6:30 PM
"Cus dere ain't no rules in da konkin wah."-Jamma
"Ras clat weapon," Continued Badman Dan. "Bring dahn airship with wan cah, yah get me?" "not really," began The Boss. "But I'm sure this won't look at all suspicious sticking out the side of a massive pink limo with a giant swastika on top. Unfortunately, Such things are not in my taste. We need something more subtle. Ya get me, Bredren?
"Uptight Blood Claat," Replied the surly Jamaican arms dealer. "Air Strike Wehpan. Air force believe you really be de CIA! Is Konk, mon." "Konk?" The boss was mystified. "We're going to be leaving for Steelport, and you're trying to convince me to buy your crappy weapons with outdated british slang? Bitch, please."
"Is yah loss," "But don't come crawlin back tah Badman Dan when ye knees gahn missin in de gutta." "Oh, I never said I wouldn't take it. I just said I wouldn't buy it." And with that, the boss stabbed Dan in the chest and ran off into the sunset with the Airstrike radio.
11:22 AM
"Everyone's involved in the konkin wah."-Jamma
Badman Dan woke up in the alley feeling like he had a knife sticking out of his chest. There was a very good reason for that. It was silver, army standard issue. Selfish prick, the boss. He can afford the very best of everything, and he went after Dan because he was the only arms dealer who wouldn't sell out to the Saints.
His airstrike radio was missing. HIS AIRSTRIKE RADIO WAS MISSING. 2 million dollars, and he was offering to sell it to Pierce for half that. Unfortunately, nobody likes Pierce, so the boss had to come round himself. So there lay Dan, stabbed in the chest and robbed of his most prized possession. "Bumbaclaat!" He yelled, standing up. "I declare konkin wah!" "Uhh?" was the startled reply he got for the tramp down the alley.
"Me wan gatha mi souljas! Was ya name, buai?" "RUUAHHH," yelled the tramp. "Okay mah soulja. Ye be christened lieutenant Ruah! Now we gan be go afta de Saints!" The rush of adrenaline was not only keeping him alive, but totally insane.
2:33 PM
"See these people they tha konkin law!"-Jamma
The Jamaican and The Tramp walked toward the harbour where the saint's boat was docked. "OK buai, here's how we gonna do. Me gon plant de bomb on de side of de boat. Should blow up de fuel tanks and send the boat up in flames. The Boss will come running to cry ova his burnin monies. You shall distract him, while I run over and stab im in de back wit de knife he buried in me. Will be sweet revenge, like de time I gave me girlfriend a coathanga abortion! I ain't payin fa no child!" Badman Dan was about to run to the boat, when a black car with tinted windows pulled up next to him. He knew what was coming next. He froze.
"I knew this day would come." He soliloquized. "But not now. Not today. Tommorrow. One day is all I need. All I require. The forces of fate have come for me. But I will not give in. No. To be taken by this evil force is to die at the hands of karma. One wrong must borne another. Cosmic order must be restored. The Gods will fall at their feet should anyone escape the grasp of cruel, cruel fate. One day, and that day may never come, these gods will be reduced to the rubble and dust that they themselves created. But not now. Not today. Not by a lowly Jamaican arms dealer with a shady past. These men emerging from the car, they are the agents of fate. Fate can be a cruel mistress, but I've had my fun. Now I must endure the hardship that no reasonable man should be expected to."
"Mister Kingston?" Asked a tall African-American man emerging from the car. "We are the child support agency."