I've never been one to ride on planes. Car rides, fine, trains, okay, but planes?
For some reason, flying the friendly skies always turned out to be an adventure. After
escaping the mess that had become Liberty City, getting into another scrape was the last
thing on my mind. All I wanted to do was hit the recline button on my plush, extra comfy
first-class seat, stick on the headphones, and sleep my way to San Andreas. Too bad nothing
ever comes that easy.
Roughly twenty minutes into the flight, a pretty stewardess with a blinding smile
(didn't they all?) asked me if I'd like some peanuts and something to wet my whistle. I
asked for two packages, even though I had no intention of putting any airline food into my
system; what did she think I was, stupid? I also asked the cutie to bring me on back two
fingers of bourbon, neat. She dimpled dutifully, handed me my nuts, and proceeded with
the rest of her serving. At least the booze was free.
I was seated in the middle of first class, aisle seat. Next to me was a sleeping
man, middle aged, with a mustache that would've made Rollie Fingers jealous. A fine
looking silver Rolex was wrapped around his wrist. I considered acquiring a new timepiece,
but decided against it. That was kid shit, I was beyond being a regular pickpocket; after
all, he didn't look like he was sleeping all that soundly. I stretched my legs out, laced
my hands behind my head, and made a decision to emulate my neighbor. Mr. Sandman, take
me away. Then I fell under the blanket of slumber, and I was back in Liberty, more specific
ally, the strip club. I was sipping on a martini getting a lap dance by one of the lovely
and talented dancers from Luigi's. Then someone in the club shrieked "Oh my god, he's got
a gun!"
What a rude awakening. I sat up in my seat to find some yahoo staning in the
middle of the aisle waving a pistol around like it were a flag. The hijacker had olive
skin, and wore a denim suit. He looked more Italian than Arabian, but when he opened his
mouth to shout orders and demands, his accent was definately of Middle Eastern decsent.
"Listen to me! This is a hijacking! I will not hesitate to exectute every single
one of you! We will not be going to San Andreas!" The man grabbed a stewardess and stuck
the gun to her temple. "Tell the pilot to reroute this aircraft to these coordinates" He
shoved her away snatched a passenger sitting next to wear he was standing, a teenaged girl
who looked scared out of her wits. "And I do mean it! Life means nothing to me!" The
sonofabitch put a bullet in her in her head. She slumped to the floor, lifeless as many
of the passengers of flight 302 screamed in terror. Man, this dude had no class at all.
I took out a cigarette and lit up, despite the 'no smoking' light lit up above my head.
The smoke wafting up from my seat got the attention of the hijacker. He strided over to
my seat, and raised his firearm in my general direction.
"What do you think you're doing?" He spat.
"Smoking a cigarette. What does it look like I'm doing?"
He flicked back the hammer.
"Don't you know there's no smoking on these flights?"
Was he serious? I exhaled a blue cloud at the hijacker.
"Well, seeing as you've taken this flight hostage, and exectued one of its passenger
s, i thought that the conventional rules of flying had sort of gone out the window. And I
haven't even gotten my drink yet. I need something to calm my nerves."
He was walking right into it.
"Put it out, or become the second to be sacrificed."
"Okay."
So I flicked the cigarette at the hijackers face, into his eyes. He screamed and
put dropped his heater, clawing at his mug. I picked up the gat and stood up. He was
crouched over, and then shot a glance at me. He did not look happy, but then again, neither
was I. I never got my drink. I pistol whipped the hijacker, once, twice, fifteen times,
until his face resembled a half eaten cherry cobbler. I dropped the pistol, and looked
around at the rest of the passengers of flight 302. Some still looked terrified, but for
the most part, the people looked grateful. I never played the part of the hero much before
, but they say that a change can do a man good. Some started to applaud. The stewardess
poked her head out of her station.
"Hey stewardess. How about that bourbon?"
***
The remainder of the flight went on without a hitch. Despite the fact that flight
302 carried two corpses, it didn't seem like the passengers minded much. I guess when that
survival mode clicks on, those grateful to be alive cease to be queasy about the dead. We
touched down in San Andreas and we were herded out of the plane. However, I was escorted
by airport security thourough a locked door, down a long hallway, and into a windowless
room containing a table and two chairs. I was seated, and the men who led me there told
me to wait. I said okay, I lit up a cigarette. I didn't see an ashtray, but even if i
did, i still probably would've ashed on the floor. The door opened and a severe looking
gentleman wearing a clean cut dark double breasted suit walked in. He sat oppostie of me and
folded his hands on the table. He wore glasses, John Lennon style.
"That was a mighty brave thing you did on that flight."
"He wanted to take us, myself included, where I didn't want to go. I didn't think
it was such a good idea. And he iced that girl."
"Which makes your actions that much more special. He proved he was a dangerous
individual, yet you still managed to neutralize him. Pan American Airlines wishes to thank
you."
"Tell them to buy me bottle of Jack and a box of Cubans and we'll call it even."
The man chuckled. I took a drag off of my stog and offered one to the man. He
shook his head.
"What's your name, mister?"
"You can call me Vegas."
"Hmm. Alright."
"And you are?"
"You can call me Simpson. I represent the Zaibatsu Corporation."
Uh oh. I had heard of these guys.
"Zaibatsu, huh?"
"Yes."
"That's terriffic."
"Yes."
Sort of an uncomfortable silence.
"Well, I think I should be shoving off now..." I started.
"Not so fast." Simpson reached into his jacked pocket and extracted a tiny white
business card. "Please contact the number on this card whenever it is convienent. You
may find that it may behoove you. And once again, thank you for defusing a possible
volitile situation."
"Yeah no sweat."
He led me out of the room, back down the long hallway, and back into the terminal.
After shaking my hand, he turned and walked away, already talking on a cell phone.
Zaibatsu? Damn, this could get serious. The Zaibatsu were something like the CIA, but
independently run by private ownership. Rumor had it they had their dirty little fingers
in many, many pies. I was glad I was on their good side, it was better than being on
their shit list. I walked through the terminal. It was dusk, and I could see the city
of San Andreas through the wall sized window. It looked beautful; it also looked ready to
be taken, and I intended to do just that.
"Hey, Vegas!"
I turned around to find a scroungy looking fellow wearing a ratty leather duster
and a pair of aviator shades running up to me.
"Vegas, right?"
I shrugged.
"Depends. Who are you?"
"Styx. Angelo Styx. I represent the Jefe."
"Good for you. Excuse me." I started to walk away.
"Hey, hold on! I need to take you to him!" Styx cried, walked towards my side.
"Buddy, I've just been through a lot of shit, and all I really want to do is find a
HoJo and hit the hay."
"C'mon, he really wants to see you."
The fucker pressed a barrel of a gun to my back through his jacket.
"Like that, huh?"
"Like that, Vegas. Here, there's a car waiting outside."
And there was, a beat up late model Idaho. He opened the passenger side door.
"After you."
I stepped inside as he shut the door. It locked from the outside. Great. Styx ran
around the front and got in the driver's seat. He started the car and pulled out a
marijuana cigarette, which he handed to me.
"Wanna start her up?"
So I did. The weed was good. If nothing else, this assclown had good dank.
"Off we go."
***
For some reason, flying the friendly skies always turned out to be an adventure. After
escaping the mess that had become Liberty City, getting into another scrape was the last
thing on my mind. All I wanted to do was hit the recline button on my plush, extra comfy
first-class seat, stick on the headphones, and sleep my way to San Andreas. Too bad nothing
ever comes that easy.
Roughly twenty minutes into the flight, a pretty stewardess with a blinding smile
(didn't they all?) asked me if I'd like some peanuts and something to wet my whistle. I
asked for two packages, even though I had no intention of putting any airline food into my
system; what did she think I was, stupid? I also asked the cutie to bring me on back two
fingers of bourbon, neat. She dimpled dutifully, handed me my nuts, and proceeded with
the rest of her serving. At least the booze was free.
I was seated in the middle of first class, aisle seat. Next to me was a sleeping
man, middle aged, with a mustache that would've made Rollie Fingers jealous. A fine
looking silver Rolex was wrapped around his wrist. I considered acquiring a new timepiece,
but decided against it. That was kid shit, I was beyond being a regular pickpocket; after
all, he didn't look like he was sleeping all that soundly. I stretched my legs out, laced
my hands behind my head, and made a decision to emulate my neighbor. Mr. Sandman, take
me away. Then I fell under the blanket of slumber, and I was back in Liberty, more specific
ally, the strip club. I was sipping on a martini getting a lap dance by one of the lovely
and talented dancers from Luigi's. Then someone in the club shrieked "Oh my god, he's got
a gun!"
What a rude awakening. I sat up in my seat to find some yahoo staning in the
middle of the aisle waving a pistol around like it were a flag. The hijacker had olive
skin, and wore a denim suit. He looked more Italian than Arabian, but when he opened his
mouth to shout orders and demands, his accent was definately of Middle Eastern decsent.
"Listen to me! This is a hijacking! I will not hesitate to exectute every single
one of you! We will not be going to San Andreas!" The man grabbed a stewardess and stuck
the gun to her temple. "Tell the pilot to reroute this aircraft to these coordinates" He
shoved her away snatched a passenger sitting next to wear he was standing, a teenaged girl
who looked scared out of her wits. "And I do mean it! Life means nothing to me!" The
sonofabitch put a bullet in her in her head. She slumped to the floor, lifeless as many
of the passengers of flight 302 screamed in terror. Man, this dude had no class at all.
I took out a cigarette and lit up, despite the 'no smoking' light lit up above my head.
The smoke wafting up from my seat got the attention of the hijacker. He strided over to
my seat, and raised his firearm in my general direction.
"What do you think you're doing?" He spat.
"Smoking a cigarette. What does it look like I'm doing?"
He flicked back the hammer.
"Don't you know there's no smoking on these flights?"
Was he serious? I exhaled a blue cloud at the hijacker.
"Well, seeing as you've taken this flight hostage, and exectued one of its passenger
s, i thought that the conventional rules of flying had sort of gone out the window. And I
haven't even gotten my drink yet. I need something to calm my nerves."
He was walking right into it.
"Put it out, or become the second to be sacrificed."
"Okay."
So I flicked the cigarette at the hijackers face, into his eyes. He screamed and
put dropped his heater, clawing at his mug. I picked up the gat and stood up. He was
crouched over, and then shot a glance at me. He did not look happy, but then again, neither
was I. I never got my drink. I pistol whipped the hijacker, once, twice, fifteen times,
until his face resembled a half eaten cherry cobbler. I dropped the pistol, and looked
around at the rest of the passengers of flight 302. Some still looked terrified, but for
the most part, the people looked grateful. I never played the part of the hero much before
, but they say that a change can do a man good. Some started to applaud. The stewardess
poked her head out of her station.
"Hey stewardess. How about that bourbon?"
***
The remainder of the flight went on without a hitch. Despite the fact that flight
302 carried two corpses, it didn't seem like the passengers minded much. I guess when that
survival mode clicks on, those grateful to be alive cease to be queasy about the dead. We
touched down in San Andreas and we were herded out of the plane. However, I was escorted
by airport security thourough a locked door, down a long hallway, and into a windowless
room containing a table and two chairs. I was seated, and the men who led me there told
me to wait. I said okay, I lit up a cigarette. I didn't see an ashtray, but even if i
did, i still probably would've ashed on the floor. The door opened and a severe looking
gentleman wearing a clean cut dark double breasted suit walked in. He sat oppostie of me and
folded his hands on the table. He wore glasses, John Lennon style.
"That was a mighty brave thing you did on that flight."
"He wanted to take us, myself included, where I didn't want to go. I didn't think
it was such a good idea. And he iced that girl."
"Which makes your actions that much more special. He proved he was a dangerous
individual, yet you still managed to neutralize him. Pan American Airlines wishes to thank
you."
"Tell them to buy me bottle of Jack and a box of Cubans and we'll call it even."
The man chuckled. I took a drag off of my stog and offered one to the man. He
shook his head.
"What's your name, mister?"
"You can call me Vegas."
"Hmm. Alright."
"And you are?"
"You can call me Simpson. I represent the Zaibatsu Corporation."
Uh oh. I had heard of these guys.
"Zaibatsu, huh?"
"Yes."
"That's terriffic."
"Yes."
Sort of an uncomfortable silence.
"Well, I think I should be shoving off now..." I started.
"Not so fast." Simpson reached into his jacked pocket and extracted a tiny white
business card. "Please contact the number on this card whenever it is convienent. You
may find that it may behoove you. And once again, thank you for defusing a possible
volitile situation."
"Yeah no sweat."
He led me out of the room, back down the long hallway, and back into the terminal.
After shaking my hand, he turned and walked away, already talking on a cell phone.
Zaibatsu? Damn, this could get serious. The Zaibatsu were something like the CIA, but
independently run by private ownership. Rumor had it they had their dirty little fingers
in many, many pies. I was glad I was on their good side, it was better than being on
their shit list. I walked through the terminal. It was dusk, and I could see the city
of San Andreas through the wall sized window. It looked beautful; it also looked ready to
be taken, and I intended to do just that.
"Hey, Vegas!"
I turned around to find a scroungy looking fellow wearing a ratty leather duster
and a pair of aviator shades running up to me.
"Vegas, right?"
I shrugged.
"Depends. Who are you?"
"Styx. Angelo Styx. I represent the Jefe."
"Good for you. Excuse me." I started to walk away.
"Hey, hold on! I need to take you to him!" Styx cried, walked towards my side.
"Buddy, I've just been through a lot of shit, and all I really want to do is find a
HoJo and hit the hay."
"C'mon, he really wants to see you."
The fucker pressed a barrel of a gun to my back through his jacket.
"Like that, huh?"
"Like that, Vegas. Here, there's a car waiting outside."
And there was, a beat up late model Idaho. He opened the passenger side door.
"After you."
I stepped inside as he shut the door. It locked from the outside. Great. Styx ran
around the front and got in the driver's seat. He started the car and pulled out a
marijuana cigarette, which he handed to me.
"Wanna start her up?"
So I did. The weed was good. If nothing else, this assclown had good dank.
"Off we go."
***