Under the cover of darkness, the boats returned to the docks and moored their boats. Cameron, furious with frustration, leapt from the vehicle and tossed his M-16 onto a nearby table. Greg rubbed his tear-streaken face, and roamed himself about on the hard concrete of the warehouse. Throughout the room, men lie sleeping on makeshift beds. This warehouse was the last of the Shark's residences. Vercetti had led a horrific rampage and had destroyed every Shark safehouse in the city. Back then, the Sharks were the biggest gang in Vice City. That is, until Tommy came. Those still loyal to the Shark cause were left to live inside the warehouse, and waste their lives away planning one day to finish Vercetti off.
"That's the fourth time you all screwed up!!" Cameron shouted.
He grabbed Catalina by her silky soft hair and began ravenously kissing her with his damp tongue. Greg sighed, and headed over to his own bed. Having finished with Cat, Cameron tossed her aside, and headed into one of the derelict office rooms in the corner of the building. Catalina smiled, and headed over to Greg, walking as sultry as possible.
Greg lie on his back, staring at the rafters above, when suddenly he felt a warm feminine hand brush his cheek, still moist with tears. He looked and saw Catalina sitting across from him, with the typical devilish smirk across her face.
The new morning had broken, bringing Miguel to an early awakening. The sun's harsh beams stabbed themselves into the room, and the two of them slowly rose from their bunk beds. From aloft, the sounds of men shouting fills the air. Kevin rose from the mattress, and peeked outside. From there, he could see Vercetti, dressed in his typical hi-fashion clothing, climbing into a high performance Stretch, and then drive off from the island.
"Must be too busy with his own stuff to bother with us," Miguel assumed.
Without warning, a man appeared at the door, dressed in a sleek bright purple suit. His eyes, hidden behind his fogged sunglasses, stabbed themselves towards the two.
"Vercetti got you two your own place, it's on Ocean Drive; the Tropic Hotel." The man gruffed.
"He's out on some business, and he wants you to get out of his house. He'll start talking business tomorrow, if he's not busy. He'll call you."
The man disappeared from the room, and left Kevin and Miguel to pack their own things. Within a short moment, with their short amount of belongings together, the two got themselves a taxi and were driven out to the Tropic Hotel.
"Alright, you can go inside and check the place out, I'm going to go over to a contact." Miguel sighed and hoisted the luggage into his arms.
He whimpered, held both Kevin and his own's luggage, and headed inside. Before Kevin could go and visit Lazlow, he knew he needed to get his own ride. And that left him with only one path to obtain it -- carjacking.
With Miguel safely inside the hotel, he grasped his .45 from underneath his jacket firmly, and quietly undid the safety. He walked down the sunbleached sidewalk, watching as each of the pedestrians calmly brushed passed him. Within moments, he arrived to the entrance of a small one way street in between two buildings. From the one end, he glimpsed the image of a Regina moseying itself on down the road. He jogged his way down the street, withdrew his pistol, and waved it menacingly towards the driver.
Cautiously, the driver stepped from the car, graciously closing the door behind him. This wasn't the first time Kevin had carjacked someone. In fact, he believed it was the fourth time. He was sometimes surprised, two years of working for the biggest Mafia family in Liberty City, he had only carjacked someone four times. The driver stood warily, and gave out only a slight muffled grunt when Kevin snapped his neck sharply. After disposing of the corpse in a nearby dumpster, he covered the license plate with a thin layer of disorienting mud, and drove off.
After a half hour of being lost in the vast city of Vice, he managed to find himself parked at the foot of the VRock Station Headquarters. Anchored onto it's roof, the station's massive call letters gleamed in the mid morning sun. He pushed open the swivel doors, scaled a short accumulation of steps, and was centered inside the studio itself. The card Lazlow had given him before read that he was located in studio 7, which was high on the third floor.
LAZLOW - DJ.
The sign on the door spoke volumes. It was pristine in quality, with high varnish plasticized wood flashing itself like a light bulb in a snowstorm. Kevin creaked the door open and peeked inside. Within, a single man sat at in the control booth, a microphone in front of him and dense layers of leather surrounding him. Kevin walked into the room, circled the circular booth the man sat in, and waited patiently.
"That's the fourth time you all screwed up!!" Cameron shouted.
He grabbed Catalina by her silky soft hair and began ravenously kissing her with his damp tongue. Greg sighed, and headed over to his own bed. Having finished with Cat, Cameron tossed her aside, and headed into one of the derelict office rooms in the corner of the building. Catalina smiled, and headed over to Greg, walking as sultry as possible.
Greg lie on his back, staring at the rafters above, when suddenly he felt a warm feminine hand brush his cheek, still moist with tears. He looked and saw Catalina sitting across from him, with the typical devilish smirk across her face.
The new morning had broken, bringing Miguel to an early awakening. The sun's harsh beams stabbed themselves into the room, and the two of them slowly rose from their bunk beds. From aloft, the sounds of men shouting fills the air. Kevin rose from the mattress, and peeked outside. From there, he could see Vercetti, dressed in his typical hi-fashion clothing, climbing into a high performance Stretch, and then drive off from the island.
"Must be too busy with his own stuff to bother with us," Miguel assumed.
Without warning, a man appeared at the door, dressed in a sleek bright purple suit. His eyes, hidden behind his fogged sunglasses, stabbed themselves towards the two.
"Vercetti got you two your own place, it's on Ocean Drive; the Tropic Hotel." The man gruffed.
"He's out on some business, and he wants you to get out of his house. He'll start talking business tomorrow, if he's not busy. He'll call you."
The man disappeared from the room, and left Kevin and Miguel to pack their own things. Within a short moment, with their short amount of belongings together, the two got themselves a taxi and were driven out to the Tropic Hotel.
"Alright, you can go inside and check the place out, I'm going to go over to a contact." Miguel sighed and hoisted the luggage into his arms.
He whimpered, held both Kevin and his own's luggage, and headed inside. Before Kevin could go and visit Lazlow, he knew he needed to get his own ride. And that left him with only one path to obtain it -- carjacking.
With Miguel safely inside the hotel, he grasped his .45 from underneath his jacket firmly, and quietly undid the safety. He walked down the sunbleached sidewalk, watching as each of the pedestrians calmly brushed passed him. Within moments, he arrived to the entrance of a small one way street in between two buildings. From the one end, he glimpsed the image of a Regina moseying itself on down the road. He jogged his way down the street, withdrew his pistol, and waved it menacingly towards the driver.
Cautiously, the driver stepped from the car, graciously closing the door behind him. This wasn't the first time Kevin had carjacked someone. In fact, he believed it was the fourth time. He was sometimes surprised, two years of working for the biggest Mafia family in Liberty City, he had only carjacked someone four times. The driver stood warily, and gave out only a slight muffled grunt when Kevin snapped his neck sharply. After disposing of the corpse in a nearby dumpster, he covered the license plate with a thin layer of disorienting mud, and drove off.
After a half hour of being lost in the vast city of Vice, he managed to find himself parked at the foot of the VRock Station Headquarters. Anchored onto it's roof, the station's massive call letters gleamed in the mid morning sun. He pushed open the swivel doors, scaled a short accumulation of steps, and was centered inside the studio itself. The card Lazlow had given him before read that he was located in studio 7, which was high on the third floor.
LAZLOW - DJ.
The sign on the door spoke volumes. It was pristine in quality, with high varnish plasticized wood flashing itself like a light bulb in a snowstorm. Kevin creaked the door open and peeked inside. Within, a single man sat at in the control booth, a microphone in front of him and dense layers of leather surrounding him. Kevin walked into the room, circled the circular booth the man sat in, and waited patiently.