Prologue

Thursday, April the 7th, 1994...

6:54 PM...

"Breaking news: Twenty-one cast and crew members working on the new Lionel Starkweather motion picture have died in a-"

"-other news, twenty-one men and women were killed yesterday in what authorities were calling 'Gross Negligence'. Repor-"

"-ources from the set tell us that Mr. Starkweather was pushing the cast and crew too hard, and an accident was bound to happen. No one, however, could have been able to predict how devisita-"

"GOD DAMNIT!"

The man raised his small pistol and fired two shots into the TV set. Tossing his pistol to his side in a fit of rage, he stood up and stormed out of the room.

"Fuck! Goddamnit, I'm fucking ruined!"

Friday, September the 26th, 2003

1:07 AM

Running harder and faster than he ever thought possible, his mind raced with thoughts of where he could be. The mall was dark and grimy, like a sewer. Everything that was metallic was covered in red rust, and the floor was littered with broken glass and other garbage, which of course was probably one of the many reasons for the malls foul odor. One could suppose that it was normal for a mall that had been abandoned some years ago to look like this. Though, it wouldn't explain why there were dismembered body parts strewn about the mall, and crazed lunatic men running around with various instruments of death. There was only one logical explanation: he was in hell.

Gregory Pope was a twenty-seven year old con artist who happened to be in serious financial problems. It got to the point where local mobsters had carved up his face because he was taking too long to pay. So when a "friend", and he'd use that term lightly, mentioned that if he participated in a little "game", he would receive fifty grand, enough to pay back the loan sharks and slowly help him get back on his feet. How bad could it be? Sure enough, he found out moments after waking up.

Pain struck him in his left side. The source was a shopping cart coming from some jewelry store, the force of which sent him over the balcony of the second floor. In a moment of fear and stupidity, he thought of how real the physics were. This thought, of course, was immediately replaced with a new, horrible, unimaginable pain. The kind of pain that comes from breaking your leg and hitting your head on a metallic trash can, cutting his forehead open.

This... This can't be happening... He thought. No... not happening... Never... why me... what did I do? Why am I, of all people, here?

Drool began to slowly drip from his mouth, mixing with his blood. Perhaps due to the horrific images, perhaps because he was going into shock, he began to spew forth gibberish and insanity, utterly convinced he had died and gone to hell.

"How did I die? Why did I die? I thought I was...good... so good... mamma told me so... yeah... that's right... she did, didn't she? That was pleasant... heh-heh...nothing seems... nothing... no more... darkness arriving... hello...

Minutes later, a group of large men wielding knives and hand axes surrounded him, seizing up their prey. Before they had a chance to act, a gunshot cracked near the broken escalator, causing them to, momentarily of course, forget about the babbling man in the fetal position. The origin of the gunshot was from a large man wearing all black: wife-beater undershirt, military issue cargo pants, boots, and fingerless gloves. His face was obscured by a white hockey mask. The trio obviously knew who he was, for their faces began to fill with fear and the three of them ran off in separate directions.

The man walked over towards Mr. Pope and crouched down in front and cocked his head. Shrugging, he pointed his pistol, a Desert Eagle, at the man's head.

"You're a lucky man..." His voice was gruff, and his vocal cords had obviously been damaged from years of smoking cigarettes. "Starkweather personally requested this. Says he's got enough footage, and decided to be generous. Could have been a lot worse, bub..."

"Benjamin… That's... answer... All... Clear...All... Incom-"

The bullet pretty much tore the man's head to pieces, sending bits of bone, blood, and brain off in various directions.

The man in black stood up, brushed off some of the gore, and left the scene promptly before the lunatics got any ideas.

Sunday, October the 5th, 2003

3:02 AM.

Fuck... Goddamn insomnia... And it's not like this broad is making it any easier... Goddamnit...

Vincent McNeil was lying in his bed with a woman he had met earlier at a bar. One of the prettier girls he had met, somehow he managed to convince her to return to his apartment for a little fun. She managed to keep him occupied until she grew tired and fell asleep, but he was still restless. It had been over an hour since she called it quits, and he hadn't even gotten close to falling asleep. He wanted to get out of bed and do something, but couldn't. The slightest movement could wake her. Granted, the sex was great and he liked it about as much as the next guy, but after three hours of it, off and on, he somehow got the feeling he definitely wouldn't get any sleep if she woke up.

A faint buzzing sound emitted from the nightstand to his right. He glanced over and noticed it was his phone, and someone had sent him a text message. The message was brief and to the point: "Front door, with envelope."

Well... At least I have my reason.

As he stood up, the woman gently rolled over and stroked his back.

"Vince... Come back to bed..." said the woman.

"Business before pleasure, babe."

Grabbing the jeans he wore earlier, he walked to the front door of his four room Los Santos apartment, putting his pants on in the process.

After reaching the front door, he rubbed his eyes and cracked his back. He opened the door and there was his friend and compatriot, Jimmy Booth, holding a manila envelope.

"Bloody hell, I'm freezing my bollocks off." Jimmy said.

"No shit. It's three in the fucking morning. Couldn't this have waited?"

"Waited? Boy, yer the one who said you wanted it, if I recall correctly, 'as soon as fuckin' possible.' Well, now's as soon as fuckin' possible, so I figured I'd swing by."

"Ahso... So what I asked for is in that?"

"Fuck yeah, mate. All ya need is right here in this envelope."

Jimmy tossed Vince the envelope, then pulled out a cigarette.

"Got a light?"

"What about you're lucky lighter?"

"Son, it's the middle of the night and cold as a witch's tit. Gimmie a Goddamned light."

Vince smirked, pulled out his lighter, and obliged his partner.

"When do ya plan on making yer move?" Jimmy asked.

"I was thinking about doing it in a week or two. Not sure yet. Soon, that's for damn sure. Seth and Lou were thinking around Halloween."

"Alright. I'll fuck 'round with me schedule to make sure I'm free 'round then. Jus' make sure to keep me in the loop, mano."

"Heh, don't worry about a thing. Last thing I'd do is leave you out. We need every reliable person we can get."

"Well if that's the case, why don't ya call Christian?"

"Christian doesn't do this shit anymore, Jimmy. Hasn't been doing it for a long time."

"Fuck... Alright... Well... I'll let ya get back to... Well... I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah. Later."

After shutting and locking the door, he headed back off the bed, making sure to toss the envelope on his desk.

"Who was that?" the woman asked.

"Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about..."

Vincent took his pants back off and crawled back into bed.

Shit, nothing for me to worry about until at least tomorrow... Ah well... Maybe if I'm lucky she'll let me sleep... Doubt it...

October the 21st, 2003

1:04 AM...

"Mr. Nasty..." Starkweather muttered, "...do you think my fascination is abnormal?"

The Mr. Nasty, otherwise known as "the man in black", sat across from Lionel Starkweather, smoking a cigarette and looking over what was supposed to be the Holiday Valiant Video Enterprises catalogue. Not looking up from the booklet, he shrugged.

"Not at all, Lionel. Not at all."

"Even though I am...attracted to it?"

"Everyone has their fetishes, Lionel. You're fine. Nothing to be ashamed of."

"You see, that's why I like you, Mr. Nasty. You understand me and my needs perfectly. I mean, even though it may be true that most people find the mysteries of death to be quite intriguing, that doesn't mean that one should be ashamed of being attracted to it. For every crimson spray escaping from some hapless chump's jugular, my own blood gets hot. Every final jerking movement of a body's nerves is a symphony to me; a tribute to the great beyond. The eroticism, the exotic nature of the un-life.

"Too much detail, Lionel."

"Slash and snuff films are masterpieces, like Van Gogh. Beauty, they say, is in the eye of the beholder, and should some see the beauty only in throats and heartbeats being stamped out, so be it then! This is art!

Snubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray, he finally looked up from his booklet.

"I know, Lionel. It's a shame the vast majority don't see it that way."

"You know, they actually tried to dispose of the footage from back then? You know, from the accident?"

"That would have been a waste, sir."

"Oh ho ho. Yes, it would have been quite a waste of good material. I ensured it didn't get destroyed, thankfully. In fact, I even have it locked away in my safe. Ever since then... Death has amazed me."

Starkweather's lips parted into a nearly malicious, some would even say twisted sort of grin.

"Oh ho... All of them paid the price in the end. Everyone who tried to destroy me has been buried. Ha-ha-ha."

"I know Lionel. You have a nasty habit of repeating yourself."

"I do?"

"Yes, you do."

"I see..."

Fuck you, Mr. Nasty. I may respect you, and you may be a good friend of mine... But do NOT fuckin' push me!

Though, everything has been going so smoothly. Why should I care if Nasty becomes a slight bother? Carcer City is, quite frankly, the worst place in the good old United States of America. Without a shadow of a doubt, it's the perfect place for me to continue my research and film my masterpieces. A corrupt police force, streets overrun with criminals, buildings on the verge of being condemned, and a populace so accustomed to seeing gratuitous acts of gang-war violence that I would bet half of them honestly wouldn't care if they saw a man die right before them. It's the natural order of things.

"Lionel, you've never told me why you decided to contribute."

"Contribute? What an odd term... Well, snuff and slash may be an art, but there wasn't any sport to it. A woman tied to a chair and beaten to death. Small children suffocated with minimal violence. Firing squads, eviscerations, poison. None of that would suffice any longer. It was growing stagnant. Besides... I may have quite a bit stashed away from my older years, I could always use a source of income. Thankfully the gangs were the easiest part. Scum is so easy to find in the dregs of society."

"I see. Good to know, Lionel. Good to know."

Starkweather felt his pants constrict somewhat. A smile followed...

"Mr. Nasty... I think you should leave..."

Mr. Nasty sighed that contained a hint of disgust..

"That time again, huh? It never ends with you... Tell me when you're finished... We need to discuss the details on Mr. Cash's arrival..."

Standing up, Mr. Nasty walked to the door.

"Mr. Nasty."

Mr. Nasty turned around.

"Yes?"

"...Lets make this an event to remember. Something... unique..."

"...I'll see what I can do, Lionel. Let's not get too ambitious."

"No… I want to get ambitious... I want this to be a large scale event. We've always done a couple a night... Let's make it more than that."

"But Lionel... With Scarecrow gone, and Piggsy locked up... I'm just saying we have enough too worry about right now... I mean Cash alone will be complicated."

"I don't fucking care! I want this to be big. We'll talk about this tomorrow, shall we?"

"Making it an all nighter? Alright... I'll see you tomorrow..."

Mr. Nasty walked out of the room and shut the door.

Yes... A large scale blood bath... I can't wait... I suppose this would easily explain my erection- anxiety, but entirely in a pleasing way.

A few minutes and some hand motions later, Mr. Starkweather felt superb.

Goddamnit... I've gone and messed myself. I suppose I'll have to change my pants.

A less-than-sane sort of smile perpetually worked across his features, refusing to stop at anything short of commandeering his entire face as he stood and headed toward his private bathroom.

If it was physically possible to smile in a more blissful way, he had yet to figure it out. Several seconds later in the restroom, he sat down on the toilet to relive himself a second time...