The Old Venturas Strip Experience, Las Venturas, Clarence County, Robada

21:34, April 2nd, 2013 (approx. five months before Michael and Trevor's reunion)

The Bytch Wars

The light of the crowded pedestrian mall was inconsistent; constantly changing, thanks to the psychedelic light show being displayed on the giant LED canopy above. Most of the crowd were tourists about to gamble or tourists in the process of gambling, almost all of them unwittingly strolling their way to a penniless and hungover morning.

But there was something different just in front of the famous Silver Ingot casino. There was a clearing, with a pair of dark grey Canis Seminoles flanking a Pegassi Infernus, its windows open, blasting the Dogg Pound's What Would U Do?. The Italian supercar clearly belonged to a man of much wealth and little taste; it was black with a red iridescent paint tint, and a striking gold trim.

Perhaps fittingly, this matched the colour scheme of the owner's suit; red suit, black shirt, golden tie and sunglasses. The man was white, with a small black beard, a comb-over, and a slightly chubby figure. He was leaning against his automobile, munching away on some chicken bits from the inside of a Cluckin' Bell bucket. He took one out with his greasy hand and held it to the tough-looking, sharp-dressed fellow with an Assault SMG standing next to him.

"Hey, Leonid, want a cock-piece?" The Infernus owner asked, with a thick Russian accent. The goon to his side shook his head and responded "Nyet."

"Hey, come on man, they're really good!"


"Just try one!"


"I promise, you won't get a heart atta-"

"Zad Trakhat'sya!" the goon shouted, punching the side of the nearest Seminole in the process.

The Infernus owner and another, smaller goon standing next to him simply stood and stared at the big one for a minute, partly out of shock, partly out of confusion.

"Okay, Leonid, Jesus... no need to get all fuckin' berserk about it..." the Infernus owner uttered, as he tried to resume his consumption, when the smaller goon spoke up.

"Ya skazal vam, gospodin Bychkov, u nego yest' sindrom Turetta."

"No he fucking doesn't! That's just a stereotype! And for the umpteenth fucking time, we're in America! Speak English, for fuck's sakes!"

"Sorry, Mr. Bytchkov..."

Mr. Bytchkov sighed and wiped his sweaty forehead with his suit sleeve. "Look, I love you guys, all of you, but for the love of God, get into the real America! I must have said this, what, a million fucking times now? Here we are, in Las Venturas, the legendary City With More Love Than It Could Handle, the city of dreams, and riches, and sexy American broads, and Leonid won't even eat a fucking cock-piece?! Are you shitting me?! So what if it's made of processed chicken ass, it's still genuine American cuisine! I bet you, if this was a bucket full of Pirozhki, he'd have gobbled up the whole fucking thing, bucket and all! Oleg, you ever been to a football game?"

The small goon responded "Uh... no, not really..."

"Well, you should! It's a good sport, good fucking sport! A real man's game, not like that prissy, emasculating, ask-questions-first-kick-later Soccer!"

"Mr. Bytchkov, I think America's getting to your head..." the smaller goon said in apparent concern for his boss. Mr. Bytchkov began to munch on another bit of chicken, spewing words out his mouth as he chewed.

"You're damn right America's getting to my head! Actually, you're wrong, it got into my head ever since I hit it big back in LC. I fucking love this country, homie, and so should you!"

"Ahhh... the American Dream has finally arrived! About fuckin' time, huh?"

The three Russians turned their heads away from the entrance to the Silver Ingot, to find the source of this new, old (as in, age), slightly Canadian voice. Standing before them was a grubby-looking middle-aged man with balding hair, a scar on his lip, and a cheap jeans-and-t-shirt combo. He had made an effort to be a little more formal, though, since over the top he was wearing a grey suit jacket that looked like it had been fished out of a dumpster. The man spoke up again, walking over to Mr. Bytchkov confidently, his arms held to his sides.

"All the persecution, the scandals, the corruption, the waterboarding, it's all finally paid off! This is it! This is the end of the line! One Ruskie asshole and his bucket... of fake chicken! Delicious. Fake. Chicken! Fuckin' America!" He shouted, pumping his fist in the air with each word. Then the man sniffled and suddenly went quiet and mellow. "It's so beautiful... it almost brings a tear to my eye..."

Mr. Bytchkov simply stood and watched, baffled at how the man was acting. Before he could get too close, Leonid the big goon stepped in from the side and shoved the man away, shouting "Otvali, ty suka! Chertov... der'mo... suka! Der'mo, der'mo!", shaking his head erratically.

"Hey, HEY!" The strange man went, suddenly going into aggressive mode. "I have a very... important... deal with this asshole, Comrade!"

"Hey, hey, hey, come on guys, calm down!" Mr. Bytchkov said, pulling Leonid away from the strange man.

"I AM calm! It's your man who's getting all up in my fucking face!" The strange man exclaimed, gritting his yellowed teeth, with what looked like chunks of crystal meth embedded in between a few.

"You heard him, Leonid, my homie, don't get up in his fucking face! This must be the guy!" Mr. Bytchkov turned his head towards the strange man. "You are Trevor Phillips, right? Of Trevor Phillips Industries?"

The strange man stood back and stood up straight, showing great confidence. "Yyyyyyyyyyep, that's me, alright! And how you bothered to remember my name before the meeting, just warms the cockles of my heart so much, it'll catch fire and burn this fun fucking financial black hole to the ground! Now give me a hug, huh!" Trevor held his arms out in anticipation.

Mr. Bytchkov duly went in to fulfil his request, being used to getting hugged by his boss, but as he got close, Trevor suddenly formed a pistol with his hand and aimed it at Bytchkov's head.

"Bang! Y'been 'purged', Comrade!"

Bytchkov promptly burst out laughing and didn't stop for a whole minute, during which time he clearly had trouble keeping hold of his bucket of chicken. Trevor and both Bytchkov's goons just stared at him in disbelief as to how he could find it that funny.

"Okay, you can stop now, Comrade. Jesus, I'm not a fucking comic. How am I meant to be taken seriously if people are always laughing, huh? Like fucking clowns!" Trevor went, getting agitated again. Leonid stepped forward again, ready to beat him into the ground on command.

"Aha...ha... okay, okay, I'm sorry, d-don't hurt me... I just couldn't help it... I'm... easily amused, I'll admit..." Bytchkov spluttered out, struggling to consciously regain control of his voice. He finally cleared his throat after about fifteen seconds. "...So, Tr- Mr. Phillips... my name's Ivan Bytchkov, #1 moneylender- not loan shark- of Liberty City, and proud associate of Vitali Rascalov. HE runs the show 'round there. You want a cock-piece?" He asked politely, holding out a bit of chicken to him.

"Fuck your cock-piece." Trevor answered, quite definitively. "Look, Ivan, I just wanna check something here, uh... when you're say you're an 'associate', do you actually mean that, or is it just another way of saying you're either a yes-man who'd suck his boss' cock while letting him shove an umbrella up your ass, and enjoying it, or a completely terrified lackey who'd do the same thing, but out of a desire to... not... wake up in the morning scattered across seven different states? Or oblasts, as you Ruskies say?"

"Umm..." Ivan looked at his two goons for assistance, who both shrugged at him. He looked back at Trevor. "Okay, maybe 'associate' isn't the right word. I'm Mr. Rascalov's employee, then."

"Fucking typical. Y'know, every two-bit gangster in this world think they can call themselves an 'associate', even when the only 'associating' they do involves cocksucking and umbrellas! It's dishonesty! Not that I have anything against cocksucking and umbrellas up the ass, of course, but... y'know, I'm just sayin'. They should be more proud of it!"

"Haha, sexual tolerance! I love it! That's true fucking American, right there! You bastards could learn something from this guy!" He said, cheerfully, to his two goons. The cheerfulness was quite obviously forced, though, even for a man who was cheerful on a regular basis anyway.

"Wait a minute..." Trevor stopped to think, and picked up yet another threatening, fiery look on his face. "...Rascalov, huh? I remember him... yeah, I delivered some guns to him in 2007, when he decided he'd keep the dough... the back-stabbing, four-eyed, chipmunk-voiced, tie-loving piece-of-horse-shit Judas! But last I heard, he got shot up the ass in LC! If he's still alive, I swear..."

"Wait, no no no, that's not him, that's not our guy!" Ivan said very quickly to prevent a possible rampage. "You're thinking of Dimitri. Yeah, he's dead, the traitorous asshole. Vitali's his brother. They got separated when Dimitri went to prison back in Russia. Vitali did some stick-up jobs and burglary while he was away, the sort of thing I used to do. They got back together, but Dimitri sold him out to the cops 'cause he thought-"

"Yeah yeah, okay, that's great, Comrade, but don't we have a fucking deal to do here, huh? You know, expansion, business, maybe a penis-shaped present which I'll present to you in that bucket of chicken, if you don't shut up with your fucking history lesson?! Or maybe anyway?! C'mon, let's go!" Trevor reminded Ivan.

"Oh, right, yes! Of course! Leonid, the case."Leonid promptly nodded, obediently opening the door of the Seminole he just punched. Reaching his arm inside, Trevor and Ivan watched expectantly, the latter just barely noticing he had cleaned out his bucket. As Ivan discreetly threw it away, Leonid pulled out a small, shiny suitcase. It had a classic Russian two-headed Eagle symbol on the front, with the Cyrillic words 'федеральный депозитарий - Североморск' written underneath.

"Ooh, it's a... eve-in-a-bin... anus stoppin'... chlamydia-mobile. Great, fucking great! That's exactly what I need! And I ain't being sarcastic, nah... believe me, I've always wanted a chlamydia-mobile. Actually, that's a lie, but It'd make a good birthday present for Johnny K."

Ivan laughed again, thankfully keeping it short this time. "Aha... you're a funny guy, Mr. Phillips! I don't even know who Johnny K is, and I'm still laughing!"

"Yes, you are easily amused, aren't you? Would you laugh if I waved some keys around in your face, and then stuck them in your throat?"

"Heh... probably..." Ivan responded, uneasily, not knowing if he was joking or not. He took the case from Leonid's hands and stepped in close to hand it to Trevor, noticing that he had a tattoo of a dotted line around his neck, with 'CUT HERE' written under it. That didn't help at all.

Trevor snatched the case away from Ivan and quickly pressed the buttons on the top, flicking the locks open. He opened it up, and...

"...Bullshit." He uttered in disbelief.

"Nope, no bullshit here, homeboy. This is just the sweetener. If you agree to work with us, well... this is only the beginning!"

Trevor's eyes had widened by a considerable degree, his mouth agape. He delicately reached his dirty, slightly bloodied hand inside and took out a giant, flawless emerald. It was carved into the shape of a Beaver, with small diamonds as eyes and buck-teeth, and was almost as big as Trevor's head. Ivan stepped in close again.

"Hey, hey, put it back in the fucking case, people will see it!" He whispered, hysterically. Trevor obliged, his businessman side still awake enough to know the risks of just waving it around in public.

"This... this is the fucking Ludendorff Beaver Emerald! How- I...I... what the fuck?!" He whispered that last sentence in disbelief. "How did you get this?! I thought this was stolen from that jewelry store in Bullworth, back in 2011!"

"An associate of ours... acquired it some time ago. He was keeping it in Severomorsk, courtesy of the Kremlin. Seriously, you could sell it to some Russian Oligarch, and no-one would give two shits! One shit, even!"

"But... nah. Nah, nah, nah, I don't buy it, not for a fucking second!" Trevor slammed the case shut and held it to his side. "For all I know, that emerald was just a Beaver-shaped piece of shit coated with that fake-ass glossy green paint, and dried-up specks of cum in its eyes! And if this was the real Beaver Emerald, why would you bring it out here, in the middle of the Old Venturas Strip, with, oh, I don't know, thousands of idiots just shambling their way through, looking for something that'll interest their hollow skulls! Also, how do I know that being a two-timing snake doesn't run in the Rascalov blood? 'Cause if it does, I'll be drinking that blood tonight, before I feast on your fucking brains!"

Trevor's face reddened with rage again, as he stepped in, looking like he would just bite Ivan's face off at any moment. Leonid stepped in again, shoving him away and shouting "Otvali! Yebat' ... trakhat'sya!" while Oleg pointed an Assault SMG at him.

"Hey, fuck off, Comrade, I still have business!"

"Hey, hey, guys, calm the fuck down!" Ivan pleaded. His two goons did as they were told, resuming their neutral positions, though Leonid still gave a deathly glare to Trevor. Ivan continued. "I assure you, Mr. Phillips, we are not fucking with you, my main man! You know that we trust you! Vitali is not like his brother, he loves his partners! ...Not in a gay way, but you know what I mean, homeboy!"

"Ugh..." Trevor grunted. "I... have not been well lately. Y'know, I've been trying to groom this clown-makeup-wearing asshole as an 'associate' for cocksucking and umbrellas up the ass, that kind of thing. It's been taxing. I can't sleep at night, y'know? I just... stare up, at the shit-stained ceiling, eyes wide open, thinking, feeling, masturbating. And just this morning I was banned from the Visage for trying to shove a poker chip in a blackjack dealer's eye. I saw him broadcasting my cards to the other players, yet I get punished! The fucking cheek!"

"Yeah... them bitches be hating, eh?"

"Precisely! But you must un-der-stand... where I'm coming from here! I am here, head of an ever-expanding meth empire, about to make a deal to become the third part of a little 'triangle operation' which I don't fully understand, and that deal requires me to cooperate with a man whose brother royally fucked me over! And just now I've been speaking to a sweaty, chicken-fucking, America-fetishizing moron who expects me to believe that a Beaver-shaped gem that's as big as my kind, loyal heart... just landed in the hands of some mysterious 'associate' who thought it fit to give to me as a 'sweetener' in the middle of a crowded Las Venturas mall! Now, put yourself in my shoes here, just for a moment. Would you just... make the deal and risk getting fucked again?! Huh?! Or would you ask some more... questions?"

"Well, we've already seen your credentials, Mr. Phillips-"

"For fuck's sakes, just call me Trevor! And nothing but Trevor!" He shouted, waving his arms in the air as a gesture of annoyance.

"Right, yes, good, I wanted to anyway. Vitali's guys have already seen your establishment, it's really good, really, really fucking good! It's exactly what we need! Those Bikers are too caught up in 'honour' and all that, the Rednecks are too dumb-as-shit to do what we want them to, and the Mexicans... don't get me started. But you're different. Maybe it's because you're from Canada, I hear they have some serious intellectuals up there..."

Ivan stopped talking as he noticed the psychopath in front of him was beginning to twitch slightly, clenching his fists so hard they turned pale from loss of blood circulation. He gulped, quite audibly, as he was getting ready for the moment he'd shit himself.

"Excuse me?" He asked, unnervingly calmly. "I don't think I heard you... Comrade."

"I, uh... I... I said that they have some... serious intellectuals in... Canada."

Trevor stepped in close again, this time much more slowly, baring his teeth like a bloodthirsty cougar. "I only... grew up... in Canada. So close to the fucking border, I may as well not have been! I don't have any special intellectualisms from there. All I have is a faint accent. A faint... fucking accent! It's barely noticeable!"

Leonid lunged in yet again, shoving Trevor away from his terrified boss, this time shouting "Otvali, nestabil'nuyu mat' ublyudok!"

"The fuck did you just say to me?!" Trevor demanded, his face now purple with rage.

Oleg was, again, pointing his gun at Trevor, smirking, smug and confident of the angry Canadian's demise in the event of a psychotic outburst.

"He said, 'fuck off, you unstable motherfucker.'"

"Say that again..." Trevor practically growled out.

"Trevor... please, I'm begging you-" Ivan pleaded, again, stepping back cautiously, to which he was quickly thrown a "Up the fuck shut!" from Trevor. "I want to hear it again. Go on, Comrade, I'm waiting..."

"Fuck off. You. Unstable. Mother. Fucker!"

That did it.

Trevor charged right at Oleg like a rabid bull, headbutting him in the chest and knocking him down to the ground. The bloodthirsty psychopath didn't say anything or even scream, his seething rage had silenced him.

Leonid came up behind him with his gun raised, but Trevor was quick to react with a backhanded swing of the hand still holding the suitcase. It whacked the big goon right in the face, spilling blood and teeth onto the floor. He power-walked over to him and threw the case right on his broken face, knocking him out cold.

As Oleg got back onto his feet, groaning and cursing "Trakhni menya...", Trevor had already taken Leonid's Assault SMG and quickly shot the unconscious goon in the head, splattering his brains all over the floor. The sound of the gunfire duly caused the surrounding crowds (especially those who had stopped to watch the fist-fight, recording it on their smart-phones) to start screaming in panic and flailing away.

Trevor swivelled around and riddled Oleg with hot lead, decorating the side of his Seminole with blood. Oleg screamed for three seconds as his insides were violently rearranged, before the shooting stopped. As his lifeless body slumped against the wall of the SUV, Trevor turned around, looking to annihilate Ivan, but he had disappeared; a small puddle of urine was all that was left where he was standing.

Meanwhile, the Pedestrian Mall, the psychedelic lightshow still illuminating the place, was practically devoid of any... well, pedestrians. The only pedestrians were some armed men wearing a mish-mash of suits, leather jackets and tracksuits, running in from the neighbouring streets, accompanied by a silver Sentinel.

Trevor twitched around in fury as his vision became almost orange-red. He simply walked forward with his 'borrowed' firearm, and began to slaughter Rascalov's goons. Mowing down the first wave of them as they fired pistols and shotguns at him, trailing more blood on the ground. As the Sentinel approached with more goons inside, he fired his weapon into the windscreen, killing every last one of them.

"Fucking Oligarchs!" he yelled into the air as he heard the driver's lifeless head lie against the car's horn. "Yeltsin ain't gonna save ya this time!"

Another wave of goons showed up and, again, began shooting at him, but to no avail. The psychopath seemed to just shrug of all the bullets that did hit him; he just stood out in the open, butchering all who came near. More Sentinels and Seminoles came in, loaded with Bratki equipped with rifles and grenades, but it was no good, either. Trevor just shot them dead as soon as they stepped out, like the Normandy landings, if the Germans instead had one, seemingly-invincible madman defending the area. And with said madman winning the battle.

"Call me a motherfucker again, Comrades!" he screamed again, as he shot up one of the SUVs. He shot it so much, creating so many sparks, that eventually it exploded violently, killing the three goons standing nearby and scattering debris everywhere; one of the doors actually flew over and crushed another goon's head, right next to Trevor.

"Ubeyte yego! Ubeyte yego! Ubeyte yego!" one goon shouted in desperation, just moments before he was filled with bullets along with the rest of his fellows.

Waves and waves more Bratki arrived, groups of three, four, five, running in from the streets and arriving in more Seminoles and Sentinels, yet none of them came even close to whacking the maniac that was slaughtering them like animals. Trevor continued to taunt-slash-lecture them as he mowed them down; "I don't care if it's a positive stereotype, it's still a fucking stereotype!" came from lips as he picked up a dead goon's grenade and chucked it at a black Youga Van full of goons; one of them even tried shooting an RPG at him, but it missed and ended up striking one of the empty Sentinels behind the target, leading to two explosions at once, and a load more dead Bratki.

After a whole five minutes of this mayhem, it was finally over. Trevor shook off his rage, quite literally, the way he twitched about again. Dropping his gun into the street, he surveyed the destruction he had wreaked upon the Old Venturas Strip. Dead bodies lied scattered around the place, their blood spilled and merged with other people's blood to create some kind of macabre sea of blood with guns and bullets floating around, and with the vehicles (eight abandoned, three of them burning wrecks) as islands.

Trevor counted the casualties himself, and deduced he had massacred a grand total of fifty-three Russian gangsters, with no more in sight. Looks like they knew when to quit. He felt proud of himself for this achievement in contemporary killing, and smiled.

He looked back at Ivan's meeting place, Leonid and Oleg still just as dead as they were before the massacre began, the Infernus still there, strangely. It was then he noticed the battered suitcase lying on the floor, Ivan not having thought to pick his oh-so valuable 'sweetener' back up when he fled Trevor's wrath. That was an admission of pulling a con if he had ever seen one.

He picked it back up and opened it the same as before, and just stared at the green, glossy Beaver for a whole minute, contemplating on what to do with the fake.

"...Fuck it! Fuck it, why not?" He said to himself, closing the case and holding it under-arm. "Maybe I could hang this glorified booger on my wall, or eat it for dinner, or shove it up Wade's ass or something..."

The sounds of police sirens filled the air, serving to tell Trevor that perhaps he should get going. He decided to take the fastest vehicle available to maximise his chances, since he was a smart psychopath. He opened up the car's scissor door and chucked the Emerald case into the passenger seat, before sliding himself in and slamming the door down. Luckily for him, Ivan had left the key in the ignition, probably thinking Trevor would be such an easy mark they could go to another fast food restaurant just seconds after they had shoved him away with a worthless replica.

Trevor was not a man of safety, and didn't bother putting on his seatbelt. He just turned the key and sped away, right over the corpses, leaving bloody tire tracks for a bit as he sped erratically out onto the Strip, and towards the desert; towards Trevor Philips country.

As he sped past Caligula's palace, a man wearing a Merryweather Security uniform was walking out the back. He stopped to look at the distinctive supercar flying several times past the local speed limit, eliciting lots of beeps and dangerous near-misses. He was on his phone; nothing special, just an average Badger smart-phone.

"Ivan... I think I just found your car, mate."