"Alright, you keep the car running. I shouldn't be in there for more than 10 minutes. If I ain't back in 15, something's wrong. Got it?" Tommy Spinelli went over the game plan with the Leone henchman that had driven him here.
The job was simple. Sneak into Pete Nico's club, 'The Starlight', and burn it down. He had been provided with two full gas cans and a box of matches. Tommy lifted the two heavy, red, metal containers out of the boot of his red Admiral. If asked his opinion of this little caper, Spinelli would say it was fucking ridiculous. Pete Nico had never made one aggressive move against Salvatore Leone. This was a big problem with Salvatore Leone: he was too aggressive. He had a passion for starting conflict for o reason.
Spinelli was under the impression that if Salvatore was going to be this way, he could at least do it right. Leone never seemed to think things through, and although he had been lucky all his life so far, Spinelli knew that someday he was going to get himself killed. The man didn't like strategy, and if he wanted someone gone he would blindly blow them all to hell without batting an eye. If one of his men wanted to quit on him, the guy would be executed before he got out the door.
Tommy made his way to the back door of 'The Starlight', dragging the gas cans slightly on the rough pavement of the club's parking lot. The sound seemed to be amplified by the night's silence, causing Spinelli to wince a little. The dark and foreboding alley behind The Starlight loomed large in front of him, challenging him to come inside. Spinelli had a terrible feeling about all of this but if he was successful he would be paid well and not be killed for at least awhile longer.
What if someone was still in the club? In cities like Liberty people with sense don't leave beautiful venues like the Starlight unattended on a regular basis. Spinelli knew if he owned it he'd keep guards stationed there 24/7. As he neared the door, he made a fruitless attempt to shake away the paranoia. This was easy, and everything would probably go fine.
Spinelli shook the dark thoughts away, trying to fill his head with positive ones.
There is nobody there.
They're clueless.
Tommy softly laid the cumbersome cans on the ground as he approached the back door. After taking a moment to marvel at the pristine, un-chipped paint, he noticed the large bulky padlock that kept him from entering. Tommy knelt down and felt around in his jacket, his hands wrapped around what he sought after: a black 9 millimeter pistol. A long, thin suppressor was screwed onto the end of the weapon to keep the noise level at a minimum.
As he pressed the barrel of the gun up to the padlock, Spinelli squeezed his eyes and winced heavily as if it would make the shot even more quiet. The bulky metal tool burst apart and fell to the ground as it was decimated by the force of the bullet. The shattered pieces skidded across the ground and bounced away. Tommy paused for a moment and took a series of deep breathes.
"Alright." Tommy murmured to himself after what seemed like hours of listening in dead silence to assure himself that no one was alarmed.
He hoisted the cans back off the ground, lifted his leg up, and kicked the back door open. The lock snapped away from the wood and the door swung open violently. Tommy had a mini-heart attack as the noise startled him greatly. A few more seconds of dead silence followed as he once again hoped and prayed no one had heard him yet. All was silent.
As he took a few steps forward, he took the time to survey the inside of the club. Amazement is the only thing that could have properly described his reaction. To the right of him was a bar, sweeping across the floor for what seemed like miles. Several chairs were lined up one by one beside the polished wood. These weren't cheap dollar stores chairs made up of particle board, either. They were nice and hand crafter. Tommy guessed that each one of them cost a fortune. On the other side of the bar were rows and rows of bottles. All different colors; reds; greens; blues; bright oranges; black bottles of hard whiskey; and large brass faucets that dispensed any type of malt liquor imaginable. The walls of the club were almost like cushions, they were a shade of light pink with strange designs all over them. The place seemed as if it would be very cheery during business hours when the lights were on and whatnot. However, the part that really caught Tommy's eye was the middle of the club; the dance floor. It consisted of a thick layer of glass; lying underneath it was a large tank of the clearest water he had ever seen in a polluted city like Liberty. Holy shit. Swimming gracefully through the water in broad circles were dark shapes, Tommy squinted in an attempt to make them out. Their large, grey, slippery forms swaying rhythmically through the rippling water were captivating. Swimming under the dance floor of The Starlight, were 5 large sharks.
"Wow… That's fucking amazing…" Tommy muttered to himself slowly.
He almost felt bad about burning the joint down, but orders were orders. Tommy plucked the gas caps off of the cans and turned one of them over. The clear gasoline spilled onto the floor in a steady stream. Tommy trudged against the hardwood floor of the nightclub, battling the weight of the bulky objects. The clear liquid flowed across the smooth floor and soaked into the soft walls. A familiar odor filled Tommy's nose, he hated the smell of gasoline.
Before he'd started dumping highly flammable liquids into the place, it had smelled very clean and pure. Not like any other nightclub in Liberty City. Most of them smelled of dead animals, puke, piss, blood, cum, and pretty much everything else known to mankind. Tommy never went clubbing anymore, too disgusting. This was a place that he would gladly come to. Too bad that in a matter of minutes it would be nothing but a smoldering pile of charred ruins.
The first can was empty. Tommy was getting too agitated to stick around much longer, besides the gas had spread enough. He dropped the other full can and kicked it over with a sharp jab of his foot. Quickly but quietly he dashed towards where he had come in.
WHAM!
Tommy yelped as he felt something very hard smash into the back of his head. The sour taste of copper filled his mouth as he stumbled and fell onto his right knee. Another sharp blow was landed to the front of his face. He felt his face get sticky as warm blood escaped the newly formed gash above his right eye. He slumped sideways and looked up to see who had cold cocked him.
Because of the lack of light, the figure was tough to make out. The assailant was skinny, but confident looking. Tommy could make out the faint outlines of a cocky, lopsided smile that formed defiantly on the lips of the bartender. Held in the air next to his head was a short but threatening tire thumper. It resembled a mini-baseball bat. Tommy examined the uniform that the attacker wore: a simple white, button up dress shirt; a funny looking black bow-tie; a pair of simple black trousers. A small gold name plate was pinned onto the shirt pocket, it read 'Mark'. Mark swung the thumper again, slamming into Tommy's ribs with a dull 'thud'. Tommy screamed and rolled over, trying to escape.
Awkwardly he struggled to regain his footing and run. As he almost made it to his feet, he was knocked down by another blow to the back of the head. He felt the world getting cloudy around him; his world seemed to grow distant as he felt the sensation of floating in thin air.
The bartender's foot came down upon Tommy's chest and stayed there, pinning him down. Tommy tried to give the sign of surrender, raising both of his hands desperately. Mark ignored the pathetic plea and pressed his shoe down into the area around Tommy's nose. He twisted the expensive footwear to create as much pain as possible, but by this point Tommy didn't feel much. Tommy stopped struggling, Mark stopped attacking. Unconsciousness took over.
He felt himself being carried by at least two men when he regained consciousness. His body was moving up and down as the carriers took steps.
Was he dead?
Was this hell?
Was the whole club thing a dream?
No.
You were caught.
He had let himself get caught… What a fuck up!
Tommy silently punished himself, screaming in frustration at his stupidity within his brain. When his blindfold was torn off, Tommy was greeted by the confident faces of Pete Nico's five enforcers.
He figured he was in for an interesting night, at least.
