Day 28- TREVOR

Trevor swigged a beer, and turned to the hot blonde in his bed, swatting her shoulder lightly with the back of his hand;

"Hey, sweet cheeks, wake up," he leered. She opened her eyes and smiled sleepily;

"Hey lover boy, ready for some more?" she smirked. Trevor interrupted;

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, it's time to go," he dismissed her with his hand and climbed out of bed. He scratched his crotch and swigged his beer again. She frowned;

"I thought we had a good time," she pouted.

"We did, hence the monetary compensation you received for your services," he said politely, yet still roughly;

"Now scram, I got a meeting," he pulled a slice of pizza from a plate that had been there for a week. He sniffed the pizza before taking a big bite. He spoke with his mouth full;

"I gotta bust my boys out of the big house. I gots to get to thinkin'," he tapped his head. The girl moodily got out of bed and dressed herself in yesterday's underwear and dress;

"Don't call me," she slammed the trailer door as she left, causing dust to fall from the ceiling. Trevor growled and sniffed the air. He picked up his cell from the night stand and deliberated for a moment before calling Dave Norton. After a relatively short conversation, Dave arranged to meet Trevor over at the Vanilla Unicorn. He finished the call with a lewd sentiment;

"Oh yeah? Well David, why don't you go fuck yourself in the ass? Fuckin' pussy," Trevor reacted the way any sulky child would react to his idea being dismissed. He pulled out a big sheet of paper and some crayons, and started to draw a diagram of his scatter-brained idea in an attempt to convince Dave it was a feasible strategy. He pulled on his checkered shirt and old torn jeans, and downed the remainder of his beer. He slammed the door of the trailer, before jumping into his beat-down, old truck.

"C'mon, start you piece of shit," he growled as he smacked the dashboard. He turned the engine over again and this time it groaned to life. He shifted the gear stick and the truck started to gather speed as Trevor turned the corner. He turned the radio up to full and hard rock music from Channel X pervaded the air as he tore from the country dirt paths onto the highway into Los Santos. He hit the brakes and took a left turn, screeching to a halt outside one of the many Ammunation stores in the city. He cranked the door open and stumbled out, and into a stocky, rough looking man.

"Hey watch it asshole!" the man growled and shoved Trevor's shoulder roughly.

"Bite me in the ass, fuckface," he shoved back twice as hard. He laughed maniacally and the man shuffled off, muttering curses under his breath. Trevor stalked into the store and right up to the counter. The stocky, balding man behind the counter folded his arms and looked at him with contemptible judgment.

"What do you want?" he sniffed and took a step back from the counter, which was heavily laden with explosive delights.

"What do I want? What do I want?! My good man, I want so many things your little pea-sized brain can't even comprehend. Given the overly-generous size of your head, it pains me, actually pains me, that you could ask such a profound question with no concept of a perceivable-you mean what I would like to purchase, don't you?" Trevor leaned over and pushed his nose against the glass like a little child in a candy store. He sniffed and rose back up, getting too close for comfort, close enough that the vendor could smell the odour of stale beer, pizza, and cigarettes on his breath.

"I'd like twenty five sticky bombs, fifteen grenades, a special carbine, an RPG, an assault rifle, a jerry can, and some tear gas. I also want you to keep your mouth shut whilst you do it." Trevor threw a wad of hundreds onto the counter and leaned menacingly against the glass cabinet to the right of the cash register, chewing on a toothpick, his eyes glassy and fixed madly on the vendor.

"Oh, and a parachute. A nice Widow-Maker one," he added and narrowed his eyes. The vendor had come to the realisation in his brief exchange with the disheveled, strange man before him, that he was quite literally psychotic. He swallowed thickly and nodded his head ever so slightly before moving to gather the supplies he had been asked for. He considered that something heinous, and incredibly illegal was about to happen, and he was a main part of its orchestration.

"I'm going to need to see some I.D before I can sell you anything..sir," the vendor cowered the tiniest bit as Trevor narrowed his eyes and sighed heavily, before leaning back up off the counter.

"Alright, alright, I understand your problem, I'll show you my I.D," Trevor reached into the back pocket of his jeans, as the vendor naively gave a small sigh of relief, at the lack of trouble that had arisen from his request.

"Here you go," Trevor brought his hand back around and nonchalantly pulled the trigger of his combat pistol, with barely the bat of an eye. He jumped the counter and shot the till open, looting it for the mere five hundred and eleven dollars it harboured, before bending down next to the corpse of the vendor;

"I trust everything is up to spec? What's that? You have a hole in your face? Well! Ain't life just a big, old veil of tears my friend," he rose and grabbed all of the supplies he could, along with extra ammo, and weapons for Franklin and Michael, once he had liberated them from the penitentiary. He shoved them haphazardly into an Ammunation weapons bag and jumped back over the counter to leave. On his way out of the door, he shot a few holes into the Sprunk machine and stuffed a few bottles into his bag. He grabbed the heaviest armour as he could find, and slid it over his shirt, affixing it on both sides. He left the store, flipping the sign to closed on the door, giving him at least a little time to get away from what was now a crime scene.

He slung the rucksack into the back bed of his truck and started it up. Its rustic, red exterior was splattered around the front with dried blood, which was most likely deer blood, but with Trevor, one could never be too sure. He tore out of the Ammunation car park, and headed out towards Strawberry, and to the Vanilla Unicorn. Common sense would imply that Trevor stayed in the Vanilla Unicorn, but he couldn't bring himself to move out to the harsh, fake, glaring lights of Vinewood, damned if he was going to become a plastic, fake, arrogant misery like Michael. That was his theory; that Vinewood and the city of Los Santos, were where souls and dreams came to die.

As he screeched to a halt, inches away from the door, the bouncer jumped back:

"Jesus! What the fuck, man?" His eyes widened when he saw who had almost mowed him down:

"Oh! Mr Phillips! Good to see you! Dave Norton, and uh, that really irritating asshole he's always with, stopped by to see you. They're in the office. I told them I didn't know when you'd be back," he eyed up the rucksack Trevor was pulling out of the truck with caution.

"Can I give you a hand with that, boss?" he hoped he could avoid another of Trevor's psychotic episodes.

"I'm all good there, Peaches, I'll let you know if I need a blow job later," he rolled his eyes carelessly, and walked past the bouncer, and glared back;

"I've kinda got my hands full with items so orgasmically dangerous that even looking at them might be lethal. You wanna do your job there, bub?" The bouncer scurried over and held the door wide open, as Trevor stalked past, hardly able to see over the mass armoury he was clutching against him.

"Thank you, now go and stand over there like I pay to, and I might even pay you a bonus this month if you're especially good at being useless," he spoke with bite, as he continued to walk across the club.

"Hey sugar," Chastity blinked her ridiculously long, fake eyelashes at Trevor as he strode past her,"

"Ohh sweet-cheeks I wish I had a spare hand to grab those fine tatas but I'm a little busy, maybe later," she rolled her eyes and smirked, walking away, her heels echoing on the dark tile as she propositioned a greying gentleman who looked rather lost. Trevor made his way through the curtains and the dressing rooms, before kicking the office door so hard to open it, that it almost came off its very hinges. Dave Norton and Steve Haines jumped at the noise. They rose from their respective positions on the desk, and the wall and crossed their arms impatiently.

"So, you think my idea won't work? See this bag? It's everything I need to get it done. I'm just missing a Buzzard Attack Chopper. Which you're going to provide. Unless you want me to reposition this beautiful RPG into an orifice you're just a little too scared of lovin," He twitched one eye and pulled the RPG out of the matte-black bag, and squeezed his eye shut, pointing it at Haines;

"Starting with you, I don't know, I just don't like you very much," he inched forward a little.

"Trevor, let's put the rocket launcher down," Dave held a hand out in some defiant symbol of peace-making.

"Hmmm...No," Trevor pretended to consider the offer before simply rejecting it.

"That was a good try though Dave, really; kudos. If the FBI doesn't work out for you, you could always mediate...kindergarten," Trevor mocked and edged closer to Steve.

"For fuck sake Trevor! You can have the fucking chopper just put that thing down!" Haines's voice trembled slightly as he looked down the barrel of a rather large rocket launcher.

"Do you really think I'm going to waste a valuable rocket on the likes of your puny, irritating ass?" Trevor threw the RPG onto the couch and swigged from a bottle of Piβwasser, that could only have been flat by this point. He threw the now-crumpled crayon drawings of his plot onto the desk, and stabbed it with his finger;

"Alright, pay attention, if you want to survive this mission,"