A/N: And finally we have the name change! I knew it was coming and here it is. You may not like it, I'm not sure I like it either, but it's better than it was.
A fairly long chapter here, it could have been longer but I wanted to put the "big event" next chapter. See if you know what it is, its pretty obvious.
And without further stalling, I present Chapter 13 – Messin' with the Mobs.
"A wise man once told me that the best way to make money is with a good old fashioned gang war." explains Phil. "Of course, he let the power go to his head, became really obsessed with money and I ended up killing him after he got stopped by an army of tanks."
"Yeah, Phil, that happened, like, three days ago."
"Y. . yeah. Whatever."
"So what are you implying?"
"Well, I heard of this one guy, he got himself a Cartel Cruiser and killed an important Yakuza member. Caused World War Fuckin' Three! Those guys were so damn pissed, and of course they thought it was the Cartel."
"Again, what are you implying?"
"How about we go work for some other gangs? Do some jobs for them, earn their trust, then when they're not lookin'. . .BLAM! HA!"
"You think it might work without the "BLAM! HA!"?"
"There's always a first time. . ."
"So. . .which gangs?" asks Gator.
"Let's see. . .we have the Mafia, the Yakuza, the Cartel, the Yardies, the Triads, the Diablos, The Nines, The Jacks. . ."
"I feel like a kid in a candy store!" laughs Phil.
"Well let's divide it up. Phil? Who do you want?"
"Well we already have ties in the Mafia, so I'll take them for the easy job." says Phil the lazy bastard.
"I'll take the Yakuza. Who do you want, Gator?"
"Whatever. . ."
"You can have the Triads, how about that?"
"Whatever. . ."
"You still pissed about your car?"
"Cram it."
"Hey it wasn't my fault!"
"Whatever."
"You owned it for about four hours!"
"Could have been more if you didn't trash it."
"The guy who trashed it saved your life."
"What use is life without a flashy car?"
"Alright, that's enough, ladies!" bellows Phil. "We have a job to do."
"We sure do! Who's driving?"
"Well I would drive if I had a car!"
"We're all going separate ways anyway." says Phil. "Jack a car, you might even get a nice one Gator."
"Whatever."
"Arm yourselves up, try and keep it small and concealed though," says Phil as he eyes Gator with a rocket launcher.
"Aw man."
We each take a pistol or two. I place one in my jacket pocket and one in a holster in my trouser leg.
Phil swings open the massive double doors, letting the intense heat and sunlight pour in, filling every corner of the factory. The place really has a cheerier feel about it in the sunlight.
Out on the street, a long line of cars has conveniently stopped at a red light. The sun gleams off the paintwork, painting coloured spots in front of my eyes.
Phil pulls open a car door and throws a person out. "Hey Gator," he says, "you like a Cheetah?"
"Cheetah? It's mine!" I run up and knock Phil out of the way, then literally throw myself into the driver's seat. "Sorry Gator, you snooze you lose!"
Gator reluctantly settles for a bright blue Kuruma. At least it's sturdy and secure. It takes a powerful force to stop a Kuruma when you get it going, he knew. But still, it really had been a nice Banshee. . .
Gator climbs into the passenger seat, much to the disgust of the driver. He lifts his hands up to Gator who, without batting an eyelid, shoots the man in the head and carelessly pushes the body out of the car.
Now the other cars run through the red light, many people uttering ear shattering screams, and running frantically. A police siren is heard.
"Time to go, I think."
"Yeah, let's get outta here."
"Later, Phil!"
Gator and I speed off seconds before the area is surrounded by police cars. The men, two to a car, exit their vehicles and look around. The streets are deserted other than a few shaken pedestrians, and Phil standing nonchalantly against a wall, admiring his reflection in his gun.
One man moves closer to him.
Phil looks up and smiles.
"M. . morning Phil." croaks the man, nervously.
"Hi." chimes Phil.
"Nothing suspicious going on here, eh?" he says sarcastically, but trying to sound as sincere as possible.
"Oh, the boys and me were having a little target practise inside, guess it got out of hand. . . sorry 'bout that."
"That's alright, Phil. We'll be going now."
"Bye, all."
Jackass, Phil thinks and snorts.
Phil waits until no one is around – all the police cars are gone, cars and pedestrians apparently avoiding this particular street at present.
It's safe.
Phil walks round to the side of the building, where a large doorway – almost invisible if you weren't to look for it – is sunk into the wall.
Phil presses the button on his set of keys, and the large square section of wall lifts upwards. Behind it, his one of a kind bullet proof, fire proof, bottle green Patriot sparkles with it's fresh, newly waxed paint job. Phil blows it a kiss, before climbing in and sinking back into the seat.
Showtime!
Phil had provided us with maps, indicating local gang territory with different shaded colours. The map is colourful, to say the least. I hadn't noticed much gang culture around, but the map showed it to be rampant.
The Yakuza own a large area on the map. I had driven down the street only once before. It was a dangerous place – people clambering out of casinos, some happy, some not so happy, suspicious looking street merchants and smart suited gangsters at every corner, often accompanied by nice cars.
There was my alternative motive for working with them – if I gained their trust, maybe they would "trust" me with one of their unique Yakuza Stingers. I had seem them driving around. A very fast, sporty car, not much different from a regular Stinger apart from the paint job – a dazzling mix of white and red, paying homage to the Japanese culture and flag. God, I want one.
Meanwhile, Gator drives his Kuruma slowly but sturdily around, clearly struggling to read the map.
He leans out his car window to a civilian. "Excuse me, can you tell me where Triad territory is?"
The man simply snorts and laughs mockingly. He walks off, carelessly pointing to a billboard with "Punk Noodles" written on it.
"Aha," says Gator, slightly embarrassed. He rolls up his window and follows the signposts to Punk Noodles.
Phil sits in his Patriot and looks at the map. After staring at it for a minute or two, he tosses it aside, and heads to the park, where he dominates the hills, smashing a few parked cars before retreating the scene, leaving behind a trail of surprised citizens and scrap metal.
That was fun. . .now what?
I pull up in front of Kenji's Casino (named in remembrance of the respected Yakuza man, murdered by the Cartel, with whom they have waged war ever since). The bright neon lights give off a warming glow, a pretty swirl of blues, reds, and greens. If you stare at it too long you need to blink to refocus your eyes. It looks less than welcoming – doors firmly closed, bouncers at either side surveying the street. This is where the "good" gamblers come. You have to have a certain degree of wealth upon entrance, otherwise you got kicked to the curb. Of course, once you got in there, they had no problem stripping you of your money, possessions, clothes, house etc. That's business for you. Official.
So how the hell was I meant to get in?
I step slowly towards the door. The bouncers immediately block the way, with barely any effort.
"Let me in."
"We don't let just anyone in." says one of the men, clearly not of Japanese descent.
"Yeah," says the other one, "we only let a special kind of customer in. How much ya got?"
"Well. . .I have this car." I point uncertainly at the Cheetah.
"Looks nice. Alright, get in. We'll watch your car. We don't want you to lose it, unless it's to us."
"That's so nice of you guys." I say bitterly
"Shut up."
They push open the swing doors into a neon metropolis. Lights, blaring music, the constant chink of slot machines, someone calling out numbers, ruffling cards, yelling and cheering.
After walking down the entrance ramp, I am standing in the main games area, lined with video poker machines. A man pushes past me, clearly in a rush. Several black suited men are chasing him and shouting in Japanese. Now I notice the coins pouring from him onto the floor. Now's my chance. I take out my pistol, adjust my aim quickly and shoot the man in the foot, bringing him to the floor long enough for the men to catch him. Four or five bulky men surround the downed thief and lay into him with a flurry of punches. A much smaller, weedier man takes my arm and leads me away from the scene. He looks very official, more so than the bouncers, he probably runs the place.
He takes me into a small office and beckons for me to take a seat. I sit in the leather chair in the centre of the tiny room, and the man sits behind his desk, with his hands clasped on top.
He is bald and has a black goatee. The top of his finger has been cut off.
"Thank you for stopping that ruthless thug." he says, his thick Japanese accent coming through. He has quite a high pitched voice, but not particularly irritating.
"It was nothing." I say, obviously thinking the exact opposite.
"We would like very much to return the favour. Is there anything which you require?"
"I want to join you."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I would like to work for you."
"I'm afraid it is not that simple. The Yakuza are about honour, discipline, respect, not mere brutal violence."
"So I am aware, and let me say, I have a lot of respect for you. I am only asking for a few jobs for a little pay."
"Very well, but we have an initiation test. Can you handle a sword?"
"I have no idea."
"The way of the Samurai teaches discipline and self control. Of course, nowadays we practice, but never resort to violence ourselves."
"That is what people like me are for, right?"
"Yes, if you pass the test."
"What do I have to do?"
"You must prove yourself to me, with this."
He takes a long battle sword from its position on the wall behind him, and carefully hands it to me.
I slowly remove it from the case, letting the blade catch the reflection of the light and shine.
He takes his own sword from behind his desk, quickly removes it from the case and expertly spins it in his grip, before bringing the blade down carefully on his left hand, grinning over the top of it.
"Impressive."
"Shall we?" he leads me out onto the car park behind the casino. "No holding back, okay?" he says.
"What happens if I kill you?"
"That's not going to happen." he says confidently. "Begin."
Immediately after his words are uttered he lunges at me with the sword point outstretched. I roll to the side, feeling the edge of the blade tear my shirt. He turns, and lunges again. I hold the blade outstretched in anticipation of his attack, but instead he uses his sword to vault himself over my head, landing perfectly and pivoting exactly in time to clash swords with my swing. I wrestle him in this position for some time, our strength is very well matched. I apply more pressure against his blade, then switch directions and poke the sword forwards. Unfortunately he had been ready for this and cartwheels backwards, sword in hand. Seeing him temporarily vulnerable, I dash toward him, and with one full force swing, knock his sword from his hand, sending it flying several feet away, and at the same time, he falls to the ground. I point my sword at him and back him up against a car. I lift my sword for the final blow.
"Excellent. You have proved yourself."
I lift him to his feet cautiously, but he walks back into this office. I follow.
"Maybe there is a position for you here."
"Thank you." I bow, and walk out.
"Come back here tomorrow," he calls after me. "I might have some work for you by then."
Gator pulls up in front of Punk Noodles, a small sit-in restaurant occupied only by one or two people. The people at the tables wear bright blue jumpsuits embroidered with a fish motif. He walks up to one of them.
"Do you have any available jobs?" he says unenthusiastically.
"Yeah. Back at the factory, there's bound to be something you can do." says the man closest to Gator, between gulps of food.
"What factory?"
"The Belly Up fish factory down the street. Go talk with the boss."
"Thanks."
Gator leaves the place and notices his blue Kuruma is missing. He sighs, and walks to the factory.
The street is lined with bright banners stretching between the lamp posts. The buildings are old looking, and the decoration does nothing to perk them up.
Most of the people he passes look Asian. Other citizens tend to stay clear of gang territory, especially the Triads area. They seemed the most irrational and trigger happy. All the Triads walking the street are either wearing the blue jumpsuit, or bright white uniforms. Probably on break from the factory.
Gator approaches the heavy iron gates and they refuse to open for him. The black bars obscure his vision as he tries to peer inside and it is clearly impenetrable and unclimbable. A Triad fish van drives along the dirt path to the gates and they are opened. There was probably someone controlling them from inside, Gator reckoned.
He sticks close to the truck as it saunters inside, then makes his way for what looks like the front door.
When he is about half way across the sprawling, endless car park, a voice calls him. He looks around and spies the man by the van he had followed in. Gator walks over to the man.
"How the hell did you get in?" asks the Chinese man.
"Behind your truck. Can I speak with the boss? I'm looking for work."
"Sorry, you gotta be a worker to see the boss, and even then he has to summon you. But I tell ya what, finish my shift for me, and I'll put in a good word."
"That'd be great."
"What's you name?"
"Gator."
"Real name."
Gator sighs. "Blake Wilson."
The man sniggers under his breath. "I'll keep it in mind."
"So what do I do?"
"Basically you go to these places," he hands a long list to Gator, "and deliver to them."
"Deliver what?"
The man looks at Gator like he is stupid, and decides to choose that moment to walk away.
Gator gets in the van where the keys are waiting. He starts the car, and pulls out of the car park.
"Feel like a freakin' sardine." he grumbles. "Smell like one too. . . stupid van."
Gator drives around the district of Chinatown supplying the good people with fish in exchange for money. He gets a couple of odd glances, probably because he is not Chinese, and a few people try to shoot him, but fail.
Later in the day, around six o'clock, Gator is on his last delivery. He hears a ringing, like a cell phone, and looks around for the source, He notices the telephone incorporated in to the van, and lifts the receiver.
"Hello?"
"SOS! SOS! Major gang war going down with the Diablos at Punk Noodles. There's only a couple of them so far – they already have us cut down – and now they're sending for back up! Get over here!"
"But I'm not a -"
"I don't care! Get the fuck over here and help!"
"Okay. . ."
Gator turns the vehicle around and retraces his steps back to Punk Noodles. He stops at the end of the street, hearing the gunfire. A few figures can be made out in the street wearing blue combat trousers and black jackets, probably the Diablos. Gator checks for his gun, loads it, replaces it in his pocket and drives.
He drives the massive bulk of his fish van down the street, barreling into several Diablo gangsters, some rolling over the bonnet, some getting crushed under it, all of them dying. He stops briefly, feeling bullets penetrate the side of the truck. A man limps over to him, bleeding severely from his chest.
"There is a. . .back entrance to. . .Punk Noodles in that. . alleyway." he croaks. "Use it."
The man collapses forwards onto the side of the truck. Gator drives forward for the alleyway, leaving the man to fall, already dead, onto the cold, hard ground, trailing blood.
The alleyway, when Gator finds it, is clearly too thin for the truck to go down, so he parks the van across the entrance to the alley and gets out the passenger door, creating the perfect blockade.
There are gunshots ahead, and bullet indentations in the walls. He loads his pistol in preparation, and walks around the corner, staying as close as possible to the wall.
He peers around the corner to see four Diablo gangsters, armed with pistols, shooting wildly into the restaurant. Gator flinches as one man looks in his direction and hides behind the wall. He looks around and spots a crude stairway to the adjacent building and runs up it, throwing himself behind the two foot high ledge, out of sight from the enemy below.
He army crawls along the rooftop until the back entrance to Punk Noodles is in front of him, with its doors open and a trail of blood beckoning him to enter. The problem – the four gangsters.
They all have their backs turned to him, but one wrong move and they would all be on him. He would have to be quick. He loads the clip in his second pistol – now he has two firearms.
He walks backwards, and runs for the edge of the roof. He places his right foot on the ledge and launches over, shooting wildly with both guns, hearing the steady rattle of the shells hitting the concrete, some splattered in blood. As he lands, he rolls behind one of the men, grabbing him with his left arm (his weak hand) and blasting the other gangsters with his right. The men retaliate by returning fire, but the bullets pierce Gator's human shield instead as he advances towards the men, continually firing.
One by one they fall. Gator lets his shield fall to the ground when the other men are dead, and shoots him in the head to be safe.
He hears the sound of guns hitting metal and runs back around the corner to see the Diablos trying to get past his van, but to no avail.
He grins, and walks back to the entrance of the restaurant. The scene inside is like a horror movie. Triads are lying in pools of their own blood, slumped over tables, or drowned in their meals. It is quite a change from the scene earlier in the day. The carefree people enjoying a meal were replaced by brutally mutilated corpses.
He hears screaming from the kitchen, and leaps the counter, knocking the door from its hinges.
Inside, the chef sits on his knees surrounded by a ring of fire, praying.
Gator runs to him and hears hysterical laughter from behind him. Standing where the door had been is a Diablo with a glass bottle in his hand. He tosses it inside, and flees.
The bottle explodes on impact with the floor and more fire spreads. The chef panics – the flames around him are closing in. Luckily, the fire extinguisher is nearby. Shielding himself from the spitting fire, Gator reaches for it.
He sprays the gas on the fire, he and the chef covering their mouths from the fumes.
After saving the chef, Gator gets rid of the fire covering the exit and hides behind an upturned table. The man follows. From his position, Gator eliminates every Diablo who enters with barely any effort. He looks around him, no Triads are nearby, he is alone.
Another wave enters, Gator leaps up and showers them with bullets from his twin pistols. Afterwards, he reaches into his pocket for new clips, and loads them into his guns, before returning to his sanctuary behind the table to wait for more attackers.
His concentration is broken by the chef tugging his sleeve and shouting something in Chinese. Gator doesn't understand him, but does become worried – the man is panicking.
He hears a gunshot, and the chef screams, before collapsing. Gator notices the bullet lodged in his head. Gator leaps over to the other side of the table to see a dozen or more Diablo gangsters entering from the back door. The must have destroyed his blockade!
The man at the front motions to the others to wait, and walks confidently up to Gator. He produces his Desert Eagle, and points it at Gator's head.
Gator stares up into the gun, visibly trembling.
A shot rings out, and the man drops his gun. Gator grabs it, and looks behind him. Outside are half a dozen Fish vans. Inside, over a score of Triads.
"About time you guys showed up!" yells Gator.
Gator shoots the man with the Desert Eagle and the bullet soars right through him. The Triads take base behind the trashed tables and unleash a thunderous wave of bullets until the Diablos retreat. Gator turns to see several Diablo Stallions fleeing the scene.
"Nice work." says one of the Triads, who Gator recognizes as the man who had given him the job. "A major Triad leader is flying in from San Andreas tomorrow, I think he might like to meet you."
"Great!" says Gator.
"Now get outta here, we'll deal with the police."
"Alright. Thanks."
Gator leaves via the back door where his van lies, burned and blackened, surrounded by Diablo bodies. Around the corner, he sees a Diablo Stallion – a great muscle car, black with a flame vinyl.
"Hey. Nice car."
Gator hot wires it using his mechanic skills and hops in, before driving back to Ammunation.
I meet Gator at the door after getting back from the casino. He points smugly at his new ride, grinning from ear to ear. I step to the side and reveal the Yakuza Stinger and he decides to shut up.
We walk inside to see Phil sitting at the large conference table cleaning his gun.
"So how did it go with the Mafia, Phil?"
Phil sits silently for a moment. "That's what I was meant to do today!"
Gator groans.
"Don't worry, don't worry, I'll do it tomorrow." says Phil. "Anyway, how did your day go?"
"I got in a sword fight with the head of the Yakuza."
Gator pipes up now. "Well, first I got stuck delivering packages but then I went to this huuuuge gang war where all these Diablos were fighting and I had to sneak in the back and I was all like "powpowpowpowpow" coz they were all over the place and I had to get in. And then -"
"A sword fight? How cool is that! Tell me about it!"
"Well, the guy said I had to prove myself, so I'm thinking I have to do some job like a hit or something, but he pulls down this huge battle sword and I'm like "woah".
Gator clears his throat. "And the kitchen was all on fire and I had to save the chef and -"
"Gator, shut up, I'm trying to listen to the story!" yells Phil.
Gator trudges off muttering, "Never listens to me, doesn't care, shoulda killed you when I had the chance. . ."
Phil watches Gator walk off, feeling a bit guilty. He watches until Gator is out of sight. "Then what happened?"
"He said go back tomorrow for some work."
"Well alright! I'll go meet with Toni tomorrow too."
"I think Gator is going back. Something about an award for bravery or something. . ."
"Yeah, he wishes."