it, looks 360°, heads inside.

The perspective shifts inside the bar. All beaten-down wood, it's vacant except for our first protagonist, Julius Cole, sitting at the bar, and a chef in the back kitchen. Walk Away Renee drones quietly from the jukebox. We get an eye on Julius: he's just arrived, but makes it looks like he's been waiting ages. As he sips his milk he spins in his seat toward Bennie and lets him speak first as the theme quiets;

"Suppose you're the guy. I thought this was set up as a public deal, what gives? This place's dead inside and out."
Julius eyes him carefully. "I don't make the deals, cat, just carry 'em out. That the stuff?" The chef in the kitchen wipes down the pass, eyes Benny nervously, ad nauseam.
Bennie nods, smirks: "You hope it is. Where's the dough?"
"I got it, don't worry. Only, I hear that you ain't the most trustworthy cat on the block. You mind lettin' me see the sh*t first?"
A hand to his heart. "Ah, that hurts. Not thirty seconds and you're already judging me." He pauses all serious, breaks out into a laugh. "Yeah you can see it, baby. All here."

He props the metal suitcase onto the bar top with a thud and opens the latches. Inside, at least a dozen sealed packages of who-knows-what.

"Alright, brother, you cool." Julius gets up, goes around the bar and grabs his own suitcase: $5,000 cash courtesy of David Arnold. He puts it on the bar alongside the other one and watches Bennie swallow a few bennies from a foil wrapper.

"You know, I'll take your word for the money," Bennie says. His shaky hands show that he couldn't count it even if he wanted to. "I got a feeling we're gonna cross paths again - Davie keeps a small circle. Call me Bennie next time."
Julius half-smiles. "So you say. The name's Julius."
They shake hands. Bennie says "Don't I know it, fella," smiles and walks back out the door he came in.

Julius grabs the remaining suitcase and pulls a note - Bennie B. I always got work! and a phone number - He stuffs it, chef pipes up: "That cat ain't right, brother. I know a toad when I see one."

"Them's the breaks if you wanna catch yourself some flies." Julius tips an invisible hat to him - "See you, Louie."

 

Head out back to Julius' Willard Gaia. He places the suitcase on the back seat and hops in front - the Brigand and Rancher eastbound, Bennie's peace-signed fingers sticking out the passenger window. Julius smirks, shakes his head, shifts into first as the theme morphs into Everyday People - he kicks down the gravel road toward the city, and we get a full view for the first time: downtown San Fierro outlined by the bright setting sun. The typical GTA city ride-around begins alongside the credits; Julius heads into the city as we're treated to its landmarks - a God's view of the busy Crimson Way Bridge near Flamenco Island; the beginnings of the Montgomery Monolith; a pass-over of the Center of Quattrocento. Julius rides into Suppleham, an arm on the door belt. He checks out a gal leading a poodle down the crosswalk - she smiles, the light turns green, and he keeps going - but the camera stays behind. It abruptly drifts 90° to a brick building in a line of storefronts; a bar named The Bar. From behind the camera a man in a USMC-sleeved jacket shuffles inside.

 

The door chimes as Doug Pryor makes his way into a busy scene. The place is much less desolate than the inn - every seat wrapped around an L-shaped bar is full of chattering men and women. The bartender - Monica - running between half-made cocktails, raises a hand in the air to acknowledge her regular. Doug offers her his best smile as a couple of oldsters eave a window booth arguing about pears. Doug takes the vacant spot, removes his old Corps jacket and sighs. We get a view of the street outside - happy couples, briefcases and suits, lone people walking their dogs go up and down the sidewalks as cars rumble along beside them. The credits continue out of the way. The perspective switches to behind Monica as she brings Doug his perennial tonic, an Old Fashioned. She puts it down on top of a napkin, smiles and turns away before he can speak a word - as if he would have. As he takes his first sip, the door chimes again as a man in a brown flight jacket and fedora enters and makes his way to Doug's booth. Marcus Vogel removes his hat, sits down and folds his arms.

"What in God's name is so important I had to shlep out here for?"
"I needed to get out of the house, you know." Doug leans forward.
Marcus nods. "Yeah - that's great and all, but I was perfectly content sitting on my ass reading the funnies."
Doug - straight to the point. "I just found out that Eddy Segal lives in Calton Heights."

"No sh*t? Small world."

"Itty-bitty. You prick."

 

No words - it's clear that Marcus had the scoop and didn't tell.

 

"Alright, look - I knew you'd want to know, I just didn't think you needed to know, you dig?"

"I don't dig. You've put me in a very bad mood, Marcus."

"F*ck off, I don't need your sh*t."

"Likewise. You coming?"

Marcus nods and slides out of the booth. Doug places a fiver on the table and exits the bar, Marcus shadowing him.

You gain control of Doug. The camera focuses on his blue Vapid Messier parallel parked across the street as the objective appears: Get in the car. As you attempt to cross the street, a familiar convoy of a Brigand followed by a dark Rancher speed down first, nearly mowing you down. Doug flips the bird before getting in his car, Marcus beside him. The driving controls appear in the upper left; extra long if you've chosen manual transmission. Squeeze your way out of the line of parked cars and follow the mini-map route.

Marcus: "This car is a piece of sh*t."
"I'm aware. But you had to bike here, so I'd pass on passing judgement for the time being."
"C'mon, I know for a fact you've always wanted an Enus - get yourself an Enus."
"Are you stoned? I'd settle for a steady supply of food stamps; if I want an Enus I'll head up to the Outlook and break a window."
"That's a bad idea. You know, I can hook you up for some stamps - good price."

"Oh, I'm glad to see you've demeaned yourself to stealing from the poor."

"The moral high-ground falls through when you're poor yourself. Death and taxes, you know."

"We're in the same boat, Mark. I got a guy-"

"We should be in the same boat. In a literal sense."

"I know, but really. You know the guy up in 5G - the uh, Asian fusion?"

"Marquez? He's a bum."

"There are things on the horizon with him. Good things - and unlike you, I'll be sure to keep you in the loop."

"You do that."

Continue up San Fierro's winding roads at whatever pace you desire, being sure to eye the hard-bodied vehicles of the era. When you reach the destination, you'll see Edward Segal's place of residence - a white three story townhouse nestled between a dozen identical ones. Anonymous. Expensive. A shiny yellow Coquette sits in the slanted driveway.

The perspective switches to inside the Messier. The pair stare at the house and the sports car.

Doug: "F*cking asshole. Screw the Enus, I'd like to break that f*cking window."

Marcus grabs a pack of Redwoods from his breast pocket, puts one in his mouth and hands Doug another. They light up.

"Listen, Doug, Joanna keeps telling you-"
"Don't bring her into this."
"Don't play the battered wife card - she's right. She knows what's best for you, and lamenting on that f*ck-up ain't it. Bringing the past to the present - even worse."
"I can't believe he's so close. You know I haven't talked to him since they passed down the sentence? I bet the f*cker's holding a whole Goddamn armory in there."

"Let's go."

Doug shifts into first gear and hits the gas. The camera shoots into a bird's eye view and launches across San Fierro by way of the Crimson Bay Bridge and the desert, smack into the middle of Las Venturas. We focus on a big building's tin facade glistening in the sunlight - big blue letters reading La Penisola blinking over a row of a dozen glass doors. A shiny red Albany pulls to the curb of the crescent driveway and we meet our final intro, Dante, with his uncle Jacky the passenger.

 

Dante puts it in park - "Lemme guess - I don't get the privilege of entry."

"You get the privilege today." Jacky checks himself out in the mirror. "I look okay? I was right, this tie looks like it belongs on a f*cking clown suit."

"It's Ponsonbys, uncle Jacky. You can't go wrong."

"Sonny'll appreciate it. Come on."

Take control of Dante as he exits the car. Head inside one of the doors, into a grand entry hall full of marble and glass, and past the big game room: dozens upon dozens of slot machines sitting empty over a floral red carpet. Further down, it morphs to blackjack, roulette, poker, baccarat - green felt tables awaiting their dealers. Instead, they receive the asses of Silver Sixes' moving company's workers who think they're on lunch.

 

Jacky: "Get back to work - you want Mr. D'Aversa to see you slacking off?"

"Union-declared break." A worker thinks he's funny. Jacky hasn't used his zygomaticus major since the Depression.

 

Through gold and red French doors, the office: more carpet, more red. Around a wooden bar sit the brass: Carlo D'Aversa, Jon Gravelli, even Sonny Cangelosi, on unwrapped leather stools. They stop mid-convo to acknowledge the Gallos; they raise their drinks and Sonny stands and opens his arms.

 

Jacky walks into the embrace. "Bravo, Santino."

"Thank you, Giacomo. It's been a long time coming."

Dante butts in: "Sure has, Mr. Cangelosi. When's opening night?"

"Whenever that little sh*t Nino Lisi frees up his schedule." He turns his attention to Carlo D'Aversa. "This kid, I tell you, he's got some balls. You know, I offered him twice the-"

 

Sonny's talk gets delegated to the background. Jon ignores him as well, grabs everyone's glasses and hands them to Dante. "Rye."

 

Dante scoffs and walks behind the bar. The clink of ice cubes comes before the sloshing of liquid in tumblers as Dante finishes pouring, eyes up and back down trying to hear what Sonny has to say. We see this from Jon Gravelli's perspective as he moves forward from his seat.

 

He talks, looking at Dante but speaking elsewhere: "Jacky, the kid up for driving?"

"I am."

Jacky overrules: "Depends on the business."

"Important stuff. The zoning commission won't get off Amerigo's ass about the parking lot's limits; anything to bring down legitimate business from under the hand of an Italian."

Dante laughs although he's no longer being spoken to. "Oh yeah?"

"Me and Sonny are gonna go meet our friend with the nose on the West Side. Jacky, you mind keeping Carlo company in the meantime? Kid's got the jitters."
"Certo."

 

Downing his own drink, Dante shrugs as Gravelli tosses him a pair of keys. You gain control of him, directed to leave the casino and find the car in the parking lot - but you are free to explore the building. You'll see the rows of slot machines glisten, never used, and the carpet floor spotless. All is lit by hundreds of yellow-hued lights spread across the ceiling. Further down, near the roulette tables, a group of Gambetti goons carry cardboard boxes inside from a side door, heaving creative insults back and forth alongside the boxes, clearly over their lunch break. La Penisola is very new, very expensive, and, above all, a do-or-die.

When you make your way outside followed by Sonny and Gravelli, you'll find the black Glendale Royale parked in the lot. Take your time, admire the atmosphere: the strip homes twice the amount of cars than it does pedestrians, who all convene in groups at casino doors. At every angle of your vision is a flashing sign advertising a casino, a product, a hotel, waiting for darkness to fall to fully shine. Alternately, jump straight into the car. Allow the mafiosi to get in the back seat and take off. The radio is dialed to Chances Are

- let the music sink in and enjoy or change the station to something a bit more modern - Radioactive Radio plays Steppenwolf. Don't like either? Play spin the dial; try your luck.

A grumpy mumble, the first time Sonny speaks direct: "Don't change the frequency, it depreciates the value."

Follow the minimap route down the roads, taking into account their contrast with those of San Fierro - fresh pavement, operating in grids instead of winding disarray. Make your way down the strip, passing by older casinos brimming with eager moneywasters and through a few quiet residential areas as your surroundings become increasingly sh*tty. The men of honor in the back seat converse in Italian to Dante's annoyance although he was brought up pure Sicilian; he dropped the language like a bad habit upon his arrival in America.

 

Dante interrupts, hoping to catch a bit of English: "Say, Mr. Cangelosi, I hear you've got a choice Albany back in Liberty City. You swap to Benefactor on the west coast?"

"I call her Caterina. Cream leather seats, the best car money can buy." He snaps from a little trance - "Maybe the power of the almighty dollar is different on this side of the country, but his piece of sh*t is the best thing they had at the dealership. Testa di mierda, you ask me."

"It's not so bad. Real heavy, though."

"It's up here," says Gravelli when you reach the destination: a three-story apartment complex breaking apart at the seams. A neon sign reading Su ar Ray's M ni-Mart flickers above the street level entrance. Park up behind the baby blue BF Synergy curbside and let the two men exit.

"Idle the car. We're more than ten minutes I want you to circle the block", orders Gravelli as he slogs out.

A light bulb - Dante hops out of the driver's seat and helps Sonny out the back. He receives a pat on the shoulder in thanks.

He returns and lights a cigarette, opens his window. The West Side is misleadingly quiet during the day - other than a group of three perched on a nearby stoop the street is empty. Cars, still working, badly beat, line the sidewalks.

Just as Dante finishes his cigarette and you predict they might become a problem, the three men hanging out close by decide to approach the car. Dante reaches for his gun in the glove compartment before remembering that it's not his car.

He mutters "Sh*t" as Gangster #1 slides his hand up the hood. He hunches in front of the driver's window.

"This a real nice whip, man."
Dante nods. "Thanks. Mind keepin' your hands off it?" It's not posed as a question.
"Yeah, yeah, 'course." The other two hover in front of the vehicle cracking knuckles. Intimidation 101.
"Let me be frank." Dante mirrors their actions. "I know this thing's pretty nice but it ain't mine, it's my boss's. He'll be coming out any minute and I don't think he'll be thrilled to see a bunch of spooks admiring his car so closely."

Good timing: Gravelli, Sonny and a squat man in a cheap suit exit the building together. Gravelli's experienced eye knows what to do; he leaves the building with his suit jacket pulled back, allowing them to revere his holstered pistol. Wordless, the men walk back to their stoop together.

"f*cking moolies," Dante mutters.

Sonny turns to the short guy. "I'm very pleased we could come to an agreement, Mr. Decker."
Mr. Decker chuckles. "So will my wife. I'll have the right files mailed to your guy."

The mafiosi take turns shaking his hand, patting him on the back and Dante's face contorts. The man hops into his Synergy and speeds off as Gravelli and Sonny return to the back seat. Hit the gas.

Dante: "You ain't gonna ask what was going on back there?"
"Nice car, not-so-nice neighborhood. I can do the math," answers Gravelli.

"Alright. Where to?"

Sonny chimes in: "Bring us to Caligula's, Dante. Friend of mine needs a haircut."

Objective: Drive to Caligula's Palace.

As you make the first turn off the West Side, you'll notice a rusty Barbican Veranda shadowing you. "Bastards don't give up," Dante mutters. "Step on it, kid." Do that. Escape your pursuers as best as you can in a heavy car built for luxury - try the vacant alleyways between apartments, closed businesses, sand lots. When they're lost, you get a little praise from Cangelosi: "Good driving, my boy. Your uncle used to be quite the driver himself."

Pull into the U-shaped valet park in front of Caligula's and a valet will fetch the Glendale, eyeing you strangely if it's missing a door or two. The trio will step under the awning as Sonny lights a cigar, watching the sun set behind The Pink Swan across the street.

"You did well, kid. You really do remind me of your uncle."

Dante smirks. "Never heard that one. Sure hope it's a good thing."

Gravelli: "That's your call to make. Look where he is now."

Sonny walks into Caligula's with an ambiguous wave and Gravelli places some bills into Dante's hand before following his boss. Dante stuffs the cash into his pocket before joining the crowds down the strip aimlessly - the camera pans up to show the casinos in their entirety as Las Venturas lights up for the evening.

 

+ $25

Edited July 4, 2019 by Cebra

[AEsob]

I like the departure from traditional screenplay writing to this, this style actually feels better, IMO.

[Cebra]

 

The fade to black of the previous mission drops abruptly and you're thrown right back into the action as Julius, barreling down a straight road in his Gaia surrounded by brickwork factories and f*ck-all else. Maintain your steering if you don't feel like heaving yourself out of a ditch.

 

Objective: Reach the chop shop.

 

You'll see it soon: an orange-bricked little building with cracked windows and a dozen choppers parked out front. Pull into the lot and learn how to give your vehicle the switch from convertible to not; it's nightfall. Cue cutscene: Julius grabs the product-packed suitcase from between the seats and hops out. Foreign land to him, he circles half the shop before finding yellow light pouring out a back door—inside, more or less what you would expect: machismo galore. A good half dozen guys working on their bikes babbling, cigarette smoke and blowtorch burn filling the air. He tries to find a face behind the beards and taps one on the shoulder, who spins around and gives him a suspicious look-over.

 

"You meant to be here?" He pulls a cigar from his mouth.

"Depends. One of you fellas David Arnold?"

"Dave's in the cave." He points to an office behind a steel door. "And keep your hands seen—don't want no problems now."

 

Julius nods and walks to the door. Before opening it, he looks through a nearby mesh wire window into the cave: a big man even sitting down, bearded like all others and wearing a biker jacket patched Redwood, talks to an equally tall but much less rugged guy. The second guy looks official: black suit, black tie, black oxfords. Not a wrinkle at hand, though one would guess he's fallen into his 50s.

After a quick decision to walk instead of knock, Julius enters. The men turn to him, #2 with an inquisitive look.

 

Tall, seated beard — David Arnold. We see Julius' eyes rifle through #2's wrinkles in an effort to knock a sense of familiarity into his mind: nada.

 

"Mr. Cole!" Arnold flicks a cigarette onto the concrete floor. "I see you got a nice little something-something for me there."

 

Julius drops the suitcase onto a cement desk strewn with sh*t: a six-shooter, bloody cop badge, two dozen dusty papers and a broken bottle of Pisswasser. A flip of the latches and he stands back, allowing his new employer to admire the product.

 

Arnold claps his hands together and walks to the desk. Over his shoulder, you can see his buddy give Julius a half-assed smirk.

 

"Gimme the knife," Arnold barks at smirky, who pulls a Swiss-army from the inside of his lapel. Arnold takes it and cuts a fine slit along the top of a white package. It bleeds more white: powder. He scoops a bit up the length of the knife and doesn't hesitate to snort it up.

 

#2 finally speaks: "Don't judge the product from what you're sniffing. I told you, you've got to mainline it for a full rush."

Arnold spins around. "You sure about that? 'Cause I gotta say, I'd be pretty damn chipper with this rush."

"I'm sure." He stands up and takes his knife back. Arnold shuts the suitcase and hands it to him, they shake hands.

"Nice to see you, Dave."

"Always."

 

Julius watches the jiver as he walks out of the room and holds back a flinch when he receives a pat on the shoulder. The man closes the door behind him, leaving employer and employee alone.

Arnold lights another cigarette and offers one to Julius who raises a palm in answer.

 

"Don't mind him," Arnold lips around his cigarette as he zippos it. "Narc probes seem to make a fella real touchy-feely."

 

Julius leans against the wall and looks out the little window into the garage. As Out Of Focus

gives way to Helter Skelter he watches two bikers scuffle over the record player until a third threatens them with a blowtorch. "Narc probes don't sound too fun."

"Oh they certainly ain't, but they're the cost of business and I consider it a cheap price to pay."

"How's that?"

"It's a great system. The pigs are already spread paper thin, they have better things to do than chase this pussycat powder across the nation. But f*ck help us if they ever assemble a proper task force."

Julius crosses his arms. "Still don't seem like something to tell a prospective runner."

"I like your style," Arnold says between puffs. "You know when to get down to brass tacks. Now don't take this wrong, but you don't talk like I expected. Where you from?

"I picked up the lingo cross-country 'cause it seems to help old white folk get past their own preconceptions." Deadpan snark: "And my brother went to college."

Arnold chuckles, ignores the redirect. "Articulate and adaptive, you're shapin' up to be a real safe bet on my part.”

He throws the butt onto the floor and it lands next to the first. "I guess I should pay you now, huh?"

"I'd say so."

 

Arnold rises from his chair and walks over to another desk poised against the office's back wall. He opens a drawer and pulls out $100 in sawbucks.

 

"Not bad for ten minutes work, is it?" He hands Julius the cash and they shake. A first: Julius smiles.

"I'd be happy capping a C-note if that were so, but ain't the reward for the risk?"

"Depends how you took at it. I'd say the reward's in the risk."

A quick nod; Julius smirks again. “Yeah, you seem like that sorta guy.”

 

Arnold wraps his leather-clad arm around Julius's shoulders—apparently Mr. Suit isn't the only touchy-feely guy around.

 

“So I called and you took the bait. That's a start, now tell me straight-up—how far are you willing to go for a payday?”

 

Julius squirms from both the touchy-feeliness and poor choice of words.

 

“I ain't naïve. A brother’s gotta get some blood on his hands to make a buck in this city. Never been afraid’a that.”

 

Arnold removes his arm. “Good to hear, 'cause I got some bloody work ahead. You're in a good place—you done a couple jobs for me and kept your mouth shut doing it. Come with me.”

 

A snap back in control—follow Arnold out of the office and back into the garage as Helter Skelter amplifies. Notice the heads turn as you shadow him through another doorway and into a dimly lit, smoky hallway.

 

“Keep your head,” he whispers as he turns a key into a wooden door.

 

Keep your head indeed—a bloody man with a cloth over his face sitting in a chair under a single light bulb, a serrated blade poking out of his shoulder. Beside him stands Impotent Rage in a leather jacket, a foot wider and taller than David Arnold. Where the leader's jacket is blank his reads Vice President. His white hair is matted bloody over one hell of a manic expression.

 

As good a greeting as any: “Who the f*ck is this?”

 

We don't get an eye on Julius’ read of the situation.

 

Arnold speaks up. “Dirk, I told you about him. He's been running for us, he's our connect.”

 

Manic expression turned blank.

 

“He’s good and he's not the f*cking man.”

 

Arnold hobbles over and whispers something to Dirk we're not privy to, but it makes him grin.

 

“Ah.” No hesitation, Dirk yanks the knife out of the hostage’s shoulder and tosses it to Julius who fumbles to catch it. We see him for the first time—he's biting his lip.

 

As chairman screams, Dirk directs: “You wanna move on up, bobo? Finish the job.”

He moves to take the cloth off—Julius stops him. “Don’t need to see his face.”

 

No hesitation, no chance to reconsider. As Julius restrains himself from knifing the torturer instead, you are put in control to do the deed yourself. Push the indicated button and Julius thrusts the knife forward and into the man's neck. A sideways slice and a grunt; we see from behind the chair Arnold’s stoic expression. Julius stumbles backward and drops the knife with a clang as the man’s head lobs to the side and the cloth falls. Full view of the man’s pulpy face. Silence.

 

Broken: “I gotta say, that’s the quickest someone’s done it.”

 

Julius eyes Dirk. This happens often?

 

Arnold next, a touch over-excited: “I knew you were the right fella for this! Guy was a f*ckin’ heel, ‘case you’re wondering. I’m gonna find some good work for you, Cole, you’ll be damn pleased you came to see me.”

 

Wiping the blood off his hand, Julius begins back where he came in shaking his head.

 

“Stop.”

Bloody Dirk takes a step forward. “Can’t just leave a body at the scene, pal. Get rid of it.”

Julius speaks to Arnold instead. “I wasn’t fixin’ to kill anybody tonight. Figured you would’ve had a plan for the cat.”

Arnold shrugs. “The last guy who went through with this hightailed it before we could get this far. You shank a guy because I point and say so and you want me to believe you ain’t got a hiding spot?”

“I got a hiding spot, just not for dead folk.”

Dirk: “Time to find one, part of the induction process.”

“He ain’t goin’ in my ride.”

“This is a chop shop. Plenty of cages to go ‘round. I thought you were a no objections guy, Cole.”

 

With a shrug, Julius moves back up to the body and heaves him up with the help of Dirk. We cut to black, a fade back in as the corpse is heaved into the trunk of a rusty Bravado Bolt. Julius moves to the front seat and Dirk the side.

 

Julius: “You coming with?”

Dirk puts his arms on the roof. “Look, brother. You shanked that guy right quick, but all that proves is that you’re a sheep and Dave’s already actin' your shepherd. Killing is our line of business. What’s important is if you can handle the follow-up, and that remains to be seen.”

 

He gets in the car. Julius next.

 

“Cut the f*ckin’ names. I’ve worked for plenty of dudes since I got to this city and your boss ain’t the first to put me to the test like that. Difference is, most’a them other cats knew what they was doing. I don’t think you thought this through. Who’s the guy in the trunk?”

“I was thinking one of your strong points was not askin’ questions.”

“I killed the cat, didn’t I?”

“You did, and you better get used to it if you’re gonna work for David Arnold.”

“I’m freelance.”

“Not anymore.”

 

Make a choice before you hit the gas. Your options are presented to you on the minimap: you’re free to use any means possible to get rid of the body. Perhaps you want to get to the nearby waterfront and dump the car oldschool style. Shoot the gas tank, sure, just make sure Dirk gets the f*ck out of dodge first. Two scripted options are offered too; drive to the junkyard a few blocks east and use the car crusher. It will cue a cutscene where Julius and Dirk watch as the metal compresses and the latter cracks a joke about how the car’s steel might be turned into a knife in the circle of life. A final choice: venture out to Quest Sound avoiding any patrol cars to Julius’ former employer: the Cavallo-Carne Slaughterhouse. There you’ll meet his old pal Mr. Night Shift—Sammy—who filches the corpse with glee. Perhaps it’s your best choice anyway; it leaves Dirk a touch appalled.

 

When the dead guy’s dust you’ll be prompted to accompany Dirk back to the chop-shop, an easier feat if you haven’t destroyed the car—traffic is scarce on the waterfront late at night.

 

“I dunno,” he’ll say to Julius. “I still ain’t convinced about you.”

“Good thing you ain’t the boss, then.”

Quieter, bemused: “Not yet.”

Julius scoffs. “Don’t involve me in your sh*t, man. I’ll kill cats and run swag for your little club, but I won’t think twice about bailing if y’all start off with some intermediary bull.”

“Good to know.”

 

Pull up next to Julius’ Gaia and let Dirk bail himself.

 

Before he walks into the orange light, he leans in through the open passenger window. “I suggest you ditch this cage.”

Julius ignores him. “So now what?”

Dirk runs his fingers through his bloody hair then picks his teeth. “So now you go home and sleep tight, maybe come back tomorrow.”

“Maybe?”

“Your risk to take.” He winks and walks off around the chop-shop corner.

 

A fade to black if you’re in a jacked ride. If you went the slaughterhouse route it’s not done yet: Julius rifles through the car’s glove compartment and under the seats for any loot before ditching it. A final look inside the sun visor; as he flips it a small Polaroid falls onto his lap. He rotates it face-up: a smiling man holding hands with his wife and a young girl on his shoulders. A look of recognition: no cloth over his face, no blood. Julius throws it out the window and exits the car.

 

+ $1

Edited July 6, 2019 by Cebra

[Mokrie Dela]

I find the style interesting. I can't give much feedback on screenplays to be honest, but it honesty feels more like standard prose in some ways. The problem is it feels slightly like its havjng an identity crisis - parts seem like 'normal' stories but then the screenplay style pops up and takes away the immersion. It does make me think how cool a second person story would be, and when I come to play mammoth catch up with the stories in this section, I'll add this to the list and offer more in depth feedback. For now though, this is just a brief note. Keep up the work

[Cebra]

 

 

After the end of the previous mission you'll be prompted to switch to Dante—do so at your leisure. The camera will once again speed across the map as the Monótono River turns to desert. We're treated to a timelapse of Las Venturas from the perspective of a flat-roofed bungalow a few miles out as nighttime neon vibrancy turns to a full blown heat-hazed day.

 

A red Albany Ace pulls into the driveway and parks behind a shiny Barbican Piranha. A familiar face steps out, a brown bag in his hand even more wrinkled than him. Jacky hooks around the car and makes his way into the home’s sandy backyard, past a picnic table covered in sawed-off shotguns to a small shack poised against the fence. A look in a tiny window, then a knock on the steel door. It opens immediately to Dante in his skivvies yawning.

 

“Yeah?”

“Dio mio. It's eight o’clock, you f*cking bum.”

“I know, that's why I'm still sleeping.”

 

Jacky pushes in; first person from his view—mattress on the floor, a few shelves filled with useless sh*t and a small table with newspapers piled in a 5x5 space. Smoke rises from beside the bed, Jacky sniffs.

 

“It don't smell like sleep to me.”

“Yeah, yeah, la canapa. Let's get it out of the way.”

“I don't got time.”

 

Jacky pushes the bag into Dante’s chest. He grabs it and peeks in, Jacky slaps his hand away.

 

“Remember my pal Fabrizio out in the valley?”

Dante leans on the door frame. “No.”

A rare chuckle: “The bookie who screwed Angio Scavarelli’s broad. I had to put him in hiding for half the goddamn year.”

“Don't ring any bells. I remember Mrs. Scavarelli, though.”

“Uh huh.” — Jacky begins to direct Dante to Fabrizio’s place through physical landmarks rather than street names as Dante yawns and scratches away.

“...just put the bag in the vase on his porch. You listening? This is a favor from Jon so I'd appreciate it if you don't f*ck it up.”

Serious now: “I won't.”

“If you got nothing better to do, which I know you don't, go see Jon when you're done. He asked for you.”

 

Mutual nods; Dante closes the door. He checks his little spinello by the bed and finds water dripping onto it from a crack in the roof, followed by a trail of Sicilian cursing. Only part of the language he knows.

 

Objective: Get dressed and drive toward New Martis.

 

Approach a little pile of clothes on one of the shelves and pick a default outfit: rolled up blazers, wifebeaters under unbuttoned dress shirts and chinos. A quick tutorial on that pile of papers: it's your only alternative to radio, fresh off the presses every morning are details on the latest, from your criminal exploits to just typical everyworld bullsh*t 50¢ apiece. When you're pleased with yourself leave the brick hut and make your way to Dante’s Piranha. If you want, take the opportunity to explore Jacky’s home—a typical Venturas bungalow, flat-roofed, every wall’s a window. Mid-century as it gets until you see inside; stickler Jacky enjoys WWII-era furniture. The living room’s fifty shades of beige hosts a card game every night in which you can partake.

 

Done? Get to the car and pull out of the cul-de-sac of identical homes. Even though the valley isn't far away, the lack of traffic allows you an even quicker commute. Floor the muscle car and hear the engine roar as The Strip ’ buildings fade further away in the haze. No waypoint, but follow the natural route and you'll find yourself back on the West Side—sh*thole tenements and eerie desertion. The camera will focus on Sugar Ray’s Mini-Mart as you pass, a keen eye will notice the rusty old Barbican Veranda from the previous mission curbside. Keep driving as the amount of domiciles dwindles and sand dunes swells. Buttless scorching day—A Day In The Life playing on the radio as you travel down the highway. Around you? A little metal guardrail and miles upon miles of flat desert and tumbleweeds. Urban expansion my ass, Dante mumbles to himself. Promises straight from Cazzini—Venturas is the future, right?

 

Fabrizio’s bungalow is one of three built so far—the skeletons of a few dozen more are scattered along dirt roads nearby; the beginnings of a little township halfway to New Martis. Over a nearby foothill you would usually see the concentrated skyscrapers of San Fierro, but for now the haze limits the sight—park on Fabrizio’s dirt lawn, find the vase, cue cutscene: Dante peeks in the bag again and you get to make a quick decision: press the indicated button to snag a Grade-A suppressor. No immediate consequences, though; as he begins to walk back to the car a man pops out the front door holding a lupara by the barrel. Dante feels for his pistol and comes up empty again—holster’s in the backseat, you'll get it when you return.

 

Pure Alderney: “Who the f*ck comes all the way out here and don't say hi?”

 

No gun pointing; no hands in the air.

 

“I'm Gravelli’s guy. Heard you needed a few silencers.”

 

Fabrizio grabs the vase and flips it into his hand. He opens the bag, pulls a few out then back in.

 

“Suppressors, you f*ckin’ amateur. When someone comes up with a real silencer we’ll all be up sh*t’s creek.” Fabrizio scratches what seems to be a perpetual itch with his lupara.

Dante: “It's like tumbleweed f*ckin’ hollow out here—what's your deal?”

“You know my deal.”

“Can't say I do.”

“You work for Gravelli, paisan—we all got the same deal.”

 

He smirks, twirls his shotgun like a balancing act and slams the door, Dante's questions hanging tabled.

 

One main objective: Go back home, passing through the West Side en route.

 

Do so. Take the scenic drive again—what, how often do you get to put the pedal to the metal in a muscle car through a desolate desert? Try first person; admire the old-school dials and blood leather interior if that's your thing. The sand will soon morph to a few warehouses, then one-stories and ultimately your target tenements. Passing the mini mart will this time trigger a short scene: Dante will attach his holster, park around the corner and get out. The information box in the upper left will display your objective straight up—Go to the payphone across the street—along with a tidbit of info: the directive is purely a suggestion; you're free to use your initiative without punishment. If you wanna do things the old way, feel free.

 

First option—those guys fixing to jack Sonny’s Glendale in the intro are already hanging out on their stoop. If you’re up to it, take a hands-on approach and beat the living sh*t out of them. Honestly, the odds ain’t in your favor—three versus one, the three already well-versed in street fighting. Different gangs, different fighting styles—this isn’t one you want to go up against your first time. If you’re brave enough to down them, however, you’ll be introduced to the game’s fighting mechanics step-by-step until you kick their asses. “Not so tough now”, Dante will mutter to the moaning gangsters once they’re rolling around on the ground. “Stick to pinchin’ bicycles from now on.”

 

Two—Dante’s got a gun. Though a barely-attempted carjacking may not merit a bullet (or ten), it’s ultimately up to you. Draw the pistol and Dante will say “Never f*ck with the Gambettis” plain and simple—shoot and book it before the street starts getting crowded.

 

Three—follow the suggestion. Walk over to the payphone and Dante will automatically place the call, 50¢.

 

“Yo, it’s Dante. I got a little show needs playing out over on the West Side. You in?”

Laughs: “Of course. Be there in five.

 

Five it is—fade to black, fade back in to a Vapid Banner double parking Dante’s ride. A pudgy guy inside calls him over.

 

“What’s the deal?”

Dante spits, points to the gangsters on the stoop. “These pricks were sizing up Cangelosi’s car yesterday when I was on a run. Jon scared 'em off, but I say we take it a bit further and teach ‘em not to do that again.”

“Oh yeah, you were on a run with Sonny and Jon. Who else was there, Vic Noto?”

“Ha, I don’t gotta prove sh*t to you, E. But don't say I didn't tell you I was movin’ on up.”

“Whatever, you delusive prick. Got a plan?”

“Ooh, ‘delusive prick’. That’s a good one. And sure—go piss the shines off with your charm while I pull their brakes.”

 

Ettore gets out—at full height he stands half a foot taller than Dante—and hobbles over to the stoop as Dante kneels by his car. Before long an argument starts; your cue to act. Crouch over to the rusty Veranda around the corner and get over to the front: press the indicated button to cut the car’s brake lines. You're free to do this as you wish in normal gameplay—a good preventative measure to take when you don't feel like a high-speed pursuit.

 

Back to the Piranha—shove it into first gear and cruise up to the mini-mart curb. One of the gangsters will notice you immediately.

 

“Ah, makes sense. You dagos hang in packs ‘round here, huh?”

“Glad you remember me. You really seemed to dig what I was drivin’ yesterday, you feelin’ as hot on this one?”

The trio size it up. The short guy: “Nothin’ special, motherf*cker.”

“I bet this ‘nothing special’ would kick up some good dough for parts, though. I'll be honest; I'm joyriding and lookin’ for a race—if you beat me in that rusty piece of sh*t this girl’s all yours.”

 

They laugh like they just heard the world's greatest joke. “Got nothin’ better to do. S’worth a shot, it is.”

 

The three run over to their car around the corner—Ettore gets in with Dante.

 

“Something tells me this ain’t gonna be fair game.”

 

Go to the makeshift start a bit down the road; not like there’s any traffic to interfere. It’s a long, straight path with a sudden 90° into a building further down—good for quick acceleration, bad for someone without brakes. Wait for the Veranda to position alongside you—3,2,1, hit it. Power down the road and prepare to drift the corner alongside your adversaries—watch as they lose momentum and slam into a brick wall at mid-speed. Shift gears again, hit it far this time. Leave the West Side in your dust as Dante and Ettore laugh away.

 

A final trek: Return home.

 

“Sh*t, the car.”

Ettore continues laughing. “I pulled that hunk a’ junk from Ricky’s yard. Gimme some credit, big shot.”

“Ain’t no big shot yet. Stepping stones, Tor—a favor here and an unpaid gig there’ll and before you know it they’re dependin’ on you.”

“Uh huh. And that back there—that your idea of sanctioned payback?”

“Not exactly. But the hoi polloi gotta know to respect the family, capiche? I got a feeling it’ll pay off.”

“So when you gonna introduce me?”

“What, to Sonny? That old prick won’t remember you from any other Strip drone stunad unless you make a splash. That’s on you.”

“So I heard. Come by my pa’s in a few shakes and I’ll bring the waves.”

 

Dante chuckles, a bit confused, a bit impressed. Park up the driveway into the indicated spot—don’t take Uncle Jacky’s vacant one unless you’re yearning for a verbal lashing later on. Not his house, but Ettore’ll walk in first—Dante steps out of the car and, for the first time, you’re free. You’ll receive the traditional breakdown of what you can do while in free roam, ending with a prompt to begin the first mission of Doug’s if you so please.

 

No reward.

Edited July 4, 2019 by Cebra

[Cebra]

We fade in to Doug sitting on his apartment steps, puffing away at a smoke stub and watching his neighbors come and go along the cobblestone sidewalk. As an argument breaks out in one of the sh*tty digs across the street, a window cracks open a few stories up.

Joanna's head pops out: "You said you were taking out the trash!"
Doug pats a garbage bag sitting next to him. "I am!"

The window slams closed with a dejected grunt. Splinters of wood fall to the sidewalk.

Doug grabs the bag and huffs over to the common trash cans; dented and overflowing with sh*t, he tosses it and his cig into a pile of undoubtedly rank waste and begins to walk back up the stairs just as a blue Corrida screeches up to the curb. A gaunt guy of questionable ethnicity steps out the door and almost gets swept away by a speeding dump truck.

"D-Dog!" he howls, pretending it didn't happen and patting the hood. "Long time no see."
"Yesterday."
"Ah, whatever. How you doin'? Admiring our impeccably kept trash area?"
"That's it. Whats new, Wink?"
"Great things are afoot, that's what." He points to the Corrida. "That things about to get swapped in for a Benefactor. You know Harry?"
Doug leans on the railing. "He finally take his destiny head-on and become a used car salesman?"
"Not exactly. His 24-karat carcass washed up in Holt Bay this morning. No fingers."
"Harry, huh? Sounds like a gas."
"I had to go I.D. the poor f*ck's body and book it before they booked me. Real gas."
Doug doesn't ask the $64,000 question. "So what now?"

"We can talk in the car. You free?"

Doug about-faces to the window and back. "As the mary up on Elwood."

Segue to gameplay - enter the passenger side and let Winky drive. Notice the stacked, banged-up crates in the truck bed.

"Again - so what now?"
"All hands on deck is what now, D-Dog. Harry was a prick, but he held a decent rank with the Tongs. He promised he'd talk me up to the head honchos way back when, and I'd like to think he made good on that."
"Level with me - you think you're gonna replace him?"Doug stifles a chuckle.

"I didn't say that, you fickle old f*ck."

A lull - although its not yet time to make use of them, familiarize yourself with the passenger controls.

Winky: "You carrying?"

"You know the answer to that."
"Negative."
"Don't be naive."
"Fine, don't answer. I got you a little gift anyway."

Little gift - a rusty old revolver.

"Oh, that's swell. I think my great grandad fought the gold rush with this thing."
"Anytime. Listen up."

Winky explains the situation - Harry was a well-established Tong with his fingers in one too many local drug rings, so someone cut them off, slit his throat and tossed him into the bay. Before he even hit the riverbed Winks received a ring requesting a meet - the Triads needing a new heroin supplier, preferably local. Pink Dilian parking lot, Chinatown. Pronto.

As Winky drives under the Chinatown arch, notice the packed liveliness of the district - food vendors, antique stores, arguing Asians and cheap pawn shops crowding the sidewalks. The Pink Dillian's imperial not-so-pink facade beckons forth and he explains:

"Come to think of it, I don't think they'll be too hot on me bringing a number two."
"It's a bit too late for that, amigo."
"Nix that. Climb the fire escape over there and watch the meet from the roof."

The camera focuses on a nearby rusty fire escape - it leads to a stubby building just tall enough to oversee the parking lot.

"What the hell use am I up there?"
"Oh, I got a rifle in the back."
"And your olive branch was an age-old revolver. Your foresight is f*cking admirable."

Right before he turns the alleyway, Doug exits the car and heads to the back. The weapon selection works just like Little Jacob's in IV - for now, grab the rifle and a pair of binoculars from one of those boxes and hit the fire escape as Winky crawls the Corrida into the parking lot. Through the windows on the fire escape you can peek through some apartment curtains, creep some Oriental interiors. Get to the creaky roof and switch to the binoculars as Wink comes to a stop near a grey Classique Tango. You'll receive directives on how to switch between the lenses and the rifle and how to zoom - notice a dirty white Granger parked in the shadows up ahead. Make a preemptive choice; focus on them or the meet itself.

Winky hops out his pickup as a group of four exit the Tango. A short Chinaman with a shirt more abstract than an Adam Biggs canvas steps out with a red envelope of cash in one hand and a mystic knot in the other.

Ready your sights; hold your breath. Just in case.

Winky and cashman get to talking, the others holding the line Secret Service-like. The pair turn round the back of Winky's ride and he cracks one of the boxes open with a crowbar. Laugh laugh, handshake and a handover of the cash; the other goons grab two crates and heave them into the back of the Tong sedan. All's well, but does it ever last? As the meeting wraps up, a distant rumbling grows louder until everyone notices - cashman yells "F*ck!"as a half dozen motorcycles pull into the alleyway, operators armed to the teeth.

Muzzles light up as Doug echoes the Triads sentiments - open fire on the bikers and keep Winky safe as he hides behind his truck. Pop them with sniper fire or go down personal - you've got your gifted revolver and perennially-held pistol, after all. Rush back down the fire escape or take a leap of faith off the roof onto a protruding garage below. Every time you jump off a high surface wielding weapons youll activate a bullet-time freefall regardless of who you're playing as - use it to take some potshots at the bikers. Scramble for cover once you're down there and finish them off with the help of the Triads, including the sneaks in the Granger; take notice of the mixture of ragdoll and more inventive scripted death animations as you do.

Wrap up, cutscene - the cashman puts his gun to Winky's head and the bodyguards fidget uncertainly as Wink rambles on. Doug approaches calm, hands up: "Nothing hasty, fellas."

Winky blubbers: "F*ck, Calvin, what the f*ck, do I look like I'd get along with those pricks, f*ck, man, this was my deal!"

Doug comes closer, shows his bare hands. "The gatecrashers are dead, amigo. Let's try to keep our fingers off the triggers for a jiffy."

Cashman - Calvin, lets the pistol go limp and wipes his forehead.

"My apologies." Prying eyes converge at the head of the alleyway as Calvin eyes Winky. "But these deadbeats are becoming an issue."

"No f*cking sh*t."
"And you," Calvin gestures crookedly at Doug, "Certainly consider us grateful, but who the f*ck are you?"

He feigns surprise. "I'm Doug."

To Winky this time: "Who is he?"

Wink starts to pace and stops short of the Tong goons."I mean, Christ, Calvin, we live in the same building and his wife ain't that hot on me because we used to work together like a long ti-"

The monologue gets cut short as two not-so-dead bikers make an eleventh-hour decision - a prone one readies his sights at Winky, another steadies himself to a knife charge at Calvin. And it's ultimately up to you - Doug's sharp instincts can blow one of them away. Shoot the gunman and Winky'll drop prostrate as Calvin's men annihilate the other. Vice versa, save Calvin's ass and his men will prevent Winky's demise. No deaths, sure, but your choice will be remembered.

Everyone on edge, Calvin orders his men around in Cantonese. They flip vests, check pockets of the bikers as Winky stands shaky. Doug and Calvin make eye contact, neither backing down as Doug lights a cigarette.

One of the men hands Calvin a card, close up: Stanislaw Choppers, Dutch Flatlands SF - The Road Starts Here.

He speaks to no one: "What kind of tar snake crew orders business cards?"

Ripping it in two, he faces Winky. "Let's table your story, Ying. I'll be in touch."

Doug makes a face. Ying?
"You can cash in later. I'm out." He shrugs, hops in the Corrida and takes off through the crowd of squarejohns still gathered.

With a final stern order, the Triad men hop into the Tango as sirens converge in the distance. Calvin opens the back door to enter but pauses to face Doug, leaning casually against the frame.

"You're a skilled shot, Doug."
"So I've heard."
"The question is, since you've clearly no stake in the inner workings of this deal, where do your loyalties lie?"
Straight: "They lie downstream - where the money flows."

"I often shoot men with that mindset."
Doug takes a prolonged puff of his cigarette. "I'd appreciate you putting that idea on ice, all things considered."

Calvin pretends to consider, Doug cuts his response off: "I enjoy this song and dance if its done timely, pal, but those sirens are getting mighty loud. Maybe it'd suit you better to do this over dinner or something, I hear you fellas enjoy that."

"You'll quickly find that I have no tolerance for insolence, Mr-"
"Pryor. Don't you get sanctimonious on me, Calvin."
"Mr. Leung. You're lucky you're such a good shot, Mr. Pryor. May I reach you through Ying when were in need?"

A slow nod in victory pose; Calvin slugs into the backseat and the sedan flies by, target on him fingering the gaps of his mystic knot. Doug smokes, casually glancing over the half dozen corpses abound, before tossing the cigarette and making headway down the alley exit absent of onlookers. He gives a cursory wave to the Triads slinking in the Rancher watching him as he mutters:

"F*cking Chinamen."

 

+ $50

 

Post-mission phone call(s)

 

Any time you approach a payphone in the city after a mission, you'll receive a prompt once you're 50¢ short: in this case, a call to Doug's wife Joanna. Make 'em or you'll miss 'em. If you don't make a call necessary to advance the story, you'll receive it at the protagonist's safehouse instead.

1st - Joanna Pryor (optional)
Joanna: Hello?

Doug: It's me.
Joanna: Hm, thought maybe you ran out for good. You bring the trash to the landfill yourself?
Doug: Trash's in the trash. I was with Marcus.
Joanna: That's interesting, 'cause Marcus just came over and borrowed some eggs. You think I didn't see you leave with Winky?
Doug: What do you want from me, Jo? He's got work and he pays, that alone puts him above half the jackasses in this city. Besides, there are more dangerous dogs in the kennel.
Joanna: I don't need the bill of goods. Just be home for dinner.
Doug: We'll see.

2nd - Winky Marquez (mandatory)
Winky: I get the right number this time?
Doug: If you were trying to ring me instead of just coming upstairs - yeah.
Winky: Oh, and run into your wife? I wanna jump into the bull pen, I'll wear red.
Doug: What is it?
Winky: Well, it turns out I underestimated the workload involved in Oriental dealings. I can't handle it myself. I tried, really, but I can't.
Doug: Too bad Harry's not around, he would've been keen for it.
Winky: As-f*ckin'-if. Try this olive branch for size - I'm gonna need help running the day-to-day and I know you need work.
Doug: Well this is a more valuable branch than the revolver, I'll tell you that.
Winky: Primo, we'll give it the ol' college try. Ring me up when you need something to get done or I'll come see you when I need something done.
Doug: Appreciated.

 

Side-mission unlocked: Winky's Wetwork

Edited July 4, 2019 by Cebra

[Cebra]

 

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."
"Understood."
"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."
"Now?"
"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.

"Orange?"
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 July 4, 2019 by Cebra

[Cebra]

 

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.
"Who?"
"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 Banyal 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 July 4, 2019 by Cebra

[Cebra]

----

 

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."
"No."

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
Opinion

---- 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.

Edited July 4, 2019 by Cebra

[Cebra]

view hungry cebra

 

This reads terribly with the way the forum update, aka the GTAF Death Knell, merges the posts. Persevere if you so wish

 

 

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?”
“Hunky-f*ckin’-dory.”

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

 

----------

 

 

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 Colella, 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.”

“What?”

“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.”

“Huh?”

“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.”

“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?”

“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

 

----------

 

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.”

“Ouch.”

“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.

“What?!”

“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.

 

----------

 

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.”

 

“...why?”

 

“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.”

 

“Exactement!”

 

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?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“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--”

 

“Babić?”

 

“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.”

 

“So?”

 

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

 

----------

 

 

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.”

 

“What?”

 

“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.”

“Huh?”

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?”
“Sh*t-sure.”

 

J points across the redwoods of Sutter Square—clocktower 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. Mascouten. 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.”

“What?”

“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.”

“Ichabod.”

“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.”

“What?!”

“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.”

“Ha.”

 

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
Crime

 

---- 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 July 4, 2019 by Cebra

[Cebra]

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-died, 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.”

“Huh?”

 

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, Eddy?”

“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, Eddy.”

“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’ Tolson Dam on our heads. I got a lower net worth than that geek on Carson’s always screamin’ about Zappo agents.”

“Zapho.”

“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 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 Eddy 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 Eddy 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 — strawnzo. If only they knew.” A laugh breaks. “This is f*cking warm. Whatever, just give it to me, Eddy.”

“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, Eddy. 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, 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.”

 

Silence.

 

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:

 

Spoiler

 

“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, Eddy!”

 

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.

 

Eddy 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?”

“Huh?”

“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, Eddy.”

“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 Eddy 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 Carson 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, Eddy 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 table; attention-getting, head-turning every kneeling worshipper on their knees for Eddy 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.”

“What?!”

“A bag for the f*cking cash!”

 

Eddy goes limp but keeps his sights on the right side, concedes early defeat — Dante’s intuition sparks in response, tells Eddy 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 — Eddy 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 Eddy — 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.

 

Eddy 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: Eddy 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 coos, 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.”

Eddy 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 Eddy 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, an 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, Eddy.”

 

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. Eddy 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, Eddy?”

“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!”

 

Eddy 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, this painting?”

“Yeah.”

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.”

“Yeah.”

 

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

 

“What I f*cking tell you?”

“What?”

“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,” Eddy 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 valuate 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.”

 

Beat.

 

Switch: Eddy 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 Eddy 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 flatfoots it into the floor.

 

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.

 

F*ck.

+ $72.00

 

Las Venturas Retractor

By Berzelius Zorzi
Crime

 

---- 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.

[Cebra]

 

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.”

 

“Y’okay.”

 

“What?

 

“Y’okay.”

 

“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?”

 

“No.”

 

“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.”

 

“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.”

 

“Russian?”

 

“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)

 

THE DAILY BREECHLESS (optional)

---

PIGS MAIMED AT BACON FACTORY

By Pati Krishana

Editorial

 

---- 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. 

 

 

IRON CITY INQUIRER

---

USAF TO COMMIES: GET REAL, MORONS

By Xavier van Snautenhauser

Vietnam

 

---- 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 August 20, 2019 by Cebra

[LowTierDude]

One of the most underrated posts on the forum. I love the writing.

[Cebra]

 

Last remnants of the city’s famous fog dissipating with the humidity, make your way to the coffee cart under the I-75 viaduct -- Julius soaking in the just-risen sun, pink sky, jean-jacketed, pep in his step: a welcome change when he’s left to his own devices. Cart coffee means no sugar, milk galore; J tosses some extra change to the old git hanging his livelihood on the caffeine urges of early morning industrial workers and keeps on: under the roaring overpass and into the Intrepid courtyard, vans chuffing through potholes behind him. 

 

He walks and sips but slows on sight -- a cream Dundreary Brigand parked by the side entrance. Off-kilter. Empty but engine humming away. He moves to the side, looks around, up at the sun just come up -- makes his way to the red metal door and pounds it with a closed fist and waits and drinks almost-white coffee.

 

Nobody answers.

 

Pounds again, waits.

 

Nobody answers.

 

Jules mutters, sips from the cup and looks around streetwise -- gets his gaze cut short by the door opening a crack, half a moon face peeking out.

 

Nasal voice.  “I can help you?”

 

Russian voice. 

 

“Yeah, I work here, my man. Like to get inside, get my day going if you don’t mind.”

 

“Euh, we work on the pipes. Is very dangerous and toxical, come back tomorrow, we finished then. Good day!”

 

He starts shutting the door but not fast enough -- Julius knows the play, flatfoot kicks the steel and sends it reeling into baldy’s head: badly grabs at it and flies flat onto his back trilling his Rs:

 

“Ах! Приходи за этим ублюдком!”

Ah! Come get this bastard!

 

Jules steps in and catches sight of what he’s in for -- tosses still-too-hot coffee onto bald screamer’s face and makes him scream more, sees two more goons up by the offices: one beating on a cowering Zeke, the other going toe-to-toe with a Winston matching his blows, calling for help once he sees you’ve arrived.

 

Pick and choose who you're gonna help, though Winny’s doing pretty good; head up to Zeke and slam a Soviet into a desk, wipe it clean with his face and throw him to the ground. Quick work, Zeke doesn't get out from under, just mumbling something beyond ears.

 

Win’s on top of the other guy but it ain't nothin’ pretty, Jules all charitable with his fists after a short brawl, picking the guy up by the collar and slamming him into the rowed-up bikes.

 

Totally f*cks him up.

 

Bikes topple like dominoes and gets the guy pinned down, other two Russians scramble off screaming their ‘cyka’s and ‘blyat’s while the guy under the bike hollers for mercy.

 

“Давай, мистер Блэк, давай! Не делай этого!”

Come on, Mr. Black, come on! Don't do this!

 

Win turns to Jules, puts hands up: “We’ve done enough,” he says. “Knuckle sandwich ‘fore breakfast’ll make any man learn a lesson.”

 

“So let him just f*cking walk?”

 

Win has sympathetic frown on, put it into practice or… don't. Guy has to go anyway, so pull him out the bike wailing with the handle digging into his gut, but you have a choice; let him join his buddies outside relatively unbruised, or throw another few punches while he's down. Maybe a kick, maybe a boot sole. Maybe turn his face into goddamn paste.

 

However many pieces he’s in Jules tosses him straight out the metal door -- goon clamors into the goon car with his goon friends, the driver shifts it into reverse and pulls a uwee and guns it out and off the curb and onto the street. He heads back inside incensed, Win now crouched down and tending to Zeke lying back-up against the wall. Air stiff and quiet, Jules makes a beeline for Freddy’s office, yells over the wall to unlock the motherf*cker. You hear a chair scrape concrete from behind -- when it clicks open J rebounds it into the doorstop and you know he’s incensed.

 

“The f*ck is wrong with you?!”

 

Freddy plays superior in lack of his office chair: palms flat on the desk but measured. “Ain’t got the right talking to me like that.”

 

“Damn straight I do Freddy, take a step out this hole and look at what you got done to Zeke. We your sons, huh? I told you to get this sh*t sorted out, told you I’d lend a hand. We went down to the docks to meet those f*ckin’ mob cats you said things were on the upswing -- now we got Russkie bruisers knockin’ on doors and beating the sh*t outta your employees.” Julius takes a breather. “The f*ck you done, Freddy?”

 

Freddy half-flips sh*t, charges forward in a motion punching some invisible Russian in the air before him: “I said it ain’t your place to be talking to me like that, goddamn it! You ain’t gonna twist and turn this into something it ain’t -- long as you’re on my payroll you’re under my spell, you hear me? Not the other way around, son, ain’t never gonna be the other way around where you get to play the judge.”

 

“Cash that pride in an’ bring it up to East Grennie then.” Julius waits for a response, gets met with sheepishness in a bowed head. “Nah, doesn’t work like that, huh. So give the chain of command a break and tell me what you did, why these motherf*ckers are still coming around, why Zeke’s on the other side ‘a this wall bleeding onto the concrete. C’mon!”

 

On with a sigh, Freddy pauses: “Debt. It’s debt, always debt -- property taxes on this place alone, Carol’s radiotherapy. Took out a title loan for the last course of it and now the car’s gone. Just up and took it. Been walking here the past two weeks, you know that? Been here since ‘56 and business ain’t what it used to be by a long shot. Folk used to value the discretion, the intrepidity, hell, it’s up on the sign. How many Post OP vans you see piling down Conquest nowadays? Ain’t how it was supposed to be, son, I’m just… I’m half-sunk. A life in arrears.”

 

“How it’s always been.”

 

“No, ain’t supposed to be a slave to the dollar. No one can serve two masters. But you just take one out to cover the last and it’s just dominoes… just ain’t how it should be.”

 

“Then you cut your losses and sell this f*ckin’ money sink once and for all. Told you I’d help out, not find out you’ve gone to every shark in the city ready to send a goon squad down to the workplace if you ain’t giving ‘em your first-born.”

 

“Enough.” The tone warbles. “Enough of this. I ain’t selling. I’ll see this through.”

 

Julius doesn’t give it time to register. “You’re gonna see it through alone. See how it goes next time they come a-knockin’, then.” He clicks tongue, turns on his heel but stops short on the way out. “Don’t have to worry ‘bout paying your employees for today at least, huh? Get the bikes fixed, Freddy. Gonna need ‘em you wanna work this sh*t off.”

 

A beeline for the exit while the scene holds on Freddy grabbing the chair, dragging it back to the desk all gentle-like and silent and his gaze getting moony -- you’re back on Jules as he looks over to see Win crouched by Zeke’s side, latter cupping his face over bloodsoaked corduroy and mumbling: “Could’ve had ‘em, man, son of a bitch caught me off guard, f*ck”. 

 

Julius still has a fire under his ass but stops in his tracks, asks “You good?”

 

Win stands up, helps Zeke to his feet. “Fine, man. Never better.” 

 

Not fine, probably better -- wobbly, blood drip-dripping onto gasoline-tinted floor, spattering. 

 

“Your eye’s all kinds of f*cked up.”

Win tries giving it a little exam, Zeke swats his hand away. “Said I’m ace. Gonna call a cab, crash at my girl’s while she’s at work.” Touches his eye, cringes. “To hell with this, man, soon as eyes start f*ckin’ bleeding I think it’s time to say the jig is up, curtains down.”

 

Julius inches his way to the exit, not really listening, not able to stay still while Zeke goes on, feet fidgeting--

 

“Ain’t no line of work worth that, least of all moving packages A to B. I’m outta here.”

 

-- over when Win gives Zeke a pat on the shoulder, maybe-goodbyes-maybe-farewells that Jules matches with a half-assed wave from ten feet away and a tepid “Be in touch.”

 

The crash bar calls Julius’s palms and the screen floods with daylight, moments passing then him placid outside, you get the impression that even he doesn’t know why he’s so goddamn keyed up. When Winston joins him he’s eyeing a dead manzanita in the parking lot median; you get an eyeful of taupe death sprawling over the Russian skid marks.

 

“‘Hell’s your rush?”

 

“Can’t f*ckin’ breathe in there.”

 

Kinda directionless, Jules starts to wander from where he came -- finds a shadow in Winston. You’re in control now with a mainline to Jules’ thoughts: back to the car parked in an alley further down Witwicki, little spot for the cream machine absent meter maids and the worry of an odd patrol car or rocks flying off mud flaps. 

 

Sun shines from cloudless blue, shade pockets ahead in low umbrage: overpass, commercial signage, overpass, smokestack, all passed in silence as you make the jaunt with work boots slapping sidewalk. Car’s parked in the shadow mesh of chain link -- slide onto the bucket seat, let Winston do the same, let them stew for a moment before J kicks the car on in stationery, radio quick-blasting Summertime until he dials it down.

 

Hit the gas -- don’t matter where long as the wheels start rolling on tar.

“Guess we got the day off,” Winston says.

 

“Guess we ain’t getting paid.”

 

“Ain’t all about it, Jules. Must be months since we’ve seen each other outside work-home, work-home. We were still in Van Buren, used to be every night we’d be out on the street together, y’know -- Mushin Tiger, Hep City. Smoke and deep blue, Gaudi coming alive with soul. You don’t miss that? Being out in it, among the people, sights, smells. Anything but holed up behind the arch or dealin’ dope for would-be fascists.”

 

Snickers. “Would-be fascists?”

 

“One foot in. Read the paper yourself or next time hold back before tellin’ me ‘bout your exploits -- Dirk Dunne, Jules? You seen what cats like him’re doin’ in the correctional system, to it, to the brothers up at San Lucio? Don’t go tellin’ me you’re still this naive after the last ten years, gimme that, huh? Next time you lay eyes on SS bolts you best be putting bullets into ‘em.”

 

“Man, you can talk. Point is that putting bullets in my employers ain’t gon’ pay the rent, Win. And I know you’re finally warming to Matilda Baby, landlord or not girl got some fire under her.”

 

Winston relents and reaches for jokes. “Don’t you talk to me about rent and landlords, boy.”

 

“Don’t call me boy.”

 

Laughter for a moment - you know it’s been a while. “Let’s go up Birchwood.”

 

“f*ck’s in Birchwood ‘sides the Squeezers and tree ‘pon tree?”

 

Objective fades in. Utterances beside, you’re going up Birchwood.

 

“Lots. Like the brothers and sisters I been trying to introduce you to for the past six months yet you always seem to have an excuse primed and ready to avoid. Gonna have a harder time doin’ that today, huh?”

 

“Man, I just don’t feel like socializing…”

 

“Oh Jules, please, brother, you sound like pops.”

 

Sets him off, “Winston, you’re full a’ sh*t - you know who sounds like pops? f*ckin’ Freddy, you know that? f*ckin’ Freddy and his woe-is-me, big man prideful bullsh*t. Freddy ain’t gonna sell the depot, Freddy can’t admit he lost the game ‘cause he already in it too deep. Just like our father.”

 

“Knew something was clawing at you in there. Y’know,” clears his throat, “least Freddy still stands by his woman, right? Running himself into debt half to keep her alive. Carol’s a sweetheart and I gotta admire him for that. Ain’t every man got the heart.”

 

“What you gettin’ at, Winston?”

 

By now you should be up on the overpass just built above 5th Street - newly painted tar looking dead at the General Coombs Bridge’s prolonged span into Birchwood, other end cloaked in trees.

 

“Can’t say the same about pops.”

 

You drive along but Julius stays quiet. “I don’t wanna talk about her, man.”

 

“Fine.” He knows it’s best to change subjects. Picks infrastructure. “When’s the last time you crossed General Coombs to settle into town proper?”

 

“Squeezers christening the Hippodrome, whenever that was. sh*t, and I was with Sheila. First and only.”

 

“I’ll never understand boxing yourself off in those city limits, Jules. It’s a whole ‘nother world out here - same struggles but a different people, you know? Not that San Fierro doesn’t have the energy but these people aren’t transplants. Birchwood’s a community with a soul, Birchwood-”

 

Interrupts, “It’s admirable but I saw plenty of worlds when we crossed the country, Winston, plenty of people. And now I’m here, we’re here, we got steady work - or we did, least, after ten years playin’ nomad - so either way Imma plant myself here on Earth for as long as I can.”

 

You’ve passed over the warehouses on Hoja Laurel Island, maybe through the fog caught an eyeful of tenements in the midst of a construction warzone ‘sides the military base on Boteen: in the home stretch of a bridge that you might just now be realizing has an ungodly span, know you’ve reached Birchwood when you pass the toll booth being erected for westbound traffic only - state gov ever capitalizing on the ratrace suckers stampeding into the Iron City every morning. The way in ain’t cinematic: slightly raised off ramp making way over the docks, horizontal sprawl of rooftops and chimneys billowing off the tar and into clear blue sky and far-off residentials, greenery kicks in onto the main streets. Red perennials and sequoias planted in the medians on one side and the nascent legs of to-be elevated FUGMI tracks sitting in mud on the other.

 

Urbanity’s little sister. Cute.

 

“Welcome to Birchwood, brother my brother.”

 

Winston knows you’re new, directs you at intersections for your benefit. You’re headed down south city, not-so-glorified suburbs not far off the highway and met with green signage on pillars before long: WELCOME TO BIRCHWOOD and an outline of a birch tree flanked by cultured hedges, prompts J to ask, “Y’all even got birches out here?”

 

“Some. Ain’t native so don’t ask me why it’s in the name.”

 

“Settlers and politicians, man.”

 

Before hitting the streets down off the interstate you pass the docks - influx of stevedores toting crates from branded warehouse to van, slogan-slapped sign paintings and red angry foremen.

 

“Kommissar Shipyards once upon a time.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Do you? Ain’t like you come out here to live up the history or nothing. Men running from Jim Crow with just the clothes on their backs, their Bible, and the promise of betterment as if social segregation was any better out here in lack of legislation. Saw the value in unionizing only to get shunted off into the auxiliary leagues. You know, for the coloreds, the off-woman. Same story here as in Bahialado. Terra Alta. Same story all over, Jules.”

 

Gets cut short by intersection hubbub, trio of panhandlers going car-to-car with mason jars and elevator pitches. Stop at the light and you’re faced with the option to play dead or give in: Winston does anyway, either commends the show of sympathy or chides you for rebuffing charity depending on your choice when the man makes it to your window, disheveled and desperate.

 

“You know what this reminds me of? This motherf*cker reminds me a’ home, Win. Showy public works and alien trees playin’ up the triumph of industry ‘til you see where people actually livin’, ‘cept so far we got docks and birch ‘stead of Standard Engines and elm.”

 

“You’re starting to get it. The elms gettin’ chopped down by the dozen back home anyway. You read that?”

 

“I read. Dutch elm disease or something. Hope ours is still around, you know. Used to love that tree.”

 

“Bullsh*t on the rot - it’s retribution for the riots, Jules. How CPD gonna see what’s going on through the windows of every house in the brothers’ neighborhoods with these hulking elms out front? The gears of state repression mesh, pigs and the goddamn forestry department.”

 

Dead grass, broken white pickets and cracked asphalt. You’re in the dregs - literally called The Dregs, term flipped on its head and embraced wholesale by the populace, residential crash pad knockoff Victorians stretching from Alberga Park down to Balfour Boulevard. Fifteen year old cars line Leandros Ave at odd angles, single black dude sauntering down the sidewalk, cigarette between lips, leather-jacketed and black bereted. 

 

J laughs: “Look at that sh*t, Win, brother’s got a shottie.” 

 

“Yeah. Ammo dud since Hogan signed the act but there’s such a thing as a deterrent factor.”

 

“Man…”

 

Slow roll: you’re home. Rowhouse peeling red chips, big wooden stake making itself known: LEOPARDS OF LEANDROS. 

 

“Man, this is not what I was expecting.”

 

“Yeah, I know.”

 

Keep the car at the curb and follow Winston’s lead; he’s not waiting. Bunch of guys just chilling on the front porch on this big tattered couch, more men of leather and berets and lapel pins of varying revolutionary bent, Pisswasser bottles on the rotting wood and Mosswoods leaned up on the siding. Lonnie’s Lament coming from somewhere, they rise when Winston climbs the steps and one by one they dap all smiles and greetings.

 

“This your brother? Like your brother brother? Damn, how come we ain’t met him before?”

 

Julius hovers on the steps.

 

Then you go inside.

 

Almost pitch black ‘sides a table lamp draped with fabric, it’s about half a dozen deep and smoke-thick, couches and a table full up: books, newspapers galore, big-ass revolver and wine bottles. Wine bottles and paper cups.

 

This kid, really a kid, lanky and fresh-faced and 5’5’’ at best in full get-up, blindfolding some other kid before picking a Stud Defender up off the couch and handing it to him - meanwhile Winston takes the opportunity to hold back with J, whisper names: “Kid’s Donnie, he’s our treasurer. Brother on the couch is Elijah, just came back from Laos with some articles, knows his way around weapons.”

 

Elijah’s got a shoulder holster and a stopwatch: he hits it and the blindfolded kid gets to work disassembling the entire rifle as the rest look on in full focus, does the job quick and by the time Winston’s leading you up the stairs to the second floor he’s already putting it back together.

 

“Sh*t feels verboten, Win.”

 

“Think we gotta pride ourselves on that.”

 

Bedroom turned war room. No bed no nothing - an assembly of folding chairs and a desk in the back corner with a familiar face at the seat: Roxanne primped as ever, head down with nose scrawling notes. She doesn't notice.

 

Leon does.

 

Leon King is this confident motherf*cker with a firm face and a thinker’s eyes and a smirk with his hands greased - one hand deep in a bucket of Cluckin’ Bell, the other coyly clasped around paper cup wine. He's got a comrade to his side, a similar face with unkempt facial hair and a deep scar running down the side. Both have Afros, both have leathers. He's talking federals, some chick named Julia, but it doesn't matter.

 

Leon drops it. Stands. Gets a wet wipe off a table and cleans the palms before extending his to Julius. You get a better look at the outfit; tucked in white t-shirt, olive slacks, a little red book peeking out the front like a gangster with a gun in the waistband. You think it's a handshake but he switches, goes in for the dap instead.

 

“Brother of my brother, I--”

 

Winston doesn't care, “All due respect, Leon--”

 

“Ain't respectful interruptin’.”

 

“Important.” Winston stops, reaffirms, a man not used to confrontation. “I'm just- with all due respect, are you sure about Donnie working on the arms? I'm just sayin' that ain't a job just for anyone, just sayin' maybe Elijah'd be a better fit.”

 

Leon pauses. “Don't know about that. Think he does fine.”

 

Scarface sits up, “State Capitol is the State Capitol. Brother’s proven himself. Proven himself to us, Eucarista, the f*ckin’ world.”

 

“Laverne’s right.” Scarface has a name. “I think he's capable.”

 

Winston stops, like he's about to say something.

 

Doesn't. Throws hands, resigns. Moves for Roxy. Leon watches him as he goes with eagles eyes before snapping vision straight onto Jules, pearly white smile again.

 

“Julius.”

 

“King.”

 

“Julius… what’re your thoughts on Standard Engines, Jules? Lemme start there. What're your thoughts on Carcer City?”

 

Blink. “I-, well… can't exactly call me a fan. Bullsh*t.”

 

Winston from the other side of the room, “C’mon, Leon--”

 

“Thoughts on the war?”

 

“Think it's bullsh*t, too,” Jules replies.

 

“You're sayin' the right things, brother.” Leon’s look hardens. “Just ain't sayin' them with passion. Without spirit. It's apathy and it ain't detestation, apathy that capitalism designs. You detest, and that's the revolutionary spirit's beginning.”

 

“I don't feel nothin’.”

 

“Feelin', brother,” Leon says, “is what change is built on. Feelin' is understanding, understandin' beyond apathy that we live in a system that preys upon the colored man in pursuit of capital. Cynicism is a start, but cynicism for cynicism don't get you nowhere. Gets your teeth grind' in with boot heels by men that wanna keep it that way. Motherf*ckers love cynicism.”

 

“Man’s The Man. Can't stop the grinding, ‘cause they’ll keep grindin’ ‘til they can't stop. No man or no bullets is gonna end that.”

 

“That ain't very revolutionist a’ you.”

 

“Revolution don't change nothin’. Flash in a pan won't do sh*t, never has.”

 

“That, my friend,” Leon’s grinning but it's a hard grin, a knowing grin, “is where I’m gonna show you ya’ wrong. The Man hates us, hates us hard: but hates you cynically. If the status quo’s still around in twenty years those motherf*ckers’ll have canonized us into limpdick activists the oppressed class can look up to, halo ‘round the mugshots. Put a motherf*cker on a t-shirt. To dupe the proletariat, emasculate our image, diminish the reality of direct action and blunt the very edge got Tolson’s dick so hard right now, you feel me? That's cynicism. Cynicism ain't change, it's knowin' things are bad and makin' a buck without sayin' nothin.”

 

“Makin’ a buck without sayin’ nothin’ is a specialty of mine.”

 

Leon laughs, “Speciality of The Man, too,” he says. “But they ain't you. They don't break windows 'less it's the pigs doing it. They got that privilege. You can work within that without blinkin' but all it's gonna do is wind you down.”

 

Leon breaks, paces around the room and keeps on for effect: “Great man once said knowledge ain't nothin' if you don't put that sh*t into action. Great man was right. Used to sell that great man's quotes to phony white liberals down Turbayne U for fifty cents on the dollar, 'cause white kids had that cynicism but wanted to do somethin' more. You gotta speak truth to power to change somethin', Jules. Truth to power with a soul - look The Man dead in his eye and refuse to blink. That's revolution. You capable? Or you a cop?”

 

There's a ringing silence a moment as everyone kinda watches. Laverne’s by the chairs nodding head in awe, Roxy and Winston in the corner with these half-smiles, silently agreeing. Whole room is waiting for a rebuttal.

 

Jules doesn't have one but the front doesn’t falter. “Maybe.”

 

“You remind me a’ me, Jules. Once upon a time I was pissed off all silent-like, didn’t care for the world ‘cause I knew it didn't care for me. That's naïve. But naïve’s what they call us, right?”

 

“I seen the headlines. I ain't sure that's what it is.”

 

Another laugh from Leon, “Maybe, brother, maybe,” hard-pats Jules on the shoulder. “I gotta talk to Laverne. Party calls.”

 

Jules gets the message - nods, leaves. Heads for room corner, for Roxanne embedded in paperwork. She looks up and smiles and Julius does the same twice as nervous.

 

“How you doing?”

 

“I’m fine, Julius. Yourself?”

 

“Oh I’m smooth, finally got to meet the magnetic Leon King in the flesh.” Leans in, puts palms on stained walnut. “Look, girl. I’m sorry about the other day, y’know? Busting heads. Just, I mean, just ain’t never been the one to-- I ain’t the kind of person gon’--”

 

“It’s alright.”

 

“It’s alright?”

 

“Yeah, it’s alright. The magnetic Leon King? I grew up with him, Julius. Had him ‘round the corner every boy I ever dated, was by his side every cause he ever found a passion in and saw every hit, kick, and blow he dealt in support. That the other day weren’t nothing, take my word.”

 

Julius falls quiet and turns around, watches the men in huddle. Camera fixes on his gaze, Roxy in the peripheral over his shoulder.

 

Voice distant. “This ain’t what I was expecting.”

 

“Yeah, Winston said as much but hell if he wasn’t anxious for the day. You read our ten point program?”

 

Spins back around. “Yeah, your uh… your what?”

 

She digs through papers, tosses a side some magazine gone face-up: artwork of cops depicted as pigs and little black school children blowing their brains out with guns while shouting, “Power to the people! Death to all fascist pigs!”

 

Dope.

 

Slides a paper across: “Ten-Point Program. Self-determination and the means to achieve it, no negotiation. At least read it so I know someone has - spent three hours transcribing it for Leon last year.”

 

“A’ight. Sure.”

 

Takes it. Folds it. Heads back to the boys without being called.

 

“--’cause disorderly conduct’s all they got left when a brother ain’t carrying heat or literature and ain’t yet been beaten down enough to revert to his ‘yessuh’s and ‘nosuh mistah officer’s. Ain’t a demonstrable charge, s’why they only added it to the books in the last decade.”

 

Laverne: “Be that as it may, bail pool’s short a dub. Jerome’s the only brother on task who still hasn’t pitched in.”

 

“What’s he on?”

 

“Sellin’ the papers down by the bakery.”

 

Leon sees Jules hanging back and doesn’t hesitate.

 

“Julius, brother Julius. You ready to take care of something for us?”

 

“Huh?”

 

Winston now, “We got a kid selling our papers up on Spruce Street, you know, the color line, name’s Jerome. Good boy, forgetful though, only one hasn’t chipped into the bail pool for one of our incarcerated brothers been jailed on trumped up charges.”

 

Leon: “Bullsh*t charges, epitomized.”

 

“You want me to uh, help sell newspapers?”

 

Laverne speaks, “We all earn our keep. No task too small, brother.”

 

Air is stagnant. Winston shoots his brother a grin.

 

Pressure gives: “Fine, sure, whatever. I’ll help a motherf*cker sell the funnies.”

 

Leon walks up with some swagger as per. “Ain’t nothing funny about our papers, but you’ll see. Shame we ain’t had a chance to rap one-on-one, feel like it’d be a good one.”

 

“That weren’t rapping?”

 

“No. But for a motherf*cking stud like you, like me, the conversation’ll keep. Get to steppin’, brother. We’ll be celebrating back here later tonight, you’re more than welcome. We’ll see what we can do about a good talk after a little victory like this.”

 

That’s it. He turns his back.

 

Your cue to leave. Winston half-waves you out the door - speed-hop down the creaky staircase, past the guys on the couch now just chilling to Coltrane, back into daylight and overgrown lawns and broken fence posts and the Gaia. 

 

Spruce Street. Sure.

 

Going the other way, time to see that Birchwood’s alive - down the rest of Leandros you pass by slices of life - women hanging laundry on front yard clotheslines, men with durags hanging out on car hoods and watching the car drive by, residents walking with big dogs and old men playing chess in Alberga Park and drinking coffee and chewing celery. The bakery isn’t far, easy enough to follow the street signs - though Leandros’ is missing - that you can pull up to the corner in two minutes flat.

 

Kid’s right there hawking the papers. Really another kid - the uniform and all cloaking this lanky frame, beady eyes, no face scruff. Sighs: “What’s this motherf*cker’s name again?” 

 

Jerome. 

 

The motherf*cker’s name is Jerome.

 

Jules hops out, gets bombarded with the pitch until tapering him down with a hand: “Hey mister, hey mister, The Leandros Leopard, paper’s here, only 75 cents, grab ‘em while you can, hey…”

 

“Jerome, hey, chill out.” Chills out. “Got sent by your, uh, headquarters. By Leon, said I was supposed to help out with this,” looks at his setup, pile of papers, nothing else, “somehow.”

 

“You rapped with Leon?” immediately gives up the spiel, “Damn, man, why didn’t you say so?”

 

“I did--I, I did. Right away.”

 

“Man.” He bleeds disappointment in you. God knows why. “Man I know I’m behind on the pitch-in, a’ight? But I got, uh--” checks pockets, “I got like twelve dollars here. We sell, I dunno, another twenty papers and I’ll be square ‘fore the end a’ the day.”

 

“We?”

 

“Yeah, we. Ain’t you here to help out?”

 

“Guess so.”

 

“Then get on over here, brother.”

 

He’s disarmed. Warming.

 

Jules slogs up next to him, draws it out like he’s been called up for punishment by a father with ire in his eyes.

 

“Name’s Jerome Smoot.” Kid hands you a bunch from the pile. “You?”

 

“Julius Cole.”

 

“Cole? You related to Winston?”

“Brother.”

 

“We all brothers.”

 

“Blood brother, Jerome. Let’s just get this sh*t done, a’ight? Make everyone happy.”

 

Lightbulb flicks on somewhere in his head, fast math style: 20 papers at 75 cents a pop, 15 bucks to square it over. The choice is laid out for you as time slows, scene turns grayscale: you fork out for the kid, find something more important to do - or you’re spending the next little while playing hawker. The latter’s not glory work, practically begging each and every passerby to pay you enough mind to consider reaching into their pockets, take a gander at some revolutionary lit - and by no means is Jules a good salesman.

 

The few whites sprinkling the sidewalk sure as hell ain’t interested.

 

The newly anointed duo chit chat between marks; Julius with no pretensions about finding the place a bit rundown, Jerome with tales from Laverne about how the Birchwood boys don’t know rundown, the chance at a lawn and a chunk of land itself a new world over from the tenements of Holland back on the other coast.

 

“Grass is always greener.”
 

“‘Cept when there ain’t none, I guess.”

 

No matter your choice this kid wanders up all cool-like with your back turned, real smooth and bouncing to a tune only he can hear until he wordlessly lunges at the knot of papers beside Jerome, knocks the kid to the ground and grabs ‘em both - his flatfoot runners kick dust as the Leopard grabs at his shoe, pulls one off and stalls him long enough for Julius to drop his stack and give chase.

 

“Get back here, you lil’ punk-ass motherf*cker!”

 

Kid hoists the stack onto his shoulder and gives the finger as you sprint in his slipstream. Both fellas big and lanky with speed they run and run, you’re never too far behind ‘til the kid crosses Spruce at the last minute, barely misses getting turned into paste by a BBC Consulate, brakes get hit hard enough for J to slide across the hood like a regular Clip Lee on a mission. Dirt and mud around FUGMI columns and across incoming development full of loaders and backhoes, kid heads up a driveway tossing aside some guy washing out his trunk, kicks a gate down and starts ploughing through backyards and gardens and chain-link, wood, angry dogs nipping at heels and screaming housewives from the kitchens.

 

Lots of picket fences around, pickets that don’t hold for sh*t when used as momentum to jump over, pickets halving Spruce from Garfield and the barrier to Doyle Park - kid runs down a dozen steps throwing aside anyone in his way, at the last second you see half a shortcut running parallel; two little jumps down leveled grass gets you that much closer to his tail. 

 

Might feel like a long chase because it’s been a long goddamn chase. If you hadn't seen Birchwood in a while, you've seen most of it now.

 

You’ve run from Bushrod to Longfellow, storefronts and bougie lawns, parks, families and commerce, crossed the train tracks to back down where the warehouses meet a combo of the Dregs - back to dilapidation, foot traffic sparse, barely any sidewalk and the sky cutting overcast as you finally catch up only for the runner to knock some boy flat on his ass and steal his bike. And then Julius can’t do it no more, can’t catch his breath. 

 

Motherf*cker.

 

Camera pans to watch the kid take off on his bike, clear these big spruce trees onto Longfellow Ave - only to get absolutely broadsided by a Boxville. Kid flies, mean really flies - scrapes and slithers a dozen feet down the asphalt with the mangled corpse of the filched bike besides. Screams, then nothing.

 

He’s done for - the newspapers though, they’re fine. Truck driver runs out to check on the kid, papers go flying in the wind. You’re at the helm to gather up the stragglers before they’re gone with it, optionally to check out the moron who just got himself very very hurt.

 

Julius starts with “Moron,” ignores the panicked delivery man, “the f*ck was that for?”

 

The thief, kid, brat, whatever he is, he’s bloody and bruised and spitting teeth, just not so banged up he can’t still string together a chain of epithets before answering: “Just want’n to make some bread, goddamn. Who gave that leather-wearin’ motherf*cker the corner, huh? Wasn’t me, that’s my--that’s our f*ckin’ corner, man…”

 

There’s nothing to say. His legs are f*cked even if his mouth can run: a little sympathy gives you the option to toss the kid a couple papers to read - doubt he’ll be hawking any time soon.

 

Back to your corner. Best bet, make it a little easier on the delivery guy’s insurance - steal the f*cking van, front bumper scraping pavement, gun the big old thing before the fella’s got a chance to notice past the wailing kid. 

 

You been running around all day, you can see it in Julius’ stride; that of a man who just wants to crawl back into bed instead of doling out newspaper on a street corner entirely foreign to him. But you’re not done - back on Spruce Jerome’s still waiting, slouched on a bench and rubbing his ankle, eyes light up when he sees you.

 

Julius asks “You good?”

 

“Fine. Man, you took off like lightning.” Pauses. “All the things that go wrong here you don’t think it’s gonna be a brother f*cks everything up that quick. Little gusano punk. I ever see his face ‘round here again…”

 

“Gu-wha’? The f*ck does that mean?”

 

“Uh. Y’know, man. Cuba.”

 

“Look, Jerome, kid said he just wanted to make a buck. Met a hundred hustlers like him, guys don’t have no scruples about what they doin’ or who they doing it to. Don’t read into it.”

 

“Way I see it,” Jerome smiled, “is any motherf*cker who jeopardizes the revolution is anti-revolution. Don't matter if they cops or if they crooks. That simple.”

 

Jules nodded. “Sure, kid. Let’s just sell the rest of this sh*t off, a’ight?”

 

“What’d you do to him?”

 

“Never you mind. He won’t pull this again.”

 

He probably will.

 

Home stretch. As before, two-pronged diversion: singling out the right audience for your little niche and talking them up enough to get them to pull the trigger. Rebuffs dent morale, dented morale makes Jules lose what little a silver tongue he already has. Get your groove on and eventually it segues into cutscene, little montage taking the weight off your shoulders as the clock ticks into late afternoon, sun hanging tough and hard and the duo finishing off the pile once and for all.

 

Jules keeps a single edition for himself. Flips through - baby steps.

 

Jerome collapses back onto that bench, removes the beret and wipes a buzz cut head with the back of his hand. “God damn, I ain’t gon’ let Anton hear the end of this. Next time a pig pulls rank he best just shoot him in the damn head.”

 

J sits next to him, they’re quiet for a moment, comfortable in it. “So. We done?”

 

“We done. Once bail gets posted he gon’ be sprung by nightfall, so uh - thank you. Thanks a mil’, you know, they was on my ass.”

 

“Don’t mention it. Thrilling a debut as I ever seen.” Pause. “S’uh, s’usually more lively than this though, right? You know, the papers?”

 

“F*ck the papers. Zig-zagging ‘crosstown to beat the sh*t out some kid who stole some revolutionary lit? I dunno, man, don’t wanna get your hopes up. Not on the regular.”

 

“Sure. I’ll see you around, Jerome.”

 

“Hey - lil’ welcome home party tonight, at HQ. You in? S’only fair, open doors.”

 

“Thinkin’ about it.”

 

Think about it. Come nightfall the blip’ll pop up on your radar. It’s a Red Dead 2 style mechanic: free-flowing booze - though Jules abstains - tunes, the ability to socialize with whoever-whenever ‘til all forms of discourse are exhausted and you’re well familiar with Winston’s extended family, hang out on the porch to see some ill-advised cop cruiser slow-roll you and get heckled, meet the boys - meet Donny and Elijah and Laverne and the dozen other foot soldiers of the cause proper. Stick around until dawn, ‘til your new brothers are sprawled on couch and rotten wood and blow-up mattress alike and you can mosey on home across the bridge.

 

Or don’t.

 

But you really wanna miss out - paper cup wine, smooth jazz, insurgent monologuing under the moonlight?

 

Don’t think so. 

No reward.

 

BULWARK MAGAZINE

---

Black Power and the Coercive Apparatus: A Quick Reminder

By Stan Humke

Editorial

 

---- ALLOW me to put something out there, if only to spare our detractors the exertion of grasping at straws: as a foundational principle -- one setting us diametrically opposed from the cock and bull drone of the establishment -- we have never been anything but transparent in disclosing our relation to the black power organization that has come to be known as the Leopards of Leandros. Leon King has been an invaluable contributor to the discourse in our monthly issue since 1966, and it is a mutually beneficial relationship no better exemplified by the fact that Oake Blackwood Charlesford Esq. on his radio show Firing Squad has taken to accusing both entities of holding a 'quantifiable contempt for America' in the same breath.

 

Of course, neoconservative gadflys and the neutered hiss of the liberal consensus alike are struggling to find the actionable words necessary to put a pin in the élan of the Leopards that only grows by the day. When we last dedicated an issue to their valiant cause in our April 1967 issue, King estimated national membership to hover somewhere around the mark of seventy-five individuals. It was probably an exaggerated figure. Now, nearly a year past, verifiable sources place the figure around three-hundred, not to mention the countless men and women forced into secrecy by the tempestuous indignation of their white employers or landlords (see pg. 41-52, 'Hunting the Leopards' Spots').

 

My reminder to our readers is simple: political power, Mao Tse-tung once said, comes through the barrel of a gun, and the Leopards have certainly adopted that mantra. And that scares the hell out of the white cops. The gears of oppression mesh, consistently lubricated by the mutual reinforcement of a white racist political and police leadership. They legislate, dissimulate, and do their best to frustrate the spread of class consciousness that has the potential to unite whites and blacks alike under the banner of a true revolutionary movement. IAA, FIB, BPD or LCPD -- the designation matters little. When they kick your door down you won't much care if they're in a suit or rookie blues.

 

Few will believe in the deliberate pattern of harassment and false arrest that pervades American police forces, so intent on quashing dissent they are. The courts refuse to acknowledge it. Major national papers refuse to cover it. The least we precious few can do in the interim is be vigilant, and, when the time comes, step up to the battle cries of men like Leon King and Laverne Powell. Meanwhile the cops will go on, steadily and inexorably, trying to bust, and if necessary kill, every Leopard in Birchwood.

Edited December 12, 2019 by Cebra

[Cebra]

 

Doug is driving through Rose-Ronan when the blip pops up on the radar; driving a little further up the road ‘til he sees a little man huddled up by the dumpsters. Guy waves you down, and sh*t, Doug would keep going in any other circumstance.

 

But something stops him. Something stops you. Little man gets up and you get a good look at him in proper light out the alleyway shadow - bearded man with long oily hair, short, wearing scruffy clothes looking like hemp or rough cloth or something. Sandals on the feet, it looks like. A man outta time.

 

He comes up the window. “Spare a ride?” Voice is almost nasal, kinda squeaky. Sing-song hillbilly voice.

 

Dougie double-takes, “Huh?”

 

“Can I get a ride, brother? I need a ride.”

 

It’s like Doug’s dizzy. “I mean…”

 

“You’re stopped. So what? You givin’ rides?”

 

“Where you headed?”

 

Little man thinks a second. “Up bay. Over the bridge. I need to get to Gaspa. I need- I need to get to, uh… Bahialado. Nice houses. I live up’n there.”

 

“You don’t look like it.”

 

“Books and covers, brother, books and covers. Spare one?”

 

You get in on Doug’s eyes, squinting, slowly nodding. “Guess I am.”

 

The man smiles, nods, and hops backseat.

 

Drive.

 

Kick on the gas and little man, through backseat, cranes his head up front: “I know it ain’t nothin’ short, guy, I know, and I thank you for it. It’s- I’m- well, I got-... you know Cucumber Ave?”

 

“I don’t head over the bridge much, bud.”

 

“I’ll tell you when you’re near. I’ll direct you, man. I got a couple buckies, man, I’ll spare ‘em, man.”

 

Doug just mutters. “Not a thing…”

 

Go-go time, jack.

 

You’re in hippyville - colored signs, a lot of open loving on the street where folks busk with guitar and sitar alike, headbands and tie dye shirts and a lot of fellas who look a lot like the guy in the backseat. Guy in the backseat is a real ball of energy, clipping and twitching and jutting his head into the front and rocking back and forth. Refuses the seatbelt: car rides corners and he drifts along with it, smiles, laughs in the middle. He’s a wacko f*cking nut, but a magnetizing wacko nut.

 

Wacko nut breaths, chuckles, “Hoho, woo, man. You wanna- can I open the windows?”

 

“Knock yourself out.”

 

He cranks ‘em. “Yeah, yeah. You’re headin’ up quicksmart. I like that. I like you.”

 

“That’s good.”

 

“Man, it is good. Gooder than good.”

 

“You got a name?”

 

“Everyone’s got a name, man, everyone does. Just depends on if it’s worth sayin’, man.”

 

“And you live up the bay?”

 

“I’m livin’ everywhere. I live in- I lived a thousand places. People’s is always askin’ me where I live and who I am and what I do, man. Gets dull. You ain’t a dull man, I see that, I see a lotta things.”

 

“I just wanna know where I’m driving you.”

 

“You’re driving me where I live, man.”

 

“And who you are.”

 

Laughs sharp, “Ha! Save it. I know who you are and you know who I am, but do you know who you are and know what I am? That’s the real question.”

 

Pause. “What?”

 

“It's simple. I don't need introductions. Don't need names. I like names but I don't need 'em. See, I know who you are by lookin' 'atcha.”

 

“Really?”

 

“That's right. I know by lookin' up the sky I know the sun bright and I know it's yellow and screaming out 'atcha. I understand people. I understand people like I understand that the sun is bright.”

 

You can feel Doug think. “Okay. Then who am I?”

 

“You're a nomad, man. You're a ranger. I get them vibes. I get vibes you're out lookin' for something. I see a fella who knows what he's doin' and knows how to do it but don't quite know where and who. Am I wrong?”

 

“You ain't.”

 

“Nobody ain't. You killed a man?”

 

“I- well--”

 

“You have. See, you din't wanna answer that question, fella, you gave it away. You in 'Nam?”

 

“I was.”

 

“Don't care about no battalion. I killed a million men in a million lives. I don't care 'bout no battalion because everybody gotta kill or they have killed. Ya dig? Killing ain't something you do, it's a state a' mind. Everybody's killed. Boss kills employee by firin' them, don't they?”

 

“I don’t know,” doesn’t sound right. “Maybe.”

 

“Killin’ ain’t real, and killin’ ain’t fake. Killin’ is squashin’ a bug. I kill- you give me a gun, I kill everyone in the world. You tell me to kill someone and everyone’s dead. That’s a fact.”

 

“That’s a fact?”

 

“That’s a fact.”

 

Another pause. “And you live up the bay?”

 

He’s looser now, “No, I thought I lived in Britain. Where I live? Britain or Bahialado? I used to live down Pacific Bluffs. I used to live up Oregon. f*ck, buddy, I live on the moon. What’s it matter?”

 

“I just wanna get you where you wanna go.”

 

“And you already said that, brother. You gonna ask my name again?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Then ask.”

 

“What’s your name?”

 

“Eamon.”

 

“Eamon?”

 

“Eamon. That’s my name, Eamon. You know it. You’ll know it. See, you don’t need to, though. Need and want, man. You don’t want to go to the battlefield and kill and rob and break and dee-stroy but folks get killed and robbed and destroyed anyhow. That’s ‘cause it’s needed.”

 

Wacko f*cking hippy. “People need to die?”

 

“Wrong. Nobody need to die. People need to go to die because their number gets drawn.”

 

“People-” Doug grunts, sighs, “You know. You say people always ask about where you’re from.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“People always ask me about war, Eamon. And my name’s Doug, so - you know, you ain’t alone on the names. But that’s the thing. I get sick to f*cking death of it too. People saying this and people saying that and people saying I got to kill men because someone pointed a finger.”

 

“But you did.”

 

“But you got a name?”

 

Eamon holler laughs, “That’s cheeky. That’s cheeky, guy. But you’re right, you’re right. This state, this city, this country - it’s all a lot a’ questions and not a lot a’ answers. In SoSan, and you know, I’m from SoSan, that’s a whole city- a country in a city, and they all ask questions about what you are and what you’re doin’. Always what, never who.”

 

“That so?”

 

“I make music. I sing songs. They’re beautiful music.”

 

“Everyone in Rose-Ronan makes music, friend.”

 

“Yeah, and everyone in Vinewood makes music too, everyone in West Vinewood on Eclipse’s got acoustics. But Vinewood’s a prison. That city’s a prison. I love prison, man, people who know who they are in a little jail like a real prison. But not the big prisons - Los Santos is a big jail.”

 

“...I think I get you.”

 

“Yeah, man. Christ went to jail and knew the sinners could be redeemed, but Rome? He went to Rome and got nails in his hands, guy. And if Santos is Rome, Santos is a million men and a million women with a million crosses and nails.”

 

“And you’re from there?”

 

“I’m from nowhere.”

 

“You call it SoSan and you’re from Santos?”

 

“I told you, guy, I’m from nowhere.”

 

“Nobody from Santos calls it SoSan. That’s tourist talk, Eamon.”

 

“Where you from ain’t in your blood, friend. It ain’t a part of you. And you can transplant that, too. I transplant myself and my history and my birth. So I’m from SoSan. And I’m not from SoSan. Not Ohio, not nowhere. I’m whoever and whatever, brother.”

 

“Ohio, huh?” Doug chuckles, “Yeah. Nowhere’s right.”

 

You’ve crossed through the city - now cross the bridge. The big red bridge, the iconic bridge, the bridge on the postcards. The Crimson Way. Whatever route you take you’ll end up passing into the freeways of the Sastre; woodland and parkland and the big ol’ army base that brings back memories. Past that, past the tourist center and old Tore Keep below you, it’s pure open sea air and three-lane congestion on the fourth wonder of the world.

 

Breathe it in. Beautiful.

 

There's a toll booth on the return trip.

 

On the exit there’s the same kind of woodland as the entry heading into Punto Point and the Gaspa Promontory. You’re in Gaspa County now. It’s state park territory up here; the Crimson Way National Recreation Area. Bridge leads down to offramp where the roads dig to the tour trap, the big sticks, and the tunnel. Tunnel doesn’t have an official name, locals call it the Aleja Tunnel or the Sunshine for the paintwork or whatever-you-want, but right through the portal is Bahialado.

 

Bahialado; the city beside the bay. Back during World War II they were building ships here. They build ships no longer, abandoned the yards after the unions started letting blacks in and the war drew to a close, and out sprung the houseboat communities and the pretty little hillside mansions. Developers don’t like the boats much, all trying to force them out so they can build new houses - sectioned off a chunk of the Recreation Area to build condos that the city immediately sued for.

 

But the more the merrier. It’s pastel paradise. Road winds down into mainsville with boutique florists and seafood restaurants and Eamon immediately jumps into gear - “We gotta go this way, man, hold on, man.”

 

He directs you. No mini-map for guide unless you know the street names, just the twang of Eamon’s countrified voice ferrying you up, down, left, right, center. Day goes from evening to night on the ride as the hill houses empty and the lamplights flicker. Cucumber Ave is up on those hills, a big house that Eamon tells you “Stop, stop, hey, whoa!” when you get right up there.

 

You head into a court. Roads are all thinner out here, trees dominate sight.

 

And a f*cking spooky goddamn house at the end.

 

 

First thought more than anything else is the place looks like a mental asylum. Just pitch black paint, only exception is the little gate in front with LÏGHTBEÄM written in gothic gold. You have a feeling the owner doesn’t understand what the dots mean.

 

You guess that would be your passenger. “You live here?”

 

Eamon smiles. “Sure, guy.”

 

“That--”

 

“You ever heard that song?”

 

“No. What? What song?”

 

“Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on. You know it?”

 

“Sure?”

 

Opens the door, starts singing, half-howling, “Buddy! Hey, man!”

 

Crickets chirping. Light bleeding out through the gate, door creaking, wacko f*cking hippy singing The Beatles.

 

Gate opens. Doug squints. Does he know that f*cking guy?

 

Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, twerpy guy with a thick head of hair stumbles out dazed-out his mind, pretty floral shirt exposing ribcage chest, neckerchief like a collar around the neck. You’re wondering double, does this guy even know where the f*ck he is? He mumbles, rubs eyes, squints. “Hickey?”

 

The hippy is named Hickey.

 

“Ray-Ray, bubble bear, man, how you are?”

 

Doug gets out the car, “This your house?”

 

Ray-Ray whines, “My f*cking house.”

 

“You heard Milk, right? Rockstars, man. This their guitarist. This is Raytheon Michael, brother, light motherf*cking beams, man.”

 

“Huh.” Doug says that vague. Maybe he knows him. Maybe?

 

A lot of uncertainty. Ray-Ray squints again, half-stomps his bare feet on the pavement at the sight of you. “Who’s this?”

 

“I forgot my bus, Ray.”

 

Another blink. “You ain’t gonna kill me, Hick?”

 

See Eamon, or Hickey, or whoever, see him chuckle. Get closer. Ray-Ray standing froze. 

 

Eamon stares. “I look like I’m gonna?”

 

Hickey gets on his knees. Spreads his arms. And starts kissing Ray-Ray’s toes.

 

Nobody says anything for what feels like an hour as he just… f*ckin’ goes to town on his feet. Doug ain’t laughing, he’s just staring, peculiar. Opens his mouth to speak and a dull hum comes out, “Ehmm…”

 

Hickey lifts head, shakes, laughs. “Head on in, man. My house is yours, man, that’s it. That’s it.” Says his next darker, lower, “What’s mine is yours.”

 

You are faced with two options.

 

You can go. You can get in your car, and you can go.

 

Or, the door is open. Eamon has his eyes trained and Ray-Ray dead shut, Eamon just humming now, “Desmond takes a trolley to the jeweller’s store…”

 

The gate opens into a little garden where a little fountain sprays a little stream of water. Door beckons you in with warm light past the darkness and the shrubs and the poppies. It’s gold in there.

 

There are 15 or 20 women in there, and they aren’t saying a f*cking word.

 

The place is trashed.

 

Place is kitted out in orange. A lot of orange, a lot of silly paintings with loops of white and mangarine and couches much the same. Just an obscene disconnect from the world outside, swimming colors and psychedelia and smoke and haze.

 

Why are you in here? 

 

You walk through what can only be described as an interior designer’s worst nightmare with more, more, more skinny white women all looking at you. They won’t stop looking at you, actually. A million bloodshot eyes giving you daggers, stab stab stab. Cupboards are overturned and the record player is stopped and scritching and someone went ape with a smashed bottle of Blêuter’d burgundy on the floor.

 

Take what you want.

 

Minimap floor plan goes nuts with little dots - what’s mine is yours. Door is still wide open and Hickey’s still faintly singing in the back. And the girls are still staring.

 

They will not talk to you. You can try, and Doug sure as hell does, yaps “Are you his-...” and always trails off. They do not reply. You aren’t sure if they ever blink.

 

Upstairs is blockaded with a sofa that is conspicuously missing from the living room, currently holding another skinny white girl who’s so deep into sleep you’re not sure if she’s still breathing. Not worth checking, she f*cking stinks like a cadaver anyhow. Move through and find spare dollar bundles, jewelry, knick knacks. There’s a garden out back dark and serene with another fountain but the glass sliding door is jammed shut. Kitchen is a complete sty with all matter of stains and smears of origin not worth knowing, a single book in the center.

 

There’s a picture of a guy on the front. He’s white, clothed head to toe in orange, bead necklace and glasses. Below him is just the word Badaladaka. Doug checks the spine of the book, Badaladaka - Badaladaka. Combs through the entire back cover to see if the guy has any other name, white on orange hurting the eyes, and nothing.

 

His name is just… Badaladaka.

 

You feel a sense of dread when you turn away from the book and another carbon goddamn copy of the 20 other girls in here has suddenly just spawned into existence a few feet away from you.

 

Doug creases face, “You… are you okay?”

 

She rubs her dirty face and runs her hand through her hair. “What?”

 

It’s probably best you get the f*ck out of here.

 

You’re stumbling over your feet out the front door by now, same haze as Ray-Ray now silently shedding tears out the front. Scent of just… sh*t, and rotting meat, and burnt hair on your nostrils. You look at Hickey, and Hickey looks back, and he says nothing to you.

 

No words are needed. You did what he told you.

 

Get in the car and get out.

 

+ $660.60 (IF ALL ITEMS ARE COLLECTED)

NO REWARD (IF REFUSED TO ENTER)

Edited January 21, 2020 by Cebra

[Cebra]

Switch to Dante -- it’s ambient, one of many: sitting on the hood admiring sunsets, bite to eat at east side deli, waving goodbye before a snippy comment at Uncle Jacky’s. Doesn't matter - La Penisola calls. Hit the gas and crosstown strip-wise, neon letters and new-brick houses and all, before stopping at the front.

 

They've cordoned off the parking lot. It's all wet concrete, construction workers on perpetual smoke-break just now putting up the signs and landscaping pretty hedges around the entrance. Gets a groan out of Dante, reverses, directs you to the street for parking.

 

Nod howdys to construction-men all Mick and Michael before hitting the door and nearly getting pushed onto the floor, good old Carlo D’Aversa comes storming out the gates wordlessly, rushes up to a rando worker and nips out the measuring tape from his toolbelt.

 

Runs back in. “Dante,” keeps walking.

 

“Dante.” Dante follows.

 

Always frantic: still interactive mind you as you either match Carlo’s brisk pace or bumble behind bemusedly as he shouts up a storm, waves arms and tells staff to kick dust. “Help.”

 

“Help what?”

 

“String the tape, f*cking help me.”

 

“What's the problem?”

 

“Goddamn worker bees muckin’ up the f*cking slot machines. Keep sitting on the goddamn seats, you believe that? Grab the f*cking tape, Dante.”

 

Grab the f*cking tape -- hold down the contextual button and start moving in cohesion with Carlo, stringing thin yellow line from corner to corner of the sunken slots area, wrap it around unfinished marble columns at all fours.

 

They’re face to face; eventually Dante breaks: “So how you doin’, Carlo? Seem a little tense today.”

 

Still rolling the tape. “Don’t f*ck with me. Your uncle’s shadow might be big but it won’t save you from feds with flashlights.”

 

“That’s cute. The IRS, right? Jon -- eh, Mr. Gravelli -- he told me off already.”

 

“Ain’t just that. Look around at all this shiny sh*t, you think I got it here myself? You think any of the guys at the top loaded it up from the factory, drove the truck half the country down from Michigan, spent their goddamn days cooking under the sun, bringing it in one-by-one in their tweed and gelled hair? Wasn’t them. Wasn’t me. Ain’t just a cover job, Dante, the minutiae might be just that but it ain’t unimportant in the least.”

 

“Yeah, but the Micks are built for it though.”

 

Tape wraps around the last column, Carlo breaks it off. It segues into cutscene: Carlo gestures Dante to follow again and they head into his office -- more disorganized than last time, plastic-wrapped boxes galore having migrated out of the hallway and onto leather couches.

 

Awkward moment of silence, Carlo pauses, tries to wax authority out the situation by jumping into a stuffy leather chair, leaning back. Bossman look that he isn't suited to, looks like a kid playing dress-up.

 

Dante just stands. “Okay.”

 

“Okay, what?”

 

“Okay, why'm I here?”

 

“‘Why'm I’--” deep breath, starts over. “Sonny’s back in Liberty.”

 

“What's new?”

 

“Means for the time being we got calm. But not for long. He's gonna come back, he's gonna want glitz. We need glitz.”

 

“A lot of glitz in measuring tape and paddies on lunch break.”

 

“That's my point.”

 

“So… what? You want me head out to the department store, pick a couple banners, party hats?”

 

Carlo cuts: “You know Nino Lisi?”

 

“I, uh… yeah. Think so. Remember Mr. Cangelosi bringing him up, don't remember much else.”

 

“Let me rephrase: you know Nate Valentine?”

 

Dante blinks. “The lounge singer?”

 

“The lounge singer.”

 

Another blink. “His name’s Nino?”

 

“With pipes like that, of course he's paisan. Y’know, I always wonder - what's with the f*cking stage names? Can't these guys be f*ckin’ proud a’ their heritage? Always these people it's John ‘stead a’ Gio.”

 

“Hmph.”

 

“So, while Sonny’s up in Broker and he's racin’ horses and eatin’ f*ckin’ tomato chowder, f*cking Carraway country clubs and all, we've gotta get Mr. Crooner down here to discuss contracts.”

 

“We?”

 

“You,” he points, “have been slacking. Should be perkin’ up to do this kinda job, get in the Gravelli good books. Meet a celebrity.”

 

“Nate Valentine was a celebrity in ‘58. Schmucks are schmucks, Carlie, even if they’ve been on the radio.”

 

Carlo shrugs, just keeps barreling, “He’s in the hole about 10k to Mikey Caccia - you know Cheech?”

 

“Vaguely.”

 

“Down 10 with Cheech, he's in 5 with Chubby Chuck, uh… I think with that kid Noto he’s down two? One of his friends. Point is, he's on retainer. He's ours. And he thinks he don't have to pay debts if he just avoids the right bars. Balls on him.”

 

“But he goes to the wrong bars.”

 

Carlo nods, pulls a pen, “He's at The Golden Horseshoe. You know the Golden Horseshoe?”

 

“Kearney Ave, yepper.”

 

“If he ain't there, he's up Chantry-Prue at... these-” dots the I’s and crosses the T’s, “-tenements. That’s a tip from my old pal Moe Consoli.”

 

Dante cocks a brow.

 

“Ok, not my pal. But a friend of ours.” He tosses the pen, hands over a shred of paper with an address then points a two finger. “Do whatever you gotta do to get that greasy f*ck here, or we’ll put you on the goddamn stage doing the mambo. Got it?”

 

Dante chuckles, checks the note. “My pleasure.”

 

Peel out and peel off; peel out the office before Carlo starts barking orders and goes back to fiddling with the pen, peel out the betting floor while construction men try maneuver around tape. Peel out the door and across the street to the ride and hit the engine while The Wrens wail on the stereo.

 

Onto Kearney.

 

Drive on up the Strip’s big sister with the kickin’ neon legs of Venturas Vance, sizzling signs and gaudy displays of greed and gluttony. Tourists and flash sedans, light bulbs fizzled out at midday but the huge near-50 foot ‘GOLDEN HORSESHOE SLOTS & SALOON’ sign shouting out to the street below across from Ronald Ross’ Gilded Spurs.

 

Fat Midwesterners gawk and take pictures while you maneuver out, down special-paved street, through the doors.

 

Cowboy hell.

 

It's the same fat midwesterners in western hats chewing cud at the tables and gold-light lettering meeting tacky velvet carpet. You can feel Dante trying to dodge the salt air as he maneuvers through the maze up to the bar being tended by some dull-eye five seconds from pouring his own liquor.

 

“Howdy-hi, partner. What can I get you?” It's posed more like a statement than a question.

 

“Not me. Friend of mine.” He slides a fiver across the table, keeps it brief. “Hope you might oblige me.”

 

He stares at it a moment before snatching it and stuffing it in his pocket lightning quick.

 

“I'm lookin’ for a washed up lounge singer - Nate Valentine. Movie-man, you seen or served?”

 

“I seen. I served.”

 

Leans on the bar, “Point me in the right direction, slim.”

 

He thinks a moment. “He comes here frequent, yeah. Not recently. Haven't seen him going on a week or two now, so either he's bit dust, hit bricks or both. All I’ve got.”

 

Close up on Dante. Ponders. “Got it. Thanks, pard’.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.”

 

Smash cut out, back on the street. Feels like a waste of time, sure, but now you’re one down. Alternately you coulda skipped this step entirely - but what’s the harm? Enjoy the slots. Get back to your ride and drive, partner.

 

You’re Consoli-bound.

 

You get a good sizing up of Venturas on the ride to Chantry-Prue. It’s the inner ring of the outer suburbs, these desolate developments stretching far and wide of cookie-cutter suburban homes and said cookie-cutter suburban homes under construction. Same old lunch break laborers with sandwiches or mallets across the street from little model homes with husbands in wife-beaters swigging beer on the porch or mowing the lawns of imported grass.

 

Standing out amongst the swaths of one stories, however, are sad looking two-or-three stories. They're like a cross between a prison and a motel with huge air conditioning units growing on the sides like tumors. Fences encircling the entire property.

 

Check the note Carlo wrote you. This is the spot.

 

Find Nate Valentine.

 

Where to start?

 

It’s a gated complex and the gates are shut. Camera pans, shows some entrances; a back fence with some strategically placed AC units, a little opening nearby the gate where the spikes fade and you can cling on, the bored security guard filing his nails.

 

Security guard is good for sh*t - he tells you to f*ck off. You can see some guys waiting on the interior, bad looking black dudes in denim and chains, holding chains and bats. Security guard nearly slips on the dollar bills they clearly gave him and tells you it’s a holiday. What holiday? It’s simple, security man says. Bribe Day. Now f*ck off.

 

So climb on in. Not like he’ll see, he’s about a couple minutes from dozing off anyway.

 

You likely haven't had a lot of opportunity for traversal, but the tenements feel built for walking. Up the wall on motel walkways you have cardboard platforms, makeshift bridges, worker material and construction gear strewn with no workers or construction to be seen. It's a rickety path downward from the wall; either keep to the rafters or get on the ground.

 

Groundways is less safe, but it gives you a better scope of the complex. Three buildings - two vertical shape on the sides, a little recreational area in the center, and one horizontal on the middle. Half a plaza with none of the charm - there's an empty pool and closed umbrellas and the whole place looks years past use. That doesn't excuse the guys on the ground.

 

Remember the chain twirling chaps in chapped leather? They're here, with their frowns and fists on display. There's around 8 on immediate count cooped up by a Declasse Tornado and an Vapid Peyote, a nice whip that now had its own fair share of dents and scratches and smashed tail lights. Someone went to town on that thing.

 

Why not ask?

 

If you're the type to walk up to armed, scary men; why not? Dante'll walk up, and seamlessly in-gameplay, the toughs’ll come to you. Granted, they're scowling and crowding around and smacking their blunt weapons in their hands, but they know you're there.

 

“What you want, civvie?”

 

“I ain't no civvie.”

 

“What the f*ck you want, white boy?”

 

You're presented with two options.

 

 CAR?
 WHO?

 

A tutorial prompt lets you know that this'll be a recurring feature: don't be afraid to GREET or ANTAGONIZE, sometimes it'll net you information. They don't take well to who - “Hell does it matter, motherf*cker?” Option’ll simply turn to say F*CK YOU if you press that button again. Maybe don't if you wanna keep things cordial.

 

Try the car - “What's with the whip?”

 

“Goddamn nosy motherf*cker--”

 

One of the goons cuts over the other, “You wanna know ‘bout the car?”

 

“Sure,” Dante says.

 

“You speak dago, mister?”

 

You can feel Dante’s fists clench. Two options: SURE and MOOLIE.

 

Option B. “Much as you speak moolie, pal.”

 

It's a mixed reaction but you feel big guy half-chuckle, “That’s funny,” he says, despite it not really seeming that funny. “Sure. Yeah. See, this greaseball motherf*cker, old motherf*cker, washed up, drunk-ass motherf*cker, he done get a tire iron, and he howlin’ about Wesley this and Junior that - and the motherf*cker takes the iron to the ride.”

 

“Sorry about that.”

 

“Sure. So, you speak wop. He speak wop. Motherf*cker speakin’ a lot of wop, bibbledy-bobbledy-f*ckin’-boo,” gets a couple of the goons laughing, “and I'm seein’ wops up the ass. Wops know each other in this town.”

 

“Okay.”

 

He points at you with his bat, the bat looks you square in the eyes. “Whachu’ want with woppy, woppy?”

 

I CAN GET HIM
HE’S NOT HERE
GRAB THE BAT

 

That third option: blunt, messy, mad. Dante smiles, yanks, smacks handle into neck and the guy topples for a split second. With messy comes mess as they all lunge at you at once, fending off eight guys surrounding you and a couple more beyond. Unless you’re quick, they will tear you limb from limb. That is, unless, you pull your one advantage - the iron on your hip. You pull a gun and these guys hesitate, some run, some pull their own little .38s and let fly. The end of it all, either you’re dead, they’re out for the count, or imminently six feet under.

 

You might not want to do that one.

 

Play sly - former indebts you to them. Dante simply explains; “I know where the bastard is hidin’. I’m a friend. I’ll get him off your hands.” They, funnily enough, seem enthusiastic. Circle disperses and they let you explore. Other option plays slyer, “I know where the f*cker hangs out. You tried the Golden Horseshoe?” They trade glances, shake heads, and decide to split off and search if you played your cards right. Glance right behind and you’ll see a few stragglers asking the security-man for a refund with their big shiny toys.

 

This is if you say hi.

 

You can make out Nino-Nate’s apartment if you take the stairs or climb the scaffolding onto the second floor. The note said 2F and 2F has got the curtains drawn and music, real sh*tty music, playing loud. It’s a wonder the boys downstairs didn’t find him sooner.

 

Door is locked. Dante jostles, pushes, nothing. Eyes switch to the window, cricked a tad open. Contextual button appears and Dante grabs, lifts easy-like, and sweeps blinds away to climb inside.

 

Record player is playing a Lisi song, funnily enough - ‘We Fluffy Lovecats’ - “Got the kicks, got the kiss, now I’m happ-y! Hit the bricks, with my fix, oh! I’m sold!” Awful. Like ‘54 banging on your eardrums with teenybopper bullsh*t. Apartment is small, cramped, all shades of brown and empty bottles of The Mount and Richard’s Kentucky. Lights are off, Dante squints, notices something moving on a couch.

 

A stubbled, paunchy, shirtless man wearing an unzipped white satin jacket and… yeah, actually, that’s it. Jacket and tighty whities. Dante tip-toes until he realizes, hey, he’s literally unconscious, drooling this puddle of what may be spit but might actually be last night’s TV dinner onto the floor. Peps up, walks over, pokes him on the shoulder.

 

Unresponsive.

 

Prods harder. He does not move. Shoves, nothing.

 

Dante grabs a glass that appears to have been filled with ketchup at one point (which, okay), fills the thing with water, and pours over face.

 

Nino grabs a bottle by the floor and, in one seamless motion, bonks you over the head with it.

 

Cut to black.

 

Nothing.

 

“Oh yeah, f*cko.”

 

Eyes open, slow.

 

Nino has a .44 revolver right at your forehead.

 

Dante is speechless.

 

Nino croaks, “Yeah, motherf*cker. Yeah.”

 

“Nino.”

 

“Nate!”

 

“Nate…”

 

“Who the f*ck are you with? Huh? You with Mikey Cheech? Fat Chucky?”

 

“Nate…”

 

“You come to chop my f*ckin’ nuts off, pal? You f*ckin’ ready to do that, you make me a f*ckin’ soprano, you f*ckin- you best be knowin’ who the f*ck you done walk into.”

 

“I’m not--”

 

“You know why they call Skip di Bella ‘No Nose’ now? You know why?”

 

Blink. “Who--”

 

“Me.”

 

“Get the f*ck offa’ me you f*ckin’--”

 

Nino cocks gun, grins wide, “Yeah? Yeah? Or?”

 

“I don’t want your f*ckin’ money, Nate.”

 

“You want my balls, yeah?”

 

“No! I’m with f*ckin’ nobody. I wanna talk to you, come on.”

 

You get a shot of how dumb this looks from the wide, like a bottle on a table. Way past his prime is Nino basically straddling Dante, Dante bleeding out from a little cut on the top of his head. Gun up to the bridge of the nose, dirt and bottles strewn. Nino squints. “You got twenty seconds.”

 

“What?”

 

“Nineteen.”

 

“To f*cking what?”

 

“Tell me why you’re here! Seventeen.”

 

“Nino - Nate, Carlo wants a guy. D’Aversa. Y’know We- we run this casino--”

 

“Fourteen.”

 

“We want a guy on the stage. Headline act!”

 

Nino stops counting. “You ain’t jerkin’ my dick?”

 

“Abso- no. Christ. No.”

 

“D’Aversa. You f*ckin’ kidding me?”

 

“What?”

 

“D’Aversa takes checks from Cangelosi. From Cheech, you f*ck.”

 

“And this’ll pay it off.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yes, Nate, now get the f*ck offa’ me, f*ckin’ Christ!”

 

Nino ponders. Stares. Puts the gun down and tries getting up, oof he goes like it took a lot out of him, tries again with both hands after one didn’t quite work. Dante just lays there.

 

“Let me go get my pants.”

 

He walks.

 

Dante finally breathes.

 

Next cut is leaving: Dante cricks the door, looks left, looks right, opens wider and motions. Nino follows suit with his clothes on - red aviators, a waistcoat, his jacket, a pair of jeans, some scuffed up loafers. Still no undershirt.

 

Conversation continues you didn’t see: “And what about those f*ckin’ moolies?”

 

Dante rolls eyes, changes depending on the options three.

• “By now, eggplants got their noses broke by security at the Horseshoe.”
• “We’ll- we get to the car, they won’t be a problem.”
• “Dealt with.”

 

Nino mutters in approval.

 

He’s got a car, he says; pristine two-tone green Cirrus Cicada from ‘53, “-the year of our lord.” You came in from the west, the car is parked up on the east. Depending on options, courtyard is empty, courtyard is still being roamed by twitchy men fierce as f*ck, or there’s a lot of sleepy looking crooks with their faces in the dirt.

 

You sneak or you don’t.

 

The car awaits. It’s parked up where you’re not supposed to park it; a lot of shrubbery, a lot of gravel. Door is unlocked, Dante turns to ask why and Nino just shrugs and says “I lost the keys.”

 

“You lost the keys?”

 

“It’s unlocked. So no problem.”

 

Door opens. Look backseat and there’s so much detritus it might not even count as a seat anymore. Smells like salt and aggressive hops. Dante hits the gas, lets the engine rumble, squeaks out over rocks and onto pavement and hits the brakes fast.

 

Something is happening the f*ck over in the courtyard.

 

The gates are now open, wide. This boat looking car, slick Dundreary Delano, is parked rough with the doors ajar. Two angry wops are out with their own .45s.

 

They are acting in one of three ways.

1. The courtyard is empty. Nobody is there. Guns are out and hands are cupped and they’re shouting for the stars, “Lisi, motherf*cker! You don’t skip out on Chubby f*ckin’ Charlie!” They aren’t pleased. Far from pleased.
2. Said wops, still there, are having a soiree with the happy-go-lucky street gangsters, still there. Neither party is as pleased or as polite as they were with you: black guys are shouting and wops are doing just the same. Wait long enough and the problem will sort itself out either way, gangsters pull bats and the wops do not f*cking play. Guns get drawn and bullets get shot and one party eventually comes out on top. It’s up to the coin toss.
3. “What da’ f*ck…” goes Mr. Mustache traipsing through the valley of the dead. The gangsters are either unconscious or attracting flies. This is possibly the most worrying outcome they could’ve stepped into. “How the f*ck a singer-man kill all these f*ckin’ moolies?”

 

“Chubby f*ckin’ Chuck, man.”

 

Dante grits teeth, “Okay… okay…”

 

Well. Only one way to do it, you guess.

 

Dante hits the gas, pummels gravel, and drives. Cicada screams out and digs black into the pavement, tyres screech. Wops or street guys or both turn, hit to chase. Bullets dig into metal as they start wildly firing, wops dive into their Delano and blacks follow suit if they still can. One or three cars in hot pursuit, mobsters playing cautious and refusing to shoot out the window while the street guys dig deep and try ramming you off the road. 

 

You’re in suburb, suburb, suburb - which means driving has to be creative. Through grids you can drive onto pavement, into garden, through manicured lawns and pretty gardens and in the little gaps between the homes the landboats won’t fit through as easy. You get out of sight and the cones’ll appear, cars’ll drive in your general direction and then make predictions, scurry through until they give up. They might not’ve known it, but all that time you’re hiding in an alleyway. Or some poor schmuck’s backyard.

 

Dante lets out a breath, “Madon’.” Knocks his head back.

 

Nino is laughing. “My god. My god. F*ckin’ rush, kid, god!”

 

“You like that?”

 

“The schook I am to these f*ckin' nail biters, I swear to god. Yes, I f*ckin’ like it. You think I ain’t rode the f*ckin’ carousel, kid?”

 

“...The carousel?”

 

“Got three swarms of these cavone motherf*ckers, happy to get a third a’ them off. Cheech - how is Cheech?”

 

Dante just sighs. “Wish I could tell you, Nate.”

 

Head back to La Penisola.

 

“And that fruity little fanook f*ck is gonna get off my dick?”

 

“What is with you and- yes, Nate. That’s the plan.”

 

He’s thinking scattershot now, head abuzz, “So many folks move out here to get away from the moolies. And yet. And f*ckin’ yet. Wes, he was a f*ckin’ trooper. These guys don’t hold a candle. That was his f*ckin’ car.”

 

“You smashed up their car because it looked--”

 

“It was.”

 

“Okay, man.”

 

“God, I been cooped up too long-some. I got this whole list of these beautiful f*ckin’ songs, these tracks’d blow youse f*ckin’ mind. This one I got, Cherry Pie Baby, it’ll be like the song with the pasta on the radio you hear all the f*ckin’ time.”

 

“Which--”

 

He just bursts into song, “Oh my, sweet cherry pie, oh you, you-you-you-you,” drumming on the f*cking dash, “you're my, oh my fruity gal!”

 

“Okay--”

 

“Your zest, your sweetness, so true, true-true-true!” Breaks out of song a second, “and then it goes like, uh, like- we-,” ahem, “we'll walk down that aisle, say I do, do-do-do! Like that. It's a song you can f*ck to, you can propose to, you can... you can marry to, you can walk down the aisle to this song. Play it at a ball. I dunno.”

 

“The casino people’ll like that, I hope. Whatever- you know, I ain’t a promoter or nothin’--”

 

“Yeah, youse some f*ckin’ tough boy kid that Big Bohan Carlo sends down to put a gun in my face, eh? Well, I did that f*ckin’ sh*t, pal.”

 

“Carlo’s from Bohan?”

 

“Who gives a f*ck. We’re all from Liberty, ‘sides from them f*ckin’ Midwest dago pricks. What they say all the f*ckin’ time, jagoff? You seen them? Those Couira cunts. Pop. Yeah, f*cko. They ride the f*ckin' Falcone train and still let Polacks in.”

 

“I ain’t had my shake a’ them. Well, I met one. Sausage guy.”

 

“Didn’t he get clipped?”

 

“Shame about that, yeah.”

 

“Fat prick got what was comin’. They all do. Little pricks. I grew up Berchem, I been east of the West River. Back when Grave Digger Gus Gam-f*ckin’-betti, your peoples, was goin’ around and sellin’ buttons and gettin’ everybody f*ckin’ killed. I know real motherf*ckers when I see ‘em. You know Mac Panza?”

 

“Mac the Kid, Mac the Cowboy, yeah. Sure.”

 

“God, I wish I was back in the city. f*ck! God, he was a f*ckin' riot. He talked sh*t, but goddamn. You know he was a f*ckin' genius? Like I'd be down at The Scrapes in Lennox and that f*cker played a goddamn tune - if I'm a virtuoso as speakin' he can f*ckin' talk a storm. Quotin' these philosophers and this Machiavelli and all this sh*t at me. Those Anchovy motherf*ckers was always somethin'. Didn't even matter if he was a ni**er lover, you know, I just think--”

 

Kinda annoyed, “I get it.”

 

Laughs, “He had steel goddamn balls too. Him and Noto, balls balls balls. Hal Noto was a funny f*ck but you could go at him all night and if you talked tough he'd double it. That's the problem with Chucky, Chubby Chuck, whateva'. No balls. You could break 'em and they'd pop like a cellophane because the guy had none. Or not cellophane, you know, the one with the bubbles.”

 

“Bubble--”

 

Breezes past, “Same with Pat. Patty Ancelotti. We used to call him Paul Anchovies, you know.”

 

“No.”

 

“Fish finger motherf*cker weirdo. And- and, what the f*ck does he go by now? Some dumb f*ckin' name, Latin sh*t.”

 

Dante thinks. “Pax.”

 

“Ahh! There it f*ckin' is! What the f*ck is that bozo packin’? Peanuts? Ahh, I’m kiddin’.”

 

“Are you?”

 

“Yeah.” Guess he’s going too fast for that to click. “Hell he think he is, f*ckin’... Martin Luther? Christ. Yeah, host rallies. Kiss babies on the f*ckin’ dick. No - you know what he thinks he is? He thinks he’s the f*ckin’ church.”

 

Dante is mum. “Yeah?”

 

“Wants to tell everyone what to do and what to think. Almost as big a f*ckin’ crook as the Catholic goddamn Church. Bigger crooks than you guys.”

 

“Hey--”

 

“No offense or nothin’.”

 

“Just don’t say that sh*t about the church, you know.”

 

“What, you devout?”

 

“No.”

 

“I used to do f*ckin’ choir, jack. I was f*ckin’ up the altar. And the other pricks’d steal from the collection plate, all them motherf*ckers would. They’re crooks. Crook list goes Church, scumbag record label cunts, and you peoples. Uhf.” Belches.

 

“You do that again, roll the windows open.”

 

“It’s my car.”

 

“Your vomit if you toss cookies in the f*ckin’ ride. I’m good. You do that, it’s blood too.”

 

Nino just huffs.

 

It’s a drive back to the casino and the times change. It’s afternoon and the workers are on break again. Maybe they never stopped breaking? Car pulls up to the front entrance and they gawk and go back to whatever, car exhaust chokes fumes out and the car jitters like the chassis is made of cellophane. Bubble wrap. Whatever.

 

Dante is bored.

 

Nino turns. “What’s your name, kid?”

 

“Dante.”

 

“Danny. Danny boy. You got a nick, kid?”

 

“Jackass.”

 

“Ha. Ha ha. That ain’t it. That’s a joke, it’s funny, but it ain’t your name.”

 

“I don’t, Nino.”

 

“Danny-Boy? You should call yourself that. Where you from, kid? You ain’t ‘Derney, I know. Surname?”

 

“Gallo.”

 

He laughs, “Don’t narrow it down. f*ckin’...”

 

“I ain’t from nowhere.”

 

“Zippy? You grow up Broker? Weir Ridge?”

 

“Here, Nate. I grew up here. Parents were blackshirts and got their heads blown off. I grew up here, prick. Uncle f*ckin’ Jacky f*ckin’ here.”

 

“Ah! Jacky f*ckin’ Gallo. Little Jack the f*ckin’ midget.”

 

“F*ck you.”

 

“We all used to call ‘im that, prick is like 5’4''. He lived up Cerveza, you know that?”

 

“He ran f*ckin’ booze with Canadians, yes prick, I know my f*ckin’ uncle.”

 

“In ‘57, Little Man Gallo and cousin-f*cker Cangelosi got the Anchovies to do a once over on Gus at the barber shop… god. Youse that f*ckin’ Gallo, huh? Thought you was half mick like those Gallos from Leftwood, not the quintet. And we was talkin’ about Panza, ha, f*ck! And youse from nowhere, huh? You a nobody--”

 

Dante gets out the car and slams the door shut.

 

No reward.

 

CARDSHARPS ABUZZ AS LA PENISOLA'S OPENING GALA APPROACHES

By Rudy Menken
---- IN less than a month’s time, the Strip will soon be adorned with yet another vivacious gambling hall brought to fruition by a $12 million dollar investment courtesy of funding secured by the Florentine Corporation.

 

Dubbed La Penisola, the 300,000 square foot, vaquero-themed gambling hall and casino will feature sixteen blackjack tables, six craps tables, fifty slot machines, twenty-five cigarette dispensers and an auditorium advance-booked with acts such as the mangled flaming Flamenco dancer Ventosa and the town’s favorite nylon negress Kitty Isobel. Talks of relatively higher-profile acts -- and whispers of a reunion of the Donk Herd, who spotted the casino scene throughout the 1950s headlining at the likes of the Atacama and Bahama Club -- were hinted at by Florentine’s ever-offbeat and notoriety-seeking president Carlo D’Aversa.

 

D’Aversa, who made waves in city press recently after an incident at a local restaurant where he was accused of stabbing a fork into a waiter's hand and dousing a chef in white wine, was mum on any specifics but promised that “[we] wouldn’t be disappointed. You people are never disappointed. I could book [expletive] Nancy LePage out here lightin’ herself on fire and pissin’ down the stage, you’d love it. In fact, I might see about that”. 

 

Budgeted at a firm $12 million, La Penisola has been mired in nebulous accusations over the legitimacy of its funding since it broke ground last year following the original casino’s closing following a suspicious arson in 1960. D’Aversa, officially the president of Florentine Corporation sharing the position of casino manager, holds a 33.3% investment in the property. The other 66.6% -- a mathematical two-thirds, remains anyone’s best guess. The Robada State Gaming Commission does not oblige investing parties to divulge their identities in the public record.

 

La Penisola will open next month with a ribbon-cutting ceremony, expected to be attended by every big shot and fame-chaser within a 500-mile radius. A $300-a-plate fundraiser will accompany the gala, expected to keep cardsharps excited to gauge the casino's level of severity toward cheaters at bay for at least a few days.

[Cebra]

Victorians turn Mission-style turn propped up department stores clashing across from flat pavement median. It’s been days on and off, rain still puddling and pooling and flowing into gutters, busses barrelling down the boulevard and picking up passenger hordes packed into bus stop shelters, glass tops protecting delicate heads from the demon moisture.

 

Pull up in the family car - it’s yours again, wipers do their job as Doug makes it to the curb, eyes the spot Oscar sent him off to: open lot lined with exotic imports leading the way to a deep-set white stucco box. Garage. Big sign calls it Papa Ospovat’s Foreign Cars.

 

Time to meet Papa Ospovat.

 

Doug pauses a second, watches as a bunch - mostly old women, babushka-clad, hunched and manhandled by their husbands - make their way into the Orthodox church piercing the fog with its golden domes and fifty-foot murals down the street. Scratches his neck, yawns. They’re inside.

 

With a big sigh he clamors out into the lot, gives the cars an eyeful - Benefactor, Übermacht, Usög, half-plated half void, some with aluminum shields protecting the interior from a sun not much interested in coming out today. Nothing domestic in sight.

 

One of two garage doors is open. Lets the rain in, pools into drainage where concrete meets gravel - invites Doug inside.

 

It’s odd. Simultaneous clutter and emptiness, the combination of volume and absence - cars on hydraulic lifts - domestics now, mind you - oil slicks and tool benches and tire piles and nothing. Not a human being in sight, not a sound.

 

Then some coughing.

 

L-staircase to your left: a little climb leads up to this brick-box office on a would-be second floor, curved glass-block wall giving an overview of the whole little setup. A place where people cough.

 

Hop to it.

 

There’s no door. The metal clangs with every step and at the top you’re right in it: it’s an office alright. Camera from Doug’s POV, walls peeling and floor unwelcoming and no doubt smells of stale coffee and couch alike. Cheap loveseat in tatters belies other sh*t: baroque ornamental armoire doing God-knows-what against the back wall, same for the desk cluttered with paperwork and mugs and ashtrays and the high-backed gilded chair Papa Ospovat’s staring you down from.

 

Words come piling out, rapidfire and throaty.

 

“Osya, скажите своей жене, что если ее новые тормоза не удовлетворяет ее, она может покататься на велосипеде на гребаный рынок.”

Osya, please tell your f*cking wife that if the new brakes aren’t to her satisfaction then she can bike to the f*cking market from now on.

 

Doug was putting on a swagger. It’s gone now.

 

“I… huh?”

 

“Не дай мне это дерьмо--”

Don’t give me that sh*t--

 

Ospovat’s rolling his eyes while he speaks, grabs a pair of glasses off the desk. Good vision stops him in his tracks, drops all momentum.

 

“Oh. Who are you?”

 

“I’m uh- I’m Doug.” Leans against the arch. “No Osyas here. Tell me, how is it you leave all those mighty fine autos out there in the lot, no gate or nothing, and nobody touches ‘em?”

 

Palms on the desk. “Why? You want to touch ‘em?”

 

“Not really.”
 

Starts playing it up. “People are knowing better in this neighborhood. Trust me.”

 

“Yeah, figured. Can I sit?”

 

Ospovat doesn’t speak, just gestures to a pair of folding chairs facing him. Doug plops down, finds himself coming up half a head shorter than the Russian, tries to adjust his ass to very little avail. Stares at the nameplate says Mitt Ospovat / Big Cheese. Someone thinks it’s funny.

 

Man who probably thinks it’s funny’s scruffy, in a wide-headed, wide-mouthed, perpetual stubble and pink-white pattern shirt sort of way. Type of guy who could probably wring your neck with both hands but probably wouldn’t. Type where you hope the rigid exterior belies a little teddy-bear nature.

 

“Why the f*ck you wander into my office? Why the f*ck--”

 

Charming, but conversation heads for a little mid-sentence diversion if you’ve got Doug in his USMC-issue jacket. Mitt’s taken.

 

“Your jacket. Is OG-107?”

 

“OG- olive green? I- yeah, I think that’s what they called it.”

 

“You are Marine?”
 

“Was.”

 

“They let you keep the jacket?”

 

Somewhere along the logical line Doug thinks ‘f*ck it’.

 

“Got cashiered - dishonorable discharge, so no. But they can’t do much about missing items at outprocessing and try billing me at an address I haven’t lived at for 15 years. So f*ck ‘em.”

 

“It is nice jacket.”

 

Considering the pink floral shirt it means a lot. “Yeah, I think so too. S’why I took it.”

 

“You see combat?”

 

“Some. Saw- we were in Van Tuong, the peninsula. Y’know, Chu Lai. VC hospitals and the like, most abandoned.” He’s not budging on much more, waiting for Mitt to respond - doesn’t. “Those names, uh- they mean anything to you?”

 

“I can read papers.”

 

Probably not. But he doesn’t let the conversation hang.

 

“So,” Russian leans back in his chair, “You are Doug. You have gotten dishonorable discharge, stolen issue of US military, sewn rank from pretty jacket and you interested why nobody don’t steal my cars. What you want from me?”

 

“Well,” starts off, “I’m here on business.”

“They all say this.”

 

“Yeah. Tong business.”

 

“Little Chinamen do not usually send American marine for this.”

 

“I figure.”
 

No - he’s not making it easy. “Okay,” cranes neck, “here’s how I understand it, alright? The Tongs, they lent out to this guy named Bertram Young--”

 

“Ah.”

 

“Ah?”

 

“Ah.” He’s picking at teeth now.

 

Okay.

 

“He’s a mark. Some f*ckin’ degenerate, can’t help himself, way they make it sound he’s got the fingers of every lendor in the city in his goddamn pockets. Guy like that, dime a dozen, y’know, they got a sickness. My father was like that. But--”

 

“Was he?”

 

“Yeah. Schmuck. But this guy, point is, this guy- Oscar Feng, Dang, Deng- whatever, he says there’s some sort of conflict of interest going on.”

 

“What kind?”

 

“With your brother.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And- I dunno, there’s some exotic car involved or something. Thought maybe I’d spot it here, I got it for the Tongs then they, uh, they lost it, be honest with you, but I ain’t got an idea what you know. Just that- hell, I don’t really know- but he’s in big with this Nikita and he’s in bigger with the Chinese. And that sh*t don’t look too good.”

 

There’s a pause, a long one. Mitt thinks or he feigns thinking or there’s no distinction to be made anyway. “Nikita is my brother-in-law. In more ways than one.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“But he is a prick.”

 

“Aren’t they all?”

 

Finally gets a laugh. “Yes, maybe.”

 

“So, I’m here to, uh, facilitate peace I guess. Y’know, we uh, we- that car we took, Oscar says Nikita thinks it’s a fair trade to cover the vig with it. And far as I can tell the Chinese think the same.”

 

“That all?”

 

Doug sits back. “Guess so.”

 

Takes a moment to compose himself. Serious now. “Listen here. I never much like usury. You take a broken man and you break him further, you crush dusha, his soul - many people have stomach for this, but this is a means to get your hands dirty that I could not ever bring myself to do. You capitalize, you profit on a sickness. Is different. And when man with wife, three kids, you bled him to the last drop and he drive his car off Finlíneas Crest embankment into the Pacific, just ‘cause he couldn’t make 7.5% vigorish- that happen, who win then?” He points absently, “They don’t win. We don’t win.”

 

“I mean- I lived here all my life and thought you fellas liked that sh*t. Seems half the goddamn city’s into you or, y’know, the Tongs, ‘least neck deep.”

 

“We’re not unit. We not--” Mitt cuts himself off, checks his watch - tic or time-constrained, who knows, “I work on cars since I was little boy, yeah? And back in the old country, there always some, uh, association with the criminals. No choice. So when they start cracking down, they want to send me to gulag- I leave my family, sisters, I go to Latvia in 1938, ‘39, and work at garage there. Quiet like.”

 

Doug’s listening like a kid around the campfire.

 

“Nikita, he has no passion like this. Nikita, same time, bit earlier, he robbing transport hub in Kirov, store goods in old kulak mills by the river until he get pinched, right? And so of course, he got in before me, in gulag- then Nazis come to Latvia, and, you know- so I go home. And I go to gulag.”

 

“Sounds about right.”

 

“Sure. But Nikita killed men in gulag, men who say, ‘I go into military, work with government so I don’t spent rest of my life doing labor’. And I didn’t got to, myself. And he find Lazya Safran, or Lazya finds him--”

 

“Who?”

 

“Who.” Mitt nods. “Yes. But my point - Nikita always have blood on his hands. And I do too, do not get it wrong. But Lazya, he meet me soon after and he like me, maybe more still today- why? Because: Nikita married to my sister, I married to no one. I gamble and lose, I pay my debts. Nikita gamble and lose - maybe you think this funny - he say a ‘f*ck you’ to debtors. And so on.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Doug does not know why he’s saying ‘yeah’.

 

“My brother… he is my brother. We follow same law and live the same life and this is all we are.”

 

Doug looks down at the knees and back up and blinks and says “Yeah” again. There’s something in there. He elaborates, “I get you.”

 

Mitt chews his lip. “In Siberia there are laws you have to follow. Eyes for eyes. There are accounts that need to be settled, razborka, I don’t know. I don’t know. You want me to settle this thing?”

 

Doug’s steady, “All parties want this settled, I think.”

 

Mitt’s still chewing, “Then you settle something for me.”

 

Of course. Doug’s feeling it, nods, “Of course.”

 

“This is-” Mitt’s pointing at his chest, points harder, almost starts beating it, “-gentleman’s agreement for the transferral of goods. Yes?”

 

“How it seems to go.”

 

“There is reason for this. Who you say sent you- Phang? Teng? Deng?”

 

“I, uh- Oscar.”

 

“He tells you how operation here works?”

 

“Oscar’s kind of a nitwit, Mitt, I mean he’s a nice guy and all but- no. He didn’t tell me sh*t.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Desk drawer opens, pack of ciggies comes out and now Mitt’s extending you a hand, lights for Doug and himself.

 

“Is simple really. We on the end where we got spotters citywide, you know, sharp eyes in search for European market car - Lampadati, Ocelot, Usög, not important. My men bring to garage here, we strip it down for parts, sometimes we pull VIN - it depend on orders, you see - uh, we sell hull to scrapyard. Who owns salvage operation? Your Chinese friends, eh? And they facilitate purchase of hull to our guys on other end of city, we got few in Dutch Flatlands, Aravalli Gulch-”

 

Words keep coming and Doug’s nodding and smoking and maybe-maybe not appreciating the full scope. But this is a serious man.

 

“-and usually Grisha, my nephew, he do the runs today, this beauty out in Sastre Outlook, some philantrophy house, I don’t know. Doctor or some nonsense. But Grisha has flu.”

 

“Hope he gets better.”

 

“He act like woman, even my sister not like this, the nose and the cough... But what will you do, the newer generation…” he trails off. 

 

Right. The newer generation.

 

Shrug. Drawer. Paper. Slides across.

 

“Go there, you go now. Is Usög Triolet. Blue - don’t know why - but there is market for these things. I don’t think I got to tell you what to do.”

 

“You don’t.”

 

“You bring it right back.”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Don’t get seen, don’t ask no questions.”

“Alright.”

 

“And then I sort this out for you, maybe.”

 

“Would be appreciated.”

 

He goes back to reading whatever’s on his desk. There are no goodbyes.

 

Get to it, baby. 

 

It’s not much of a drive - could even walk if you wanted, car’s surely not getting touched by the lot if Mitt has anything to say about it. But you know, it’s raining. You make him do it and Doug’s got his arms overhead and an extra bit of prickliness in every step. 

 

Paper’s in pocket, you can check it - 2585 Balderdash Street. Doug knows the area, sure; not the exact addy though. You can take San Andreas Ave east, up a block where houses make a distinct impression from your typical victorians to ones more akin to compounds by the time you’re parallel with Sastre Courtyard. You know, only segregated landmass in the city ‘til 15 or so years ago.

 

You can still feel it.

 

Start counting addresses whether you’re in car or on foot; most splayed in gold lettering on curbs, masonry, gaudy lettering on garage doors. 2505, 2507, 2509 - houses on the east mansions packed together like sardines, west sprawling estates with land to spare. You’re on the east.

 

Makes it easier if you’re on foot when you hit Balderdash proper, foot traffic’s light by grace of the weather and demographics alike: lone cars line sloped sidewalks, Ubers, Benefactors, a Pfister or two. Nice - but not what you’re here for.

 

You hit 2585 before long. Very distinct impression that philantrophy house, whatever Mitt meant by it, makes sense now. Sandstone and sprawling facade, garage set forward in the lot and rooftop dormers overlooking lower elevation, i.e. most of the city. It’s one of two - someone who can afford to be a philanthropist or a politician. Probably got good car insurance.

 

It’ll come in handy.

 

But problem, maybe: no Usög in sight. 

 

Get access to the garage.

 

Maybe they’re not home. 

 

Garage is shuttered tight. No go. You couldn't look like more of a car thief tippy-toeing around the building looking for entrances. Door? No thanks. Windows? None open. Creep ahead a little and you get the distinct vibe you’re being watched; maybe a gardener, maybe someone is home. You do enough searching at the front until you turn shoulders back to the road.

 

“Hmph.”

 

One of the alleys opposite the house.

 

There’s a car. This Barbican Monitor with taupe paintwork and smoky windows and, you squint, a single guy in the driver seat. You thought you were conspicuous? That’s halfway the most obvious undercover cruiser you've ever laid your eyes on. Standard issue. Doug bites lip.

 

Could you go around it? Yeah.

 

But Doug ain’t in the mood.

 

He crosses the street.

 

Marches right up to the vehicle and slowly, ever slowly, puts his hand on his holster.

 

Face gets closer.

 

And closer.

 

And you’re right up the front and Doug puts his hand on the hood and whisks his way up to the driver’s window.

 

And Doug practically sh*ts his f*cking pants.

 

“...are you f*ckin’ kidding me?”

 

The cop in the car is a f*cking idiot. He’s got a box of donuts in his lap and coffee precariously on the dashboard and right to his left his hand is on a revolver lying by the gear stick next to a pair of binoculars. 

 

The f*cking idiot is also named Randy Harris.

 

Cheap suit, tie untied, afro well on its way over these sad eyes. Randy wipes powdered sugar from his gaping maw and tries to process what he's seeing. He does: “Cripes.”

 

“What the f*ck is this, Randall?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Hey, Doug.”

 

“Yeah.” Doug spins for containment, “You f*ckin- you f*ck-”

 

Randy’s finger flies to lips, gestures real quiet, tapers the volume down with a hand.

 

Not having it.

 

“Don’t you f*cking shush me, goddamn you.”

 

He stops. “Dougie. D-Dougie- get in the car. C’mon.”

 

“Get in the car. With you?”

 

“Yeah. Come around. Get in the car.”

 

Doug takes this big breath, looks at the house and back. It’s not going anywhere so he comes around and dives into the passenger seat - or he’s about to, throws a couple burger wrappers on the dash before he’s able.

 

And then they stare at each other.

 

“I asked you a question, Randall.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“What the f*ck is this, Randall?”

 

“Oh- this, it’s uh, I dunno. Odd job, I guess. Took on a PI’s license ‘bout six months or so back, I been in the doghouse at home, you know. It’s uh, it’s stupid. And politicking back at the station, this fella, heckuva’ asshole, Hilaire, he got upped to Vice and they filled the vacuum with--”

 

Doug rubs forehead. “Randall, ain’t I always told you to get to the f*ckin’ point? What’re you doing here, camped out like some goddamn teepee on the plain? When’re your bosses gonna figure out that everyone can clock their unmarkeds easier than a bunch of punji sticks on the delta, huh?”

 

“I-- what?”

 

Giving him an eyeful. Doug spins in the seat, gestures to the back windshield, “Didn’t even lay the strobes down, f*ckin’ moron.”

 

“C’mon, Doug.”

 

You can see it clear enough - don’t need the full context of what went on just yet to see actions speaking words aplenty, Doug could’ve gone a life long lived without ever seeing this guy’s face again.

 

But here they are.

 

“Honest to God, Doug - I thought I’d a’ run into you by now.”

 

“It’s a big town.”

 

“Maybe. Not that big. You know I caught up with a couple of the boys? Went down to Gaudi with Eric de Noia a month or two back, there’s this club - well, club - it’s a wa--”

 

“I don’t care.”

 

Sighs go around. Doug wiggles in the seat.

 

“Okay.” But on he goes, “Heard Vogel’s in town too. Baker’s somewhere down south, south of us I mean, Santo Zacaria or Roca Seca or somethin’, I dunno. Vasquez, I think he went back east or something. Got hitched. That dickhead McClean, friggin’ Alan, he’s somewhere stateside, Los Santos maybe, I dunno. Kurtz is off the map, no surprise, and uh- Hitchens, he got leukemia.”

 

Front breaks a sec. “Leukemia?”

 

“Yeah, he- he’s gone, dead. Ten months, year ago.”

 

“No sh*t.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Well,” sits up, “Guy never was the finest of fettle. You remember when we dug those holes near Chu Lai, those goddamn centipedes--” No. Something clicks. Cuts the reminiscence short, “Randall, I don’t think you oughta try and break bread over the names of our brothers is all, alright?”

 

He knows why. Eyes are pleading and Doug opens the window with the crank, watches the house, watches some broad’s ass as she walks by with a toy dog.

 

“Did you get my letter?”

 

Through his teeth: “Nah.”

 

“Doug--”

 

“Randall--”

“Randy.”

 

“Randall - I don’t give two sh*ts about the letter, what it said, whether it was laminated or handwritten or how many revisions it took ‘fore you decided on how many words it would take to convince me to forgive and forget, alright? Drop it.”

 

“It weren’t my fault.”

 

“Never was, huh? Weren’t your fault when you made all that noise outside the VC hospital by Batangan neither. Or when you sparked up the munitions tent at camp.”

 

You know Randy’s serious; he spins in his seat, gives that sad-eyed stare. Chump. “I just want forgiveness, Doug.”

 

He doesn’t skip a beat, “Well, there’s a lot in life we ain’t ever gonna get. Ask Babić, you know, from up there or down there or wherever you think he might be. In the ground, back home.”

 

“That ain’t fair--”

 

“Don’t talk fair. You talk fair when you squared killing Babić and trashing that heli and getting me sent back to base and you gettin’ your early ETS and that little prick Dutch going back to Missouri to drive buses or whatever the f*ck. Try it then, Randall.”

 

“I didn’t kill Babić.”

 

“Yes you did. Yes you did.”

 

“That ain’t fair. That ain’t the f*ck fair and you know--”

 

“What do I know?”

 

“That ain't how it went down!”

 

“I know he's rotted in a goddamn hole in goddamn Virginia, Randall.”

 

“Randy.”

 

“Randall. Randolph. Ran-f*ckin’-dolfo.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“And you have the f*cking gall-”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“-to ‘reach out’ like this is f*cking high school reunions and we’re getting the band together and f*ck, Randall, a lot of those reunions is gonna be caskets and flags draped on the top, you f*ck.”

 

“It's not like that!”

 

“You think you're better than me, you badge-and-gun gumshoe cocksucker motherf*cking--”

 

You hear a crash, hear metal creaking and tires screeching and zoom out onto the f*cking road and out a busted up garage goes a car.

 

From 2585. From the target house.

 

An Usög.

 

Y’know. The car.

 

“You wanna talk forgiveness ever again, Randall, you’ll get after that f*ckin’ car right now.”

 

“What?!”

 

“Go!”

 

No question, no time to think, Randy turns the key sitting idle in the ignition, revs it, guns it as the Usög slinks on suspension and barrels down the road on decline.

 

And you, you’re not in control, it’s out of your hands - switch to first person to get right in the midst of it, Randy giving it the old college try in a cop sedan primed to absorb airtime after airtime while the target car does anything but, wheels practically retract into arches right ahead - “Argh, watch the f*ckin’ trim, goddamn it!”

 

Contextual button’s here as a reminder: hold it for a cinematic view of the chase, eagle eye substituting an up close and personal view as the camera perches on Victorian arches and the classic top-down.

 

Doug goes “f*ck” and then goes “f*ck” again and when Randy lines the cars up and you’re almost bumper to bumper and he’s honking and going “Doug, what’s the friggin' plan, man?”, you’re pulled from control as Old Dougie clasps his pistol from the waistband with one hand and latches the other to the grab handle - uses the momentum to shift himself out the window.

 

“The hell you doing?!”

 

Deadpan into the wind: “I’m gonna shoot his tires out, Randall.”

 

Car goes skee and almost hits the curb ‘cause Randy lunges and pulls Doug by the leg - doesn’t work, but he gets the message and crawls back inside anyway: “You better have a backup plan then, prick.”

 

“I uh- I--”

Doug echoes, mocks, calms a bit when he sees the Usög slowing ever so slightly, following traffic rules - gets caught at a light crossing Franklin Ave.

 

Fiddling.

 

Fiddling under the seat, eyes in the back, finally pops the glovebox - Doug pulls out a portable strobe still plugged under the dash.

 

“Are you kidding me?”

 

“What?”

 

“I don’t know, Randall, f*ckin’ cop, didn’t think it’d be worth mentioning you had a light under here?”

 

“I mean I didn't exactly think I’d be- I dunno, I mean--”

 

“Shut up and tell me how to work the thing.”

 

“It’s-- it’s plugged, you just uh, there’s this switch on the bottom. You just flick the thing and, y’know, put it on the dash.”

 

Light goes green.

 

It’s your call but time’s a-wastin’ - contextual button has Doug switch on and put the damn thing down, it kicks right up and Randy complements with the siren under the steering column.

 

“Could’a put the goddamn siren on too, Randall.”

 

“I don’t even know what we’re doin’. What’s your business with this guy, what’re you gettin’ me into here?”

 

“Yeah,” Doug says.

 

“What?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Randall swallows it. “Okay.”

 

F*ckers’re stalling, slow rolling ‘til they come to a full stop on Jacobin Street, this stretch with no curb in the shadows of sandstone across Echazon Plaza. Stops slow, steady, rocks a little in front of the houses and you can hear something-something.

 

Wordlessly, Doug hops out. Randy follows. Perp window rolls down and you can hear bickering in a foreign language, two voices. One a whiny snarl, the other these big oily grunts.

 

“Из всех ебучих дней, чувак.”

Of all the f*cking days, man.

 

“Grigori, ты хреново водишь.”

You drive like an idiot, Grigori.

 

“Вы не хотели водить!”

You told me you didn’t want to drive!

 

“У меня нет документов американских. Если полиция остановит нас, мы попадем в тюрьму, а не оштрафованы. Идиот.”

I don’t have an American ID. They stop me, we go to jail instead of getting fined. Idiot.

 

“О, заткнись, Zalman, они идут.”

Oy, shut up, Zalman, they’re f*cking coming.

 

Doug doesn’t understand, but it don’t sound like they’re having fun.

 

Randy marches to the window. Follow.

 

The two guys come into view - driver’s seat occupied by a shaggy looking bearded kid with long hair and red eyes; passenger this ruddy blond guy in a t-shirt, puffing smoke, trying to look away. Shaggy puts on this fake ‘Whoopsy’ face and his head starts darting from you to the road to you to the road.

 

Randy leans in. Pulls something off his belt, police badge. “SFPD.”

 

Shaggy, “Yes. Yes, I can see.” He’s the whiny one.

 

“You know how fast you were going?”

 

“Is-, yes, the funny, yes- my gas on the stove. I leave it on. Yes?”

 

Randy mulls it. “House you was just speedin’ out of?”

 

Blondie sighs and spits out the window. Shaggy does a little eye twitch but soldiers on, “Yeah. Yes. Mr. Man here, he has the- he need me to drive the car for him because he no have no of the license for driving, yes?”

 

Randy smirks. He’s just f*cking with them now, “Your address?”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“What’s your address? Your name?”

 

Blondie spits again, “Не говори им свое настоящее чертово имя, Grisha.”

You don’t tell them your f*cking name, Grisha.

 

“Ты с ума сошел?!”

Are you f*cking crazy?!

 

Randy, “English.”

 

Doug thinks. Grisha. Grisha.

 

Grisha.

 

The flu, huh?

 

“License and registration,” Randy is leaning in for a looksy-doo, “Need your address.”

 

“I tell you Mr. Buster, I live on the street you see me on. Balderdash. What the f*ck?”

 

“Buddy--”

 

Doug has had enough. “Out the f*cking car.”

 

Grisha, “What your problem, cowboy?”

 

Louder, “Get out the f*cking car, Grisha.”

 

“My name is f*cking Clifford!”

 

“Doug--”

 

Screw that.

 

Doug barges past and half-flings Randy to the side and just grabs the door handle from the inside-out. Grisha is shouting, “Move your ass going, my friend! What your problem?!” but Doug couldn’t give one f*ck or another, grabs Grisha from the arm and yanks him out onto the sidewalk.

 

“You tell your uncle you got the flu?!”

 

“Who the f*ck are you?!”

 

Passenger seat doesn’t move, “Они не полицейские.”

They ain’t cops.

 

Half-right. “Randy, cuff ‘im.”

 

Randy is standing gob-smacked a few paces away. “What?”

 

“Cuff the little sh*t.”

 

“Why?”

 

“He stole the f*cking ride, Randall. What- some f*ckin’ chump’s gonna speed out the garage door, burn rubber because his gas is on the f*cking stove? Goddamn Clifford?”

 

This moment of reflection. Randy chews lip.

 

Gets the cuffs out his belt.

 

Too late.

 

Right from behind Doug gets shoulder-checked by the big blonde brute; Grisha on the ground screams “Zalman, what the f*ck?!” but Dougie gets headed off into the street, almost gets hit by a truck. Thing speeds past and honks horn but, oopsy, you and and Zalman are now locked into fisticuffs on the road.

 

Disable Zalman.

 

Zalman roars. Nothing like words, just anger. Cracks neck.

 

“Slava посылает своих головорезов со значками, правда?”

Slava sends his goons with badges, huh?

 

Yeah. Whatever he said, sure.

 

The big guy is big, sure - but he’s fast, plays rough with his hands and tries to take you down with both arms. Tries grabbing at your arms and shoving your face into the concrete and grinding his boots on your legs. Zalman plays dirty. You can too, easy - pull a melee and the confident f*cker’ll try and grab at you anyway; get unlucky and he’ll take it from you and turn the blade the other way.

 

Pulling a gun isn’t recommended.

 

It isn’t a long fight, and if you play your cards right he’ll hit the ground easy, but you know. Cigar chomping slav with an axe to grind and boots to do the very same.

 

Doug drags him to the side while Randy slams Grisha onto the hood of his unmarked whip and pats the kid down. Kid strains and wails, “Ohhh baby, what you do to me!”

 

Get down to his level. Ask again, “Thought you had the flu, Grish’?”

 

“Are you buddy even f*cking cops, man? You f*ck me, buddy?!”

 

“Yeah, bud. I f*ck you.”

 

“F*ck you.”

 

Randy chuckles, “He’s witty.”

 

Moment of just him struggling against the steel. 

 

Sighs. Doug, “I’m gonna take the car.”

 

“You’re gonna what?”

 

“You can keep Bluto and Slim over here.”

 

“Doug, I’m taking two perps in for car theft for a car that don’t friggin’ exist.”

 

“Then you take your prints, take your pretty mugshot, throw ‘em out on the street within 48. I don’t give a f*ck. Think of something.”

 

“What the heck have you put me up to, Pryor?”

 

“You want forgiveness, Randall?”

 

Randy waivers.

 

Doug just nods. “You’re on the yellow brick road. We get a coffee. Something.” Smirks a little before continuing, “If you want, I’ll sock you in the f*ckin’ mouth, say the perps resisted arrest.”

 

Randy doesn’t think he’s joking. Waits a little under Russian grunts before just murmuring “Okay,” hoisting Grisha upright, “You got my number. Okay.”

 

Get the Usög to Papa Ospovat’s.

 

Randy drives off. The street is empty.

 

Get in the Triolet.

 

It’s a sobering drive back the way you came.

 

Russians never killed the engine; Doug plants his ass firm onto burnt orange leather, switch to first person as the radio purrs in the throes of Neil Young. Gauges are white, radio’s a bunch of knobs. 

 

It’s neat.

 

But you’re not long for it, pitter-pattering your way back to the garage as the gears jolt; remember, car’s an import, car’s manual - you gun it too quick after a red light, means Doug pulls the clutch too quick and you’re stalled. Learn to work it and you won’t turn a quick return trip into a series of stop-and-goes at every intersection between Sastre and the garage.

 

You can muse: Mitt being played for a fiddle.

 

Really your problem?

 

Probably.

 

Pass through Balderdash again and slow it by the castello-style haunt Randy was scoping out, you might find his money shot - real jittery looking couple, old broad and this slick twenty-something heading in through a side entrance. Woulda made a good shot.

 

Gets Doug his last laugh.

 

Ospovat Foreign Cars hasn’t moved, stucco dwelling still shimmers in puddles pooling in a lot long wracked with potholes. Garage door welcomes you inside with open arms.

 

Watch the suspension on the transition strip.

 

Park up. No, Mitt’s not gonna meet you halfway, he’s still holed up in the office - so say your goodbyes to the little Triolet. Won’t see another for a while.

 

He’s up there, clang clang clang with each foot on perforated metal. In the doorway you spot him eating a sandwich but he just as well might not’ve moved since you left, looks like he’s lived his whole life in that chair.

 

It’s egg salad.

 

“Mitt.”

 

“Ah,” puts it down, wipes fingers - not on a napkin, not even his shirt, the table, goes “So you have settled up the business then, Mister Contraband?”

 

“Eh, in so many words.”

 

Pushes his plate back, “What does that mean?”

 

“Well - I got you the car.”

 

“I see this.”

 

“But, uh-” he steps forward, “Grisha, your nephew. He was uh, sick, you said?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Beat. Stare. Mitt starts doing the arithmetic.

 

“Doug,” he goes, “Just don’t be f*cking me, yeah?”

 

“You fellas got a real cool grasp on that word.” He pulls up a chair, gets serious. “Look - long story short, I went to the f*ckin’ house and it weren’t three seconds ‘fore your little blue bullet comes out the garage like a bat outta hell. I catch up and it’s some rat-haired kid named f*cking Grisha, sick Grisha, and I’m thinkin’ ‘Hm, now that’d be some f*ckin’ coincidence if they weren’t one and the same, wouldn’t it?’”

 

He’s stoic. “What happened?”

 

“He had some goddamn tough with him, whatever. Like I said, long story - they’re uh, they’re probably bein’ booked at the station up on 6th Ave by now.”

 

“And you get the car.”

 

“Yeah. I get the car. Which means they’ll be out by tea time.”

 

Mitt’s busy trying not to look too hurt or too pissed, and it’s admirable - it’s just not working.

 

“Mitt, look, I don’t wanna get into the middle of some family disp-”

 

“No. This is not family dispute, this is business. I guess… is razborka from the other side, huh?”

 

Silence. But then something goes snap.

 

“F*CK!”

 

No fists or kicks or broken lamps, ‘stead Mitt takes his f*cking sandwich and lobs it against the glass block wall - bread flies, egg and mayonnaise suctions itself to the glass and starts a slow crawl down. 

 

Doug just glares.

 

Looks back. “What now, then?”

 

“I don’t f*cking know what now, why he don’t f*cking talk to me before doing this, he make my own nephew do this? To take from me?”

 

“Who?”

 

“Who - Mister Doug, you work for Tongs, I know this, they keep dispute to a little. But you still have two eyes, yes? You see the pieces moving, you see Nikita put pressure on step-son, Grisha say ‘yes’ to man who can give him more than a little piece of car ring?”

 

“I dunno what you’re talking about.”

 

He stands, casts half a glare at sandwich mush on the floor before moving on. “You see this?”

 

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Someone take this three, four years ago. Is little Dagestani family, own this whole place before it becomes mine. But Papa Maksud did not want to sell. This is when Lazya Safran set up whole deal with Triad salvage yards, you see, and we was needing a place in the neighborhood. Papa Maksud was stubborn like goddamn moon, would not listen to Mr. Safran and certainly not to me.”

 

“So you took turns breaking his sons’ arms, I get the story.”

 

“No. Nikita comes, with golden tongue. Not a strongarm, but he made Maksud see reason where even Mr. Safran could not. And he don’t take one cent for it, keep to his own methods, the shylock. He do it out of goodwill.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“I don’t care. Why the f*ck he can’t talk no reason to me?”

 

“I don’t know, Mitt. But I came in here asking on their behalf, the Triads - that you’d, you know, speak to him anyway, right? ‘Cause this all comes back to debts unsettled. Anything beyond that…” trails off, makes a chopping motion.

 

Anything to be gained playing dumb.

 

“I don’t got no choice now, huh?”

 

“Guess not.”

 

“Here,” Mitt reaches again into the bottomless desk, pulls out a crisp twenty. “You do good work, even if things go a little haywired. I’d like you to come back. But Doug - I can’t do you no promises about this debt.”

 

Doug shrugs, grabs his reward: “All I can do is ask.”

 

Well, that was a f*cking excursion.

 

You’re out. Doug stands up, eyes dart down - to sandwich, to Mitt and back, but there’s only one way out. You hit metal and Mitt’s back in the chair with a sigh reverberating, last little glance down the stairs you see a man with hands on face stuck in a cloud of a million thoughts.

 

Doug shrugs. Walks down the steps.

+ $20.00

 

 

CLAIMS OF DIRE CONDITIONS AT SASTRE STOCKADE SPURNED

By Binyamin Dorf

---- A series of civilian complaints elevated to the Office of the Inspector General of the United States Army have recently been made available to this paper regarding conditions at the stockade located within the Sastre military outpost at The City’s famous northernmost point. 

 

A shockingly grim picture is painted. Among a skein of fourteen charges first levied against the personnel of the military prison in April 1966 on behalf of the inmate population are accusations of grossly overpopulated cell blocks; physical and mental torment at the hands of Military Police guards; latrines flooded with excrement, and a rash of suicide attempts in the dozens - though largely unsuccessful - as recently as the month last. 

 

The stockade, which consists overwhelmingly of young men charged with going AWOL during the Army’s engagements in Indochina, a fortnight ago enacted a temporary policy of no discharges said to have been applied in response to a populational quota related to operational utility costs. On this specific claim, Army spokesman Ward Moultry had no comment.

 

Following a hunger strike perpetrated by a small collective of dissenting prisoners in January that garnered the attention of local newspapers, the dissenters are since alleged to have been segregated, abused, and refused access to sanitation facilities. One inmate, whose identity has not been released, too attempted suicide.

 

Spokesman Ward Moultry said of the allegations; "We take any and all misconduct complaints very seriously, only we urge the public to understand that the conditions at Sastre are beyond reproach. Beyond reproach. We’ve reviewed the reports and find the allegations to be the work of a small contingent of troops radicalized by the adversarial mindset, trying to cash into San Fierro’s penchant for welcoming recreant bellyachers of the anti-war movement. We will resolve the situation as we see fit.”

 

The Sastre stockade continues to operate as usual. The fourteen complaints have been printed in full on Page 5.

[Cebra]

 

Doug’ll be up Greenwich when the minimap shows a new blip. Old friend Stephane La Roi, troubled artist and drug fiend. Why not pay a visit?

 

Drive up to his townhouse on Charge Street, climb up the steps, ring the doorbell. Buzz in - “Here to see Stephane.” Get Cantonese bickering back. Is he here? Is he not?

 

Don’t matter.

 

Doug’ll turn from the door, face the street, pull a smoke and wait. Time ticks, seconds pass, a little longer.

 

Suddenly, you hear a pur.

 

A black BF Synergy speeds up the block, narrowly misses a pedestrian, screeches in front of his apartment. Four deep - three men in leather jackets. The door swings open.

 

“Дешевый маленький педик!” Driver cries.

Cheap little fa**ot!

 

No drama; La Roi just gets tossed into the street, falls into the sewer grate and gets soaked.

 

“Наша машина сейчас, сука,” laughter. Russians speed off.

Our ride now, bitch!

 

La Roi is just wailing. He tries to get up, can't, a car swerves to avoid him in the middle of the road, a bus slows and the driver honks. He's on his ass now just crying, scrambles to the other side of the road.

 

Doug crosses the street.

 

Stands over him as the guy shivers.

 

“Hi,” Doug says.

 

La Roi looks up.

 

“Lookin’ good, I see.”

 

Beat.

 

“WuuuuaAAHHHHH--”

 

Smash cut to a nearby bench: La Roi being held by the shoulders sobbing dead-legged, snot and tears and black eyed. Doug’s coddling him like a babe, “There, there… c’mon,” half throws him onto the bench and lets him pull himself up.

 

Some passerby walks by, scrunches face. Another guy does the same. Doug cringes, just nods.

 

Camera back on Stephane. He’s got a cigarette, sopping wet and muddy, hanging limp out his mouth. Flicks a lighter, totally busted, flick-flick-flicks it through his tears.

 

“Buddy,” Doug goes.

 

Stephane sighs. Gives up.

 

“C’mon.”

 

La Roi pulls the smoke out, just flicks it to the ground, wipes wet face with wet hands and doesn’t really fix much. “You don’t happen to speak- speak Russian, oui?”

 

“Nope,” Doug shrugs. “I got one talent. That’s all.”

 

“Worth a shot.” Steph digs his hand deep into his coat, rustles a moment, pulls out a hunk of head cheese in aspic and brushes pocket lint off. Shoves the f*cker in his mouth and chews it like a cow with cud. Pauses with his mouth still full - “You want a piece?”

 

Doug just kinda shakes his head.

 

“I go uptown to euh… how you say. Score?”

 

“Score, sure.”

 

“Score. I was scoring cocaine. Very good cocaine, they tell me.”

 

“I’m sure.”

 

“It is needless to say, but I do not have my cocaine.”

 

“Well, Steve, I don't mean to presume… but I'm guessin’ they saw you, and the car, and the money, and the uh…” finger snaps finger snaps, “naïveté, I think’s the word. And they decided to take it all and give you nothing back.”

 

La Roi points two-fingered, “That sounds about right.”

 

“Yup.”

 

“I know where they are. Or, well, where they hang out. I met them there.”

 

“Met them where?”

 

“This diner in Outer Ocaso. Pupp’s Grubb, has this f*cking big spinning dog head out the front and they like the greasy spoons.”

 

“Yeah, they got a couple.” 

 

La Roi is caught up in himself, mutters, “Harass the waitresses and slam fists on tables and--”

 

“Well, man, if you know where they hang. Go for a refund, I guess. That’s my suggestion.”

 

“Oui, my plan. My plan… but. You see.” Presents himself in his muddy soaked jacket with meat jelly smeared on his lips. “I-... can you come?”

 

Doug scoffs, “I seen too many Russkies recently.”

 

“I still have money. They have money.”

 

“And I’m glad you could salvage something, Steph.”

 

“I am telling you I will be paying you, chumpo!”

 

Doug knows, laughs, “Okay, okay,” he says. “I wanna see this.”

 

Time to see it.

 

It’s your ride this time - La Roi’s a bit too muddied and his car’s a bit too stolen for the trouble, so f*ck it. If you’re personal vehicle’s lingering, get in. If it’s not, La Roi shudders and shivers by the park bench waiting for you to jack one with Doug saying a cursory “I forgot my keys!” Onto Ocaso.

 

La Roi mutters in French for a good few seconds.

 

Doug, “What?”

 

“My notebook.”

 

“What?”

 

“Is f*cking soaked. Right through. Filthy f*cking thing. Unbelievable.”

 

“Sorry about that.”

 

“Is saveable. Is is. Just unbelievable.”

 

If you’re in first person you can crane your neck over to the passenger to peek inside. Before it was scribbles, now it’s just splotches. It doesn’t look like actual writing. “Well, lucky, I guess.”

 

“They- f*ck, this bullsh*t to me. Really! The sh*t they tell me they’re selling is so pure it might as well be 100% plant, might as well--” schniff “--be so clean they wash clothes with it.”

 

“They were selling detergent?”

 

“Now I think of this, f*cking probably.”

 

“Not even a taste?”

 

“Oh, oui, I got a taste mon ami. And zut alors this sh*t was f*cking god mana. For moment or two I communicate with the Lord in Heaven, I tell Zeus to suck on the tip, I ride on the sunshine waves of the God of the Sun!”

 

“And then you got thrown out of a moving car.”

 

“Oui. I got thrown out of a moving car.”

 

“All the Soviets I met and my lord these guys are okay with a scrap. I gotta tell ya’. I have this guy who’s f*cking knee deep; f*cker’s covered the windows and pisses in a bucket. Break jaws ‘n sh*t. You’re just lucky.”

 

“I tell them my address.”

 

Blink. “Why?”

 

“So they drop me off at my house?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“What the f*ck do I do? They drop me off at the bus stop?”

 

“These f*cking gangsters know your goddamn address! Yeah, at the bus stop. Yeah, anywhere.”

 

“The pen, it is mightier than the sword, mon ami. Believe you me, believe you me, these fu--”

 

“The pen is mightier than the sword? What is this f*cking cliche sh*t?”

 

“Listen - these Soviets? They will not get a good write-up in my manuscript.”

 

“What?”

 

“And then they will see. These Vladimirs and Mr. Khruschevs and Stalins and f*ck, they will get theirs. They will get theirs. They will get theirs.”

 

“Do these guys look like the reading type?”

 

“Does Khruschev?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Protagonist, he go to do the drug deal with these Russians in Hashville. Oui? And they are the major dick sucker, they suck all of the dick. They do these because they love it.”

 

“What are you proving?”

 

“They suck dick!”

 

“And Khruschev--”

 

“Mon ami, f*ck! This is of the brain wave. They suck the dick and wear the little pom-pom-pom a-dresses, oui? You get this? Oh my f*ck, I need to write this down,” La Roi tears his pen right out his pocket and starts scribbling again, “My god, and they can say they love to eat the communist sh*t. This is f*cking genius.”

 

If you’re in first person you’ll catch the pen’s lid slowly unscrew and pen ink slowly flood across the page and drip down onto La Roi’s legs. He doesn’t notice. It doesn’t look like he notices even when it’s like he’s drawing circles in a pool of black, but pow he slaps the page and covers his hand in ink and yelps.

 

“You good?”

 

“I need my f*cking coke, Daniel!”
 

The Pupp’s Grubb is up ahead.

 

They’re all classic 50’s greasy spoon spots for sure; and it befits the neighborhood, the Ocaso District in general belying surf-rock hippy vibes and the Great Highway leading down south to Clavo Campo. They call it The Avenues - unlike the rest of town, Ocaso’s mostly planned community, mostly grid-based traffic and houses built like all the other houses and plenty of backyards and fences. The real draw is the beach. The surfboards and the bikinis and the tanlines and the picnic tables.

 

You’re in Avenues territory, but the spot is on the neighborhood border. Across the thoroughfare is Lake Avispa. Lake Avispa, Lake Avispa Park, and the Avispa Country Club. Park is public land, but the golf courses? Strictly private. Owned by the oldest athletic club in the country, US Golf Championship host in 1966, and a spot where some of the city’s top movers and shakers reside and sip tea in the shadow of Missionary Hill.

 

This might be a little abstract, but the point is - the f*cking spinning head of that Mastiff is in your crosshairs.

 

“You see it? Mon ami, the brakes, the brakes!”

 

Stop in the parking lot. Bask in the glory. The mastiff has a bowtie stuck between its neck rolls.

 

Building isn’t much to look at aside from the drooling dog statuette spinning in the sun - big square building advertising for Sprunk and eCola - but before you even stop the car you’ve got La Roi jumping out the door and waddling to the entrance. Pull up and follow and you’ll see him tap-tap-tapping the foot and saying “Bastards, I see them. I see the bastards!”

 

Door swings open.

 

"Иван, где, черт возьми, столовая соль? Эти картофель фри!"

Ivan, where the f*ck’s the salt?! These fries!

 

“Hey, официантка шлюха! Hey, you f*cking listen to me?!”

Hey, waitress bitch!

 

The Russians are sat in a booth by the corner, all smoking, all got half-eaten burgers strewn and laughing, one guy in particular staying silent with a toothpick mining in the mouth. There’s three. Two in the booth facing the door, one with the back of his head to your eyeline. La Roi fumes, fumes.

 

Waitress lady is walking by, “What?”

 

“Salt, woman, you f*cking salt we need it.”

 

“Where’s the shaker?”

 

“We need more shaker, woman.”

 

Waitress hocks a loogie, “There’s salt--”

 

“Woman, what the f*ck?!”

 

“What?”

 

“Why you spit the floor? Disgusting! What the f*ck wrong with you?”

 

“You don’t tell me--”

 

“I tell you the f*ck--”

 

“--what I can and--”

 

Another Russian pipes, “Customer is the always a right you mother--”

 

You’re halfway across the room. Doug turns to La Roi with a hand up, “Stay coo-… oh.”

 

He’s gone.

 

Turn back.

 

He’s at the table.

 

He’s got his hand on his waist. This a f*cking disaster.

 

La Roi, “Excuse me!”

 

They’re still arguing.

 

“You Russia Mcf*cking Bastards, I say excuse me!”

 

Russian un, “What the f*ck your problem?”

 

Russian deux, “We know this guy?”

 

La Roi’s pacing up and down the aisle hand on belt, putting on a f*cking show, chest puffed out, “Tu m’connais. Ahhh, tu m’connais, hein? Tu veux m’faire écoeurer, fesser, crisser d’ton osti de char, mes crrrosseurs de marde? J’suis assez tanné d’tes câlisse de conneries communistes - faque voila, hein? Hein? Ah, mes tabarnaks, j’vais t’étriper! You look, huh? Qui chie dans leurs criss de culottes maintenant?”

 

Was building to a crescendo.

 

But they’re just staring.

 

“Oy, what the f*ck?”

 

“You are a f*cking red fa**ot!” La Roi spits.

 

“Разве мы не ограбили его?”

Didn’t we f*cking rob this guy?

 

Russian trois laughs, “My god, it’s big kahuna journal man.”

 

La Roi, “Where is my car, cocksucker?!”

 

Russian deux does a fake schniff schniff, “You want moaarre, big men? You want funny?”

 

This is going nowhere good, and it’s going there fast.

 

Doug takes the opportunity to make himself known. Saunters up slow-like while La Roi is getting laughed down and pipes up coolheaded, “He just wants his car and then he’s on his way, fellas.”

 

“Who is the cowboy, Frenchman?”

 

“Boyfriend?”

 

Doug sighs, “Gentlemen. I don’t wanna take much an issue with the owners here. You want mess, we take it outside, huh?”

 

La Roi doesn’t get the memo.

 

La Roi pulls a .32 out his waistband.

 

“У него пистолет!”

He’s got a gun!

 

Oh.

 

Doug realizes the mistake when he notices the table ain’t bolted to the floor. Everyone does; you sure as sh*t do when Russian number deux flips the thing and number trois does a dive behind the counter. Russian deux pulls out a shiny spanking VM66, number un takes out a CAT. They’re both automatic and they both start f*cking blazing.

 

The diner goes psycho.

 

Doug takes cover behind an empty booth and camera gets a good view of the chaos unfolding as people duck or run. Runners flee for the doors, duckers cower or hide lovers or partners or whoever. Runners regret - the VM66 goes grat-ta-ta and a poor woman gets shot in the leg, another guy somewhere else and ends up crashing through the diner window.

 

Locating La Roi? It’s a trouble but he’s got his little pea-shooter out and he’s firing without eyes. He will hit nobody.

 

Take ‘em out. You stay still a moment and maybe trois’ll get out to check on you or get close to La Roi, but deux is always perched. He’s got the big guns and he ain’t f*cking around.

 

Pop them.

 

They bleed.

 

Tyres screech.

 

“Mon bébé!”

 

Bébé is La Roi’s car, La Roi’s Pfister Rebelle being driven by number trois who ducked out the door while you weren’t looking. Trois screeching tyres and darting down the road and the camera snaps to Doug and his comrade running out to their car. Get in. Go.

 

Car rides down the boulevard with the colored houses to your left and the trees of Lake Avispa Park to your right. The f*cker keeps going. You’re past the park and still on Bundle Boulevard intersecting Ocaso Boulevard and it’s like he’s going even faster.

 

He goes faster, and faster, and faster.

 

And you don’t.

 

His car gets further, and further, and further.

 

And you don’t.

 

And he’s a speck in the distance and your car is going the same damn pace. There’s a kick in him.

 

By the end of the road, he’s gone.

 

What.

 

What?

 

What the f*ck just happened?

 

He f*cking got away?

 

It doesn’t matter what car you were driving. You couldn’t keep speed. Maybe you couldn’t maneuver through the cars. But he’s f*cking gone.

 

Doug is dumbfounded.

 

La Roi is hyperventilating so bad he might as well be choking.

 

The sun is setting. You might get an eyeful.

 

He’s gone. Go back to La Roi’s house.

 

Doug breaks the silence on the u-turn, “That’s a helluva ride, Steve.”

 

“My car…”

 

“Stevie.”

 

“Patente à gosse...”

 

“He was too fast.”

 

“OF COURSE HE’S TOO FAST! It’s my car! My beautiful- ffff*ckING car!”

 

“That wasn’t supposed to happen. That never happens.”

 

“What?”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Fantastique, cowboy. You are very very very sorry.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I spend too many f*cking dollars on her. Too many f*cking dollars. I f*ck a girl in the backseat I drive from Los Santos to here on the GOH. I f*ck another girl in the backseat on the way home. I f*ck another--”

 

“I get it.”

 

“This car is imbued with my scent, Daniel.”

 

“He went too f*cking fast, Steve.”

 

“Zis car turbocharged like motherf*cker. I have more juice under this hood than the f*cking Apollo rocket ship.”

 

“There you go.”

 

“There I go?!”

 

“It’s Douglas.”

 

“What?”

 

“It ain’t Daniel.”

 

“What you f*cking want from me?”

 

“My name.”

 

“Whatever. I did not lose everything, eh?” La Roi digs deep into jacket, pulls out… oh. Huge f*cking baggie of white. “Eh?”

 

“Ah.”

 

“They dropped it.”

 

“Ah, well, ‘least your priorities are straight.”

 

He replies by digging his nose into the bag and snorting like a vacuum.

 

Huh.

 

A pause.

 

Doug breaks again, “You ok--”

 

“MOTHERF*CKER! Ohhhhhh, ohhhhh… ohhhh… f*ck! Oh, f*ck!”

 

“Oh.”

 

“F*ck! Crisse, que j'ai tombé d'haut. Câlisse! J'tais la meilleur de la gang, man, c'pas un joke. J'te niaise pas.”

 

“What?”

 

“Dîtes-moi, Daniel - qui lit mes maudits d'histoires?! Les ostis d'épais de marde, c'est qui. Câlisse de moumounes qui viens me chercher d'nul part pour m'parler d'la radio et des maudits de chars. Imbéciles. J'écris pour écrire! J'écris pour explorer la contradiction inné à l'âme, pas pour l'avenir futur d'un milieu a venir!"

 

“Buddy--”

 

“Who am I, Mr. Army Man?!”

 

“You’re f*cking nuts.”

 

“Mon ami, I am bananas. I am the plantains that grow from the measly seed to the bean stalk to climb! Des gens quétaines de Grande-Bretagne qui écrivent des lettres condescendantes, qui viennent de l'authorité... Ton bêtise, tes cochonneries! Tu penses vraiment que tu connais mieux le monde grâce aux examens superficiels de- des câlisses d'encyclopédies et des films de marde et tabarnac, tabarnac de bout d'crisse de gériboire. J'vais leur montrer. Gosse a Joseph, je vais leur montrer.”

 

You’re close now. He mutters for the remainder. Unintelligible, much like the rest.

 

Cutscene cuts in when you pull up to his house and Doug brakes so hard La Roi nearly slams his head into the dashboard. Turns head to La Roi schniff-schniffing all manic-like with a glare in his eyes.

 

“You got the cash?”

 

“En France, en vacances quand j'tais jeune, j'tais camé, tellement camé - j'ai roulé sur la chemin et un char a fait un p'tit écart dans un arbre et le gars qui s'est décédé - je pense qu'il a remporté un prix Nobel. I am in this now. I am born again, my friend! Oh f*ck, the little Jewish man at the publisher--”

 

“Hey. My f*cking money.”

 

“Ils n'ont jamais su, Douglas. Ils m'ont jamais su, Douglas.”

 

“What?”

 

“What money, my friend?”

 

“You said you’d pay me.”

 

“I did?”

 

“Yeah. What? You forgot?”

 

“No! No. Never, my friend. My pal. You get me the mana. I use this mana to buy a thousand babies, my friend. Not infants, I mean. I mean cars.”

 

“I just--”

 

La Roi digs into his jacket and pulls out 10 dollars.

 

Oh.

 

“Ah.”

 

He’s grinning, “Believe you me, you deserve it.”

 

Doug just stares. “Thanks.”

 

“You come back here- oh, my man. My man! I will have a thousand more. Five thousand more. You see my manuscript--”

 

Doug just takes the money.

 

Doug just leaves.

 

Whatever.

 

+ $10.00

[Cebra]

An early morning ring-a-ding in Chinatown, city night’s rest winding down with camera floating above street level; full breadth of Julius’ apartment block’s efflorescence-stained facade as it’s hewn and strewn with golden glare, sun coming up above the yet-painted neighborhood arch pillars.

 

Ringing. And ringing. And ringing.

 

Inside, top floor apartment - bare arm swoops over the back of a tattered couch, grabs for the receiver, knocks a potted plant off the console. Voice goes “goddamn it” before taking hold.

 

Julius puts the phone to his ear. “Ye’.”

 

“Rise and shine, Bobo, we got us a day ahead.”

 

The one and only.

 

Rubs face, “Man, I told the motherf*cker to keep my digits for emergencies only. I come by.”

 

Dirk asks “Which motherf*cker?” follows rhetoric, “Dave the motherf*cker? He’s down in Roca Seca, Bobo, more business, f*ck knows. Thing is, we got some a’ that too.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah - but up north. Leave the rice burner behind, need four seats. And uh, top off the tank, we got a pit stop to make on the way, ‘s’a f*ckin’ drive.”

 

“Whatever you say. Be there in a few.”

 

“Make it a few less.”

 

Line clicks first. Jules just lets the thing hang off the back of the couch, sits up quick, rubs face again. Look around - place’s empty, opposite couch made up clean with blankets folded; Win’s gone, three-quarters likely out in Birchwood in lieu of courier duty, but so it goes. Light filters in through lace curtains over the dormers - tattered, not the frilly sh*t - casts onto plywood floor.

 

You can shower in the little backroom bathroom with slanted ceilings too low and rusted knobs, but that’s not making it a few less. Feel free to just dress and go, trusty denim jacket over a taupe button up never hurt nobody - grab a sandwich from the fridge on the way out, lock the door behind, head into a hall gone silent for a change before you hit the spiral staircase goes down-down-down.

 

Through incense and all the smells you can imagine; it’s early though, early-early - not a customer in sight, salon chairs wiped down and vacant and fishies in the tank doing fish stuff, swimming circles around seashells. You can spot Matilda watching the coffee drip in the breakroom in the back, just nothing to say.

 

Head to the garage.

 

No rice burner, good old Gaia’s time to shine under that sign bolted into the brick in the adjacent alley: PARK HERE AND SAY SAYONARA TO YOUR TIRES. Jules gives it an extra eyeful on the way in the car, you ponder alongside: ain’t his sign, ain’t his Chinatown. Who thought that made any f*ckin’ sense?

 

That thought ringing like a bell, he gets in the car - you can pull it in reverse or come out the other end of the alley, traverse through the wet cloth and rotten food waste and chemical bottles come flowing from the business bins and the rats and the rats and the rats.

 

Sure ain’t the first time you’ve made this drive and it won’t be the last, becoming routine; criss-crossing through the CBD or cutting under and through Suppleham where the I-2 starts getting divvied up through Conquest into the warehouses and under the overpasses. Fill stations aplenty in the industrials if you’re so inclined - top off the Gaia at Dirk’s recommend as Jules makes small talk with the fuel attendant if the roof’s down: thoughts on the four-way Packers-Corkers trade a few weeks back, same matchup for the game last night: “Didja catch it?” 

 

No. Julie didn’t.

 

So it’s onto the depot, that trusty old transition from smooth asphalt to pothole heaven - pull the right route and you’ll putt right by Intrepid Couriers, place anything but lively. Jules just sighs.

 

Stanislaw’s back in daylight mode; that is, less than six bikes, the uncharacteristic cage in form of that same Calhoun from a few visits back. Nobody outside but the door’s wide open - Dirk’s directives made it clear, so park up perpendicular to the entrance; might as well make it convenient for the f*ckers.

 

Dirk’s inside, little prick, leaned up against a workbench with that Calhoun-driving mophead in a turtleneck again, goes “Bobo!”

 

“Ain’t gotta call me that, Theo.”

 

Dirk jabs turtleneck in the chest. “Theo! Told you, huh, said he was quick as a spade bit.”

 

Mop rubs his nipple, laughs real nervous, “Spade bit, yeah.”

 

Jules reads the room: reads hierarchies, reads mop with a fingertip in the casual racism bucket ‘stead of the whole hand.

 

Dirk fits the ciggy between lips and fixes his belt, doesn’t make eye contact when asking “You get introduced proper-like or I gotta pick up David’s slack afresh?”

 

The two both shake heads - Dirk doesn’t look up so a timid mophead goes “Nah.”

 

“Easy - Bobo, this is Chester Goldwater. I know what you’re thinkin’ - gefilte fish like his pal, you bet. Chet, Bobo also likes to go by Jules- Julie, uh…”

 

J goes business, extends hand. “Julius Cole.”

 

“Charmed, dude.”

 

J gives him an extra looky-loo to size up just how zonked he is, settles in. “You said ‘pal’?”

 

Chester, “Oh yeah, Dallas - he’s in the john. We uh, s’a funny story, y’know, we was out on Gaudi last night, shacked up with these chicks on Hester with these brownies, I don’t even know what they was laced with-”

 

“Dally’s got the sh*ts,” Dirk goes. “Mister Columnist, Mister Pen-Is-Mightier, he got the sh*ts.”

 

“Ah. So what we doin’ here, man?”

 

“We’re goin’ for a road trip, Bobo.”

 

“You said.”

 

“Up north.”

“Yeah.”

 

Jules looks over at Chester. “We talk in the car, I guess.”

 

That dustlight dancing through the garage come down from the skylights, place’s real quiet for a few seconds. 

 

Dirk too, moment on the level: “You packin’?”

 

Jules pats his holster. “Always.”

 

“Alright. Got a little somethin’ for you, though. C’mon.”

 

He walks, you follow - door adjacent to the kitchenette or breakroom or whatever the f*ck, hallway you ain’t been to since visit number one. 

 

Bad times.

 

It’s a door down from the room of bad times, this little - little - storage closet. Dirk pulls the handle, you see it plain; three rifles hitched up on the back of the door all neat-like. Pulls one down.

 

Short scoped Thibault M1. Clean.

 

“Looky here, we got Theobald with a Thibault.”

 

Ignores. “You know how to handle these?”

 

“En bloc don’t get in my way, no.”

 

Dirk catches a smile. “You talk to Reuel and Mickey in the car, but you’re gonna play outlook today. Tough sh*t if you gotta use it, but y’know, no one mouths off and you shouldn’t gotta. Simple as.”

 

“So be it.”

 

“Always better when you’re light on words.”

 

Sure is - goes both ways though.

 

And sticking to that the duo head back out to open spaces without a word - entrance syncs with the echoes of a flush and before your eyes you got your boy back: a cool-bearded Dallas Bloomfield in this sh*t-fit olive button-up layered far too much for the weather - not worth the ask.

 

He’s monologuing, caught his mojo out the can, saying something-something to Chester staring wide-eyed; “... human squawk box, no-good goddamn mojito sippers thinkin’ their sh*t don’t stink and all the sorrow and pain in this world ain’t to be exacerbated but alleviated pill by pill and you can grind your teeth about it all day, Chester - we can flicker and dance but we’re doomed-damned-f*cked.”

 

Okay.

 

Sees Jules and pays no mind to the rifle - barely registers Chester. “Julius Cole. Sight for sore eyes, huh?”

 

“I dunno, man, we ain’t met but the once.”

 

“That ain’t music.”

 

He’s kind of cryptic, in a way that speaks of having taken on a bit more than some brownies.

 

Perfect.

 

Dirk calls, “We got the drive ahead, gentlemen, so keep the fruity sh*t to a minimum.”

 

That’s a cue. Get outside, they let you lead the pack - Julius pauses a moment before jumping in, tries half a second fitting the rifle onto the dash.

 

“f*ck you doin’?”

 

Dirk was getting in too - froze. Says it again.

 

Brain clicks, gears mesh - early rise or ringing thoughts of sayonara and tires or psychedelic monologuing threw him off his game. Go to the trunk, place it, pop it, get back in - Dirk’s riding shotgun and the dynamic duo on backseat bucket duty.

 

“We good, pops?”

 

“Mighty fine. Get on it, Bobo.”

 

“Help if I knew where we were going.”

 

“North.”

 

“Don’t f*ck with me, man, y’all got me out of bed about three hours too early for that. Which bridge?”

 

Dirk stays shut, prick, Chester pipes up from behind: “Good ol’ Crimson Way.”

 

“Thank you, Chester.”

 

Radio kicks on, Mothers of Invention. Tune it however you like for the little journey ahead, but something tells you you already got your soundtrack.

 

Pull out the lot - bikes staying behind, you see Dirk’s fellas fiddling in the backyard. 

 

Silence. Just the words and a creeping bass and after the 30 seconds it takes for you to hit an offramp onto I-2 Dallas rolls down the window.

 

Jules opens, “Hot flashes?”

 

“Yeah. Maybe.”

 

“I mean, you’re in my car,” he goes, adjusts mirror to the clammy little man, “my seats. I wiped ‘em down the other day. You wanna puke you shoulda done it ‘fore the porcelain god, man.”

 

“I won’t f*ckin’ puke, man, we got business ahead. Uncouth. Nah, business - bad hombres and bad deeds and I think you need to feel your toes for that.”

 

“You got something goin’ on with your toes?”

 

“No.”

 

Hm.

 

I-2’s easy as it comes, smooth sailing this early in the morn ‘til you take the exit onto 7th Street riding the barrier between Suppleham and Downtown - basically the way you came an extra few aves west over, place traffic starts coalescing where highway designations turn back into Van Spronsen, construction barriers in lieu of lush median. Might be your first time headed to Crimson Way, might feel like it anyway; on the inclines leading you into Sastre and the Parkway winding, overlooking the bay and the Sastre barracks with their tangerine roofs.

 

Round 2: “What’s goin’ on, Theo? You called me up, s’only fair you at least gimme the abridged version.”

 

“The what?”

 

“Elevator pitch. Blurb. The f*ck we doing?”

 

Sighs, draws it out real good, takes the opportunity to light a ciggy - or at least put it between his lips.

 

Jules goes “Not in this car.”

 

Laughing now. “Yeah,” lights it anyway.

 

“Least use the ashtray.”

 

He won’t. “It’s on, Bobo.”

 

“Thanks for the clarification.”

 

“Mexes. Crafty spic thing we got cookin’ for a trade. You know.”

 

“No.”

 

“They got boys lined up somewheres for a talk, and I’m gonna talk to ‘em. Don’t know where. You drive us to a little meet they got goin’ up by Hacha Roja Creek, we hand off a package, they tell us where.”

 

“Package?”

 

“Keepsake.”

 

“What is it?”

 

Dirk chuckles, “What is it.” Practically spits out the ash, “It’d blow your tiny monkey mind, Bobo. Need to know basis.”

 

Jules trundles on, “So why the f*ck the smoke and mirrors, mystery man? You and them.”

 

“Them; so they know we ain’t fed. So they know we’re serious. That kinda’ thing.”

 

“You?”

 

Doesn’t answer. Just smiles.

 

“Alright, motherf*cker, alright.”

 

By now you’re on the bridge - you know, the bridge, Crimson Way - you’re in the postcard stamp with the spires piercing into the fog and a panorama of the bay cut a bit short by the same culprit. 

 

Halfway through Jules blurts “So what’s the deal with you then?” Seems to rouse Dirk, sleepy even with the cig, “We headin’ wherever. Dirk, y’know, fine, you’s you. But Dallas, I mean, I read your goddamn columns on the weekly - that trippy sh*t was one thing but now we’re goin’ out what, Bahialado, Percebe, maybe we goin’ up to Eucarista on some flimsy-ass deal and you barely got a word?”

 

Dallas murmurs, “I got plenty a’ words, Julius.”

 

“Ain’t talkin’ about ‘flicker-dancin’ in the limelight’-words. We got business, right? Well what the hell?”

 

Nothing. Dirk smokes. Dallas seems to consider something that never leaves his lips and laughs.

 

What a f*cking crew.

 

Adjusts his mirror and eyes Chester, “What ‘bout you?”

 

“I uh-”, struts his hair back, “I-”

 

Dirk interjects, loves to do it: “Chet’s a nervous nellie who used to deal pot at USLA ‘til he got caught in some coed’s dorm, f*ck knows what she was thinkin’. But you know - LS, ten spics a dozen, can’t say he can’t be a good little diplomat where it counts.”

 

“So brokering for the Mexes.”

 

“S’right, Bobo.”

 

Off the bridge - past the concrete utility towers and the curve keeping you on the interstate all the way up past the Bahialado turnoff - guess you ain’t going there - and on until Jules breaks one more, maybe one last time.

 

“Gimme the exit.”

 

Some time’s past, highway all the way north, highway through sound-barriered little tree-lined suburbs and the occasional creek. Traffic’s still light throughout, most headed southbound and into the city. Enough time’s past that Dirk’s dozing again but clicks awake at Julie’s words, snaps-snaps for Chester to give the answer.

 

“It’s uh, 45-A. You keep straight, there’s this campground at the end of this dirt trail, meet’s supposed to by a payphone by some motel on the corner. We’re headed there.”

 

“Was that so damn hard?”

 

You can watch inside, through Julius’ eyes - guy just shrugs.

 

He’s probably not being a prick on purpose. Maybe he just had a night, slow on words; nothing to say to his buddy in the stars either. 

 

You’ve gone past a half dozen of these little hamlets by this point and trudged on in the company of no good company at all - halfway through highway running along Hacha Roja the signage speaks loud and clear: 45-A next right.

 

Take it. You’re only about 15 miles out but on the right dials talk programs turn less city-oriented, firs lining the turn-off welcome you to Hacha Roja proper; greeted by this motel - some other motel - right off the turnoff, sun-bleached shingles under peeling signs calling Laundromat and Room and Board Starting at $9/Night!

 

Buncha cars parked by the fence off the highway; staff for a lumber yard right opposite, air thick with wood pulp and wood stacks and the smell of an ever-relied upon industry.

 

Won’t be long before you see; road splits off before long - gravel left and gravel right and a lone dirt trail. Bingo.

 

Dirk goes “Alright, hand it over, Ruell.”

 

Chester does - between the seats, this little rectangular thing wrapped in what looks like a goddamn loincloth. Kinda stained. You can hear something rolling around inside, hitting its walls, solid, something.

 

Dirk takes it and weighs it in his palm, up-down. “Yeah. Yeah. Alright.”

 

Jules seems to have learned the lesson. Shuts up.

 

You mighta been going in blind but you really got no way but forward now - road’s public but not maintained a smidge, tire tracks in the dirt leading into cattail ditches on each side, claws dug all deep-like from the last time some tow truck had to play rescue. 

 

There’s a turn-off ahead; leads further into firs to the left, campgrounds just before Hacha Roja Creek - listen close and you can hear the current hitting rocks. Right trudges on with the path, you see the corner of some could-be motel building not far off. 

 

At the junction there’s a van all rusted over paint this channel of azure. And next to the van there’s a payphone.

 

Chester tells you to pull up parallel.

 

Breaks to cutscene as you do - Dirk rolls the window down, van’s already was, and Jules cranes his neck to look over. They’re two deep in front, could be more in the back, who knows. Someone’s going on and on in Spanish on the radio but when they see you they turn it down, big guy - big guy was picking his teeth with fat fingers - he just stares.

 

Dirk doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. El business meeting, that’s us,” looks over at Jules for effect, “Nah, he don’t bite neither. Let's get the ball rolling, huh?”

 

Window to window - kisses the little cloth-clad offering goodbye and hands it over. Big guy pawns it off to guy on the other side, scruffy long-haired dark-skinned kid half the size of the rest. Shakes it. Passes it through the little door in the back-frame behind the seats.

 

Someone’s back there.

 

It’s a waiting game for you, for them, feet tap-tap-tapping and tensions high from the fact that nobody’s in a talking mood, Mexicans playing their role fine as fettle and Dirk a cool cat. Jules is the odd one out here - not his stomping grounds nor his typical duty and all he can do is look back and forth between the Mexes and his shoes.

 

Chester goes “They’re cool” all quiet-like and it doesn’t seem to do much but reassure himself.

 

Synapses start firing, Dallas starts talking about how it’s a lot like the time we took a wrong turn in Cabo, huh? but you know - at least he’s grounded.

 

The clock ticks in silence and the radio’s humming along unless you killed it, The Needle keeps pace under tension.  

 

¿Seguro?

You’re sure?

 

Si. Es neta.

It’s the real deal.

 

Good? Good. Seems good, they’re talking.

 

Then scruffy-lanky hops out his side with a ciggy between his lips in this low-loose wifebeater and struts over to the payphone knowing he’s got a dozen eyes watching. Picks it up and takes his goddamn time.

 

More waiting.

 

And he comes back. And words escape lips and pass from lanky to the big boy and the big boy looks Dirk right in the eyes and tells him “Mudflats across the Xoomer refinery, Bancroft. You’ll see ‘em.”

 

And they drive off. Just like that. They pull and push the gas guzzler around your own ride back where you came.

 

They’ll be there first.

 

One more bridge, huh?

 

Bancroft-Riada Miele Bridge - you can already see it at the right angle, spires creeping above firs and cyprus into the bay and f*ck if you ain’t about to familiarize yourself with it right here and right now.

 

Kick dirt and back where you came - same exit hops you right back onto the highway. 

 

Chester asks “They usually got patrols out there, don’t they?”

 

“Nah,” Dallas says quick, “they been on strike for the better part of the year, f*ckin’ PD’s on ‘em like pigs on slop. But patrols? Not in the now.”

 

Music to your ears.

 

Beat comes, passes. Jules goes “Ain’t usually on the receiving end, eh Theo?” He’s laughing, found some humor in the guy being held up by a thread in the face of some fat Mexicans in a van.

 

“f*ck you talkin’ about?”

 

“I dunno, I only been around so long, pops, but you never come across as the type to negotiate, or y’know, know what that means. Conductin’ business. Woulda thought that was Dave’s end while you’re out in Conquest dangling fat cat motherf*ckers out windows.”

 

“Oh, hardy-f*cking-har, huh? Said it once already, Bobo, s’better for the both of us when you keep your goddamn yap shut, ‘specially when you don’t got an inkling what it is you’re running off at the mouth about.”

 

Feels as though he’s grown to his dynamic, whatever it is - honestly? Guy’d probably throw you to the wolves soon as it became opportune. But f*ck if there ain’t what seems like a 50-50 mixture of wary respect and impotent prejudice at this point - no use thinking you’ll get any better.

 

He’s got his audience in the backseat now, words still acrid but with a tone aimed for banter, “Y’know fellas, I took a shine to the shine ‘cause he seemed real firm on that old mindset, that mercenary thing - you fight your battles and don’t ask no questions, loyalty to loot. Rare goddamn breed nowadays. I thought, I was thinkin’ - do I got myself a Galatian seein’ me through a campaign through the Balkans? Without no f*ckin’ lip?”

 

No answer - but Dallas is at attention.

 

He goes on, “I thought, maybe. Turns out though, nah - all I got is some Moor thinks he’s clever and asks too many f*ckin’ questions.”

 

Pause. Longer pause. And then he laughs like a goddamn hyena.

 

Nobody else does.

 

Dallas starts correcting, goes “Those Galatians only existed ‘cause-” and stops like someone pulled the zipper over his lips. f*ck it.

 

View from the bridge is real pretty, which is good because the bridge itself is ugly as sin - mishmash trestle pinning it up in the bay, curved girder design somewhere between grey and green. It’s a far cry from the Crimson Way.

 

You’ll be out in Bancroft before long - won’t be seeing it proper though ‘cause the refinery’s at first turnoff, you can’t miss it; air so thick with fumes and sulphuric gases and black smoke billowing in a way that tells you the smokestacks are flaring more often than not. 

 

There’s a toll just before the turnoff.

 

Minimap can’t help you anymore - behind the smokers and coker units and storage tanks under the ersatz clouds; into the mudflats.

 

This is all private land. Thing is, it’s not patrolled, maintained, regulated for sh*t. Chain-link surround has a car-width hole in it about every fifteen meters - long as you think the landboat you’re driving can bear some barren bumpy lands gone mush, slick with chemical runoff, that’s your best bet. 

 

You’ll just need a carwash.

 

Once you made it to mudflats proper the scene cuts, Jules slows. Says “Mudflats is flat.”

 

Dirk goes “What?”

 

“Thibault, Theo. What’s the use if I ain’t got a line of sight from above?”

 

“F*ck.”

 

Yeah.

 

But Dallas pipes up, squinting past the open window: “Check the oil pipeline, the platform. See it?”

 

You see it. Stretching far as the eye can see, worm forging its path through the flats and ponds and into the trees beyond until it dips into the bay.

 

“Yeah. Ain’t seen many other options this far out.”

 

“So get outta here.”

 

“Now?”
 

“Yeah, now. You ain’t exactly a gesture of good faith here. Jewboy, writerboy, you go with him, split.”

 

Might as well be music to his ears. “You bet, mad-dog.”

 

Sequence: Julie hops out and Dallas does the same from the other side; you pop the trunk and grab the rifle and get to marching just as Dirk slides over to the driver’s seat and kicks on in the cage. 

 

Just you two now.

 

Get to the vantage point.

 

Ground is f*cking slick and lumpy and sticky, god knows what kind of chemical runoff’s seeping up and through and making suction sounds with every footstep. It’s not deep, pants-stay-untouched depth, but it’s more like quicksand than mud nonetheless.

 

You can’t run, can just move slow and watch as your car disappears through the weed separating the mudflats from a mossy pond beyond - not too far, just enough that you need elevation. Dallas trots alongside with his eyes on the ground.

 

“Feels like if I lit a doobie we’d both go up in flames.”

 

“Probably. Feels like back home.”

 

“Where’s home?”

 

“Carcer.”

 

Beat. “Oh, no doubt then.”

 

“Yeah,” animation plays out when they reach the pipeline support; Jules tosses the rifle above and thrusts himself up onto the ladder, “nine states and I might ‘s’well be home sweet home anyway, huh?”

 

“Kind of a poetic thing, isn’t it? A wanderer procrastinates in finding his calling…”

 

Thinks he’s sobered up now. And he might be - this is just what he’s like.

 

Look at you though - cozying up to an oil pipeline. Moment of desperation? Yeah. You’re alright.

 

It’s no taller than 6 feet but that’s all you need - capsule shape stretches out into the wharf, and you can see right over those weeds or that bulrush or whatever it is - cream Gaia, ever-familiar pulling up to that same Declasse van; same azure, same guys stepping out all tough-like. 

 

And a new Bobcat, piss yellow. Piss yellow Bobcat coming up alongside.

 

Lines drawn in the sand - four on your side and, you count heads, six not. Alright.

 

You don’t got much cover ‘sides the rounded oil capsule behind you and it’s best you go prone; from their angle they wouldn’t see nothing that didn’t look like just another bulrush tip in the wind. Scope up. Eye lined.

 

Dirk steps out. Chester follows suit. 

 

Mirror image across the invisible line.

 

The two Mexes stepping out the Bobcat don’t look like the others. They’re bigger, they’ve got a pep in every step, passenger’s playing right into the image - you can only eye so much detail through the scope but he’s got the open denim, the golden cross over a polo blazing when it catches the sun, the cowboy hat. 

 

Just missing the boots. In the muck he probably wishes he hadn’t.

 

This is your meeting. Gesticulation and gusto - cowboy’s driver gives everyone a wide berth sticking by the truck. He’s got an AK hung lazy in one hand - ‘cept it’s not really an AK by any metric, shorter barrel, useless handles, handguard nowhere to be found. Clone. 

 

“Dinky.”

 

Jules mumbles something, too focused on the deal.

 

Dallas repeats, “Hardware’s dinky. That ain’t no veritable Kalashnikov. ‘S Chinese or Romanian or Guatemalan or some such sh*t but it don’t end with no V in the manufacturer, that I can tell you.”

 

“Sounds about right, ain’t never seen an AK without the handguard.”

 

"F*ckin’ A.”

 

Words being exchanged across the front now. Friendly, looks that way, but the sounds get killed through the distance. Dirk’s leaning on your car, springs up for a quick sec - hands over that little sack offering, clasps it tight over cowboy’s hands.

 

Keep alert.

 

Seconds pass, a minute, crosshairs shifting head to head.

 

Nothing. Some laughs.

 

Julius goes “There’s this plaque outside my apartment.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. Been renting this studio on Booth, y’know, Chinatown, not far from where they’re puttin’ up the arch. And it’s been there since we moved in, s’bolted into the bricks where I park.”

 

You enigma, you - but Dallas is never loath to talk. “City went on a little ordinance spree last year, point-head bureaucracy wonk overreach bullsh*t. You seen the signs on Leland?”

 

“Nah, ain’t that. It’s just - y’know, this custom thing. Says ‘park here and say sayonara to your tires’. But I been parking there for the better part of two years and got my fours all the same.”

 

“‘Sayonara’?”

 

“Funny thing, ain’t it.”

 

“So you got some Japs on Booth. There’s Japs on Booth. I mean, they don’t like each other none but still.”

 

“Guess.” Line of inquiry dies off. “So why’d you come along?”

 

“Why?” You might as well’ve asked him why he was born. “This is the goddamn muck, two feet deep in society’s runoff, this is music. You heard the big guy the other day, I’m writing a book, this feature. Started off writing indie for some mag, room and board thingamajig on the Angels without the extra funds to top off the pot by the end of the night, you know? I got by. But article came out and it snowballed, I got a call from this Liberty gremlin from my publishing house, thick-brat stews in his own sweat kinda guy, right, name’s Reuben, he says - he goes, you turn this into an exposé, long-write style. And y’know, he’s the last f*ckin’ demon-herder I wanna see in the flesh any time soon so I come back out here on the back ‘a some contacts I made on the first article. I got business too, y’know, Chet and I got back a ways. But I’m here to watch, turn this music into words. It’s journalism for the new age. Think of my place here as a ride-along.”

 

“Like a narc.”

 

Dallas laughs. “Don’t you ever f*ckin’ say that again.”

 

Deal, ‘course, ongoing through this - but from gestures alone looks like it might be wrapping up. The bigger guy from the van, he’s in the back of the Bobcat now, lifts the tonneau cover. Comes around with this huge f*cking bag that catches green in the sunlight.

 

Can it be?

 

AK goon gets back in the truck. Muffler throws black smoke back fifty feet.

 

Could be.

 

Cowboy and Dirk still going at it. Chester interjecting here and there, hands going wishy washy - just how he is. Big guy just tossed that sh*t into your trunk.

 

Dallas said how the refinery’s on strike, you take note now that it’s in mind - smokestacks burning off excess, automated process, whatever. Place’s dead. Good for business; must be rising up against the corporate overlords back in town. Your business, that is.

 

Last sight through the scope - cowboy takes off his hat, f*ckin’ bows all cute-like and winks before getting back in the Bobcat. Sayonara indeed.

 

Beat. Wheels spin a moment and spit and spurt mud and they take off with the van in slipstream.

 

Dirk waits. Waits. Watches them disappear past the fence.

 

Then turns and gives you the finger.

 

That’s a wrap.

 

You stand, Dallas stands. You climb down, Dallas climbs down. 

 

Car comes zipping around the bulrush before long - a bit too fast and the mud goes flying against the friction, stops short just ahead of you with the windows rolled down. Dirk shifts shotgun and Chester’s already in the backseat.

 

Dirk goes “Giddy up, boinkhead.”

 

Whip quick around to the trunk, put the rifle away-

 

Oh yeah.

 

That was a bag of green alright.

 

Back into the driver’s seat.

 

“Boinkhead?”

 

Syllables stretched, he leans over and faux-knocks on Jules’ skull. “Boinkhead. Bobo. C’mon, lightfoot, let’s giddy.”

 

“Can’t put the fists down for one goddamn minute, can you?”

 

“No fun in that, Booby.”

 

Cocksucker.

 

Drive back to the chop shop.

 

The little loopty-loo you did on the way into the mudflats, fence-hole axle-deep roughing it over chemical runoff? You don’t have to do it again - Mexes are gonzo, least so it would seem, nothing to be gained by keeping it lowkey anymore. Like Dallas said, refinery’s on strike big time and all you’ve got in the way of someone keeping the perimeter are the rail birds and harvest mice seeping through the mercury mud. You can go straight through, jump right onto the freeway, save yourself any more strain on the suspension.

 

“So?”

 

“So what?”

 

“So how’d the hell it go?”

 

“It went. I mean, you saw what’s laid up in the trunk, right?”

 

“I saw what’s laid up in my trunk, yeah. Didn’t think y’all dabbled in that too much.”

 

Mocking. “Dabble. We f*ckin’ dabble. That’s the problem, Bobo, that David, David, y’know, what - David says we’re too f*ckin’ good for it now? See, when we was just the chapter out in Birchwood, Hugh at the reins, we moved gash. Left it to the blacks playin’ their f*cking corner games but we had a good chunk a’ the supply lines on the side. We took ‘em. Was just brothers making a goddamn buck, and it’s honest business. It ain’t scag.”

 

“Who the f*ck is Hugh?”

 

“Hugo motherf*cking Arnold, my brother, Angel in life and death. David’s daddy. Him at the buckhorns we had direction, was a real brotherhood. We ain’t had the f*cking junk and the Chinks and the narcs and goddamn he’s my brother too but f*ck if I’ll let his lilyliver kid turn us into a f*ckin’ syndicate, pool resources with citizens. That ain’t what it’s about.”

 

You’re past the refinery gates now - ghost town masonry and a couple broken windows, smokestacks risen around and swallowing you up like you’re in the guts of some great beast letting out putrid black chemical fumes into the earthly world.

 

Think Jules finds the purity a funny one, asks Dallas, “What you think ‘bout all this?”

 

You knew it was coming, Dirk practically grabs his tongue cold. “Don’t be asking the f*ckin’ columnist about brotherhood, alright? Connects aside, Dally, you stick to dropping tabs in the Ahwati and pen-is-mightier sh*t ‘til you got your manuscript and you can f*ck off for good.”

 

He’s not phased. “S’all love, Wings, though the last time someone threw that pen-is-mightier faux-pho thing at me I took a 12-gauge to my typewriter.”

 

Chester spits a “Why?”

 

“Well it’s a f*ckin’ story but ain’t they all. I was--”

 

A bolt out of the f*ckin’ blue.

 

You barely have time to register what the f*ck just happened before it all goes black and all you know around you’s this terrific sound of metal going mangled and messed and glass crunching, crushed, f*cked, Dirk’s voice rising above with this primal yell, “AUGGGGGH, WHAT THE F*CK?!”

 

First person blinking when the sounds go numb, disembodied chatter.

 

“Grab him. Don’t f*ck about.”

 

“Since when they got the hok gwai?”

 

Orient yourself.

 

Cabriolet roof.

 

Bottom half of the steering column.

 

Blood.

 

Blink. Blink.

 

Turn your head, blood trickles down into your vision and through the red to the right Dirk’s upside down and his arm’s got some glass in it and he’s got shards in his hair, hands flat on the seat to pull himself up, sit up, something.

 

To your left - legs. Pairs of legs, pants, shoes well shined. Moving quick.

 

f*ck.

 

You’re Julius’ eyes, move ‘em quick while you can - lifts himself off the roof, the floor, whatever the f*ck you wanna call it now so he can reach his holster.

 

Gat’s gone.

 

Dallas goes “My f*cking head oh my god” and you know he’s alive at least and if you take a quick look Chester’s f*cking about too with his hair in his eyes.

 

Gun’s right in front of him.

 

Dirk got his bearings. Grabs it first.

 

First pair of legs comes around his side past the windshield and Dirk doesn’t pay you any mind as he takes aim upside down and waits, waits, waits until the legs come up to his door and rip it open and point the muzzle of a rifle right at his goddamn head.

Reflexes too slow - Dirk pulls the trigger once-twice-three times and just about the same time the other goon’s on your side giving you the same treatment and if you don’t act now you won’t be acting at all.

 

Press the contextual button and before he can touch the door or react to the shots Jules grabs for the muzzle of this guy’s rifle like a f*cking lunatic and pulls and it pays off quick - guy holds on too tight, comes down with the momentum and his skull meets the car’s underside.

 

“屌你老母!”

You’re in gameplay now; Jules kicks the door out proper and it gets the goon in the head a second time and he f*ckin’ tumbles back and lets his gun go loose and it’s an AK, a f*cking AK but this time built proper, and whatever their business it’s life or death so you better lunge for either the gun or the guy before you loose the element of surprise.

 

Whichever your way Dirk’s got your pistol and he’s kicked his way out of the wreck, he’s on two feet again and unloading into something you can’t see yet and going “Goddamn motherf*ckin’ chink slant cocksuckers!”.

 

You grab the AK and you can take your guy out with a couple butts to the head ‘til the nose bleeds and the forehead bulges. You go for his throat and he’s too stunned to care much, you got him in a choke and you can mash his face to sh*t until you’re satisfied and Jules comes off him panting with the rifle in hand.

 

You’re upright - Dirk’s taking potshots at a Rancher with the bulbars fallen loose and a headlight popped ‘cause it just broadsided a goddamn sedan to hell.

 

Your sedan.

 

AK’s got a full mag.

 

Take aim and the full power of the rat-tat-tat-tat-tat in your hands comes across when the windshield ends up full of holes and the bumper falls off and just when you think you put this sh*t to bed you realize someone’s in the driver’s seat - they gun it at you and you got just enough time to get the hell outta dodge before it flies past and into the cement walkway behind you.

 

Goes up in smoke.

 

Jules tosses the gun. “What the f*ck was that?”

 

Dirk checks for blood through his hair - dry.

 

He’s cool.

 

“Chinks.”

 

“Ain’t what I meant.”

 

“Then what the f*ck do you know that I don’t, Tarzan? Chinks,” he says again, pauses when a shellshocked Dallas and Chet emerge from the wreck. “Chinks with a deathwish. Maybe they don’t like what I did to their buddy back in town. Maybe it’s the year of the f*ckin’ lemming, I dunno. S’fish in a barrel, Bobo.”

 

“Fish in a barrel? Look at my goddamn car, man, it’s done.”

 

“You want me to mourn a cage?”

 

“I want you to- f*ck, man, I don’t know what the f*ck I want, we just ended another trifecta of these cats. Thought the beef with them was Dave’s lick.”

 

“It is.”

 

“Then I guess it’s time to contain it, motherf*cker.”

 

Smile. “Now we’re talkin’.”

 

Tosses you your pistol.

 

Chet says he should’ve stayed home, Dallas is on edge but f*ck if his face don’t say he loves the rush.

 

Guys’re wandering now.

 

Gentle reminder via Dallas: “Pigs’ll be here before long, huh?”

 

“My car is f*cked.”

 

Dirk’s at the Rancher now, opens the door - driver slumps out and goes limp at his feet. “Huh. So’s this one.”

 

Jules says f*ck it and takes charge, tells Chet to come along and find a goddamn cage that ain’t shot to sh*t.

 

No time limit, but there is. f*ck around and you’re in for another whole heap of trouble - you were anything but quiet.

 

Place’s pretty open, low-level offices to left and right - Triad drove into the stairwell of one. Whip around the back between low cut fence by a loading dock, you see a couple sixteen-wheelers - nix - and the light shining down on a pickup gone rusted.

 

Chet says “I can hotwire the son of a bitch.”

 

Jules tells him not to worry.

 

You hotwire it, pull it back around to the scene of chaos - heart pangs at the sight of baby cream flipped and f*cked. Dirk’s got no such feelings, while you were gone filched the weed from the trunk.

 

Not a scratch on the bag.

 

Jules goes “Lucky motherf*cker.”

 

It’s a pickup, 50s pickup - room for two in front and a hefty bag of green. Ain’t much need to discuss who’s gonna end up sitting on the wheel wells in the back.

 

Get back to the chop shop.

 

It’s a long way back, radio’s tuned to country, Johnny Paycheck, whatever. Dirk’s deep in thought, means keeping his goddamn yap shut. Miracle.

 

By the time you’re on the highway Jules breaks the silence, says “You know that was my ride, huh? Name on the pink slip and all, DMV. By midnight they’ll come-a-f*ckin’-knocking, you know that, right?”

 

Dirk’s not cute, really not in the mood. “You tell ‘em it was stolen. Ends there.”

 

“Does it though? Cross-department sh*t, y’know, ain’t got the resources, but how long ‘fore they connect dots, man?”

 

“It ends there.”

 

Okay.

 

They don’t speak another goddamn word.

 

Bridge trip and paths ‘tween trees and all the other scenery don’t have half its shine anymore. Home stretch news reports yet mum - then again, you were outside city limits.

Tires roll on gravel when you hit the parking lot and the sight of that f*ck-ugly Calhoun is one for sore eyes. Chet practically jumps out while the car’s still moving.

 

Dirk hangs back when you cut the engine - waits for Dallas to get the hint, doesn’t.

 

“Get the f*ck out.”

 

Dallas rubs it off, “Let the good times roll, huh Jules? I’ll be in touch.”

 

Door slams.

 

Dirk’s serious. “You don’t speak a word of this.”

 

“No doubt.”

 

“You don’t let nothin’ slip - the green, the slants, the f*ckin’ rifle, none of it to David, you got that?”

 

“Like I said.”

 

“Yeah.” Pauses. “Yeah. You talk to the two bozos came with us, they got business. Nothing to do with me, but y’know.”

 

This is him offering knowledge.

 

“Yeah. Thanks.”

 

“You get your cut next time we speak.”

 

He hops out and makes straight for the garage - turns around at the last second. Mumbles through the open window.

 

“Sorry about your f*ckin’ cage.”

 

And he’s gone.

 

It’s not even noon.

 

F*cking day.

No reward.