Vice City, normally so clam and tinted with the glitz and glamour of orange
and pink, was in massive turmoil. The furious waters of the sea crashed
against the darkened sands, rapt in tearing down the man-made tropical
empire. Rain pounded down at a nearly horizontal angle with enough force to
pierce the skin of hapless beachcombers who had no not expected such a
sudden squall. As thunder roared it's fury in the rolling black clouds
overhead, lightning split the sky asunder, dancing an endless waltz with
the howling winds, and on a tiny island situated in the center of the Vice
City Straight, a residence stood against the gale without much effort.
Mother Nature, so intent on drowning the world, shrieked her ferocity, rattling the windowpanes of the grand house, and sending the electricity into convulsions. Still, the mansion remained undaunted, much like its inhabitants. Business inside the Vercetti Estate went on normally, well as normally as business got there. Owner and instigator of the establishment, Thomas James Vercetti, sat behind his immense oak desk, leaned back in his leather chair with his fingers interlaced in front of his chin. His elbows sat on the top of the desk as he watched the tiny light on its surface flicker feebly. It eventually situated itself in a state somewhere between being on and black out. Tommy squinted against the uncomfortable orange glow it was emitting and frowned. It looked like the weather was winning the battle.
Another bout of thunder rumbled by, quiet at first, and then amassing into a colossal explosion that shook the heavens and sent shockwaves from the hearts and souls of all who heard it. The desk light, along with just about everything else in the house shorted out and failed to operate, plunging the house into desolate darkness. Tommy didn't move, and he sad silent for a long moment before shouting in a loud, clear voice,
"Rosenberg!"
The sound of breaking glass echoed noisily through the cavernous estate, followed almost immediately by muffled cursing. "I'm on it," Ken Rosenberg voice came floating back through the house and to the office. There was a pause as Tommy's lawyer contemplated just what it was he was supposed to be doing. Tommy waited, rolling his eyes. He sighed. Ken was probably too messed up on whatever it was that he was snorting to even see straight. "Uh, Tommy?" Ken's voice returned.
"What is it, Ken?" Tommy rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, knowing that this whole stupid process could take a very long time. Ken sat up in that little office Tommy had given him in the house to "run things out of" and sniffed the white powder all day. Tommy knew this and regretted the fact that the man was a true junkie. Not that he was all that bright to begin with.
"What wall is that switch thing on?"
Tommy sighed. "Forget it, Ken. Hold still. Don't move. You'll break something. Just stay where you are and I'll be there in a minute. Okay? I'll do it myself." He pushed himself up, using the desk as his lever and narrowed his eyes, trying unsuccessfully to see through the darkness. He felt his way out of the office and out to the banister that stood on the outer edges of the main staircase. He made his decent slowly, taking care not to lose his balance. The last thing he wanted was to fall down the stairs. What a way to hurt yourself. Tommy had always found falling to down a flight of stairs to be a rather embarrassing method of injury. He'd much rather be shot.
Eventually, after bumping into the table in the hallway, Tommy reached the recreation room located off to the right of the massive front door. He tripped over a pizza box that seemed strategically placed in his path and cursed as he stumbled. Catching himself on the doorframe, he advanced forward, a bolt of lightning allowed him enough illumination to make it to the bar across the room. There he waited, listening to the rain pounding down in angry torrents on the roof. With the aid of another sky-splitting lightning strike, he turned and used all his strength to throw four large switches on the east wall.
An electrical humming commenced immediately, and as it got stronger and louder, the light flickered once and came on. They were energized by the four power generators Tommy had bought from an underground provider. Some of the same stuff was sold to hospitals. It was nothing but top grade for a guy like Tommy Vercetti. He had received them a year ago, and with Vice City's vicious temperament, they had proved to be quite useful.
Tommy turned around and came face to face with Ken Rosenberg, who was standing not three inches away from him. Tommy jumped backwards, uttering a small sound of quiet surprise. He found himself backed up against the wall. "What the hell are you doing? Trying to kill me?"
Ken himself had started, only he had toppled over the back of the couch. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, trying to get himself back into a sitting position. "I'm sorry Tommy. You told me not to move. I didn't move. I thought you'd seen me."
"How the hell could I have seen --- You know what? Whatever. I don't care." His eyes shifted to the flicker images on the television screen. Ken finally managed to get up. He pulled at his jacket before clearing his throat. "Turn it up," Tommy demanded suddenly, moving quickly around the end table.
Ken found the remote control under one of the couch cushions and turned up the volume, unsure of what Tommy was so excited about. A stunning newscaster in an alarmingly red jacket was saying,
"--- brutal murder that police suspect is the result of a disagreement between two mob relations. The residents of Belville Park on Staunton Island were alerted to the strife after a number of shots where fired. The police have confirmed that the victim appears to be professional killer, Christian Vercetti. Police chief Carl Santos his furthering his investigation into a specialized hit--"
"Shut it off," Tommy said, his voice low and dangerous.
Ken did so without a word.
Tommy turned to him, his expression baleful and his eyes angry. "We're going hunting."
The rain pounded against the windshield ferociously, reducing visibility to almost nothing. Ken Rosenberg shifted uneasily in the passenger seat of the red Infernus, afraid the windshield would smash in under the strain of the heave precipitation. Tommy sat next to him, doing his best to steer the wheels against the slick roads. It was almost an uphill battle. His eyes stared forward blankly, almost like they were just staring in to space. His face completely lacked emotion. Ken peered at him behind his red-rimmed glasses, but didn't say anything in fear of being yelled at. He may have been dumb, but he knew all too well that Tommy Vercetti was not a man one can make angry and then leave unscathed. He turned on the radio, and he turned the little knob to make the volume low. He began to tap his fingers gently to the rhythm of the song.
"Turn it off," Tommy said in a quiet, reserved tone, still staring straight ahead. It was beginning to make Ken nervous, the way Tommy wasn't looking at him. He wondered just what was going on, and what about it made his friend so uptight. Tommy always had something to say to make light of any situation, but with the way he was acting now, Ken was left to believe the sky was falling or something.
Ken did as he was told and quickly shut it off. He sat there listening to the rain pounding against the little car, unsure of what to do. He was to hyper to sit still; the drugs were affecting his nervous system. For the next five minutes there was an eerie silence that was driving Ken nuts. The silence rang in his ears. Unable to take it anymore, he built up enough courage to finally speak.
"Uh, Tommy, where are we going?" He asked quietly.
Tommy continued to stare ahead for a long moment, as if he didn't hear what the lawyer had asked. Then, for the first time since they had gotten in the car, Tommy looked over at him. He gazed at Ken intimately as if he was unsure of what to tell him, then said in a normal tone, "The Mafia has to pay for what they did, but we're are going to need a good team if we're going to stand a chance against them."
"Tommy, what are you talking about? We.I mean you have already taken care of the Mob, remember? The big fight, all the shooting, all those corpses," Ken said shuttering as he pictured it all.
"That's not what I'm talking about, Ken. There is only one Family left up in Liberty, and they took it upon themselves, thought it was a good idea maybe--" He trailed off, obviously choking on his anger. "They killed my brother," he said at last
"I never knew you had a brother," Ken said furrowing his brows.
"That's because I never told you, Ken. His name is Christian; he ran things up in Liberty. He was a good kid, knew what he was doing and knew to keep his mouth shut."
Unsure of what to say, Ken turned back to the road and was silent. He was still trying to figure out what Tommy was talking about. Brother? Why hadn't Tommy ever told him he had a brother? He felt a little offended. He had known Tommy for a long time now, and the least the guy could have done was share information like that.
The rest of the ride was silent and smooth, well; smooth if you don't count Tommy almost hitting an old lady that was crossing the street. Ken had shrieked and Tommy seemed to come out of his trance. Swerving around the old lady and dodging three cars in the intersection and hydroplaning and good distance, they had managed to get back on their side of the road and continue on their way.
When they arrived at Phil Cassidy's place, which consisted of a huge carport to the left and trailer to the right, they were met with silence. They wondered if anyone was home at first, but soon spotted Phil's blue and white pick-up out front. The trailer was quite old and looked as if it would collapse any second. It was white and had a faded blue stripe across it. The paint was peeling off, revealing a dull gray. As they walked to the trailer, the dust from the dirt flew up behind and into Ken's face, who had to take off his glasses and clean them.
When they reached the front door, they knocked once before it was answered. When the door opened, a one-armed, ex-army man stood there, gazing out at them, shotgun in hand. His forest green shirt was stained with alcohol and grease. His dirty-dishwasher blonde hair was poorly combed back. The scent of boom shine lingered heavily in the air, causing Tommy and Ken to cover their mouth and noses with their sleeves.
"Dammit Phil, are you always high on that shit?" Tommy mingled between coughs.
Phil gazed down at them from the top of the old cement steps, as if uncertain if they posed a threat. His eyes were glazed over, and he wore a somewhat suspicious expression, as if he didn't know whom they were. Then, suddenly, a wide grin surfaced on his rough face. "Howdy Tommy! Long time no see!" he yelled walking down the steps and patting Tommy on the shoulder. Tommy jerked backward a little, unsure of what Phil was going to do with that gun of his.
Phil Cassidy, the "One-Armed Bandit" as some people called him, was Tommy's former partner in a bank heist they had pulled off a few years ago. Even though everyone doubted it, Phil always insisted he used to be in the army. He certainly had the artillery, but that didn't prove anything, really. His blonde hair was beginning to gray at the sides as time went by. He'd be 41 in April. He was one hell of a shooter though, if he could ever get off all that damn boom shine and get his senses straight.
Now he was walking the steps to Tommy, letting the door slam shut behind him. Tommy watched him for a moment, and then he began to blurt out his plan.
"Look Phil, I'm rounding up a team to go against the Mafia, I want-"
"The Mafia!" Phil interrupted. "What the hell do you want with the Mafia boy!"
Tommy was about to answer when he heard a twig snap a little to his left. Furrowing his brows, he begin to walk over there cautiously, motioning for Ken and Phil to follow. They crept around to the side of the house and found footprints in the mud. Tommy walked around back just in time to see something run around the other side. He broke in to a run, Ken and Phil did the same.
"Who's there?!" Tommy yelled.
He got no reply. As he rounded the corner, he saw a man dressed in a purple shirt and white pants jump in to the passenger seat of a waiting purple Voodoo and drive off. He car fishtailed it out of the lot. Tommy made a mad dash for his own car, only to find that the wheels had been slashed.
"Shit!" He yelled throwing his hands up in the air. He turned to Ken and Phil who were now kneeling behind him, inhaling deeply.
"Who the hell was that?" Phil blurted out after finally catching his breath.
Tommy knew all to well who it was. They were the fucking Haitians. He hated those damn rats; he'd killed many of them before. It was no wonder to Tommy that he was probably a real 'hit' at any Haitian party.
"Look," Tommy said seriously, "we can't go around wondering the streets by ourselves right now. We'll go back to my place and let my people go round them up. These damn Haitians are really pissing me off, and I think they're up to something."
Mother Nature, so intent on drowning the world, shrieked her ferocity, rattling the windowpanes of the grand house, and sending the electricity into convulsions. Still, the mansion remained undaunted, much like its inhabitants. Business inside the Vercetti Estate went on normally, well as normally as business got there. Owner and instigator of the establishment, Thomas James Vercetti, sat behind his immense oak desk, leaned back in his leather chair with his fingers interlaced in front of his chin. His elbows sat on the top of the desk as he watched the tiny light on its surface flicker feebly. It eventually situated itself in a state somewhere between being on and black out. Tommy squinted against the uncomfortable orange glow it was emitting and frowned. It looked like the weather was winning the battle.
Another bout of thunder rumbled by, quiet at first, and then amassing into a colossal explosion that shook the heavens and sent shockwaves from the hearts and souls of all who heard it. The desk light, along with just about everything else in the house shorted out and failed to operate, plunging the house into desolate darkness. Tommy didn't move, and he sad silent for a long moment before shouting in a loud, clear voice,
"Rosenberg!"
The sound of breaking glass echoed noisily through the cavernous estate, followed almost immediately by muffled cursing. "I'm on it," Ken Rosenberg voice came floating back through the house and to the office. There was a pause as Tommy's lawyer contemplated just what it was he was supposed to be doing. Tommy waited, rolling his eyes. He sighed. Ken was probably too messed up on whatever it was that he was snorting to even see straight. "Uh, Tommy?" Ken's voice returned.
"What is it, Ken?" Tommy rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, knowing that this whole stupid process could take a very long time. Ken sat up in that little office Tommy had given him in the house to "run things out of" and sniffed the white powder all day. Tommy knew this and regretted the fact that the man was a true junkie. Not that he was all that bright to begin with.
"What wall is that switch thing on?"
Tommy sighed. "Forget it, Ken. Hold still. Don't move. You'll break something. Just stay where you are and I'll be there in a minute. Okay? I'll do it myself." He pushed himself up, using the desk as his lever and narrowed his eyes, trying unsuccessfully to see through the darkness. He felt his way out of the office and out to the banister that stood on the outer edges of the main staircase. He made his decent slowly, taking care not to lose his balance. The last thing he wanted was to fall down the stairs. What a way to hurt yourself. Tommy had always found falling to down a flight of stairs to be a rather embarrassing method of injury. He'd much rather be shot.
Eventually, after bumping into the table in the hallway, Tommy reached the recreation room located off to the right of the massive front door. He tripped over a pizza box that seemed strategically placed in his path and cursed as he stumbled. Catching himself on the doorframe, he advanced forward, a bolt of lightning allowed him enough illumination to make it to the bar across the room. There he waited, listening to the rain pounding down in angry torrents on the roof. With the aid of another sky-splitting lightning strike, he turned and used all his strength to throw four large switches on the east wall.
An electrical humming commenced immediately, and as it got stronger and louder, the light flickered once and came on. They were energized by the four power generators Tommy had bought from an underground provider. Some of the same stuff was sold to hospitals. It was nothing but top grade for a guy like Tommy Vercetti. He had received them a year ago, and with Vice City's vicious temperament, they had proved to be quite useful.
Tommy turned around and came face to face with Ken Rosenberg, who was standing not three inches away from him. Tommy jumped backwards, uttering a small sound of quiet surprise. He found himself backed up against the wall. "What the hell are you doing? Trying to kill me?"
Ken himself had started, only he had toppled over the back of the couch. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, trying to get himself back into a sitting position. "I'm sorry Tommy. You told me not to move. I didn't move. I thought you'd seen me."
"How the hell could I have seen --- You know what? Whatever. I don't care." His eyes shifted to the flicker images on the television screen. Ken finally managed to get up. He pulled at his jacket before clearing his throat. "Turn it up," Tommy demanded suddenly, moving quickly around the end table.
Ken found the remote control under one of the couch cushions and turned up the volume, unsure of what Tommy was so excited about. A stunning newscaster in an alarmingly red jacket was saying,
"--- brutal murder that police suspect is the result of a disagreement between two mob relations. The residents of Belville Park on Staunton Island were alerted to the strife after a number of shots where fired. The police have confirmed that the victim appears to be professional killer, Christian Vercetti. Police chief Carl Santos his furthering his investigation into a specialized hit--"
"Shut it off," Tommy said, his voice low and dangerous.
Ken did so without a word.
Tommy turned to him, his expression baleful and his eyes angry. "We're going hunting."
The rain pounded against the windshield ferociously, reducing visibility to almost nothing. Ken Rosenberg shifted uneasily in the passenger seat of the red Infernus, afraid the windshield would smash in under the strain of the heave precipitation. Tommy sat next to him, doing his best to steer the wheels against the slick roads. It was almost an uphill battle. His eyes stared forward blankly, almost like they were just staring in to space. His face completely lacked emotion. Ken peered at him behind his red-rimmed glasses, but didn't say anything in fear of being yelled at. He may have been dumb, but he knew all too well that Tommy Vercetti was not a man one can make angry and then leave unscathed. He turned on the radio, and he turned the little knob to make the volume low. He began to tap his fingers gently to the rhythm of the song.
"Turn it off," Tommy said in a quiet, reserved tone, still staring straight ahead. It was beginning to make Ken nervous, the way Tommy wasn't looking at him. He wondered just what was going on, and what about it made his friend so uptight. Tommy always had something to say to make light of any situation, but with the way he was acting now, Ken was left to believe the sky was falling or something.
Ken did as he was told and quickly shut it off. He sat there listening to the rain pounding against the little car, unsure of what to do. He was to hyper to sit still; the drugs were affecting his nervous system. For the next five minutes there was an eerie silence that was driving Ken nuts. The silence rang in his ears. Unable to take it anymore, he built up enough courage to finally speak.
"Uh, Tommy, where are we going?" He asked quietly.
Tommy continued to stare ahead for a long moment, as if he didn't hear what the lawyer had asked. Then, for the first time since they had gotten in the car, Tommy looked over at him. He gazed at Ken intimately as if he was unsure of what to tell him, then said in a normal tone, "The Mafia has to pay for what they did, but we're are going to need a good team if we're going to stand a chance against them."
"Tommy, what are you talking about? We.I mean you have already taken care of the Mob, remember? The big fight, all the shooting, all those corpses," Ken said shuttering as he pictured it all.
"That's not what I'm talking about, Ken. There is only one Family left up in Liberty, and they took it upon themselves, thought it was a good idea maybe--" He trailed off, obviously choking on his anger. "They killed my brother," he said at last
"I never knew you had a brother," Ken said furrowing his brows.
"That's because I never told you, Ken. His name is Christian; he ran things up in Liberty. He was a good kid, knew what he was doing and knew to keep his mouth shut."
Unsure of what to say, Ken turned back to the road and was silent. He was still trying to figure out what Tommy was talking about. Brother? Why hadn't Tommy ever told him he had a brother? He felt a little offended. He had known Tommy for a long time now, and the least the guy could have done was share information like that.
The rest of the ride was silent and smooth, well; smooth if you don't count Tommy almost hitting an old lady that was crossing the street. Ken had shrieked and Tommy seemed to come out of his trance. Swerving around the old lady and dodging three cars in the intersection and hydroplaning and good distance, they had managed to get back on their side of the road and continue on their way.
When they arrived at Phil Cassidy's place, which consisted of a huge carport to the left and trailer to the right, they were met with silence. They wondered if anyone was home at first, but soon spotted Phil's blue and white pick-up out front. The trailer was quite old and looked as if it would collapse any second. It was white and had a faded blue stripe across it. The paint was peeling off, revealing a dull gray. As they walked to the trailer, the dust from the dirt flew up behind and into Ken's face, who had to take off his glasses and clean them.
When they reached the front door, they knocked once before it was answered. When the door opened, a one-armed, ex-army man stood there, gazing out at them, shotgun in hand. His forest green shirt was stained with alcohol and grease. His dirty-dishwasher blonde hair was poorly combed back. The scent of boom shine lingered heavily in the air, causing Tommy and Ken to cover their mouth and noses with their sleeves.
"Dammit Phil, are you always high on that shit?" Tommy mingled between coughs.
Phil gazed down at them from the top of the old cement steps, as if uncertain if they posed a threat. His eyes were glazed over, and he wore a somewhat suspicious expression, as if he didn't know whom they were. Then, suddenly, a wide grin surfaced on his rough face. "Howdy Tommy! Long time no see!" he yelled walking down the steps and patting Tommy on the shoulder. Tommy jerked backward a little, unsure of what Phil was going to do with that gun of his.
Phil Cassidy, the "One-Armed Bandit" as some people called him, was Tommy's former partner in a bank heist they had pulled off a few years ago. Even though everyone doubted it, Phil always insisted he used to be in the army. He certainly had the artillery, but that didn't prove anything, really. His blonde hair was beginning to gray at the sides as time went by. He'd be 41 in April. He was one hell of a shooter though, if he could ever get off all that damn boom shine and get his senses straight.
Now he was walking the steps to Tommy, letting the door slam shut behind him. Tommy watched him for a moment, and then he began to blurt out his plan.
"Look Phil, I'm rounding up a team to go against the Mafia, I want-"
"The Mafia!" Phil interrupted. "What the hell do you want with the Mafia boy!"
Tommy was about to answer when he heard a twig snap a little to his left. Furrowing his brows, he begin to walk over there cautiously, motioning for Ken and Phil to follow. They crept around to the side of the house and found footprints in the mud. Tommy walked around back just in time to see something run around the other side. He broke in to a run, Ken and Phil did the same.
"Who's there?!" Tommy yelled.
He got no reply. As he rounded the corner, he saw a man dressed in a purple shirt and white pants jump in to the passenger seat of a waiting purple Voodoo and drive off. He car fishtailed it out of the lot. Tommy made a mad dash for his own car, only to find that the wheels had been slashed.
"Shit!" He yelled throwing his hands up in the air. He turned to Ken and Phil who were now kneeling behind him, inhaling deeply.
"Who the hell was that?" Phil blurted out after finally catching his breath.
Tommy knew all to well who it was. They were the fucking Haitians. He hated those damn rats; he'd killed many of them before. It was no wonder to Tommy that he was probably a real 'hit' at any Haitian party.
"Look," Tommy said seriously, "we can't go around wondering the streets by ourselves right now. We'll go back to my place and let my people go round them up. These damn Haitians are really pissing me off, and I think they're up to something."