I could not be swayed even if my most trustworthy friend told me that there is comfort in life greater than that of a heavily-cushioned luxury couch. With the remote in my hand and a bowl of potato chips in my lap, my phone conveniently chimes the ringtone of that friend. "Ryan's House of Pizza. How may I help you?" I ask in a bubbly tone.
"I need one hipster pickpocket and a bottle of malt whiskey delivered to the De Santa residence pronto. The wife is cooking and-"
"What!? Amanda found the stove?" I reply through my smirk.
"Yeah, she just followed Helen Keller and voila. Anyway, Jimmy's pretending to be sick so he can hide out in his room all night. Tracy is out learning the tricks of the trade from Franklin while the night is still young. Come have dinner with us. " Michael says.
"I'm really not sure. I like to eat where plates are guaranteed not to be thrown. "
"I swear to you that ever since we started going to family therapy, albeit not typically wealthy, we're rich with happiness. " he says.
"She's in the room, isn't she?"
"Of course. Besides, are those potato chips really gonna fill you up?" Michael asks.
"Alright, man. I'll be right over. " I reply.
"Whis-" Michael blurts before I hang up.
I find it unlikely that Franklin is going to be able to teach her anything valuable. I can steal a car just as well. Sure, I wasn't involved in the Union Depository job, but it's surprising how fast the cash adds up from these Vinewood idiots. I put on a pair of jeans and a slim geometric v-neck and embark on my trip to Michael's house.
I don't listen to the radio often because the talk shows are complete idiocy, but sometimes Channel X releases a rare gem. While seeking through the channels, the radio pauses on an alarm and continues scanning. I turn the knob back one station. There's a recording being played over the alarm.
"Warning. An unknown virus is overtaking San Andreas. Visible symptoms include gray pigmentation, unusual vocal inflections, and brittle and/or complete loss of hair. Prolonged exposure to the virus without proper care can lead to extreme violence, depersonalization, and cannibalism. Do not attempt to engage the potentially infected. Call your local authorities immediately." says a flat male voice.
I turn down the volume of the radio, zoning off while the alarm continues quietly beneath my thoughts. What kind of world do we live in where I have to check if my victims are healthy? Does Franklin know that he has put Tracy in danger? Am I going to have to break into this convenience store? My tires screech as I park outside the storefront.
The bell chimes upon opening the door. "Hello?" I ask. I hear a faint rustling coming from behind the counter. "Hello?" I look over the counter and notice a man in an apron, slouched against the wall behind him, gurgling blood. He doesn't look beaten up though. He looks like he's... deteriorating.
The man loosely stands up and begins to walk toward me.
I pull out my shotgun and aim it directly at his face while backing up. There's no way that I can kill this man without drawing attention. We're right off Despucci Boulevard and I drive a top-down Banshee. "Look here, rent-a-clerk. Just stay out of my way while I nab your booze. " I say while tentatively strafing around him.
The man snarls and swings his arm at me.
With both hands, I grab the barrel of my gun and swing the butt of it directly into his cheekbone. His entire jaw comes unhinged and the skin tears wear his sideburns might have been, leaving his entire mouth dangling from one side of his face. Once he falls to the floor, I grab three half gallons of the closest whiskey and dash back to the car as quickly as possible. On the rest of the drive, I turn on my radio in hopes of more information, but every single channel is looping the recording from earlier.
I shift down through the gears like a drag racer, park the car, and run inside. My adam's apple turns in my throat as I burst through Michael's front door without knocking. "Michael!"
Michael appears at the end of the hallway. "Jesus! What the hell is the matter with you?" he responds. Amanda peeks from behind him with her hands on his shoulders.
"Is everyone okay?" I ask, panting.
"...Besides you?"
"No, I mean... you're not... turn on the radio!" I say, feeling completely insane.
We all stand in the kitchen while the broadcast plays through until repeating itself. Amanda, after just beginning to double-fist glasses of wine, she drops them both as they shatter. I look at her, she looks at Michael, and Michael is staring directly over my shoulder toward the front door.
It's Jimmy.