Novelization of Grand Theft Auto. III. This is relatively old work, from a few months ago, but that is irrevalent. Although I do not feel obligated to continue it, I would like to "showcase" my work, if only to spur on another volley of creativity. Uncompleted and not likely to be updated.


Betrayal

Adrenaline.

It channeled through the current of my veins, pulsing through the grooves of my mind. Like an entity of its own, my body throbbed with ecstasy and exhilaration.

My mind, set on one objective, like a mindless drone that lives only to serve, unaware of the dangers looming overhead.

The alarm blared behind me, merely an unimportant distraction from my objective. I burst through the rusted iron door of the bank, my shotgun swinging dangerously from side to side. Clutching a leather black suitcase, my accomplice's Hawaiian shirt ruffled carelessly as he charged ahead. Frantically he swayed left and right, his arm waving at a seemingly non existent target. His face seemed ghostly, and sweat dripped off of his beard like blood. He skewed into the direction of the alleyway, his cowboy hat hung loosely on his and the hinges of case opening slowly from its prison. As he rounded into the alleyway, the accomplice cursed in a foreign tongue, his voice becoming more desperate and regretful as time passed.

Suddenly, a shot ran out.

Slowly the cowboy hat and an article of money drifted out of the alleyway, wafted and exchanged a beautiful series of arcs. It seemed to me, a premonition disguised by humbleness.
I swerved into the alleyway, exaltation running through me like nothing before.
She stood there, aiming her pistol at my head.
My mouth hung slightly agape, my shotgun slipped my hands like sand.
My mind soon became inflicted, voices argued and hissed at each other, and soon it became incomprehensible, like the buzzing of a million demonic flies. Through the corner of my eyes I could see light blue shirt of my accomplice bleached with dark blood, his mouth agape, and the briefcase left astray.
An intoxicating smile slithered across her face, an exchangement of stares and a showcase of iniquitousness.

She licked her lips seductingly, and in my mind it streaked a trail of poison.

"Sorry babe. I'm an ambitious girl-

She released the safety of the firearms.

"And you're just small time."

The lever was pressed, the firearm was shot.
An intense pain fell over me, indeed my mind felt overwhelmed, and in the process, insensitive to everything.

I was enveloped into the oblivion, a numbing pain tinted my vision red, and her entrancing smile etched into my mind.

Three years of love, three years of crime, three years of being a made man, diminished.

But now I know it was just business.

Tears
Idiot.

I bit my lower lip, until my teeth were coated by a small amount of blood. I ran my hands through my hair roughly. In my mind I could feel my blood simmering inside of me. I rested my chin on my trembling fist, and in my hurry I ignored the peaceful gestures of the gentle rain, as it crawled across the dirty window of the convoy.

A few minutes later I found the resolve to subdue my anger and think. Almost as if to quell the feeling of restrain, I looked around at the others in the convoy.

A circus of racially, among other things, diverse people. All convicts. There was a black man, who appeared to be in deep thought, his face contorting with a disappointed brow. An elderly oriental man, his face covered in his arms, and crystalline tears seeping from under the lock. Another, who seemed to be Caucasian, his face full of vengeance and hate, unrepentant to the very end. All clad in a traditionally orange and bland prison suit, and all being sent to the Liberty City penitentiary. And, in a nagging feeling in the my mind, I was too.

Ten tears for love, ten tears for sin, ten years for crime.

Solemnly I looked out the window. The sky darkened and the rain showered faster, and it all seemed like an omen. By now we were nearing the Callahan Bridge.

The tears of the clouds drummed softly at the roof of the convoy, almost a peaceful gesture to stop and think, in the midst of burdenful feeling of betrayal and helplessness. Steadily the interval onto which the rain fell dropped, it intensified, and a feeling of great heaviness and burden seemed crawl over me; indeed I knew it was a sign of what was to come. Soon it felt as the rain intensified, I began to feel a sudden sickness looming around me, the drops seemed to roll off the windows like bloodshed, a powerful ringing noise penetrated my hearing, its snaky steel tone penetrating my soul.

Suddenly the convoy swerved to a screeching halt, abruptly jerking the convicts to the opposite side on the convoy. Muffled by the metal panels of convoy, came screech of another car, behind us.

There was dead silence. The bang of the closing of door sounded off behind me. Dancing and darting in their restraining cages, soon the pupils of the felons tried an escape, they're fingers fidgeting precariously. Thunder ignited their fears in fearsome clap of light. The Officer stirred noisily, almost taking the thunderous clap as an initiative. Slowly he raised, his feat moving hesitantly towards the rear door. The Officer's fingers itched towards his holstered pistol, his face contorting into an uneasy smile. Clutching a flashlight in one trembling hand, he slothily opened the door, half of his body daring to petrude out of door.

"Come on!" said a strained voice coming from behind the convoy.

The officer dropped suddenly to the side of the convoy, his legs seemingly made out of lead.

Immediately the felons stirred, their heads twisting to side of the convoy.

"Ah, Senor head!" said another, in a more relaxed tone.

From these voices I knew they were Latin. The men I had worked with.

"It's no problem to kill you." groaned the first man.

The flashlight shattered to the ground, casting a flickering oval light outside of the van.

"You gonna be sorry." breathed the second.

"I am an o-officer of the l-law, s-stop!" trembled the officer.

Copper jacketed steel bursted into the air, its metallic song rang through the air as flashes of brilliant light joined it. Dark red blood streaked across the gritty gravel of the bridge in a final performance, and I knew the officer was dead.
"Aye, take care of the driver and go set the b-

The thunder devoured his cry in an angry flash of light.

"Man, this is our chance out!" hurried the black man.

I dashed out of the door of the convoy, the metal ting of the footsteps behind me like a ghost of an echo.

I rounded the corner of the convoy, my legs pounding through the gravel.

But something stopped me.

Time seemed to move slowly, I could feel every frame of what came.

It flipped through the air, silver streaks outlining its previous position.

It rolled out of the pursuer's car, onto the floor.

It was a pipe bomb.

Suddenly, I was engulfed by a strange white light. Whether it had been thunder, that I do not know.

Tone

Slowly I felt my eyes pry open. Awaiting darkness. The world..seemed to have a darker tone. I could feel the crackling warmth of fire behind me, it felt welcome and fitting.

"You alright dude?" I heard a voice call.

After hearing the voice I felt a resolve to subdue my dazed slumber. Slowly I raised, my head turned into the direction from which the sound came.

The black man leaned against a bright green car, his face seemed to portray bewilderment yet gratefullness. His hands, placed on a door of the vehicle, were bound up with strips of the prisoner suit. To me, it seemed, his hands had been burnt and scathed from the incident not to long ago...

My eyes crawled upwards. The night sky was still an illumination, yet it, in an impossible way, it seemed darker, yet calm.

"We found this car abandoned not too long ago." hissed a snaky tone right of my position.

Standing up, I stepped towards the voice.

It was the Caucasian man, who stood with his arms crossed, his body illusioned a blend in the shadowed portions of the bridge.

His shirt was torn off, baring the tattoos on his chest, and now I knew where the strips of cloth originated from.

I looked around. The Oriental man was nowhere to be found.

The black man stirred, impatient to end this silent observation. He rounded next to the front passenger seat of the car.

"I know a place on the edge of the Red Light District where we can lay low, but my hands are all messed up so you better drive, brother. "

I nodded solemnly, kneeled into the car, a green Kurama, and the black man and Caucasian followed suit.

The Red Light District. Seemed simple enough. It seemed, in truth, the main attraction of Portland.

I had been there a few times...

Before..

I ran the keys, which hung conveniently at the lock, and activated the car. The car gave off a gentle roar, and I was almost satisfied.

I drove down the arc of the bridge, everything felt new and fresh, and it felt like an opportunity to start my life again.

"Yo I'm 8 Ball," announced the black man abruptly.

I simply nodded. Seemed fitting enough.

"And I am.." the Caucasian man held out his tattooed arm into the front seat, "..you can call me Zero," he said in an almost proud tone . "And you are?"

After a few seconds, Zero resolved to lay back his hand. "Don't talk much, do you?" he laughed. I could almost hear the bristles of his beard dance in agreement.

A few minutes later I rounded into the Red Light District. Almost appropriately, the street lights seemed to become more apparent and flashed a jolly red and green. Yet greed, blood, and prostitution seemed to be the very heart of this corruptness. It didn't matter. Nowhere in Liberty City was there a land classified as "safe."

As I came towards the intersection of Light House and Redding, 8 Ball declared that we weren't too far away. "Just keep driving straight then take a right when I tell you."

"This is the place right here. Let's get off the street and find a change of clothes!" said 8 Ball.

I rounded into the alley, stopped and got out of the car. The surrounding area seemed big enough. Curiously I walked toward the open door of the apartment. I peered inside. A small television, a musty looking refrigerator, stove, a small closet, and unmade bed outlined the walls of the small room. I was satisfied. Especially because of the absence of any other rooms.

"I know this guy, he's connected, his name is Luigi," 8 Ball said behind me. "Me an' him go back, so I could probably get you some work. Take this beeper I found in the car and I'll beep you when anything comes up." He handed me a small teal beeper to me. Should come in handy.

After searching the meager wardrobe left in the room, we finally rid of the burden and suspiciousness of the orange prisoner suits. 8 Ball, a weathered blue and white baseball sweater, and dyed out blue jeans. Zero, a simple dirtied white tank top, and black jeans. And I, a leather jacket, and olive cargo pants.

"I call you back later bro and get you some work," 8 Ball said as he roughly opened the door of the Kurama. Zero followed suite, and they soon left.
Solemnly I walked into the apartment. After the rush of all the recent incidents, I felt obligated to turn on the television and watch the local news.

Fortunately I heard the words I was hoping for.

"Liberty city is in shock today, as the police and emergency services deal with the aftermath of a devastating attack on a police convoy this morning. As yet, no details have been released about the prisoners being transferred in the convoy, and no proof has claimed responsibility. A convoy left police headquarters early this morning, for a routine transfer of felons, to the Liberty City penitentiary. The attack took place on the Callahan Bridge, leaving few witnesses, and the bridge itself, severely damaged. Some of the convicts are thought to have perished, in the explosion that followed the initial attack. Revelations as to the professionalism of the attack, struck police hours afterward, when identification of the missing felons were further hampered by an attack, by computer hackers on police headquarter databases. With the Porter tunnel-project falling behind schedule, this disaster leaves Portland isolated from the rest of the city. "

Opportunity.

Connections

Opportunity.

Still I questioned its value to me. Had I not been swayed by the deceitful nature of Catalina, I would have been eager to capitalize in this opportunity. Yet, I knew, in order to end this indignation and thirst for revenge I would have to exploit this opening. Almost I felt like I had emerged from the unknowing stage of the chrysalis. Rebirth had dawned upon me, and I feel I can pierce through the unforgiving armor of pretense and see the true nature of individuals as it ultimately is. And in this awakening I felt powerful; a blind man opening his eyes to light, and once being able to define others as unknowing.

I know I must not let this offer pass.

An icy wind crept over me, and its bitterness demanded I take action, serving as a welcome call to arms.

Taking this as an initiative, my pager set off a series of impatient whines.

“Meet me at the Gentleman’s Night Club 7, in the Red Light District – 8 Ball.”

Simple enough.

The pale grey sky sporting as my roof, I hastily began to walk toward my destination. The wintry air licked at my ears, and I retreated my head into the top of jacket. The streets were almost devoid of any other activity. Occasionally a few vehicles skimmed by, oddly accompanied by a blaring radio. The sidewalk, of which I walking on, was musty and untended, and the general lack of other life was welcome. As I rounded a corner on Spotlight and Prospect, the streetlights, which outlined the sidewalks, flashed the familiarly acclaimed red and green, and interchanged in a sort of mocking sequence. As a numerous set of bars and adult clubs joined this pattern, I knew I was close to my destination. The icy wind blew over me, sending the moist and forgotten newspapers laden on the ground in almost arbitrary directions. It seemed to me to be a slight portrayal of the stereotypical perspective of New York, even if it may be true.

The Night Club 7...although I had yet to visit that establishment, the feedback of the public and police has been somewhat of a spectacle. Recent controversy questioned the true intentions of the owner, Luigi Follini. As of late rumors have been circulating claiming he was supposedly a pimp, offering his girls to those who visited the club. More favorable to me was a suggestion that he was prospecting for a small time crook and errand boy. Although I did not feel bound to that title, it was certainly a start.

And there it was. I stood back, as if to survey its glory. Unsurprisingly it was nothing spectacular. The peeling banner presented two women clad in seductive clothing and white rabbit ears that had folded forward. The entrance was bland and dull, but it seemed fitting for its class.

8 Ball was leaning against the wall besides the entrance, sporting a lit cigarette and blood shot eyes. His nostrils exhaled a series of misted clouds in the wintry air, and his eyes awakened when he knew of my presence.

“This is Luigi’s club, let’s go ‘round the back and use the service door,” he disposed of the cigarette. We rounded to the small alleyway to the side of the club. The ground was an untended gray and wet from the prior day’s rain, but it seemed fitting and expected.

“Wait here while I go and talk to Luigi.”

His arm shoved through the service door and he disappeared into the darkness inside. From my vicinity, vaguely I could hear his muffled voice. “Say hello to 8 Ball, ladies.”

I looked up to the sky. Finally the clouds parted slightly from their tight group in the pale sky, slowly unsheathing the eager sun. I stirred impatiently; I was not keen to experience this pause. Abruptly a figure burst from the service door, providing an infinitesimal taste of the small noise inside. He was clothed in an impeccable black business suit, his face mellow and almost uninterested. I assumed he was Luigi.

“8 Ball has some business inside; maybe you can do me a favor.”

“One of my girls needs a ride, so take this car,” he pointed to a dormant Kurama to the left of me, “And pick misty up from the clinic.”

“Remember, NO ONE messes with my girls!” he staggered a threatening pointed finger at me; his voice became trembled and more emphasized with every word he breathed.

“So keep your hands on the wheel!” Luigi’s brow lowered.

“If you don’t mess this one up, maybe there will be more work for you,” he reached into his pocket and threw a set of keys to me, “Now get out of here!”

Luigi turned to the service door, shoved into it, in one deft, angry move.

Pocketing the keys, I crept into the car and activated it. The Kurama gave off a familiar gentle roar, which I began to feel accustomed to.

----

Still the sky frowned a depressing gray and in the air almost lingered the bitter smell of blood. I rounded into the clinic’s lot and solemnly parked the vehicle. In an almost immediate fashion, came who I was supposedly set to chauffeur. The wind, which had steadily increased in temperature, impelled her brown hair to wave about her provocative purple clothing.

“Luigi phoned ahead; I’m Misty,” she declared when she reached the proximity of the Kurama. Annoyingly she had a high nasal voice. I nodded, designating her to get in the car. She did so, discontinuing the simple exchange of few words.

Little was the clouds’ division since my last observation. The atmosphere was still a showcase of dreariness, so as to almost seem as a phenomenon. This didn’t faze me; indeed the past few incidents were executed hastily and bewilderingly. The sudden rush of adrenaline, the backlash of closed eyes, and now I am presented with a seemingly divine and boundless opportunity. And in sense, I felt like the sole individual who had recovered from the wound in the city’s side. And indeed did I feel powerful.

A few moments later the Night Club 7 came into view. Misty stirred noisily, oddly seeming to be content to be back at the club. I backed into the familiar alleyway of the club, and she quickly disappeared between the almost ominous walls of night club.

I waited near the vicinity of the service door, expectant of a response to the completion of the task. Noise still lingered within the confines of the gentleman’s club, and it ignored my assumption. I knocked the peeling service door, and stood back. Immediately I heard a few indistinguishable words, and then, “Go take care of him Mickey.”

Through the weathered wood of the service door came a tall, dark figure. His eyes stared at me fanatically, threatening and frenzied, and his beard seemed to question me as well. He swayed in place, his eyes wild and challenging. I retaliated, circling on his position. Abruptly he seemed remember something, and his head crept up, almost in embarrassment. He drew an envelope, which he seemed to been hiding behind business suit since the encounter. He staggered in his position, his ashamed eyes absorbed on the envelope. His rough breath still distributed on the envelope, he breathed, “Luigi said to, t-to give you this so…” he paused, “here, here take it.” He shoved the envelope into my hands, and stepped into the club. As he turned his back to me, I noticed he was much bigger in size and height than Luigi. I diverted my eyes to the envelope, and opened it hastily.

Immediately an article of notebook paper captured my attention. It had been ripped carelessly from its bind; hurried words were inscribed on its folded surface. Engagingly I began to read it, interested.

‘There’s a new high on the street, goes by the name of spank. Some wise guy’s been introducing this trash to my girls down Portland Harbor. Should be easy to find him. Go introduce a bat to his face! I want compensation for this insult!’

- Luigi Follini

Conveniently I noticed a bat leaning against a corner of the alleyway. An article of money peeked out of the envelope, and it was almost as satisfying as the prospect of another chore. The bat in hand, I walked into the Kurama, and was welcomed by its roar.

---

Moments later I arrived at the Portland harbor. The mood had remained the same; it seemed the clouds parted only to reveal other coats of gray. The port seemed to be a large source of activity. A crane loomed overhead in the distance, grappling automobiles and distributing them to other locations. Situated in a fairly remote area of the harbor were towering boats, exporting industrial goods to other countries; indeed it was a demanding and vital port. Among the circle of barter circulated a believable rumor of drug trafficking.

Liberty City has and seemingly always will be known for its criminal activities and corruption, so indeed the task of murdering a drug dealer in this area came not as a surprise. Fortunately the dealing was easily distinguished in the midst of the activity, which was questionably situated at behind the center of the transfer.

The dealer stood, wearing an expected beanie, conversing with one of Luigi’s girls, who was leaning provocatively against a bland gray wall. Oddly she seemed enchanted by the dealer. I took time to ready my bat and mind during this exchange of words.

“…really?” the girl giggled.

“Yeah. Hey…you want some…a little…hmm? Some SPANK?” slithered the words of the dealer.

Gripping my bat tightly, I crept toward the dealer…

“Hehe…yeah…” grinned the girl, apparently feeling mischievous.

Closer.

“Oh you my favorite lady! It’s real good…I know you’ll enjoy it…”

My muscles tensed.

She looked down at the floor, in a seemingly drugged trance, then wildly her eyes diverted to me,

“Behind you!”

The dealer turned around.

And was introduced to the face of my bat.

Fortunately the impact the meeting had caused created a satisfyingly powerful and interesting crack. The fragments of bone seemed to shift in the dealer’s skull, creating an almost appetizing grinding sound. The splintered remains of the bat, stained with the blood of the dealer, had roughly outlined his mangled face. To me, it almost seemed it was like a peaceful ceremonial display. During the moment I indulged in the delectable reverberation of the impact, the girl had fled the scene in terror. Dropping the weathered bat on the bleached stomach of the victim, I hastily ran to the Kurama to report a successful mission. My arms seemed to hum in the wake and vibration of the impact. Stretching slightly, I began to drive to Luigi’s club.

---

Again I was acquainted with the familiar dull alleyway of Luigi’s. Stepping out of the car, I could see Luigi and the man who had given me the envelope standing near the service door.

“Alright Mickey, talk to the later.” Luigi spoke to Mickey in a mellow tone.

“How yah doing kid. The Don’s son Joey Leone wants some action from his regular girl Misty. Go drive her over to his garage in Trenton, and make it quick, Joey ain’t the kind you keep waiting.”

He seemed to be slightly more calm then our last meeting, seemingly satisfied with tasks completed.

“Remember, this is your foot in the door…so keep your eyes on the road and off Misty!” he finished in an unsurprisingly angry tone. Quickly he rushed into the club. Inaudible were spoken from the confines of the club, and in a few moments Misty walked out.

“You working regular for Luigi now huh? It’s about time he got a driver we can trust!” she sounded relieved.

With that, I entered the Kurama and she followed suit. Indeed she seemed to know the route to Joey’s garage well; she directed me to the garage quite happily.

---

In a few moments we arrived at Joey’s garage in Trenton, which was situated not to far away from the Portland Harbor.

The commercial name of the garage was a fitting “Joey’s Automobile Repair Garage.” Misty contently strolled over to the service door of the garage, which surprisingly sported a fresh coat of paint.

The door was answered by a tall figure. His hair was combed back in a greasy fashion, and face showed the aftermath of a recent shave. Clad in stained white clothing, he was immediately greeted with an optimistic hug by Misty.

“Joey…am I going to get to play with you again?” she asks abruptly, eager to be pleased.

“In a moment spark plug.”

Joey nodded his head in my direction.

“Hey I’m Joey. Luigi said you were reliable, so come back and there might be work for you.”

“Alright?”