What happens when you piss off the most dangerous criminal Liberty City has to offer? This is for those who have been frustrated by misunderstandings in the Law. Additional chapters will be up soon.
--Dr.Ti MoNk
SIX STARS
4:15 PM, Belleville Park, Staunton Island
The incessant honking was giving the Man a headache.
He grimaced to himself and glared through his rear-view mirror at the budding commotion behind him. From beside his solid, emotionless face, he could see an entire collection of cars—from generic taxis to sporty Banshees—all blaring their horns and screaming obscenities at him for no reason at all. He lowered his brow.
"I've got a better car than you!" one of them boasted.
"I'm gonna run your ass over!" another taunted.
"Ahm haaawttyer naaawtt!" some lady in a Landstalker drawled.
The Man tightened his grip on the wheel of his black Stallion. He tried to screen out the annoying phrases from his mindapplying whatever mind-over-matter mumbo jumbo he had picked up from Kenji back when he used to work for him. No success. The Man's patience was a lot thinner than he last assumed.
His hand began to creep its way toward his Uzi
"Yhou craizhee idiut!" a cab driver yipped at him. "Ay dhon't disherve dis!"
The Man promised himself this morning he wouldn't kill anybody
"Do you know who I am?!"
But this noiseincessant noise
"Young maaaan!"
was beginning to
"Get off of the road, asshole!"
was beginning to
"Outta mah wayfooool!"
The Man burst from the driver's side of his car and ran to the car behind him. His hands were firmly gripped around his Uzi.
"Hey dipshit, what the fuck are you doing?!"
The Man approached the maroon Banshee convertible and aimed his Uzi at the driver's face. His steady arm didn't budge. His finger poised behind the metal trigger was as cold as his heartless soul.
The driver's face contorted in despair. Tears began to well up in his eyes.
"Hey—heeey! What in God's name—"
He pulled the trigger.
A pathetic shriek whistled from out of the driver's windpipe. It whistled like a steaming teakettle. The driver smothered his face within the palms of his hands. He sobbed. After a few seconds, his shivering fingers began dabbing his face, feeling for blood along with any semblance of a gaping hole. He then sniffed as he uncovered his face.
"Youyou didn't kill me" the driver gasped.
The Man racked the slide of his Uzi. 9mm rounds entered the gun's chamber. Next time, it WILL be loaded, the Man thought, smirking. He then lowered his weapon and turned around, gazing at the ominous view of the commercial buildings surrounding him.
It was a beautiful day. The afternoon sun cast an orange glow all over the city, and it nearly fished out a bright smile from the very insides of his dark existence. It really made him feel that much better. And if it weren't for his developing headache and that incessant noise causing itthe day today would have been perfect. You see, ladies and gentlemen, the most dangerous criminal in Liberty City was a simple man that simply did what he was told to do. Hijacking cars, assisting in bank robberies, murdering countless rival gang members, assassinating key witnesses for corrupt policementhese were just amongst the number of things he specialized in simply because he was a simple man that simply did what he was told to do. He never looked for troubletrouble always came looking for him.
Which comes to another point that oftentimes pissed the hell out of him. This dirty word was known as provocation. You see, as was mentioned before, the Man never went out on murderous crime sprees for no reason. He was always provoked to do so. There was always a reason—a motive, so to speak. And that motive almost always stemmed from the behavior of certain people whenever they—
"Where you think you going, Yankee boy?" an accented voice asked.
He turned around.
A cold, metallic object whipped across the Man's face (it felt like an Uzi). Inside his head, his nerves throbbed, vomiting purple flashes into his eyes. A heavy thud gorged his ears. Staunton Island's skyscrapers suddenly began spinning around him. He dropped his weapon. What the fuck was going on.
His face was now on the asphalt, and he was staring at a pair of light-brown boots. He moved his eyes up the owner's legs and found himself staring up at a heavy-set, bearded SPANK dealer wearing a tropically embroidered flannel and some South American-styled hat. The Colombian Cartel!
His hand dove for his Uzi
The jagged edges of a boot crushed his fingers. A slight crack came out of his knuckles. "Eh, you tough man, eh?" the Colombian scoffed, aiming down at the Man's head. "You stuck your head into the wrong place, Senor Dickhead. There is no problem in killing youwhich I am going to do now, Gringo!"
Inside the Man's head, a rage was being broiled. This chemical disturbance occurred whenever he accepted the various tasks crime bosses assigned to him. It was also necessary for him to kill without remorse.
Which he did.
The Man grabbed the Uzi above his head and yanked down the Colombian henchman. The dark man lost his balance and toppled over, falling into the asphalt with him. The hat on top of his head flew off. With his hands free, the Man conjured his silver .45 pistol and pressed it against his assailant's face.
So much for promises, he thought.
The Man squeezed the trigger, sending a bullet exploding from out of his gun's barrel to crush through the face of the fear-stricken SPANK dealer. Below his widened eyes, his nose broke away as torrents of blood rushed forth from the massive hole appearing over his face. A ruby-colored crimson, along with bits of brain tissue splurged from the back of his head in a thick spray. It covered the asphalt with a pink-red texture, like red syrup laced with chicken fat.
People around him screamed. The cars that were behind him before were now crashing into each other, straining to escape. A couple of cars roared past him. Shrieks from homosexuals filled the street. Everyone raced from him with a finger pointing his direction.
The Man lowered his head as several bullets whizzed past him, leaving a faint, hazy trail like bullets from The Matrix. From where they came from, a trio of Colombian Cartel were spraying him with their submachine guns.
The Man grabbed his Uzi and leapt forward onto the hood of a car. He aimed and squeezed the trigger, sending hordes of bullets at them. Spent casings flipped from the top of his submachine gun and clinked over the car's hood. One of the Colombians grabbed their chest and fell to their knees, groaning. The other two continued to rush after him. Several more bullets rushed his direction. A couple of them thudded against the armor under his leather jacket. He grunted as the lead expenditures knocked the wind out of him. He took another leapoff of the car and onto the street, where he raised his Uzi and spattered another batch of lead at his assailants.
The remaining Colombians fell to the ground, yelping in defeat. A fountain of blood sprayed from one of them. It gushed from the side of his neck and sprayed two feet in the air. The dying Colombian lurched around the street before falling to the ground, drowning in his own pool of blood. The Man didn't stop there.
He stepped up to the fallen bodies, reloaded his Uzi, and emptied his clip into the corpses. He watched them convulse as regurgitated patches of blood showered in the air. Bullet after bullet, cascades of it came up and splashed onto the street. He did this until a large red pool gathered from beneath the bodies. It converged into a river that snaked its way down a storm drain.
He heard a familiar siren from behind him. That siren sounded a little too familiar. It was followed by a car door slamming shut.
"This is the LCPD!" an authoritative voice screamed.
The Man glared back at the cop running his direction. Why were they after him? Did they always expect him to let himself get killed? He was trying to defend himself! Why didn't they bust the Colombians for starting this shit in the first place? Why? Why? WHY?!
"Stop! Don't move a muscle!"
The Man holstered his Uzi and drew out his bat. He wasn't about to get busted over thisthis shit was nonsense. It wasn't his fault some Colombians died because he decided to fend for himself. All he wanted to do today was go home and sleep for six hours! Six fucking hours! What less could a guy ask for?
"Your ass is MINE, punk!" the officer yelled as he closed in with drawn fists. The Man held his bat without poising to strike. He stood there in the middle of the street, calm and without expression. As the cop neared him, he took one light swing and sent the officer spinning away. Droplets of blood sprayed from the cop's mouth. A soft thud echoed into the street. The Man then switched to his Uzi and ran.
Ahead of him, people screamed and scurried off at the sight of him. Joggers and shoppers alike panicked whenever he came within a 10 foot radius. He sighed. Once he got back into his Stallion, he was safe from the madness around him. His headache was already getting worseand all the shit happening around him wasn't making it feel any better.
Nor was the fact he was about to get car jacked.
His passenger-side door burst open and a street thug threw his foot at him. He fell out of his car and crashed into the asphalt, wincing in pain. Once he was able to get up again, the driver's side door slammed shut, and his car sped away, leaving a rubbery stench as it peeled off. The Man sighed.
He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and conjured a remote with a black 8-Ball symbol etched over its surface. He then thumbed open the latch and pressed the button on his C-4 detonator.
The bomb-ridden black Stallion rushing its way towards Belleville Park erupted in a violent blast of flames. The explosion sent the flaming car rolling into the park, where pieces of it sailed off and sizzled in the afternoon sun.
The Man got up to his feet, surveying the heap of scrap metal in the distance. He surveyed the blackened vehicle that used to be his car with eyes searing with pent-up anger and frustration. He had enough. Liberty City was pissing him off. And what a wrong day to piss off the most dangerous criminal the city had to offer. He turned his head, narrowing his eyes at the wounded cop getting back up to his feet. The officer's face was flattened from where his bat had contacted him, and the fucking pig was still after him.
"You are risking your LIFE!" the cop's bloody mouth spat. A tooth fell out.
So the fucking pigs wanted him. Same with the fucking city. So be it.
He flashed his middle finger at the cop and pulled out his M-16. He aimed.
And shredded the officer with his fury. The enforcer wailed in agony as his chest opened up and vomited pints of blood. Bits of his organs followed. The cop was literally put through a blender. His arms and legs ripped away, gorging more blood as they fell to the ground. The M-16 rifle shuddered in the Man's arms, filling his ears with a rapid sputtering noise as its enormous recoil left his arms numb. The Man didn't stop there.
He aimed at a passing Landstalker and squeezed the trigger. Holes lined themselves across the side of the SUV until flames appeared.
"Mah caaar!" the driver drawled as she leapt out of her vehicle.
The explosion engulfed every other car in its vicinity and covered them with flames. Taxis, sport cars, and more SUVs were drenched in heat. People who were once screaming obscenities at him burned from inside their cars. Their screams wailed into his ears. The driver in the maroon Banshee shrieked again. Seconds later, an enormous eruption of multiple explosions incinerated the busy intersection. Fire trucks, along with the Ambulance appeared. The Man reloaded his M-16.
And sprayed the Fire truck until the red hunk of aluminum came up in a violent wave of destruction. He did the same thing to the Ambulance truck. The EMTs spilled from the back of the truck, wallowing in flames. Charred bodies were littered around the wreckage.
A massive, bus-like vehicle screeched to a halt behind him. He took a glance back and watched as the SWAT team exited their Enforcer van armed with submachine guns. "GET THAT GUY!"
He turned around, pulling out his rocket launcher.
The SWAT team opened fire as he centered the targeting brackets over the middle of their Enforcer. Bullets struck his armor, but he didn't feel it this time. When he was angry, he could hardly feel anything. He pressed the trigger and sent a rocket fizzling towards the center of the truck. It left a high-pitched whistle in the air as it closed in on its target. The missile slammed into the SWAT truck and exploded, throwing the SWAT members forward with blood streaming from out of their eviscerated faces.
Helicopters and numerous squad cars were surrounding him now. The entire intersection before him was clogged with flaming cars and smoldering wreckage. Traffic congested from all sides.
"We have you surrounded! Surrender with your hands behind your head!" a voice from a helicopter's loudspeaker blared at him.
The Man stared up at the helicopter for three seconds before sending a screaming missile at its cockpit. The burning helicopter spun around in its axis and dove into the ground. Before it crashed, its spinning blades sliced a cop in half and threw his remains against the windshield of a squad car.
Once the helicopter smashed into its own bed of rushing flames, things began to change. From nowhere, black cars emerged and sped their way towards him at suicidal speeds. Their sirens sounded slightly higher than that of squad cars, but the sound of it left a menacing impression in his ears. His headache began to mutate into a migraine.
The Fedshe thought. Shitthings have begun to complicate.
The Man switched to his Uzi and dashed towards a Banshee—in fact, it was the same maroon Banshee with that shrieking driver.
He swung open the driver's side door and yanked the driver out.
"Yeah, just take my car!" he yelped as he fell to the ground.
The Man then leapt inside the car, shifted gears, and slammed the accelerator. The sports car peeled out and sped away from the doomed intersection. He yanked his hand brake and swerved around a corner and made his way down a straightaway. He wasn't going to survive for long, so he switched the radio station to RISE FMdrowning the menacing sirens behind him with trance and techno beats.
From behind, an FBI car slammed into him and caved in his fender. The Man grunted from the impact and slammed his brakes. A loud screeching mixed with FBI sirens filled the street. Two of the FBI cars slammed behind him while the other two passed his car and crashed into a wall.
The backside of the convertible came apart, spewing fragments of debris over him. Like that seemed to matter. He stomped his foot over the accelerator once again—just as the Feds left their cars and opened fire with their semiautomatic rifles. The sound of metal being punctured assaulted his ears. The Man zigzagged to dodge the fire behind him. Bullet trails criss-crossed each other in front of him. They whizzed past his ear and left whispers like the sound of passing arrows.
"You're only making things worse for yourself!" another helicopter ordered.
More Feds were in pursuit of him now. They pulled towards his side and crashed into him, trying to swerve him off the road. The Man raised his Uzi and sprayed the cars as they neared him. His spattering gun littered piles of spent casings over his seat. Trails of silver-rimmed holes brushed themselves around the side of the black cars. They punctured and stitched away at their engines until flames erupted from under their hoods.
The FBI cars exploded and toppled over in the street engulfed in flames.
The Man and his Banshee cut through red lights and busy intersections. His car was wrecked, and white steam bellowed from under the hood. He passed by a caravan of Yardie Lobos and some Rumpo vans. The FBI caught up to him, crashing through the lowriders and the vans. They were relentless.
And they also set up a road block.
The Man narrowed his eyes at the sight of the black cars walled up before him. Behind the cars stood the Feds with their semi-automatic weapons, waiting for him to draw near. Despite the serious looks on their faces, he knew they wanted him to stop and turn himself in with ease. That way, everybody would go home without much bangs and whimpers. Unfortunately, this wasn't going to happen.
The Man shifted gears and added more speed as the roadblock neared. He aimed for an openingany opening. As the black cars grew in size, dozens of bullets shredded past the hood of his car and through his windshield. The Man braced himself for the impact.
The crippled Banshee smashed past an opening in between two cars and sent them spinning. The spinning FBI cars struck the agents and crushed them, sounding forth a moist squish. The Banshee was thrown high in the air, twisting and turning with four wheels away from the ground. Flames spewed from its engine, wafting heat into the Man's face. Screams and frantic commands interlaced themselves with the dying car radio.
The Feds had him in sight once he crawled out of the car. Their AK-47s spattered at him and tore past his armorbut could not stop the steady stream of flames coming from his flame-thrower. He brought the river of heat through their cars and drenched them with flowing combustion. As the Banshee exploded behind the Man, they screamed as one after another fell to his rushing inferno. Their bodies remained still over the streetlike heaps of smoldering garbage bags.
The Man dropped his flame-thrower and pressed his hand against his chest. He winced in pain, tearing his dilapidated armor from his chest. Rivers of blood flowed from holes over his body and dribbled to the ground. But that didn't stop him.
Behind him, he could hear more approaching sirens from the FBI cars, as well as a few more helicopters hovering over him.
"You're DEAD, big boy—hey, you're not supposed to say that" a helicopter's loudspeaker ordered.
The Man leapt forward as bullets struck him from above. The helicopters traced his movements with their gunfire, bringing down one bullet after another. If the Man was going to survive now, he'd better run.
But running would be pointless if he couldn't jack any cars, would it?
His hands seized the car door of a passing Yardie Lobo. The hydraulics-equipped car slowed to a halt as he swung open the door and grabbed the Yardie by the collar.
"Hey mahn, not me car!" the Jamaican gang member hollered.
The Man hurled him out of his car and sent him rolling into the street. The Man propped himself over the leopard skin-embroidered seats and slammed the door shut. The hydraulics pumped the chassis, bouncing it over its springs. The Man then put his foot on the accelerator.
Right before he could gain any speed, the FBI cars slammed his rear-end, sending him out of control towards a lamppost. The Yardie Lobo plowed through the pole, tearing it from its base before smashing into a wall. The front of the car flattened itself against a blue and white ZIP ad. Steam hissed from the car's engine.
The Man didn't stop there.
The rear tires squealed against the asphalt, spinning before it caught the road and threw the lowrider forward in acceleration. The Man was moving again, and he left his morals behind him. He swerved into a sidewalk and ran over a crowd of shoppers and pedestrians. They yelped in panic as they rolled from the roof of his car. Bloody squishes sounded from beneath his tires. His car rocked from the bodies underneath.
He brought up his Uzi and pulled multiple drive-bys across the street corner. Businessmen and shoppers alike fell to their knees coughing up blood. The sound of the screams, mixed with the sirens, along with the Reggie tunes of K-Jah began to sound beautiful in his ears. Liberty City wanted a deranged criminaltheir seedy Colombians had provoked him while their corrupt police force fed the fire. So be it. Here's what they wanted.
Heeeeere's Johnny!
The Man activated the hydraulics, bringing the front of the car to bounce as if something pushed it from beneath. The lowrider tilted wherever its suspension bounced. While the Yardie Lobo with the deranged criminal leapt in the street, a hand grasping an Uzi stuck itself out from its driver's door and released a bright flare of gunfire across the street. The multiple lead rounds dispersed in the air, producing a pile of dead bodies. Wherever people scurried off to, the Man chased with his bouncing car.
[to be continued]