(This one should be more descriptive, and much longer. Also, caution. We're speaking figurative body horror.)

Chapter 3: Recruitment, Part 1

John pulled up his camouflaged pants, riddled with pockets of all sizes. He put on a bland t-shirt and grabbed a heavy camo down jacket from the coat hanger before walking out the front door. Darkness was starting to overtake the light, and John had a lot to do before 9 pm. His Bati was obviously destroyed after the sky dive and his Sanchez was almost totalled after being crashed and then pushed to its limits, so he had to take his Dinka Jester. It was his favorite model back when he used to streetrace; so much so that he bought one for himself. Being a "motorcycle" guy it didn't much see the light of day, but when it did, it prowled the streets at an easy 100 mph.

John unlocked the car. He loved the little "beep-beep" it made after you had done so; it really let him reminisce on good times. He climbed inside and put the keys in the ignition. The car hummed to life. Not one to drive in silence, he changed the radio to "Los Santos Rock Radio". He pulled out of the driveway and took a right. No cars were around, and it was unusually quiet, so instead of taking the long route to the local Ammunation, he used the canal. The water there wasn't deep enough to screw his car's engine, and it was a considerable shortcut compared to the way he would normally need to take. After he reached the other side of the canal, he emerged by driving up a grassy knoll. He gently stopped the car in front of the Ammunation and walked inside.

"Ey pardner, what can I do for ya?" the Southern man behind the counter asked. He was pretty buff, with a glossy bald head contrasting with a full-on "Duck Dynasty" worthy beard. He wore a ripped up denim jacket with a black t-shirt underneath. His arms reeked of awful early life decisions, with tattoos everywhere. The ones that stood out the most were "I heart Jessica", "I mean Cindy", and "Screw this, love sucks!". John walked up to the counter.

"I want that... That... Oh, and that." he muttered, pointing at his desired purchase.

"That is a fine taste for firearms! I'm sure that we'll get along quite well!"

John couldn't care about ever seeing that man again, nevermind getting along with him. He wanted to "settle his debts" and return to his life.

As he walked outside, John fitted a body armor around his body. He holstered a pistol on his waist, slung a Sawed-Off behind his back, and stuffed his pocket with as much ammunition as he could carry. He didn't know what that crazy guy wanted, but he was sure as hell going to be ready for anything.

John climbed into his car and set his GPS for Los Santos Airport. He hated silence, but right now, it seemed so right. He didn't turn on the radio during the drive. About half way there he got a call.

"Hee-LOOOOOOO! Are ya comin' piss-for-brains, or am I going to have to hunt you down and eat your brains like scrambled eggs!?" It was the crazy white guy. John tried to picture his lifeless body, head split open. Brains almost comically getting mashed into a bowl. "It wasn't below this guy to run a cannibalism food channel, now was it?" he thought. Probably not. He actually chuckled a little at that idea.

"HEY. Right now, you're about as useful to me as a white crayon. And you're laughing?"

"Relax, ol' man. I'm on my way." John now seriously retorted.

"OL-?" Trevor got cut off when John hung up, but John expected he had plucked a chord in the maniac's head that really set him off. Again. By now, it was obvious to John not to be so sarcastic or witty with this guy, or he'd chop off and swap your fingers and toes.

Several minutes later, John arrived at the airfield.

"Ah, you're here! Any later and I might've had Lester make a call to Martin Madrazo to, uhhhh, "green-light" you. Good thing you're here, would've been a REAL waste of untapped potential." Though insane, this Trevor guy seemed genuine about John possessing some "untapped potential".

"Yeah well, I sure don't want to die." John remarked, making as little talk to piss the guy off as possible.

"As you MAY or MAY NOT already know, my name is Tre-vor. You seem the dumb type, so I may need to spell it out. That's T-R-E-V-" the white man mocked.

"That's quite enough, thank you. Why did you want me to come here?" asked John, inquisitively.

"Meet Franklin. He's who I proudly call my homie. COME ON IN FRANKY!" the white man shouted.

A solid white Bravado Buffalo came barreling in and drifted gracefully, stopping mere feet from John and Trevor. An African-American of average build climbed out. He wore a regular blue button up shirt, and white cargo shorts. He seemed to be really casual in all his manners.

"Ey T, wassup homie?" he called out. "Who dis fool and why you call me in dawg? Looking fo' me to clap 'im? Don't ask me twice, dawg, I'm in!"

"There will be NO clapping, ho-mie." He seemed to stress the word "homie" as though there was meaning behind it. "This man is John Astley. And he owes me a great debt. I want to see if he has the skills required to assist me in an upcoming business venture, and YOU will test him out."

Everything was laid out in great detail, and Trevor flew above in his helicopter.

John drove to the starting line in his Jester; Franklin did so in his Buffalo. Trevor started the countdown. "On your marks! Get set! Why are you not set? You're set! Oooook! GO!"

The plan was for the two racers to drive around the airfield 3 times to see who could get the fastest time. John started late a few seconds, and so he started in 2nd place. He caught up to Franklin, and they were neck and neck. Franklin bumped John's car towards a ramp, and he lost control for a few seconds. Afterwards, he was sent spiralling through the air, landing a successful barrel roll. John got back at Franklin, by slamming him into the way of an oncoming jet.

"Damn homie! What the hell!" he yelled.

"Repaying a favor is all." John replied cooly.

"But the pilot saw me, stupid! He gon' call the five-o!"

Franklin was right. Several police interceptors were on the scene quickly.

"LSPD! Stop your cars immediately!" one whined over the speaker.

"Hell no!"

"NOT A CHANCE!"

Both criminals were now on the run. They were now no longer rivals in a race, but criminals working together to escape the long arm of the law. John turned on the radio. The sound would help him think. "Danger Zone" by Kenny Loggins was on.

"Hang a left!" John communicated.

"I hear ya!" Franklin replied.

They both hooked a left away from the side gate they were near when the cops burst in. John spotted a helicopter.

"Hey! There!" He pointed it out to Franklin.

"Damn, son. You can fly stick?" Franklin asked, bewildered by John's variety of skills.

"Pft, no." John sounded almost amused. "But I better do the best I frickin' can, if we hope to be free men." he retorted.

Franklin was quiet after that. He thought to himself, "No wonder T wants him in." The two of them climbed into the cockpit. John hit a red shiny button, adjusted some knobs to his liking, turned on the radio, and pulled back on the stick.

"Here goes nothin'..."

(Sorry for the cliffhanger. I HAD to. But hey, next chapter will be out soon. And if you enjoyed, favorite, follow, and leave a review! Whether it be praise or CC!)