Author's Note: Halfway through the writing of this chapter, I realized I should probably split it into two chapters because I was over 4000 words. Fortunately, I didn't compromise the integrity of the storyline following the game's plot since the game technically divided this mission into two parts: killing T-Bone and the Rifa, and killing Ryder. I'll have the next part posted soon, and then moving the storyline into Las Venturas/Bone County…and I promise to stun and amaze with what awaits.

Warning: This chapter contains violence, vulgar language, a slashy joke, and a non-canon character death. If you can't stomach it, don't read it.

Two Days Later

Cesar's POV:

"Good morning, I'm Lianne Forget, here to bring San Andreas' top news stories from across the state. In today's broadcast: Is milk healthy to feed your growing kids? Does driving a compact car cause impotence? And does Bigfoot live in the Panopticon?"

Cesar decreased the volume on the radio while he screwed on the silencer at the end of his gun. He checked the clip, nodded with satisfaction at the six bullets inside, and opened the car door. Creeping around the corner of Cranberry Station, the lean Latino hesitated with each step and hitched his breath to remain stealthy. 'This hijoputa better not be here, not after all the shit I've done for him. I helped him when he had nothing and nobody to turn to.'

As Cesar suspected—and hated to admit—when he peeked around the corner of the austere gray shale building, he spotted Pitbull crouched in front of the orange newspaper stand in front of Cranberry Station. The larger gangsta wore a dark gray Rockstar hoody, dark gray sweats, and dark gray sneakers. If he hadn't been moving, Pitbull would have been invisible in San Fierro's early morning fog. 'No fuckin' way! Rafael, estúpido hijoputa, you've just handed over your life.'

Whether it was the sound of the radio on Pitbull's blue PCJ-600 or Pitbull's immersion in collecting his ill-gotten money, Pitbull didn't hear Cesar approaching. Cesar walked behind Pitbull. "Rafael, stand up."

Pitbull paused with a stack of hundred dollar bills in his right hand and half-glanced at Cesar over his shoulder. "Cesar, what are you doing here?"

"Don't turn around, if you know what's good for you. And get your hands on your head."

Pitbull threw down the money, stood up, and scowled into Cesar's face. His prettyboy face had turned a searing red and his large hands were balled into fists. "You joined the policia now? Huh? You're one of the chotas?"

Cesar returned his scowl without a moment of cowardice. "No, but I am running an investigation." He pressed the business end of the silencer into Pitbull's chest. "Let's take a walk, puto."

Pitbull blanched, but complied. He allowed Cesar to lead him through Cranberry Station, off the platform, across the train tracks, and beneath the highway. "What you want, novio?"

Cesar forced Pitbull to turn around. When the larger gangsta did, Cesar slammed the barrel of his silencer into Pitbull's nose and ignored Pitbull's cries of pain. "I want this bullshit to end, Rafael!" He shoved Pitbull, and the larger Latino gangsta lost his balance, falling onto the grass. Pitbull stared helplessly into Cesar's face, his eyes seeming to plead with his former friend. "I'm tired of dealing with you, puto!" Cesar slammed Pitbull across the face with the silencer again.

Pitbull sagged against the fence of the local gun factory and clutched his bleeding face. "Shit, novio, what did I do to you? Whatever it was…"

Kicking Pitbull in his unguarded stomach, Cesar stood over the wounded gangsta. "Don't play with me, Rafael! You've been fuckin' up my whole life since you turned up again. You ended my relationship with Kendl. You made CJ think I was gay." He punctuated each punch with a kick to some part of his body.

"But you are!"

That comment earned Pitbull an encounter between the right side of his face and Cesar's left fist. "Estúpido hijoputa, you think you can sell out my hermanos, my family?"

"Estos negros putas, they're your family? Where were they when you had to sell all the shit in your house because you didn't have food to eat that week? Where was your family when you needed a place to live? Who helped you to survive all of that?" Pitbull's yelling led to a fit of painful coughing.

"They weren't there then, but I know them. They would have been there."

"Are you so sure? They are negros after all." Cesar delivered two right hooks to Pitbull's jaw. The half-Dominican coughed up two bloody, almost ivory teeth onto the grass. Pitbull's triumphant sneer remained. "Did I upset you, novio?"

"Don't you dare talk about Cesar or Kendl like that." Cesar aimed the gun at the center of Pitbull's forehead. He pulled back the slide and took a couple of steps back to avoid the spatter of gray matter and blood on his clothes. "Hasta luego, hijoputa."

Before Cesar's itching finger could pull the trigger, Pitbull lashed out with his boot-clad feet and cracked Cesar's right shin. Cesar doubled over for a moment of pain, but it was all the time the half-Dominican needed to scramble to his feet and dash up the hill. Pitbull reached the top of the hill before Cesar could fully recover. But the Azteca warrior was hot on his trail.

"I'm gettin' the fuck outta this town, Cesar! You can come with me if you want!" Pitbull called down the hill.

"Puto, are you loco?" As if to emphasize how deplorable the idea was, Cesar shot at Pitbull. The bullet grazed the half-Dominican's right ear.

"Fuck you, too Cesar." Pitbull clutched his ear and resumed running. Just as he reached the train tracks in front of Cranberry Station, Cesar put another slug into Pitbull's right knee. The half-Dominican gangsta collapsed on the rails. He whimpered and sobbed in pain. "Que pasa, novio? I thought you loved me?"

"I never fuckin' loved you, Rafael!"

As Cesar reached the train tracks, Pitbull rolled over. Even in the morning fog, the moistness of Pitbull's eyes and the dampness on his face couldn't be misunderstood. "But…you were there when I needed you! You protected me, even when I was a little kid! I'm alive today because of you!"

Cesar loomed over Pitbull's blood and tear-stained face. "I never loved you," he enunciated clearly. "I took care of you because you needed it. Without me, Los Aztecas would've killed you!"

"I sucked tu carajo! I almost kept your bed warm!"

"You swallowed my dick in the barrio because Los Aztecas didn't kill you. I asked for money, but that's what you gave me instead."

Realization dawned painfully in Pitbull's face. The agony on his face had nothing to do with the wounds in his knee and ear, nor did his tortured bellow, "Why did you let me live with you in San Fierro? You left that sucia for me!"

"No, pendejo, you told her I loved you. She walked out before I could explain, and I let you live with me because you know where me and my familia are. Gracias a Dios, Kendl and I might get back together soon, and I won't let you fuck that up for me, Pitbull. I can't let you be around when that happens."

"But, but…"

Cesar knelt down with his gun barrel pressed to Pitbull's forehead and stared into the half-Dominican's enchanting blue eyes. Even frightened, bloody, and bruised, Pitbull had a rare distillation of good looks and charm that could work on anyone. Cesar was unwilling to think it, but for a time, it had worked on him. "There's nothing you can say that will save you now, Rafael."

From the tunnel a few yards away, there came the sound of a blaring train whistle. Pitbull's face blanched, while Cesar's mouth turned upward in a self-assured grin. "Cesar, no, don't. Don't let me die like this."

"You think you deserve better?" Cesar stood up, shifted the aim of his gun, and pumped another slug into Pitbull's undamaged knee. The Azteca warrior shook his head and lowered his gun to his side.

"Cesar, homes, go ahead and wet me up! I don't wanna die like this, please?"

As he walked away, Cesar slipped his gun into the waistband of his sagging khakis, folded his arms and waited. Pitbull struggled desperately to move off the tracks. He pled and sobbed for a quick, painless death. He threatened CJ and Kendl, even though he was hardly in a position to do so. Until the moment that the train shredded apart his body as it pulled into the station.

Satisfied with the half-Dominican's death, Cesar backed away from the crime scene into the darkness.

CJ's POV:

"Our top story for today: After weeks of a statewide manhunt—or in this case, witchhunt—the search for convicted bank robber, Catalina Martinez, has ended. Police captured Martinez in her Fern Ridge hideout after locals reported that the cabin was haunted. One officer had this to say:

"'So we went to investigate, thinking, "Oh holy shit, we're gonna see a real live ghost!"'

"'You maricon assholes! I kill all of you! I slaughter you in your beds like the pigs you are! I will slit your throats before your wives and children.'

"'Shut up, stupid bitch! Hey Taylor, give her the cattle prod again.'

"'Sure thing, lieutenant!'

"'So where was I? Oh yeah: When we got to the cabin, we heard screams and yells, and I was like "Alright, this is some real haunted America bullshit!" I had my gun drawn and everything, and a couple of the guys were ready with cameras to film any poltergeist activity. We were ready for national fame, you know? But we opened the doors to find that skinny bitch laying on the floor handcuffed to a sex rack. Can't figure out how she handcuffed herself to the damn thing.'"

CJ stirred in his sleep, resenting both the news story playing on the clock radio and the fullness of the radiant sunlight dancing through the window beside the bed in which he lay. The window was on his right side, and the clock radio on his left. Either way he turned, something was going to keep him awake.

"In other news, Dick Goody, the former district attorney of San Fierro, was recently denied bond. A few weeks ago, we reported on his arrest while in possession of well-over a ton of marijuana, much of which has since disappeared from the police department's evidence locker for reasons unknown. At his bond hearing, Goody had this to say…."

CJ reached onto the nightstand and slapped the top of the imitation aluminum clock until it went silent. He groaned and stretched, and tried to roll to his left side for a few more minutes of sleep. But his legs were trapped by a warm, fleshy grip. 'What the hell?'

He pulled back the dark blue silk sheets from his nude body. At the same time, Carl felt the warm, moist embrace around the length of his manhood, which he acquainted with only two places—a woman's mouth and her womanhood.

Beneath the sheet, Helena's green eyes met CJ's dark brown. Like the husky Black, she was naked except for a pair of pink silk panties fitting the curve of her pale rear end. Seeing her crimson lips wrapped around his throbbing brown length made CJ recall where he was and why. After Cesar had gathered information about a meeting of the Loco Syndicate with only the location unknown, CJ had murdered Jizzy in the middle of Espalande North. He had a date with Helena scheduled immediately after, and whether it was Helena's dress from the previous night or the excitement of killing someone, the date had concluded at her farmhouse in Flint County.

"Damn, I guess this is good morning to me, huh?" CJ chuckled.

Helena smirked and slid her lips along his manhood until it was free with a moist pop. "You had a stiffy. I thought, 'Why waste an exemplary hard cock?'"

"That was a good thought. I blew your back out last night, didn't I, bitch?"

"You might've blown out your back, but that cock you gave last night was just better than the rest."

"But you got back on it this morning," CJ said defensively.

"I'm gonna give it another shot, see if this time isn't better than the one before."

"Gone and do your thing, girl. Finish this dick off." CJ reclined on the bed while Helena resumed slurping. In Helena's farmhouse, there was no central heat to combat the encroaching early morning chill from winter's onset. Each bob of Helena's head left a trail of steam saliva along CJ's shaft. The Black shivered in the slight chill and pulled the silk sheet over his and Helena's bodies. 'Glad I wore some socks when I fucked this bitch last night.'

Helena's mouth disconnected CJ from any higher thought. Her mouth was perfect in its talent. She understood, without CJ telling her, how to caress his shaft with her tongue and engulfed the most of his thick manhood with each bob of her head. While Helena's jaw stretched to its limit around his engorged, quivering member, CJ smirked at the memory of Helena's complaints about the fullness of his manhood within her only hours before. 'Wonder how the bitch feels now. She's gonna need some dental surgery after this blowjob.'

Within three minutes, CJ climaxed and shot his seed deep into Helena's wonderfully wet mouth. The burly gangsta seized the lawyer's pretty face, clenched his fingers in her auburn hair, and held her in place when he ejaculated. To his surprise, not a single drop of his semen escaped her lips. "Mmm, baby, it tastes so good. It's just like marshmallows," Helena complimented, when he relaxed his grip.

"Thanks, bitch." CJ briefly wondered if she expected reciprocation (he hadn't proffered oral sex the night before, and earnestly preferred not to) before his cell phone rang. He seized it from Helena's nightstand while she sat back on her knees and pouted. "Speak on it."

"Hola, CJ!"

"What up, Ceese?"

"Aye, CJ, did you get Jizzy's phone last night? La policía just mentioned his asesinato on the news, and…"

CJ sat up and exclaimed, "Shit! That means the rest of the Locos would know about it too."

"There's no way of telling. Everything might be bueno, homes. We just need the phone so we can strike and take out these putos."

"I got Jizzy's phone. I ain't call last night after I got it because I had some things to take care of, after I did the work last night." At the mere implication of her name, Helena smiled simperingly and began to stroke CJ's flaccid member. It stiffened almost immediately.

"So where's the meet?"

CJ watched Helena trace her slim white fingers with their neat, manicured nails along the veined shaft of his hard chocolate shaft. Her lips pouted and her ripe breasts reddened with a rush of blood. "It's gonna be at Pier Sixty-Nine today at," CJ checked his silver Crowex, a gift from Helena and the only article of clothing he still wore, "five-thirty."

"Bien, we got nine hours. I'll go to Ammu-Nation, get heated."

"Where'd you get some money, Ceese? The garage ain't doin' that well yet."

"Mira, when the racing flows through your veins, you can smell the nitrous from a mile away! Racing, homes!"

Helena shimmied out of her panties, laid on her back, and teasingly slipped her panties off her legs. CJ had an unhindered view of her shaved, glistening wet slit with her lips still swollen from the previous night. The Black licked his lips at the sight. "Cool, I got work to take care of here, too. Meet you downtown at three-thirty."

"Bien, homes."

CJ hung up the phone, grabbed Helena by her smooth and creamy thighs, and placed his hands on either side of her head. "You been a bad bitch, you know that girl?"

Helena laughed. "Punish me, gangsta."

Carl plunged his rod into her soft, wet walls.

Sweet's POV:

"You know, doing laundry is actually really relaxing to me," Augustus said, folding a white cotton sheet until it was crisp along the fold lines.

"Bullshit, this job is the most fucked up shit I've had in here." Sweet unloaded a cotton hamper's worth of damp sheets and clothes from an industrial-sized washer. When the hamper was filled, he moved it to the industrial-sized dryer on the other side of the wall. Sweet wiped off his sweat before he started to load clothes. "This whole room is hotter than a motherfucker; we got all these dick clothes to clean; and what's worse, I'm stuck in here with your ass."

Augustus laughed without breaking the pace of his folding. "Aye Sweet, I can't help you with those first two, but think about this: Being stuck in here with me is a hell of a lot better than some cholo or Italiano motherfucker any day, right?"

"Hell nah! A nigga's startin' to feel claustrophobic in this place!"

Both Sweet and Augustus laughed. In the weeks since Augustus had staged a rape of Sweet, the former GSF don had been avoided as though he carried a plague. Rival gangs in the prison had given Sweet a wide berth: They glared venomously at him across the mess hall or shouted death threats when in the crowded gym, but no one attempted to cross Augustus. Sweet's perception of a fist flying into his face at any moment had proven wrong in the ensuing weeks. But the taller Black gangsta hadn't turned 29 years old in South Central Los Santos by letting down his guard.

"Relax, nigga, I'm just trying to get that sweet candy ass you've got." Augustus made kissing faces, and Sweet retaliated with a wet bath towel lashed across Augustus' face. Sometimes they were more like long-lost brothers than cellmates.

"Get back from me, nigga!"

"Come on, gimme some sweet ass!"

"Hell nah, faggot motherfucker!"

"Mira, it's the boyfriends," a cold, heavily Spanish accented voice said from the other side of the room. Sweet and Augustus ceased their horseplay immediately. Sweet, whose back was to the laundry room door, turned and spotted two shaved headed Latino gangstas leaning in the doorway. The taller of the two had folded his arms over his slim chest, while the shorter had a baby-face and three names tattooed on his neck.

'Only one set's gonna try some shit in here today: Los Santos Vagos.'

"What's up, cholo motherfuckers? You wanna dance?" Augustus asked. He tossed aside the sheet in his hands and took a few steps toward the gangstas, until he stood side-by-side with Sweet. With his brawny arms held wide, he challenged them, "I know you spic motherfuckers ain't here to run the laundry."

"Horale, hijoputa, we about to clean this whole prison up, make it all brown, comprende?"

"Oh yeah, bitch ass? You and your amigo here, you two gonna take over this prison?" Sweet challenged.

"Nah, we got more amigos, pendejo." The first two Latinos stepped into the room and flanked the doorway. Three more average-sized gangstas in varying shades of caramel brown entered the laundry room, followed by a gangsta so massively tall and unbelievably burly that he was a veritable Goliath to Augustus' David. One cold dead eye, vividly white with blindness, rolled lazily to Augustus when the giant bared his yellow, uneven teeth and cracked his swollen, scarred knuckles. A padding of visible fat protected his barrel-like stomach.

His good eye rested upon Sweet. "You niggas ain't leavin' this room until you're in bodybags," he warned.

Big Smoke's POV:

"In other news, street good guy Big Smoke announced the opening today of his brand-new orphanage for Los Santos' disadvantaged youth. Reporters were not allowed into the facility, which occupies a 68,000 square-foot abandoned block of former shops in East Los Santos, but Big Smoke was filled with nothing but praises for the organization."

Big Smoke grinned proudly as his speech began playback. He had made no effort to write anything in advance, contrary to the advice of Frank Tenpenny and Mike Toreno, and that made him even prouder. 'Those assholes think I can't take a shit without them. Listen to me, I'm just as smart as them motherfuckers! Homeless folks goin' be lining up to get in! Nobody's gonna make that white faster than people who need a job and a place to live. Just gotta make sure Toreno and his crew get wetted up, like Tenpenny said, and we gonna be home free.'

The obese gangsta chuckled at the thought of all the money he stood to gain. People who didn't demand a cent of the profits from the sales of the crack his and Ryder's crack factory would yield in only a matter of days. And without the Loco Syndicate as a middle man and the cost of transporting the cocaine across the state under the security of corrupt police officers, his money would grow exponentially. There was just the simple matter of following Frank Tenpenny's plan to eliminate the Locos with CJ Johnson's unwitting help.

At the Los Santos Airport, Big Smoke parked and exited his car with difficulty. 'Shit, Betsy you act like I gained thirty or forty pounds since I been in you last. Stop complaining and let me go!' He pushed with both of his fat paws on the doorframe, sucked in as much of his girth as he could, and rocked back and forth in the driver's seat. After about three minutes, he finally popped free of the door and collapsed onto the tepid asphalt. 'Damn, I really need to lose some weight. I'll get on that as my New Year's Resolution.'

Even though he was armed with two Desert Eagles, Big Smoke strode into the airport terminal in his canary yellow Didier Sachs suit and brown spats with overweening confidence. The security guards at the front entrance, a tall brown-haired White man and a squat, middleweight Hispanic, nodded slightly at Big Smoke and waved him around the metal detectors to proceed to the helicopter pad. As he strode behind the White security guard, the fat gangsta slipped a roll of six twenties into the hand the guard held open behind his back.

Three men, besides the pilot, were already on the helicopter pad when Big Smoke joined them. Ryder paced with his usual restless energy in a gray sweat suit and purple sneakers while smoking a blunt obviously laced, from the smell of it. T-Bone Mendez stroked his sawn-off shotgun while glaring at Big Smoke's approaching form. Mike Toreno was the clear leader of their operation in a crisp, pressed gray pinstripe suit and black-and-white spats. His graying brown hair was slicked back and his facial hair trimmed to the point of smoothness. Toreno smiled as coldly as the Arctic Circle when Big Smoke joined their circle.

"Big Smoke, so glad you could finally join us! Are you ready to fly?" Toreno asked in his usual rapid, clipped tone.

'Look at you, motherfucker, thinkin' you the shit just because you got nice clothes. When I get done with you and these other bitch asses, you ain't gonna have shit to your name. I'm takin' all your shit.'

"Yeah, I'm ready to do just about anything, if I can make some money doing it."

"That's my kind of thinking." Toreno chuckled and slapped the gangsta on back then steered him into the helicopter. Big Smoke had to crawl into the whirlybird on his hands and have Toreno boost him in because he couldn't lift his legs high enough. "You're going to love the new formula."

Ryder and T-Bone joined them. The pilot turned on the engine and the blades slowly spun to life. "You made a new formula for our shit? What the fuck was wrong with the old one?"

"Absolutely nothing, if you want rich junkies to go to rehab and kick the habit in forty days. This new shit is forty times more addictive. It's like PCP, cocaine, caffeine, and nicotine got together and had a baby. A baby that can make us a shitload of money," Toreno answered.

"I like the sound of it already," Big Smoke said with a grin.

"Wait until you see it in action."