Grand Theft Auto: Big Brother

Note: These guys, despite the story being set in 2005, are still the same age and in the same physical conditions as in when their games were set. Use your imagination here.

I don't own GTA, Rockstar, or (thank god) Big Brother. Bear in mind, I do not know exactly how Big Brother works, as I never saw the point in it. Please, still read though, and don't let that put you off.

Carl Johnson unfolded the letter and stared, bewildered at the text. It appeared to be an invitation. . .

Do you Want To Be Famous?

And Don't Care What Kind Of Mess it Could Get You Into?

Then, By All Means, Trust That Instinct,

and Join Us, for The Greatest Television Event in History.

(attendance is mandatory)

Well. . .he did want to be famous and go on TV. He would do it. Sure, there were those voices in his head telling him it was a bad idea, an ambush, a trap, but those were nothing that some heavy drinking couldn't silence. . .

He got out of his chair, and left the house he and his brother were raised in to go to Liberty.

Minutes later, Sweet climbed down the stairs. "Hey bro, sorry but I used your toothbrush for- hello? Carl? Dammit, not again. Fuckin' Busta."

Tommy read the note handed to him by his self-hired business partner and publicity organiser Kent Paul.

"Tell me again, why I want to do this?"

"For the coverage, guv! Look mate, you know we're mates, right, and I wouldn't say this if I wasn't yer mate, right, but you're washin' up. Yer reign of terror is nearly ova mate, I mean it's been, what, ten years? You gotta make yerself known again, mush. Show everyone you're still alive and kickin' ass, ya know?"

Tommy let out a sigh.

His lawyer, Rosenberg approached his office. "Tommy, Tommy, you gotta help me. They're after me again Tommy, the fuckin' rhinos are out ta get me again! Ya gotta help!"

"Ken, I told ya to quit with that stuff."

Ken, sniffing between sentences said, "But that's what they want, Tommy. Those fuckin' rhinos are just waitin' for my guard to go down. I gotta take this stuff to stay alert, Tommy, alert. . .Tommy. Tommy, stay here with me, Tommy, stay here with me or they'll kill me. You don't want anything to happen to your old pal Rosie do ya?"

At that moment Tommy stood up abruptly and slammed his fist on his desk. "Paul," he looked at the edgy, paranoid Rosenberg, "get my keys."

Claude, despite his vast wealth and celebrity status and immense power, lay in the uncomfortable bed next to Eddie's garage in Portland. Ever since the once love of his life betrayed him, and left him for dead, he has felt at home in Liberty. A city, filled to the brim with crime, violence and corrupt officials. He loved it. For the first few years after he was shot point blank, he could not speak. By now, he had gotten used to it. It had distinct advantages, and anyway, what possible question couldn't be answered with a simple hand gesture? He analysed the note, going over it again and again for a hidden meaning. The invitation was vague, he wasn't entirely sure what he was getting himself into, but he had nothing to do nowadays anyway, except lounge around his garage, alone. He nodded to himself, before putting the note in his pocket and stepping outside.

He walked up to the building as instructed in the note, and waited at the door patiently, mentally whistling. About ten minutes later, a Jester pulled up with a skid. The man noticed Claude standing idly by the door, and slowly got out of his car, keeping his gaze fixed on the other man's face.

Claude gave him the finger.

CJ walked towards him, and when he was close enough, outstretched his arm to pin him to the wall. "You! You the dude Catalina left me for?"

Claude nodded nervously.

Carl stared at him, as if trying to read his thoughts, and then dropped to his knees.

"Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! She was a crazy bitch, man."

Claude smiled uncertainly, enduring the flashbacks of his betrayal, his revenge, all the trouble she caused him.

"So what ever happened to you and her?"

Claude dragged his index finger across his throat, then made his arms into the shape of a gun pointed to the sky.

"What's the matter, can't talk? Whatever, man. So you killed her?" CJ shook his hand, and turned, as a white Infernus arrived. An English guy left the car first, followed by a man who must have been in his mid thirties in a Hawaiian shirt.

"Tommy!" began Paul. "this is your big break, remember. Why don't ya go meet the other guys?"

"Why don't ya shut the fuck up before I start telling the story of your experiences with Mitch Baker and his gang? The words: limey, birthday and suit ring any bells?"

"Sorry, Tommy! But there's no need to get like that." Tommy walked over to the group. "Yeah you keep walkin'," said Paul when Tommy was out of earshot. "Jus' remember who made you, you mug. Me! Kent Paul! You owe me! Mug."

Tommy approached the other guys. "How ya doin'?" He shook hands with them. "Tommy Vercetti."

"The Tommy Vercetti?" Carl blurted out of surprise.

"The very same."

"But you're old!"

Claude was laughing in the corner.

Tommy, ignoring CJ's remark, looked at him, then back at CJ, who simply shrugged.

A voice then crackled through a speaker, which, oddly enough, no one had noticed previously. "Hey there, you're listening to Lazlow, on this momentous occasion for Liberty. You can come inside guys," he said, breaking his stride.

Carefully, and cautiously, the men walked through the doors. All of a sudden shutters flew down across every door, window and other means of exit.

"Now," said the voice of Lazlow, "let's meet our contestants." The three shared a puzzled glance. "Contestant number one is Tommy Vercetti. It says here that he was an entre...preneur, whatever that means, from the eighties. His favourite thing is business and his most hated thing of all time was that guy who hosted V...Rock. Oh. Shit. Um. . .contestant number two is Carl Johnson, a young man who crawled his way up from the ghetto in Los Santos, San Andreas to become a respected man throughout the state, but somehow, never forgot his roots. His favourite things are tricking out cars and Cluckin' Bell, and it says here, he always wanted to kill. . .um. . .me. . .for "dissin' his homie Loc and the Gangsta Rap scene". .so. . .welcome to the show homie. Remember, we don't wanna see any gang bangin' on live TV. Contestant number three, the silent assassin as I just decided on the spot there to call him, Claude Speed. His favourite thing is remaining silent to keep his cool, and his most hated thing was that guy on Chatterbox, the one who took shit from Toni and patronized Maria. Man what is it with you guys? You all hate me?" They nod in unison. "Heh, well good luck finding me. I am Big Brother."

As Lazlow continued to rant, Claude walked over to a wardrobe, and opened the door to find a man cramped into a small space with a microphone and headset. Lazlow grinned sheepishly, before running for the door and attempting to type in the sixteen digit clearance code to lift the shutter. The men slowly advanced, so he attempted the manual override, by kicking it hard, causing it to fall off. He ran out and locked it behind him. Breathing heavily, he panted, "So let's get on with the show."