Dylan awoke to familiar surroundings, four white walls, a white wardrobe and white curtains. He expected that having a landlord as a hippie might of meant that the room was a bit more colourful, obviously not. He sighed as his alarm clock rang out, he couldn't remember the days when he didn't wake up before it did. Work began at 10:30 opposed to the 7:30 he had to endure for C.R.A.S.H. He stretched lazily and reluctantly got out of bed to shower. Emerging from the bathroom, dressed in black jeans, a grubby red polo shirt and red baseball cap which was starting to give off a questionable smell. Trying to ignore the odour he glanced groggily at the tasteful cat calendar, it had been exactly 2 weeks since he had arrived in San Fierro, exhausted and aching. It didn't help when he had got off at the wrong bus stop meaning he had to navigate through the misty streets of the city in the middle of the night. At 15 dollars a week he was provided a room and all facilities that the house had to offer, plus food and clothing meant that Dylan had to get a job.
Malcolm Goldlinger had a small shop selling a variety of stock it was certainly colourful.
'Dilbert! Morning my man morning,' said the cheery voice of Malcolm popping up from under the counter with a variety of tie dyed t-shirts in his nicotine stained hands.
'Sobre this morning Malcolm?' said Dylan wearily, he had to open the shop twice this week as the old hippie had decided that a night full of drinking and drugs would solve all his financial problems. A yellow smile broke from under his grey bushy beard.
'Who would want be hung-over on a day like this my friend?'
'Yeah, yeah…' grumbled Dylan, taking a door to his right leading into a small grey garage occupied by a green rusty Walton and a red and yellow moped, which Malcolm had fondly named 'Bertha', bearing the words: 'Pizza Stack, Yes we deliver on 069666'. This was one of the bright sides of Dylan's Pizza Boy job. He got to ride a moped.
Just as he was turning the key to start the noisy, buzzing engine his cell phone went off.
'Adrian,' grunted Dylan.
'One o' clock outside City Hall, hope you haven't forgotten,' replied Adrian.
How could he forget the day where his future may actually be secured?
'I'll take that as a yes then, stay in that crappy uniform of yours and bring that buzzing bike, you might need a quick getaway'
'Bertha…quick ?' mused Dylan.
'What?'
'Nevermind…'
'Carl,' cooed Tenpenny tauntingly stepping quietly into the large garage. He observed the room with a gleeful smile on his face. Desks holding various toolboxes and shelves crammed with car books, a gleaming Cheetah dominated the room.
'Oh man…' muttered someone. Carl appeared in a doorway, his face more frustrated than angry.
'Nice place Carl,' said Tenpenny, pacing slowly around the room.
'Stop bullshittin' me Tenpenny, what the fuck do you want?'
'Maybe I just came round for a social visit,' he paused and laughed, 'nah who am I kidding I got a job for you.'
Carl didn't even bother arguing, he had been through this routine a thousand times already.
'There's a meeting today at one o' clock, an old colleague is trying to sell us out to a greedy reporter,' he said, bored.
'I got stick some lead in both their heads,' replied Carl casually.
'Why yes Carl, I think I'm getting a bit predictable for you,' he leered.
'Where?'
'City Hall, I hid a sniper rifle in a Frog Bin,' he replied tapping the sports car thoughtfully. He turned to leave.
'Oh and if you see some shaggy haired guy dressed in a Pizza Stack uniform, shoot him as well'
Carl watched him leave, and shook his head.
Dylan delivered, what he hoped was his last pizza and accelerated down the drive of the bungalow, turned into the main road, heading towards the building in the distance. 5 minutes later he turned into the road that surrounded the terracotta coloured square. He eyed a bench with a clear view of the entire layout and pulled up beside it and nervously sat down, he still had ten minutes… There were about four people, including the hot dog vendor, sat down in the square all enjoying there lunch break, the actual City Hall was huge, white marble gleamed in the afternoon sun and workers continuously flowed in and out. The square itself was shaped in a thick cross, paved with terracotta tiles and small green bushes lined the outside. A very abstract structure of tall straw coloured building bricks made up the centre of the cross . Dylan swallowed nervously when a man in a olive plaid shirt and blue jeans with a messenger bag slung walked towards him.
'Hey are you Adrian Barker?' he said, a tint of a Mexican accent creeping into his voice. Dylan opened his mouth, but he saw Adrian strolling up towards them.
'No, I am,' he said, the reporter turned and shook hands.
'Lets take a walk then Mr Barker'
'Of course,' replied Adrian cheerfully, the pair turned and dived into a deep, quiet conversation. Dylan double checked that the Deagle was still there in his jacket pocket, his fingers brushed the steel , but it didn't make him feel any better. Five minutes passed slowly and tediously . 10 minutes …20 minutes they shook hands, Dylan didn't dare relax. BANGHe threw himself to the floor, his ears ringing. He watched in horror as the harmless reporter dropped to the floor in a bloody heap, dark rich liquid forming a small puddle around his head. Adrian turned to run but was cut down by hot lead shattering his skull forming a gaping puncture. People began screaming, birds flew upwards from a bush to his right. Dylan saw the legs of a running man. He leapt up ignoring the chaos around him, running at a fast pace fuelled solely by adrenalin. He had a clear view of a pair of combat trousers and a pulled up black hoody, the man was fast but Dylan was faster. He had been at San Fierro gym almost everyday so when the time came when he had to run like hell, he'd be ready for it. They crossed a traffic filled road, breaking their run only to leap over the odd car bonnet. Dylan was so close now he called rip the hoody off the killers head, air and sweat slapped his face as Dylan leapt forwards, the mans waist in his arms. They both crashed to the ground much to the bemusement of the civilians around. Dylan cried in pain as the back of a trainer slammed squarely into his chin, though Dylan scrambled up ready to run again, instead the furious, fierce face of Carl Johnson glared back at him. Taking his chances Dylan swiped a blow into Carl's jaw who stumbled back slightly and spat blood.
'Motherfucker,' said Carl simply, in an almost playful tone. Carl lunged forward, smacking Dylan to the ground, but instead of releasing a volley of punches, he ripped off Dylan's cap and his eyes widened.
'You!' he yelled. Then Dylan saw stars, as a brass knuckle duster connected with his jaw. He tried to scream in pain, but he couldn't move, he was paralysed in agony, his entire face writhing in torment. It wasn't over. Dylan's thumping heart felt cold steel cutting into his chest. Opening his eyes he could see Carl's menacing glare and his mouth muttering furiously, Dylan's Deagle in his hands. Carls face looked up and frowned.
'Stay away from me fool or I'll have to kill you' he spat, then breaking into a run from the red and blue sirens that were closing in on him.
Dylan lay helplessly, trying to keep his eyes open, but the screaming agony was to much. He saw nothing.
