'Welcome to the Mothership my friend!'
Dylan glanced at the multicoloured Camper again, looked up at the shrivelled bearded face and attempted to smile.
'Your going to Las Venturas right?' said Dylan, planting himself on the front seat hoping that he'd say no. This was the only vehicle that had pulled up and it happened to be inhabited by a psychotic hippie and four drunken men.
'All in good time man all in good time…'
'Oi, Maccer, Twiggy, Terry we got some new beef,' said a distinctly English voice. Dylan turned to face the wasted scene. The owner of the voice had short brown hair and a bottle of beer in his hand. A few seats behind lay a younger man dressed in white jacket and sun hat with an upper lip and nose that had seen a lot of substance. He was sprawled on his back across three seats, Dylan averted his eyes as the man thrust a hand down his jeans. The two other guys were sat right at the back of the van, one was sporting a English soccer shirt and blue jeans, black hair poked out from under his NYY baseball cap. He had a gawky, skinny frame and one ear pierced. He was asleep snoring loudly much to the annoyance of the overweight blonde haired, baggy clothed guy sitting next to him.
'Ahh shut up Twiggy, y' twat,' he rumbled hitting the slumbering man with a rolled up Playboy magazine. Twiggy snorted, and woke, his hand reaching for his ear where found a used cigarette.
'Sod off Terry… I was 'avin this amazin' dream…' he stared dreamily out of the window.
'Eh..lads new meat!' he repeated, they all looked up this time, 'what's your name son?'
'Dylan'
'Names Kent Paul.… call me Paul, the one who's jerking off is Maccer, the fat lad is Terry and the one with the Scouser shirt is Twiggy,' he said, frowning at Maccer, 'Maccer for fucks sakes get ye' hand outta your trousers!' yelled Paul.
Maccer withdrew his hand and rolled off his seat.
'Oh bloody hell…' muttered Paul, lighting a cigarette and taking a swig from his beer.
'Where you guys from?'
'London,' said Paul.
'Salford…Manchester,' slurred Maccer proudly emerging from the floor.
'Liverpool,' cried a noise from the back.
'Who's the Yank Paulo?' drawled Maccer.
'I just said y' twat that's Dylan that is,' sighed Paul.
'Oi Mr Truth d'have any more booze?' shouted Terry from the back.
'The Truth!Yeah, it's under your chair,' said the ageing driver.
'Ahh nice one,' said Twiggy gleefully, 'Declan d'you want a beer?' he asked.
'It's Dylan you nunce!' cried Paul desperately.
'Yeah sure,' replied Dylan, a drink was what he really needed.
'So Dylan what brings you to these parts?' said The Truth.
'Uhhh…I,' stuttered Dylan, it probably wasn't the best idea to tell his revenge plans to a pack of strangers. Seconds Past.
'Ok Ok, who don't have to tell, by the look of your face it's probably something nasty, but one thing…is it against the system?' he said, almost pleadingly.
'Yeah…I guess so,' replied Dylan honestly, not sure if it was a good or a bad thing, a slap on the back answered his question.
'I knew it, you and me friend are gonna get along just fine,' he said triumphantly.
'So…what are four Englishmen and a hippie doing in a Camper? asked Dylan.
'You'll see my friend, you'll see,' said The Truth.
'Oh for petes sakes, just tell 'em were goin' on a crack filled booze out!' yelled Terry.
'You can come if you like Declan!' cried Twiggy.
'Dylan!' shouted five frustrated filled voices.
'Whatever y'bastards,' said Twiggy moodily.
Angry silence filled the vehicle.
'We've been in this bloody thing for hours, we need a break, before we start throttling each other,' said Paul tiresomely. A hum of agreement emitted from the other occupants.
'No no, it's only another hour, anyway I think the system is on our tail,' mumbled The Truth, glancing nervously in the rear view mirror. Dylan tried to make the time pass as quickly as possible.
'Why are you lot in San Andreas?'
'Wee-ll,' began Terry cracking his knuckles, a grin on his face. 'Were…'
'Were a rap band,' interrupted Maccer boastfully.
'And I manage the bunch of sods,' muttered Paul out of the corner of his mouth.
'Gurning Chimps is what they call us,' said Maccer loftily. Dylan tried not to laugh.
'A rap band…from where…Salford?' said Dylan, half sniggering.
'Aye,' continued Maccer, unhindered by Dylan's chuckling, 'Oi…wait don't laf, o.k so we might not be Mr. Dre or whatever you Yanks listen to …an' we might not call each ova 'homies' but were big,' said Maccer spiritedly.
'Aye class…quality even,' agreed Terry.
'So 'ere we are in the States promoting our image,' belched Maccer, swaying slightly.
'And were celebrating with a first course of Peyote,' said The Truth.
'What the drug?' said Dylan.
'Yeah what else?' he replied.
'Then were goin' to find some birds and some tits,' said Maccer, he smiled mellowly, picturing the scene, he then keeled over.
'Yes! That's 5 quid for me Twigs,' jeered Terry, punching the air.
'Oh, I was sure 'e was gonna last the journey,' groaned Twiggy, handing over a few coins. Paul rolled his eyes and took a deep drag.
'Are you planning to do all this in Venturas then?' said Dylan.
'No way…were heading for a desert town,' replied The Truth, a glint in his eye.
'But your gonna get to Venturas right?' said Dylan desperately. Everyone looked at each other.
'Of course!' cried the Truth.
'Most likely…' said Paul.
'Maybe,' Twiggy sighed.
'Prob'ly not,' sniffed Terry. A grunt from Maccer put a full stop to the conversation. It was going to be a long hour.
'O.k so you sure your going to stay here?' said The Truth.
'Yeah, best if I stay sober for Venturas,' replied Dylan.
'Right, well I'll see you in the morning dude,' said The Truth.
'Well now that's settled lads, let's hit the town!' bellowed Paul, a drunken cheer erupted from the ranks.
'Nice meetin' you Dylan…summant tells me we ain't gonna meet again,' winked Paul. Dylan watched them stumble off into the town of Las Pasyadas. Dylan looked wondrously around the desert plains drenched in the evening light. If I get out of this alive I'm going to live here, thought Dylan, but for now he had to settle for The Mothership. They had parked on a grass verge just outside a medical centre, though Dylan didn't feel like retiring to the alcohol-sweat scented container yet. He wandered into the town, it was practically deserted and there was only one small bar, but the group had already disappeared from sound and sight. He inspected a Barbers shop, it was still open and he really needed a cut. He remerged sporting a buzz cut, and 40 dollars poorer. He ambled around for another ten minutes, and then decided to head back.
It only took him a few minutes to drop into a much needed sleep and managed to slumber for another 5 hours until a rapping on the door woke him. He grunted and groggily felt for the handle, it was the scraggy face of Twiggy.
'Ahhhhh! Who the hell are you?' Twiggy shrieked toppling over onto the sand.
'Oh man…it's me, Dylan, I just got a cut that's all,' said Dylan.
'Oh…right,' said Twiggy goofily, sagging. Dylan eyed the other lump on the ground.
'What happened to him?'
'He's just absolutely plastered,' said Twiggy.
'And the rest of them?'
'Well…I last saw Maccer with a bird talkin' about a snake farm,' he scratched his head. 'And Paulo was still dazed out after the Peyote Safari and wondered off after Maccer…ummm Mr. Truth…I think he said something about a Japanese bathhouse in Los Santos,' he said dazed.
'Shit,' muttered Dylan. He was going to have to find another way to Venturas.
'Y'know what?'
'What?' replied Dylan grumpily.
'I absolutely hate this band,' he said.
'Great,' said Dylan staring out into the distance.
'I'm gonna live out here in the desert, screw the lot of them I say'
'You do that'
'Yeah I should, c'mon Terry were outta here, thanks Declan'
'Dylan'
They sauntered off, leaving Dylan slumped against The Mothership. He would wait until morning before sticking out his thumb again.
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Dylan stood in front of the Four Dragons Casino. A trucker had given him a lift and after asking countless people if they knew of any new casinos, he had been given this location, he entered the rectangular entrance hall. It was quite, only a few desperate gamblers played the slot machines, though four security guards patrolled around the circular room, one in particular was guarding a grand wooden double door. That was the place to start. He walked over casually, concocting a plan to get him in, it was very dark in this part of the room no one would see him if he just…
'What d'you want?' said the deep voice of the bald bodyguard.
'Ummm…I'm here to…'
The bodyguard dropped to the floor clutching his face as Dylan delivered a smashing blow to his jaw, Dylan planted several kicks into his stomach, when he was sure the guard wasn't going to be walking in the next few minutes, he infiltrated the room. It was a medium seized rectangular room, kitted out in the best of oriental ornaments. To Dylan's delight and horror there stood Carl Johnson at the side of a black suited Chinese man, both hunched over some documents. He didn't have time to speak as he felt hands tightly grasp his shoulder.
'Who are you?' said a voice to his left. He watched the two at the desk glance up, the Chinese man's face remained expressionless but Carl frowned and walked over to him.
'Who is it Carl?' he said.
'Oh man…' muttered Carl 'It's you!'
'Who?' repeated the man.
'Don't fret Wu-zi,' a smile crept across Carl's face 'Shit, woah did I do that to your face?' The man named Wu-zi stood up and walked over to Dylan.
'Hello, I'm Wu-Zi-Mu,' he said politely.
'Uhh…Wu-Zi a little to your left,' said Carl carefully.
'Oh sorry,' he shuffled a few spaces across until he was facing Dylan, Dylan shook his outstretched hand.
'Hey…I'm Dylan,' he said uncertainly, it had been a minute and he wasn't dead.
'So Carl how do you know Dylan?' said Wu-zi
'What this buster? I don't know him, he just keeps poppin' up,' replied Carl. 'What the fuck d'you want?'
'I'm looking for Tenpenny,' said Dylan.
'Man I had almost forgot about that dickhead'
'You want him dead right?'
'Me? Half of Los Santos want him dead…but look I ain't seen him for a while, I don't know where the fuck he is and frankly I don't give a shit…now please fuck off,' said Carl gravely, Dylan knew he was defeated.
'Yeah well next time you see him, drop me a damn telegram, because I'll only be safe when that bastards dead,' said Dylan fiercely. He kicked the doors open, and quickly left the building before he was shot, his head in his hands he slumped against a wall. He had no options now, maybe it was finally time to leave…go home, back to Liberty. He brought his hands to his sides and gazed at the bustling street. And there in front of him was Jimmy Hernandez.
