It was late on Friday evening, the sun had long gone down on Sandy Shores and the sky was a dark blue dotted with sparkling stars. Trevor had spent the whole afternoon drinking at the bar just around the corner from his trailer, and soon the clock would hit midnight, closing time, and the bar manager would be pestering Trevor to go home.
This was a typical day now in the life of Trevor Phillips. He would wake up at noon, slowly and reluctantly roll out of his filthy, brittle bed, drag himself into the kitchen of his trailer to eat some Cok-O-Pops and then put on an often stained dirty tank top, a trucker hat, shorts, sneakers and then hobble over to the local bar to start drinking at one. Yes, this had been Trevor's routine for the past five years, ever since he and his old friends, Franklin and Michael killed Devin Weston and brought an end to their criminal careers.
Trevor had money. He had plenty of it. He still had money from the several bank heists he had pulled off with Franklin and Michael back in the day. Business was also going well at his airfield, although he no longer had anything to do with the running of it, he still owned it and got a handsome cut of its earnings every month.
However, all the money in the world could not make Trevor happy. He loved living out in the rural desert,even in the sometimes unbearable heat. He loved living away from the materialistic, uppity Los Santos. He loved living in his grotty, not at all well kept trailer, but something was missing.
He had not been involved in any criminal activity for the last five years and part of him thought that perhaps this was the reason he was so miserable right now. The life of a criminal was certainly never a dull one. Trevor missed the rush of it all, the adrenaline pumping around the body, having something to live for, something to fight for, something to do with your god damn day rather than getting drunk and high out of your brains…
He had several weapons kept amongst his clothes in his wardrobe back in his trailer and on some days, he had this huge urge to rob all the 24/7's in the San Andreas area. He would take the shotgun, get in his truck and drive south down to Los Santos and begin there. Then he would make his way through the city, go north through the desert and during his travels, he would simply one by one pick off all the 24/7 stores as he went.
That was a stupid idea! And an idea he had never come to executing. On second thought, despite the rush and excitement of a criminal career, he was, quite frankly, done with being forever chased down by the police, spending numerous nights in cells and he certainly never wanted to go back to jail. So, if the life of a criminal was no longer for him, what the fuck was for him?
He certainly had no desire to get a regular job, no desire to fly planes again, no desire to meet up with his old buddies, Franklin and Michael…so what the hell was Trevor doing with his life? What was the point? He was not living, just merely existing!
"Ok Trev! Time to wrap it up and get your drunk ass out of here!"
Trevor woke up with a start. He had passed out on the bar. He had drooled a little and his saliva was slowly making its way down his dark, full grown beard. He groaned a little and rubbed his head.
"Did…I do it again? Fuck!" Trevor slurred.
"Yep, passed right out on my bar again, I think it's time to go home Princess!" said Jermaine, the bar manager, in a stern manner.
"Alright, alright, I'm going." Trevor clumsily climbed off the stool, threw some dollar bills on the bar and made his way to the door.
"See you tomorrow then Trev?" harked Jermaine.
Trevor sighed. "Yep! You got it." There was a sure sign of hopelessness and disappointment in his voice.
Once outside, Trevor stopped for a moment to enjoy the cool, night time desert breeze. A small smile crept to his face as it gently blew through his beard, relaxing him and taking him to a happier place in his head. A bark of coyote soon snapped him out of his day dreaming and almost immediately his smile vanished. He shook himself, drunkenly grumbled and began to shuffle back to his trailer.
'No rush,' he thought to himself. It is not like you have got to be anywhere.