ENDING D: Karma
10:35p.m., Murrieta Oil Fields, Los Santos
The yellowish tint of the Los Santos smog persisted stubbornly across the colorless, windy night sky as monotone, glossy silo tanks stood tall, bright red lights strobbing on and off from them at random intervals. The smoke coming from the Bodhi had begun to rapidly subside, leaving the charred remains of Michael's former partner, lying lifeless on the asphalt.
Beside what was left of him was the now limp body of the father of two, with blood slowly rolling out of a bullet hole lodged above his forehead, painting the ground red. His protégé, a young, ambitious African American man whom he had shared his knowledge of the criminal world with, remained still, thin line of smoke smoldering from the muzzle of the pistol, held loosely in his right hand, contemplating what he just did. He knew there and then, he fucked up bad, taking advice from the likes of Haines and Weston.
Shit. Was it worth it? That was the only question that popped in his head.
Soon, the man, without warning, placed his left hand into his jacket, pulling out his iFruit phone, browsed through the contacts and finally dialed in a number.
A pre-recorded voice message was activated.
"What up, what up? This is your boy LD, leave one!" A familiar voice played from the phone.
The man took a deep breath of the putrid, freezing air, before continuing.
"Hey Lamar, it's me homie." The man stopped for a moment.
"Look, I was calling to see how you was doin', dog. Uh, maybe we could hang out or something."
The man turned back to take another glimpse at the bodies of his former partners in crime.
"Man, I know I've been kinda caught up in this shit, man but shit been real crazy, homie. But it's dealt with now. Fuck man, you know how it is homie. You just start runnin' and shit, then all of a sudden, your legs give in and you can't just run no more. Anyway, just hit me up dog. We brothers for life homie, alright?"
The last part of the sentence made him sweat. Calmly, the man began to retrace his steps. All he could remember was first, a phone call from Steve Haines as well as Devin Weston. Somehow later that day, he took part in a wild goose chase against Trevor across half of South San Andreas and to the oil fields. Michael, looking into Trevor's rage-filled eyes that screamed of betrayal by his former friends, was the one who delivered the final shot, setting his body ablaze. And then after that, the next thing he knew was that Michael was on the ground, dead by his protégé's hand, karma striking back on him at full speed.
Loyalty sure is a bitch, ain't it? The man thought to himself.
The cycle of betrayal had finally caught up to him, and Franklin did not enjoy the feeling of it, one bit. And deep down, he knew that he himself was a selfish hypocrite who only did such things to roll out of shit's creek, unharmed. Stabbing his friends in the back to save his own sweet ass from getting killed.
The man quickly shifted his thumb away from the 'End Call' button and eminently rephrased his words.
"You know what? Fuck it dog. Actually, I'm gonna head over to your crib, we need to talk."
Walking over back to his heavily-damaged Buffalo S, the man never turned back to look at the bodies of his former partners. Twisting the key against the ignition, springing the muscle car to life before setting the GPS to Forum Drive in Strawberry. He knew that something had to be done with both Haines and Weston.
They needed to pay for what they did to him and his friends.