Chapter one:
I sat in the dreary morning sun writing in a red-coiled notebook. It was my journal; I needed to keep one in case something happened. Like the night of my wife's murder I was the prime suspect, no evidence I didn't do it. So I spent 3 years in the slammer. I'm out now, no life to get back to wife's dead, police needed to keep tabs on me so I created a journal signed by anyone telling I was there at that time. I got a lot of things to think about, like why my wife was killed and not me...
I finished writing in the notebook and put it in my bag right beside my gun and baseball bat. I sat there contemplating my life in a pool of despair looking out past ocean beach when I realized I was late for my day job. I stood up, picked up my bag and ran to the road. I figured I would need some transportation. I pulled the baseball bat out of my bag and waited. One minute later a roar of a PCG 600 sounded and sure enough the motorbike appeared upon the road with a tourist on board. The motorbike came close and then as if on cue I swung the bat. The bat shattered on his face from the force of my swing and the bike. The tourist flew off the bike and hit the pavement as the bike tumbled to a stop. Blood smacked my face and coat and began to run along the ground. He lay the screaming for a second or two with blood tricking from his wounds and splinters, then his life faded from the broken body. I dropped the broken baseball bat and picked up the PCG 600 got on and rode the bike leaving the tourist to bleed and rot. I rode the bike into the bloody scum hole of the city full off dirt bags and floozies.
Vice city
I sat in the dreary morning sun writing in a red-coiled notebook. It was my journal; I needed to keep one in case something happened. Like the night of my wife's murder I was the prime suspect, no evidence I didn't do it. So I spent 3 years in the slammer. I'm out now, no life to get back to wife's dead, police needed to keep tabs on me so I created a journal signed by anyone telling I was there at that time. I got a lot of things to think about, like why my wife was killed and not me...
I finished writing in the notebook and put it in my bag right beside my gun and baseball bat. I sat there contemplating my life in a pool of despair looking out past ocean beach when I realized I was late for my day job. I stood up, picked up my bag and ran to the road. I figured I would need some transportation. I pulled the baseball bat out of my bag and waited. One minute later a roar of a PCG 600 sounded and sure enough the motorbike appeared upon the road with a tourist on board. The motorbike came close and then as if on cue I swung the bat. The bat shattered on his face from the force of my swing and the bike. The tourist flew off the bike and hit the pavement as the bike tumbled to a stop. Blood smacked my face and coat and began to run along the ground. He lay the screaming for a second or two with blood tricking from his wounds and splinters, then his life faded from the broken body. I dropped the broken baseball bat and picked up the PCG 600 got on and rode the bike leaving the tourist to bleed and rot. I rode the bike into the bloody scum hole of the city full off dirt bags and floozies.
Vice city