Alternate storyline based on characters and material created by Rockstar Games. The author claims no for-profit ownership over them.
Worse Than Death
Chapter 1
Martignetti Pasta Factory. New Lancaster. Liberty City's ugly little sister. 4th generation mom and pop outfit. No mob influence from any of the local families apart from supplying some of their restaurants, no significant health and safety violations...currently outstanding anyway. A heartwarming story of a good old fashioned immigrant business threatened by the new wave of technology and forced to fight for its life in the great Darwinian grinder.
It's your "prove it" assignment for Devin Weston and you're not going to fuck this up.
Joey Martignetti. The current male-line descendant and owner. Enough spray tan to cover up half the graffiti in the LS river with a little left over to run for President, doesn't know the first thing about making pasta, let alone the workings of the family business.
Joey's your way in.
You graduated magna cum laude in Law from VEU and possess a Master of Science degree in Business with a specialty in Activist Investing from the University of San Andreas, Los Santos, completely debt-free. You've helped two major oil companies litigate for damages in five different major bodies of water, thwarted multiple lawsuits to tobacco companies from individuals and groups of concerned individuals without settling out of court. You are the Senior Vice President and general counsel of boardroom war to the most up-and-coming "entrepreneur" west of the Mississippi.
And as you race past the former Los Santos Forum toward LSX in your leased Dewbauchee grand tourer, carrying an analog film reel with the words "Meltdown: Master" written in marker on masking tape across the cylinder, a presumptive LSPD escort trying to keep up behind your sports car and a very angry film (associate) producer right behind them, absolutely none of this matters.
The Richards Majestic "job" was supposed to be simple enough. Well, simple in the sense that it was routine. And you know the drill when it comes to routine. A drill that involves weeks if not months of carefully constructing takeovers that could put the misadventures of the US military to shame. Drawing up and then poring over contracts with carefully positioned loopholes, like a building constructed specifically to get demolished with the occupants still inside like the great housing conspiracy that seized Los Santos by storm in the late 1940s.
Offers that Devin's targets cannot refuse. Debt they'd be happy to take out if it means climbing out of their shithole into something that looks nice. And demolitions they cannot escape, because as general counsel you know it's either legal or can be made legal in time to counter any lawsuits.
You've done the routine at least 6 times since Devin hired you. Not counting the ones currently in the works.
Your way in was the associate producer, a connection of a connection.
Martignetti Pasta Factory. New Lancaster. 4th generation mom and pop outfit. It's not too bad of a place given the neighborhood it's in, and it is kind of charming in that old world immigrant sort of way...which isn't really saying much. It's probably the only running industrial facility for several blocks.
The insides definitely look like they haven't been caught for any major health and safety violations in the last year or so. It's good that you got what you pay for, but you'd rather not have the value too low.
It's a start.
You're going at least four times the legal limit on the service roads, bypassing the arrival and departure ramps of LSX in a blur of sun-bleached moldy concrete, baggage and frightened passengers hoping to get out of the parking lot before rush hour hits. You can just hear a news helicopter's blades echo off the edifices as the airport rent-a-cops fling the gate open for you in advance.
You also don't realize you probably forgot to take your meds this morning, because you were so used to the routine that you were wholly expecting things to turn out a lot differently than they actually are turning out now.
The routine for Richards Majestic was about as routine as it could get. You leveraged Devin's holdings to get him a nice juicy share of a struggling film studio with delusions of once again competing against InterGlobal for cheesy popcorn movie fare. The connection was a bored rich has-been with similar delusions, but no compunction about getting stuff done. Doing whatever the FIB wanted to do with him - and whose disclosure policies you do respect - was a good enough first impression.
Meanwhile, you gave the studio's owner delusion fuel. Solomon Richards was confident enough that he could get a movie made despite the massive insurance policy you helped take on the film and even took on a spy movie script out of anticipation of the studio's revival.
He was actually so confident that if production did wrap up as it should, the premiere was already marked for the end of the month, thanks to his newfound infatuation with green screen. But you knew that the bored old has-been would get it done. You knew that having someone conveniently hijack the star car of that spy movie he was making on the side would give him extra motivation to rely on Meltdown to save the studio.
Or rather, you knew he'd get Meltdown done enough for Devin to, in his words, "pluck the fruit and savor its juices soon as it becomes ripe."
The aforementioned fruit is now in the foot well of the passenger seat, the result of hard braking, and you are going to take it with you to Shenzhen where you'll be wining and dining some local officials of the Chinese Communist Party after presenting them and/or their kids with some gifts to show them that laissez-faire capitalism ain't so bad after all.
Or you were planning to, until you breezed right past Devin's hangar and the Westminster jet ready to shuttle you to safety, and right into busy airport traffic with a throng of cops and an angry and formerly bored has-been trying to get past them.
You're not going anywhere near that hangar until you've lost Michael de Santa, which is probably a tall order on open runways with traffic that can hold 500 passengers a vehicle.
Martignetti Pasta Factory. New Lancaster. 4th generation mom and pop outfit. Devin's really, really into this Grain of Truth stuff, as it happens. You prefer energy drink droppers and F-Cups (of the instant coffee variety), but that doesn't stop you from formulating and pitching a marketing plan that'll put the Martignetti factory into the 21st century while still retaining their identity. This of course requires the wholesale retooling of the entire factory with the latest in pasta-making technology.
The board and most of the employees don't like it but Joey catches on, because success in business is a big thing when it comes to virility among the Italian-American community of the Northeastern Seaboards and the broads up the coast in Alderney love a guy who's hard as spray-tanned leather on the outside but in touch with nature on the inside.
He and Devin are LifeInvader, Snapmatic, Bleetr and MyRoomOnline besties before the first meeting is even over.
The biggest surprise to you was that people were still using MyRoomOnline.
Your car clips a barrier around the back of a hangar and loses traction. Rear-ends the wall beside the hangar's back door, and the world goes white for a few seconds because Dewbauchee's luxury features and American car safety regulations (ironically) have saved your life.
The moment your vision clears up enough to see shapes, you wearily climb out to watch a blurry mass of black and white accumulate about 20 feet in front of you. The cops have formed a barricade around your car with theirs.
You're safe.
That however turns out to be false as soon as the associate producer pulls up right behind them. Nothing is going to stop him. You know this because of the friends you hired. The same friends who requisitioned several exotic sports cars to be presented to the officials of the Chinese Communist Party in Shenzhen, including the modified vintage Dewbauchee JB700 you had conveniently hijacked from its own movie set with live ammunition.
You've lost your glasses but the film isn't that hard to spot in the foot well. You slink inside, your yoga classes managing to briefly overwhelm the pain and shock from the crash. You manage to grab it and second wind powers you through the nearest door. Narrow hallways and break rooms for the airplane maintenance workers all leading into the actual hangar.
That's when being dazed finally catches up to you, has its filthy way with you and leaves a 20 on the bed for not disappointing it.
Freedom is past the hangar and the cops pulling up to surround it, just past the Bluestar Airlines passenger jet that's currently undergoing maintenance.
The kind of maintenance that involves running the engine at full blast.
Martignetti Pasta Factory. New Lancaster. Fourth generation mom-and-pop business with a newly improved identity for the 21st century.
A lot of the expenses for retooling the factory have been offset by the fact that you only need 55% of the current workforce to run it. As for the other 45%, it's their own damn fault they can't improve their own damn selves.
Thirty minutes ago, you and Devin agreed to move on Meltdown. You informed the older of the two has-beens that the project was to be canned immediately on the way to the studio. You went through the fine print on the phone and you know he listened to every word. He panicked and went for the master, giving you time to go to the office, wait for the younger of the old has-beens to show up, inform him and then see the look on his face as you waited for Solomon Richards to show up with the film reel.
And then you naively expected it to be a quick trip to the airport and a slow plane to China.
You're almost there.
Safety, beyond the combined din of your ears ringing from the collision, muffled shouts from airport workers, and a jet engine.
You don't realize that the left heel of that $500 pair you got from Didier Sachs went out until you're halfway to the concrete.
Martignetti Pasta Factory. New Lancaster. Fourth generation mom-and-pop business with a new approach to 21st century cuisine.
The new organic, gluten free line is sourced directly from small, family-owned farms in "the old country" and churned into pasta just the way the Grain of Truth demographic is expected to like it.
The exclusive launch across the Grain of Truth franchises in 5 states is tomorrow.
By the time you're groaning and holding your elbows from cushioning your faceplant the film reel is rolling away.
There's a horrible shredding noise and then a small explosion as you helplessly watch the master reel of Meltdown get sucked into the jet engine of a Bluestar airliner. You also watch helplessly as said destruction happens in slow motion. The first lid coming off, the tape following in like a winch cable or human entrails pulled in foot by foot, before the second lid follows about a third of the way down the reel.
Your mind is trying to piece together the horrifying possibility that it could have been you in that jet engine amidst the din.
"What the fuck is wrong with you! Fuck!" shouts the man who was chasing you as the ringing in your ears subsides. "I hope you're fucking happy, you-" He doesn't stay long before the cops from outside rush in, and you can just see him climbing onto a nearby baggage hauler and racing off.
"Ma'am, are you okay?" one of them asks the moment you turn yourself face up to find yourself looking up at an officer.
"I'm fine," you groan as he helps you up. "Officer..."
"Sergeant Hernandez. Ma'am, I'll need you to sit down, okay?" Sitting down, according to the officer, is more like leaning against the wall. "Bravo 5-7 to dispatch, Schultz is okay but the suspect just took off in a baggage handler. Gonna need an EMT."
Truth be told, things could have ended up a lot worse. But right now you could say you've actually done what you're supposed to do, or at least give a good excuse to what is very likely to be a very angry Devin.
"I'll be fine, thank you."
No, you won't be.
Martignetti Pasta Factory. New Lancaster. 4th generation mom-and-pop outfit that might not see a 5th.
The new line of healthy pasta is nowhere near al dente with the public. Joey's throwing fits online and over the phone about the company going under, repeatedly name-dropping mob connections that may or may not be completely unsubstantiated.
Hook, line and sinker.
You give him an hour to rant before you invite him over to Island City for lunch and a way out.
Six hours later, you're an outpatient. The benefits of being able to afford a no-deductible-at-all plan without having to go through the Exchange.
You've got bandages, thankfully nothing that needs to be stitched, sandwiching topical medication with the least amount of side effects. Your arm still hurts like it needs armor plating though.
You've given the police your statement, your panicked haze wearing off just enough for you to go through every detail. You'll need to if you're going to find a way out of all the trouble that your little chase has given the National Office Of Security Enforcement. At least you can literally afford to have the case grind through the justice system as slow as you can, unless NOOSE decides to file it against the associate producer in which case you can afford to make it go through as quickly as possible.
The doctors say you don't need a cast, which is good because your smartphone hand is already hard at work accessing the Mensch ridesharing app as you reach the door. Your non-smartphone arm is in a sling though, just in case, and they have supplied you with a month's worth of Interfectum for when your impact areas act up.
You go through a few cycles of relieved breathing yourself, taking in some of the worst urban air in the country as you step out of Mount Zonah into the driveway.
The Karin Asterozoa sedan pulls up to you 2 minutes late according to your app, resulting in a furrowed brow and a mental reminder to tip 2% instead of the requisite 5%. Your joints ache as you stand up and walk over to the sedan. They ache even more as you get in and sit in the back, your chauffeur trying to force a smile.
"Tinsel Towers," are the first and last words out of your mouth.
"Yes ma'am," the driver replies. You could do your research if you wanted, but off the bat you can tell he's an East African immigrant that became an "independent contractor" to supplement his meager retail income in order to maintain some kind of visa.
Analyzing things always helped you relax if you put your mind to it.
Then Devin calls the moment the car drives out into open light.
"I hope you've got a good reason for interrupting my virtuous cycles, Schultz," is the first thing he says. He's never been known for regular greetings. After all, he is a very busy man.
"The film's been destroyed," you reply, your legal knowledge shaken and stirred but still intact. "We can claim the insurance payment."
"I know this, Molly, because I saw the ending of your little chase with De Santa on high definition to break in my new iFruit Limp 5G. I'm about 2/3rds of the way through an emergency yoga session and I really, really hope you have a good enough near-term plan that will still lead to sipping piña coladas 35,000 feet above the Pacific Ocean."
You take a deep breath. The next paragraph out of your mouth is cathartic.
"You tasked me to move the film to safe storage. An associate producer got angry about it and threatened physical harm, leading to a massive police chase, and a media firestorm. The film was destroyed in the chase before production officially wrapped, meaning we can still claim the insurance payment and get the associate producer blacklisted and possibly charged with at least causing a public disturbance before the week is out."
Ten seconds and a few more cycles of breathing later, you hear the sound of laughing, like you told a joke that he really enjoyed. "That's why you're my goddamn Shiva. Namaste," and then he hangs up.
With one last sigh you let your arm go limp, your cellphone sliding down onto the seat beside you.
You're not one for sleeping in the car. It interferes with your productivity. And you quite like having a record of minimal rest that isn't scheduled.
If it's not on the schedule, it means potential missed opportunity.
By the time you pull up to Tinsel Towers, you're dozing off.
"Ma'am, we're here. Tinsel Towers."
Whoever thought of Mensch and other ride-sharing apps was a genius. Immigrants and hipster IT and art school graduates leasing brand new rides, looking to make cash any way they can without going into the already-degraded retail or food service industries. Then chaining themselves to getting paid only a little more than actual cab drivers for as long as they can make rent.
Combine that with 'independent' legit courier services, and you can outsource an entire demographic within their own community. It's pure Selenium Mountain genius.
"Right. Thank you."
Your fingers are twitching a little. When you go through the key sequence to tip the driver on his Mensch-provided tablet, you accidentally type in 22% instead of 2%.
"Thank you, Ms. Schultz!" You don't notice that you typed in 22 though, and you assume that the smile that lights up his face is just standard customer service fakery.
You simply nod before you step out and trudge up the stairs, through the lobby whose receptionist asks you if you're all right like she's clearly watched the news, and into the elevator up to your condo with a view of Vespucci Beach.
You practically molt out of your clothes like multiple layers of unwanted skin across the living room in a beeline to your shower, dropping off the small amber vial of Interfectum on the dining area counter.
When you step out of the shower after what feels like about an hour, you take your medication reminder pill container out of the bathroom mirror cabinet.
You trudge into your living room wrapped in a towel. The carpet feels good against your feet, something nice to distract you from the pain resurfacing after the shower's placebo effects wore off.
The pill container is reminding you that you're almost a day late on your meds as you place it right next to the bottle of prescription painkillers. You grab a 9 pH Svalbard Water bottle from the fridge, pop open today's cell on the container and switch on the news on your 4K flatscreen with your smartphone's remote control app as you take a seat.
"...Richards Majestic studios has announced that its new film Meltdown has completed production and will premiere next week at the Er-Long Oriental Theater."
And you thought that your pill container actually being empty, let alone nearly being sucked into a jet engine and causing a terrorist incident was the worst thing going through your mind today.
Martignetti Historic Living Spaces. New Lancaster. Formerly a 4-generation family-owned pasta factory.
You have contributed an unspecified yet significant percentage increase to Mr. Weston's net worth through the sale of the factory's assets to pay off its debt as well as Joey, who has fucked right back off to trying to get noticed in the Alderney Shore social scene. The factory has been reduced to the literal facade of its former self, a new building based on its foundation styled into post-industrial lofts for tech and art school hipsters trying to get noticed in their respective career networks.
Sure, you ended up putting a bunch of people out of work, but that's not really the worst thing that could happen to them, is it?
Chapter 1 End