The King of Los Santos
"Remind me why we're here again."
"The King wanted this done, and the King's word is law."
"I don't remember voting for no king…"
The two hulking men stood on the docks at the edge of the city, the nighttime skyline of Los Santos glittering in the distance. Far out in the darkness, the giant white letters that spelt out 'vinewood' could be seen. The smaller thug pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit it lazily, while the other yawned sleepily.
"Alright, let's get this shit over with." the smaller thug said after a few drags on his cigarette.
"Why do they call him the King, anyway?" the second thug wondered aloud, popping the trunk of their car and hoisting a body out and onto his shoulders.
"Don't nothing happen in this city that he ain't heard of," the first replied, dropping and stepping on his cigarette, "They say he's got spies everywhere, and the best crew money can buy."
"Who's the best crew money can buy?"
"Well," the first thug began, "You got the King, the guy calling the shots; this kid from Jersey, the one who takes the shots; there's some chick called the Beard, I didn't ask why; some British kid who has a tendency to fuck shit up; Haywood, a complete fucking psycho from what I've heard; and then the Brown Man."
"The Brown Man?" the second thug said, sliding the body off of his shoulder and into the water below, "What the fuck's a Brown Man?"
"The heavy hitter, from what I heard," the first thug told him, dropping his body as well, "He's the guy they call when the shit hits the fan. Hence the name."
"So how did this guy get to be the King?" the second thug asked, picking up another body from the trunk.
"He ain't no normal criminal, from what I heard," the first said, lighting another cigarette, "He only does high profile jobs, real big shit. Drugs, mostly, though he does tamper with the occasional jury. He managed to eliminate all of his competition faster than anyone had ever seen. When no one else would step forward, he became the King.
"But, word on the street is he's slipping: losing his touch. People say he's getting bored sitting on top of the world, and there are some people who are climbing up to take his spot."
"Do you think it's true?"
"I don't give a fuck who wears the crown, or whatever the fuck they call it, just so long as I get paid on time. Let's get this shit over with so I can go back the fuck to sleep."
"I hear that man," the second thug agreed, his eyes drooping. He returned to the trunk and fished out yet another body, this one much smaller than the others. The splashing of bodies punctuating the silence periodically, and the two men worked in almost complete darkness, save for the occasional glowing tip of a cigarette. When they had finished unloading the corpses, they squeezed back into their beat-up, unremarkable sedan.
"What did you mean when you said the King is getting bored?" the larger thug asked the other while he started the car.
"I don't fucking know man," he replied, "He's getting tired of all this shit. He's having his crew do stupid fucking jobs that don't pay for shit. He's making 'em jump through fucking hoops just to keep a smile on his face. He's dunking their goddamn heads in toilets 'cause he's just fucking twiddling his fucking thumbs otherwise. And his people getting pretty damn fed up with his shit."
"Why doesn't anyone do anything about it?"
"Because he's still the fucking head honcho," the first thug said, turning in his seat to back up the car, "While he's calling the shots, no one's gonna do shit to fuck with him. It's fucking suicide, man. But, that Haywood guy, the nutjob; if anyone would fuck with the King, it'd be him. Only problem is, he'd have to go through the beard, the kid from Jersey, and the Brown Man. Haywood's off his fucking rocker, but he ain't no idiot. And the british fucker ain't got no chance in hell. It'd take all five of 'em just to get near him."
"Crazier things have happened," the second thug mused.
"Welcome to Los Fucking Santos."