(Like I said, I'll try to pump out chapters, since I kind of found myself enjoying writing the last one. This means the chapters will probably average less than 1000 words, though.)
Chapter 2: Indebted
John cruised down the Great Ocean Highway, pumping "Hotel California" out of his radio. He always enjoyed the song, but now that he lived in what pwople commonly think to be a sun-bleached paradise, the lyrics really spoke to him. Everyone was a miserable prisoner of their own device. But he and Dom were out there; they were looking for the truth! Lost in his thoughts, he almost slammed into a delivery truck.
Though it was his fault for not paying attention, he pulled out of the blind spot waving around his middle finder like an idiot.
"What the hell buddy?" the driver asked, not necessarily surprised, given the quality of people living in the region.
"Watch your driving, pinhead!" John retorted.
The two disgruntled and slightly anxious drivers started an argument, while a man riding a golf caddy drove down the freeway faster than he should have.
"So, Lester. You're telling me this guy goes by the name of "John Astley" and is an extreme adrenaline junkie looking to reach "spiritual enlightenment" by jumping out of planes? An activity which constantly brings him near death?" the man asked, obviously losing patience.
"Well, hm. Yes, quite so. I'll uh, pull some files up on him, see what else I can find. Wh-what's your issue with this guy again, Trevor?" Lester mumbled and stuttered, not abnormal for him.
"HE TOOK MY DRUUUGS!" Trevor shouted, enraged.
"Interesting: He's being monitored by the police for uh, "defeating a criminal by circumstance". I suppose that's you Trevor? Anyways, he's taking the Great Ocean Highway, towards Los Santos. That's where you'll find him." Lester snorted, slightly amused.
"Thanks Lessy. I know moolah is motivation, a few grand should end up in your hands shortly." With that, Trevor Phillips ended the call and sped forward with a new motivation.
John was stuck in traffic. The lines of cars were so long he almost cut ahead. The line pulled forward a few inches. He was so close to home, he could almost smell the ground coffee and sugary energy drinks. That moment of what seemed like imprisonment would be burned into his memory forever. That moment; his life changed.
"HERE'S TREVVY!" a middle-aged white man with oh-god-too-many-tats screamed as he stuck bombs to cars and blew every car in his wake. The traffic instantly dispersed. Some people drove away as fast as they could; others got out of their motor vehicles and ran for their lives. As the man approached John's motorcycle, he started shouting some rather vulgar things. John knew he would die if he put the "pedal to the metal" and full throttled as he felt adrenaline like no other. "Trevvy" was approaching with a AR Rifle, and it was apparent that John was to be his next victim. Popping a wheelie and hopping a guardrail are no easy task, especially when you are being chased by a crazed man with an assault rifle, into incoming traffic. But to John, it seemed easy at the time. So that's exactly what he did.
The crazy guy wouldn't relent, though. He followed at a frightening speed in a caddy that was being pushed to its limits. The cops swarmed the area, helicopters flew over head. A blockade was set up in front of John, so he had to drive up a small mountain, and hop a second guardrail. He was leaving leaving the highway for Bay City Incline, where he hoped he could lose his pursuer on Bay City Avenue. But Trevor was smart about his approach, and was upon John before he could reach the Avenue.
John heard the sound of metal slamming metal, and his heart skipped a beat when he went headfirst over the handlebars. "Holy sh-" he was cut off as he slammed into the pavement below. It burned his bare skin, heated by the Sun, but he could barely feel it. the stranger got out of the car and slowly, casually walked toward him, pistol in hand. John backed away. This wasn't adrenaline anymore. This was fear. His stomach plunged, his heart was stuck in his throat, his body did twisted, inverted twists.
"You aren't a bad driver." Trevor sat down. "Too bad you pissed off the wrong people. Meet me at the airport by 9 pm, or you'll be dead by 9 am." he mused. John just nodded, oblivious to the fate he was just spared and too scared to process it, anyway.
"Crap, cops. I'll deal with them. Shoo now. Bye-bye. You live to fly another day, you freedom seeking insignificant cur." he rambled as he started to take on ALL of the cops. John got on his motorbike and got the hell out of dodge, returning to his home on Atlee St. He would usually drink a hard days' stunting off, but not today. He sat in a cold sweat. It was 7:30 pm.
(Eh. This chapter's alright. I wanted to start the action up early, though it was a little choppy to do so. Whatever, it fit Trev's personality. Hope you like this one, next one will introduce Franklin. Probably.)