Prologue
Let me tell you this right now; this is not your average story. You maybe thinking to yourself "Yeah what, whats this jerk off gotta show me that I haven't seen before? This is a crazy world after all, people shooting for no reason, crime and terror on the rise. I'm already scared shitless! How can this guy make it worse?" Well buckle your seatbelt tight and strap on your shitpants buster brown, you're about to experience see the world as it really is, the real shit.
Before I get into it, I need to make clear who I am, my identity is all I have and even that's come into question, all I can be sure of is what I do, unless that's a lie too. I can never be sure of much these days, just where I grew up. It was the slums of Dukes, L.C. the rough and toughed neighborhoods of the big city. After eighteen years of awkward adolescent coming of age ventures involving a plethora of drugs of different varieties and awkward sexual encounters, I left. I ventured all over before landing a job in journalism, I won't say where the job was but it took me to Vice City, Florida. It where there that I met my legal counsel, friend, enemy, and dealer. In respect for him and his work, his name will not be recorded in this dialogue. From this point on, we will refer to him as Prof. Hanzo. Hanzo hailed from the islands, a native of the Hawaiian patch of this fine country. His Grandmother fell a failed Cuban-Japanese rebel fighter, hence, Hanzo. This point though is irrelevant to this story.
What is relevant is who I think I am and what I am pretty sure I do. I write for a magazine, which one has no relevance, it was free-lance, when I wasn't busy traveling the country on a drug induced trip from the ingestion of several illegal substances. However, there were times that I needed a break from my drug fueled wanders and a purpose was at hand, this is what that was. I was sitting outside of a small cuban cafe in Vice City with Prof. Gonzo when the man came. He was a small man, midget even, holding a tray with a phone and speaking with a heavy cuban accent. "Phone, senior" he spoke, I barely understood what he was saying. I took the phone anyway, I don't know why I did, maybe from habit? Make from instinct? No, not instinct, instinct would have warned me. I answered with a choke in my voice, it was hot that day, and the job came in.
The story that comes is a story of truth, a story of love, deception, violence, death, camaraderie, drugs of all forms but above all else, this story is true. My name is Jack Snider, this is the story of true Terror and Hatred in Los Santos.
AUTHORS: So this is a new story Idea, just on I thought of last night and wanted to try out on the prologue. I'm making a reference to this, and trying to write it in a way i think he would, but feed back would be great. Also, if no one get its, look up Hunter S. Thompson.