Wild Dogs

Chapter Two: Coke-addled car bomb

A/N: Yo! Thanks for the warm welcome! At the moment, the vignettes are one-shots that loosely interconnect—like when you travel in certain circles and get that 'it's a small world after all' feeling. As always, feedback is much appreciated.


If Patrick McReary hates one thing about Los Santos, it's the goddamn sun. In Liberty City the sun behaved itself, rising at a decent hour, blocked out by tall buildings and overcast days. In Los Santos, curtains and duct tape can't keep out the blazing light at seven in the morning.

Packie is a man of habit, especially his coke habit. He sleeps until noon, rousing himself when there's something worth waking for. "Pancakes," his sister Kate said once. "Breakfast for dinner," Packie had snapped back. As if he needed coffee.

If there's a second thing he hates about Los Santos, it's money. Somehow in Liberty he always had enough cash or clout for a night's worth of blow. Los Santos doesn't lack for cocaine, but like everything else in this sun-bleached city, it's effin' expensive. That hardly mattered, until his money ran out.

Shit, reduced to NoDoz and Bronkaid, just to take the edge off. Frankie would be laughing himself sick.

But when Packie thinks of what he likes about Los Santos, the list rolls on. Open spaces—forest and nature close enough to touch, making him feel free. Free to do anything, write his own future. Great weather—he's only sloshed home once, though the drivers don't seem to realize when it's torrenting rain. Often he thinks of Gerry, caged like an animal back east.

"Hey, Packie, don't stay here on account of me." Gerry reaches across the visitors table to ruffle his shorn hair, the gesture ingrained even when Packie settled on a close buzzcut. "And put away the junk. Lasses don't like the melted-nose look."

Leave it to Gerald to become a teetotaler in the pen, if only to do things differently than Derrick, who became heroin's bitch before he even found the showers.

Screw Gerry. Take away a yuppie's afternoon latte and see how he claws your eyes out. Take away Packie's swag and watch him earn every bar-brawling Irish stereotype that crossed the Atlantic.

But lack of funds is the implacable enemy. He can't borrow—a life of crime doesn't build one's credit score, and he can't beg—he's too proud. He's reduced to shitty jobs for shittier pay. So the idea works its way between his ears. Use the chance to go clean. Get rid of that damn stuff, save your nose, sleep like a regular person, make your sister stop worrying you're going to wake up dead in a dark alley.

Then effin' Michael De Santa rolls into his life. Literally, in some fancy car he doesn't even care about the cops seeing, a night when Packie was extra stupid and extra fixated on seeing some green. He hardly saw any of it, too proud not to slide Michael a stack of bills for bailing him out of this clusterfuck. But it was a good move in the end, as Michael hired him for a big score—cleaning out the smuggest jewelry store in town.


Packie is giddy as a schoolboy as glass shatters and piles of glittery jewels disappear into a duffle bag. When he's tearing through tunnels on a dirt bike, wheels churning through mud like some warhorse, he wonders how to bottle this feeling of fucking joy. A real damn heist, like that time he, Michael, Derrick, and Niko fucked over the Liberty City coppers.

"We're Irish. We take our share of knocks, but we land on our feet."

"It's never gonna be there," Packie snaps with affection as Gerry puts his hand back on the steel table.

"Don't know why you cut it all off. Your hair's not bright red, but a bit of it's there. Should still be a bit of good luck."

He's landed on his feet, as the van screeches around a corner, rumbling to the lockup. This guy Michael is smug as hell, but seems to know—or thinks he knows—what the fuck he's doing.

Michael's making an effort to look authoritative, forcing himself to stop rocking against the steering wheel. The guy's dark eyes are borderline manic when he twists to address his crew at a stop light. "You're cut's coming—we met at Lester's place, so you know where he works if ya don't see the money soon."

"Hey, I trust you." Packie shrugs and pops his neck. The stupid kink's been there since his big bank robbery, when a blast slammed him into a cement wall. Niko had dragged him to his feet. The guy wasn't like Michael—Niko was always calm, even when screaming at cops and guineas

"Don't blow it all on blow." Michael chuckles, once they are parked and on foot again. "Or weed or Ritalin or whatever you kids take these days."

Kid? He crosses the fucking country and he's still a kid? But adrenaline is taking the edge off his temper—Christ, always the little brother. Michael's bringing to mind something his Ma says—"smiling like a fox that just slaughtered a chicken coup." And got away with it, Packie thinks. The old fox pulled it off though though.

A week later, as promised, his bank statement chirps on his phone with a hulking deposit. He's sure not to waste it. Packie buys the best fucking coke he can get his non-film industry hands on.


Just his luck he assumed Vinewood was a swanky place to live. It's janky as hell. A block over from the fancy theaters and Walk of Fame and tourists think they've wandered into a ghetto. As Packie learns, West Vinewood is where everyone wants to live, everyone not living in Rockford Hills or Hawick.

It's a warm Friday when he ends up in a club with a green neon snake above the door—he's only into clubbing when it feels like he's sweating menthols.

How many lines? Shit, he forgets. Numbers are for snipers and geeks anyway. Eight is the only number sticking out in his mind now. All Packie knows is he feels good. The fuckin' best since he's gotten to this dry-as-fuck place in the middle of the desert. Maybe the chop hiatus was a blessing—he's feeling too much like he's in a Vinewood movie to get that eyes-at-your-back queasiness he knows is just the cola talking but shit he's never argued with it, least of all when it's making him paranoid.

Despite his numb throat his mouth is cotton-ball dry, but nothing a little plastic won't fix once he finds the bar, some neo-noir hulking thing of dark wood and purple lights.

There's a girl sitting at the bar when he leans against the wood to order his drink. On the damn rocks, please. He won't be able to taste much of anything but at least it'll wet his whistle. The chick's glancing over, her skin fanning Technicolor under the lights. He says something she can't hear—hehehe, Frankie taught him that trick. She leans closer, her bar chair putting her head above his. Her breath is cold on his face, icy from her drink. His heart's pounding…not from the girl…but that's not her fault.

Packie's a generous guy—Christ, he's feeling so good, he's can't keep it all to himself. A flash of the pill holder, packed with white stuff, and she's sliding off the high chair. She's at least tipsy, swaying against him, grinning when he steadies her. His hand is around her wrist, pulling her to a sofa-bench in the corner. At least LS people know how to party. His heart is pounding along with the music. Faster, faster, echoing Rihanna as she croons about guys or diamonds or something.

The chick's hair is purple one moment, bright red the next, changing with the strobe lights. God, this is the Los Santos he's heard about. A rolling party, without the claws and knives of Liberty, where decent guys are up for honest heists and straightforward holdups. Maybe more guys like Niko. Shit, he feels good.

The jewelry store will hold him over for months. In the meantime…

Packie is saying something that keeps the girl smiling. Except he's thinking of the limo he saw a block away from the club, some bimbo standing up through the sunroof to wave at passerbys. Why was he so annoyed at the time? It seems fun. He likes having fun.

"Hey?"

The girl's head is tilted, smile fading. Impatient bitch. Aw hell, he's not one to judge. He's fussing with the pill holder but he can't get a good grip. It's a slippery bastard, or maybe his hands are.

"Did I ever get my drink?"

He can't hear himself, just feels the words on his lips when they pass his numb throat. He must've lost his drink.

"Are you ok?"

Never better, he says. Except he doesn't. It's the thought that counts. Heh, his heartbeat's outracing the music, some Ke$ha throwback. This chick's teeth are white, even in the gyrating light. Really white, bleached like everything else here.

She's prodding his shoulder, then takes his jaw, tilting his face toward hers. Fuck woman! Gimme a minute the thing's slippery. She's so grabby she must be hard up for a fix. Her mouth is moving, voice inaudible. It looks like "baby."

I'm not a baby, stupid girl, Kate's the baby. Fuck…his heart's going too fast, blazing past the music, barreling down the backstretch like that time he was at the racetrack.

She's saying something else, drowned out by the blood pounding in his ears. The music's gone to hell, all tinny and scratchy.

Aw shit. He knows something's wrong. The girl's smiling wide as she palms his forehead. She has no reason to smile; he just called her a bitch. At least he thinks he did at least. It's a false smile, the kind given to kids so they won't freak out when they break an arm falling off the monkey bars. I'm not a kid! And he doesn't have a fever, Jesus, this place is just fucking hot.

Somewhere, he knows this has to do with all the coke he chugged down his nose.

Your teeth are too white.

The lass is digging through some purse or pocket—he can't tell. He can't see much besides her teeth. Fucking club lights. His throat's still too dry. So is his nose. Shit, he needs to sneeze.

Packie doesn't remember a sneeze hurting so much. And aw fuck, he sneezed on her. Wiped that fake smile off her face. She's speckled in something, over her chest and neck. It flashes from black to purple to red. She touches her throat, smearing it all over, looking pissy.

The music screeches in his ears and her teeth are too white.

"Hey, I don't feel so…" Sorry I sneezed on you…

Something is rammed down his throat, bitter and crumbly. He tastes it through the numbness.

The fuck did you give—he tries to push the crazy chick away. Tries.

Everything goes from white to black, even her teeth.


Packie cracks open a heavy eye and finds more white…what did he think was white?

Fuck.

His arms are jelly, one draping over a plush cushion. He's staring at his hand, limp under his bent wrist, lying atop carpet but feeling none of it. Some dead pale thing.

With a groan, he rolls onto his back, dragging his dead arm up to lie across his stomach. His stomach rolls too, his brain following and banging around his head.

Can't puke. I never had dinner.

The hellish light streaks in above him, through a gauzy curtain that does a shitastic job keeping the sun out. His head is swimming and this fucking sunlight isn't helping.

First thing…where am I?

This isn't his stupid Vinewood apartment. It smells a bit like oranges, not like his place. This couch isn't his. Why would he buy a white couch?

C'mon, you've woken up in places you can't remember before. Keep it cool. Keep it cool so you don't start dry heaving. At least before there was usually a chick curled up beside him to fill in the gaps, or make him realize they didn't matter.

The ceiling is white, the walls a creamy fawn color.

"Hey."

He twists his neck as far as he can, the kink aching like a motherfucker. It's the chick with the white teeth, standing in an archway. She's wearing jeans and some no-sleeve silvery shirt.

You do have red hair. It was only a guess back at the club. Her eyes are greenish-brown. That's when his brain decides to dump all the memories he's barely piecing together.

"What the—"

"Coke. You got fucked up." Her voice is low, throaty. Annoyed, or at least pretending to be annoyed.

But he remembers bits now. Flopping down in the seat, nose burning. Needing to sneeze...oh shit…he remembers sneezing. Remembers her spackled with something he only now recognizes. His nose feels all crusty and everything smells like copper. He wishes that girl wasn't standing in front of him now, arms crossed, head cocked.

"And how did I get here?"

She shrugs, all sharp collarbones and stiff-crossed arms. "The benzo settled you down some. You shuffled along and passed for drunk so I could get you in a cab and dump you on my sofa."

Packie's rubbing his temples, his brain feeling like scrambled eggs. In the McReary family there was never a "don't do drugs" talk. It fell to Frankie and Gerry, who instead gave him the "don't get caught and don't kill yourself" talk. Get into trouble and you get to a hospital—sure they'll report it, but having drugs in your body isn't a crime, just in your pockets. No way to prove some Guido psycho didn't drag you into an alley and inject you with skag.

Speaking of pockets…

"You stole my stuff."

She snorts, pushing a lock of russet hair behind her ear. "On the table." She crosses the room, sinking into a chair near the couch, fingers drumming on the arm. "Your heart was going nuts and your pupils were black holes. The benzo helped." Her dour mouth quirks the smallest bit. "The hospital would report an OD…likely the cops wouldn't do anything, but if you're in the system, I don't know. Plus, you wouldn't tell me where you or Michael lived."

The fuck? His phone's locked, no way she saw his contacts. Somewhere he remembers thinking, again and again, how Michael said not to blow the cash on blow. He probably mumbled it like some retard. He glances sideways at the girl. Skinny chick, all cheekbones and sharp angles, but with nice reddish gold hair. Her teeth aren't that white. Shit he was fucked up last night.

"Stupid…" Dragging home a stranger? He's done it, but he's a guy. If Kate pulled something like that…

The girl's eyes are narrowing. "Excuse me?"

"You. Are stupid. Or crazy. You carry benzos around in your fucking purse and drag strangers home—fucking guy strangers. I could be some psycho bank robber." He's being a jackass, but that's never stopped him before.

Her lip's curled, neck all stiff. It's not a smile when she bears her teeth, cold-eyed like a raptor. She leans forward, close enough he can smell grimy coffee on her breath.

"If you abuse my generosity my butler will break your kneecaps and dump you at a pig farm."

Fuck, she's crazy. And you're being a jackass. His head hurts, he barely feels his feet, and Christ he wants a shower. And you're bitching at this chick when you're not sure if you can stand up. It takes a moment of concentrated effort, but he raises his arm to offer peace.

"Oi, calm your tits. I'm guessing you're a Valium addict or selling it to housewives. Nothing wrong with that, though benzos are lame. I guess you're my crack angel."

The girl sits back, mouth quirking. "You were useful for something. I swore off the stuff and there I was about to snort it."

For the first time since the club he feels like cracking a small smile. "Fuck willpower?"

"Shitty day."

She's a bitchy little crack angel, but she brings him some Advil and Diet eCola and calls him a cab. As the NSAIDs march through his brain cells, he gets a better look at the house from his place on the couch. House is the wrong word. More like giant house. The walls are speckled with art, the floors tile covered in carpet, and the couch he's sprawled on would cost half a year's rent. Fancy digs.

The sun's too fucking bright when he steps into her wide driveway. He'd shielding his eyes, but he thinks he's somewhere in Rockford Hills. As he's slouching against the door, forehead on the cool glass and mumbling his address, he realizes two things.

One, the house was empty other than the chick—no sign of this made-up psycho butler…which sounds stupid the longer he thinks about it, but shit if it didn't make him pause at the time. Second, he never got her name. He doesn't think Crack Angel will get him very far.

Christ, he needs a shower. He still tastes copper with every snuffle. Packie's never been one to shy away from a fight or criminal venture, but if there's one thing he hates about Los Santos and Liberty, it's the pervading smell of blood.