GTA Tales

It's the dead of night. The slick black pavement perfectly matches the utter darkness of the sky, aside from the illumination from all manner of neon signs which, along with the dimming street lights, are the only beacons of light on the entire road. Driving down at near breakneck speeds is a red 1980 Chevrolet Citation driven by a skrawny-looking Mexican with a cigarette hanging off his lip; short, curly, black hair; eyes big enough to eat off of; a buttoned-up, white dress shirt with a popped collar; a neon pink suit; and a pair of stained, white slacks. In the back is a guy with his legs crossed and an arm hanging across the seat. He's a white guy sporting a red Hawiian shirt and messy blue jeans. His hair black and unkempt, his build slightly more muscular than normal, and his face always looking tired but strangely filled with enough energy to get through the next mission he inevitably must complete.

Inside, the radio cuts through the silent drive with the words of a man hosting a classic music station. "You're listening to 94.7 Can'tLetGo Radio, playing all the stuff you've forgotten about for twenty years! Now, we're gonna put on The Four Seasons's 'Big Girls Don't Cry' for your listening pleasure."

"Hey, Marty, turn off that radio; it's making my ears hurt."

The driver quickly glances back and responds, "Yeah, sure thing Guy." His right hand hovers over to the dial, and his boney fingers rotate the plastic knob until it's turned off. "Ya know, Guy," he begins while gazing at his rearveiw mirror, showing his passenger. "Ya aint talking a lot back there, you know."

He stares directly at the drivers seat as he speaks, "Well, what am I supposed to talk about, exactly?"

"I dunno. How'd the mission go?"

His head turns toward the door opposite of his. "It went well. I wouldn't be coming back here otherwise."

"Aww, come on. You'd have to fuck up real bad for the boss to want YOU dead."

"Yeah, sure."

The car turns right and swerves into a parking position next to the sidewalk.

"Hey, the boss needs this car for another deal, so, uh, I'll see ya later, alright?"

Guy opens his door and hangs out one leg. "Sure, I'll be seeing you around Marty." Once he exits and slams the door shut, the car screeches the tires and drives off down the road. Afterwards, Guy walks toward the brick, two-story building directly in front of him.

The hallway is dim, lit only by a few bulbs shining pale, golden light down from the ceiling. The walls feel too constraining, as if they're literally inching their way closer and closer, and the air is too thick. No visible smoke resonates at the moment, but walking in this place just puts more of a burden on the lungs than being outside. Every few steps is a door, some open and showing suitcases full of cocaine. God, take one whiff in this place and you're high as a kite.

The destination is right up on the second floor, following the stairwell at the end of the hallway. Funny enough, the stairwell is more tolerable than the rest of the building, albeit cooler. Of course, never cold. This is Vice City Florida, where temperatures only range from mild to melting your balls off. Regardless, at the top of stairs is another hallway just like the last one leading to the boss's office.

Guy grabs the doorknob and pushes the stained, white door far enough to creep inside. In the room is a man standing behind a desk chock full of money, coke, and papers all scattered about the place. He's a Cuban guy with slick, black hair on a balding head and beady, little, brown eyes. He wears a shag right under his nose and chapped, grizzled lips under that. His dress shirt is purple with a golden chain hung in front of it. The blazer is a ligh brown color that matches his work slacks and compliments his good, black shoes. He appears a tad pudgy, and every flake of skin is beaten and wrinkled.

Nevertheless, ferocious life is spewing forth onto the new compact cell phone right now. Only 11 inches. Guy takes the chance to walk in and plop down on the chair sitting in front of the desk, getting a wandering eye shot of the man who takes a break from cussing at the sight of him.

"Listen, I'll call you back."-Beep-"He-ey-ey! Nice to have you back here Guy!"

"Well, I wasn't gonna drive around in San Andreas forever, now."

"Uh, why not? You'd probably have to deal with less idiots than this-fucking-town!"

"Oooooh, no. Trust me, a year there is enough to know that we've got it better off in this shithole than in that one."

"Ay, but you have not seen what's been going on with...forget it, it doesn't concern you. Are you ready to get back to work?"

"Gee, I dunno. I thought I'd come home to Vice City and enjoy a few days of drinking martini and catching up on my soaps!"

"Well, tough, amigo. 'Cause you're gonna take this pile of powder to some ungrateful urch who keeps on-calling-me-in the-middle-of the night-just to-whine-about-being-late!"

"So much for cashing in those vacation days; I was hoping it'd give you time to buy that mansion you need."

"Hey! I told you, this place is home enough for me."

"Well then, you could get me a mansion instead."

"Ha...Ha...Ha...Just deliver the damn stuff."