Jimmy "8-Ball' Vaughn stared at the evil looking food lying on the metal
plate provided for him from the good people of the Liberty City Correction
Facility. He always wondered what the "correctional" actually referred to.
Jail was jail. If anything, while on lockdown a person learned how to be
a better criminal, nothing else. He leaned over and examined the perfectly
sculpted semi circle of mashed potato, and picked out a kinky black hair,
something that appeared to have come from the inside of a pair of Jockeys.
8-Ball pushed the plate in front of him in disgust and sighed. How did
things get so fucked up? Why was he back in a place that he vowed would
never see the inside of? One word, two syllable: Danae.
Danae Putnam worked the Tuesday-Wednesday-Sunday evening shift at Luigi's Gentleman's Club, a sexy little number with skin the color of chocolate and a pair of legs that a gymnast would've envied. 8-Ball wasn't the type to fall for just any girl, and most of the time he only wanted females for sex, and just sex. However, Danae was a completely different animal to 8- Ball. Smitten would be the appropriate word, but that would almost be an understatement. 8-Ball decided he would gladly brush his teeth with razor blades, or bear crawl a football field of hot coals if she wanted him to, and that is a bad place to be. After a hummer that rattled his teeth, Danae asked 8-Ball if he wouldn't mind taking her bag full of a few ounces of weed over to her friend Teresa's and pick up a little bit of scratch for them. Under normal circumstances, 8-Ball would never take part in any sort of drug deal, in fear of getting locked up or something, but since Danae asked him, called him 'sweety' and batted her considerable eyelashes, he forgot about his hangups.
The exchange went off without a hitch, almost. Teresa was a mousy woman with dykie haircut and smile that looked like a picket fence. 8-Ball wondered why Danae would associate a person like Teresa but immediately dismissed it. Why did it matter? Of course, just like clockwork, what was thought not to matter immediately did. The boys in blue weren't very discreet when they kicked in the door of Teresa's and bustling in like gangbusters. 8-Ball found himself with his face on the dirty carpet, a knee in his back pinning him down. His rights were read, drugs and money confiscated, words were exchanged by proud police officers into their walkie talkies and everyone was whisked away in a squad cars. En route to jail, it occured to 8-Ball that he might be able to cut a deal with the cops, if he gave them Danae. He decided he didn't want to do that, not because he was the type to refuse to rat out someone, but because he valued his relationship with her over his potential freedom. 8-Ball replayed the recent events in his head and wondered if his priorites weren't just a little off kilter, starting to peel a half decent looking orange from his lunch plate when he saw a shadow cast over the table.
"Hey, blackie. That's some nice looking fruit you got there. Don'tcha think you'd like a bananna instead?"
8-Ball turned around to see an group of white dudes, a slew of beefy fuckers, all sporting various tattoos of swastikas and iron crosses. The ringleader was an especially ugly man that went by the name of "Chopper". Chopper showed 8-Ball his teeth as the rest of his cronies guffawed his lameass joke like it was vintage Eddie Murphy. Fucking Aryans. 8-Ball scolded himself under his breath for not sitting with people of his own skin, like he should've. Safety in numbers was the key to survival when on lockdown, and 8-Ball was flying solo. The guards didn't pay much mind to the prisoners, and pretty much anything flew; if the cons wiped each other out, the guards saw it as the justice system at work.
"Sieg heil, fellas." 8-Ball muttered, then turned back to his plate.
"What was that nig?"
"You know," 8-Ball said, peeling his orange. "I was wondering why you guys would have swastikas inked all over your bodies. I mean, didn't you know that the Nazis lost the war? That's like me tattooing 'Los Angles Clippers' all over myself and thinking it looked good. Get a clue, huh?"
Chopper's brow clouded his cronies quit laughing. Instead of firing back with the witty retort (which would be out of Chopper's league to do anyways), he did the only thing to do when some colored folks tried to sass back to him; he spit on 8-Ball. The loogie landed on the shoulder of 8- Ball's orange convict coveralls and started to run down. 8-Ball looked at the spit, then up at Choppers choppers, and threw the orange into Chopper's face. The fruit smacked against his forehead with a 'thwak!'.
"Oh yer one of those mouthy niggers, aren't cha? You know what we do to mouthy niggers round here?"
8-Ball immediately found himself on the scummy table of the jail's lunch hall, a cloud of white faces hovering above him, homemade shivs brandished, and mean looks all around. 8-Ball wondered if maybe he should've been a little more tactful. Chopper had his shiv out too, a galley spoon one end taped and other welded into a point. 8-Ball struggled to free himself, but the strong armed Aryans held him in place. Chopper raised the shiv and licked his lips.
A whistle rang out from somewhere in the distance as the white thugs stopped what they were doing. The whistle kept on, and slowly grew closer. The Aryans looked around and their faces fell. Muttering curses under their breath, they put their toys away and seperated from 8-Ball. Chopper hung out a little longer and whispered into 8-Ball's ear. "We'll be seeing you later, blackie." and then dissapeared down the way. The whistle finally came to 8-Ball, a pencil necked guard clad in a uniform two sizes too big for him.
"Are you James Vaughn?" the guard asked.
"That's right." 8-Ball said, picking himself off the table, brushing bits of mashed potato from his side.
"Phone call. This way." said the Guard, pointing.
Phone call? 8-Ball considered who would be calling him and came up empty. He followed the guard to the telephones.
***
"Is this James Vaughn?" the voice asked at the other end of the line. 8- Ball stood next to the line of telephones, cradling the receiver against his shoulder.
"Sure. Who's this?"
"The same man they call 8-Ball?"
Hmm. They knew him by his street name.
"Yeah," 8-Ball replied warily, "who are you?"
"My name is Simpson. If you're the man I'm looking for, then you'll be fully pardoned and en route to San Andreas within the hour."
"Get the fuck outta' here. Who is this, really?"
"It's at the request of Vegas Minor."
Vegas? He was involved in this?
"He said he owed you a favor and that he could use your help over here."
"But how can you get me out-"
"That's not your concern. The warden will be notified. We're sending a man over there as we speak to escort you.
"Are you-"
"Good day, Mr. Vaughn."
The line clicked dead and 8-Ball stared at it, like it was something he had never seen before. A full pardon? How? And Vegas was mixed in with this deal? It did 8-Ball's heart a world of good to hear his friend's name, but wondered how he could've swung that. 8-Ball was skeptical, but still a bit hopeful that maybe, just maybe, he would be set free, like the man said.
***
An hour and forty minutes later, 8-Ball was sitting a plush first class recliner of the Zaibatsu corporate jet bound for San Andreas, nursing a beer and debating if he should watch either the new Hulk movie or the new Charlie's Angels one. If only every decision in life was this easy, 8-Ball thought, as he took a swig of his Samuel Adams.
NEXT: CHAPTER 12---'P' IS FOR PAIN
Danae Putnam worked the Tuesday-Wednesday-Sunday evening shift at Luigi's Gentleman's Club, a sexy little number with skin the color of chocolate and a pair of legs that a gymnast would've envied. 8-Ball wasn't the type to fall for just any girl, and most of the time he only wanted females for sex, and just sex. However, Danae was a completely different animal to 8- Ball. Smitten would be the appropriate word, but that would almost be an understatement. 8-Ball decided he would gladly brush his teeth with razor blades, or bear crawl a football field of hot coals if she wanted him to, and that is a bad place to be. After a hummer that rattled his teeth, Danae asked 8-Ball if he wouldn't mind taking her bag full of a few ounces of weed over to her friend Teresa's and pick up a little bit of scratch for them. Under normal circumstances, 8-Ball would never take part in any sort of drug deal, in fear of getting locked up or something, but since Danae asked him, called him 'sweety' and batted her considerable eyelashes, he forgot about his hangups.
The exchange went off without a hitch, almost. Teresa was a mousy woman with dykie haircut and smile that looked like a picket fence. 8-Ball wondered why Danae would associate a person like Teresa but immediately dismissed it. Why did it matter? Of course, just like clockwork, what was thought not to matter immediately did. The boys in blue weren't very discreet when they kicked in the door of Teresa's and bustling in like gangbusters. 8-Ball found himself with his face on the dirty carpet, a knee in his back pinning him down. His rights were read, drugs and money confiscated, words were exchanged by proud police officers into their walkie talkies and everyone was whisked away in a squad cars. En route to jail, it occured to 8-Ball that he might be able to cut a deal with the cops, if he gave them Danae. He decided he didn't want to do that, not because he was the type to refuse to rat out someone, but because he valued his relationship with her over his potential freedom. 8-Ball replayed the recent events in his head and wondered if his priorites weren't just a little off kilter, starting to peel a half decent looking orange from his lunch plate when he saw a shadow cast over the table.
"Hey, blackie. That's some nice looking fruit you got there. Don'tcha think you'd like a bananna instead?"
8-Ball turned around to see an group of white dudes, a slew of beefy fuckers, all sporting various tattoos of swastikas and iron crosses. The ringleader was an especially ugly man that went by the name of "Chopper". Chopper showed 8-Ball his teeth as the rest of his cronies guffawed his lameass joke like it was vintage Eddie Murphy. Fucking Aryans. 8-Ball scolded himself under his breath for not sitting with people of his own skin, like he should've. Safety in numbers was the key to survival when on lockdown, and 8-Ball was flying solo. The guards didn't pay much mind to the prisoners, and pretty much anything flew; if the cons wiped each other out, the guards saw it as the justice system at work.
"Sieg heil, fellas." 8-Ball muttered, then turned back to his plate.
"What was that nig?"
"You know," 8-Ball said, peeling his orange. "I was wondering why you guys would have swastikas inked all over your bodies. I mean, didn't you know that the Nazis lost the war? That's like me tattooing 'Los Angles Clippers' all over myself and thinking it looked good. Get a clue, huh?"
Chopper's brow clouded his cronies quit laughing. Instead of firing back with the witty retort (which would be out of Chopper's league to do anyways), he did the only thing to do when some colored folks tried to sass back to him; he spit on 8-Ball. The loogie landed on the shoulder of 8- Ball's orange convict coveralls and started to run down. 8-Ball looked at the spit, then up at Choppers choppers, and threw the orange into Chopper's face. The fruit smacked against his forehead with a 'thwak!'.
"Oh yer one of those mouthy niggers, aren't cha? You know what we do to mouthy niggers round here?"
8-Ball immediately found himself on the scummy table of the jail's lunch hall, a cloud of white faces hovering above him, homemade shivs brandished, and mean looks all around. 8-Ball wondered if maybe he should've been a little more tactful. Chopper had his shiv out too, a galley spoon one end taped and other welded into a point. 8-Ball struggled to free himself, but the strong armed Aryans held him in place. Chopper raised the shiv and licked his lips.
A whistle rang out from somewhere in the distance as the white thugs stopped what they were doing. The whistle kept on, and slowly grew closer. The Aryans looked around and their faces fell. Muttering curses under their breath, they put their toys away and seperated from 8-Ball. Chopper hung out a little longer and whispered into 8-Ball's ear. "We'll be seeing you later, blackie." and then dissapeared down the way. The whistle finally came to 8-Ball, a pencil necked guard clad in a uniform two sizes too big for him.
"Are you James Vaughn?" the guard asked.
"That's right." 8-Ball said, picking himself off the table, brushing bits of mashed potato from his side.
"Phone call. This way." said the Guard, pointing.
Phone call? 8-Ball considered who would be calling him and came up empty. He followed the guard to the telephones.
***
"Is this James Vaughn?" the voice asked at the other end of the line. 8- Ball stood next to the line of telephones, cradling the receiver against his shoulder.
"Sure. Who's this?"
"The same man they call 8-Ball?"
Hmm. They knew him by his street name.
"Yeah," 8-Ball replied warily, "who are you?"
"My name is Simpson. If you're the man I'm looking for, then you'll be fully pardoned and en route to San Andreas within the hour."
"Get the fuck outta' here. Who is this, really?"
"It's at the request of Vegas Minor."
Vegas? He was involved in this?
"He said he owed you a favor and that he could use your help over here."
"But how can you get me out-"
"That's not your concern. The warden will be notified. We're sending a man over there as we speak to escort you.
"Are you-"
"Good day, Mr. Vaughn."
The line clicked dead and 8-Ball stared at it, like it was something he had never seen before. A full pardon? How? And Vegas was mixed in with this deal? It did 8-Ball's heart a world of good to hear his friend's name, but wondered how he could've swung that. 8-Ball was skeptical, but still a bit hopeful that maybe, just maybe, he would be set free, like the man said.
***
An hour and forty minutes later, 8-Ball was sitting a plush first class recliner of the Zaibatsu corporate jet bound for San Andreas, nursing a beer and debating if he should watch either the new Hulk movie or the new Charlie's Angels one. If only every decision in life was this easy, 8-Ball thought, as he took a swig of his Samuel Adams.
NEXT: CHAPTER 12---'P' IS FOR PAIN