Chapter One: Liberty City, Where Yours Is Ours
A man sat, draped in an elegant violet overcoat and donning a matching cap, within the safety of his Yardie Lobo. Beneath his seat was a 9mm Baretta, loaded with a single bullet shy of its capacity, for the probability of jamming to be unlikely. Across the street was one of his ladies, doing her nightly rounds of one of Liberty City's most dangerous jobs, prostitution. Then again, there was nothing safe in Liberty City anymore, not since Tommy Vercetti decided to move in and swoop down on the Leone families past territories. Since then the gangs in Liberty had been whittled down to mere remnants of their former glory with the Diablo rarely venturing out of Hepburn Heights, the Yardies ran out of the gangland and settling down in Shoreside Vale, bidding their time; and the Vercetti Family reigning supreme. This was what it had all come down to, from all of the gang wars he'd been dealing in, all of the Colombian SPANK he'd dealt across Staunton Isle, and all of the work he'd done for the Uptown Yardies it had all gone to waste. The Yardies were no more, all of his attempts to contact King Courtney had been to no avail and he was stuck in Portland, in a run-down apartment across the street from where Luigi's Sex Club 7 used to stand, only now he was running the prostitutes about and he had to deal with the threats personally, that's why he sat there in his automobile, watching, waiting.
It never took too long for a trick to turn up and pick up one of his girls, but on this night it seemed like abnormal for one of his girls to be standing for so long. Especially this girl, Cinnamon, she called herself. She flagged down cars with less effort than any other girl, yet she put more heart into it than anyone else. That only meant that she would, naturally, make more money than any other girls on her strip. However, due to a short-temper and a zeal for riches, there were no other girls on her strip and if one turned up they'd turn up out in the Portland Docks. Even she could sense it, the man behind the wheel could tell, she still put an attempt into flagging down whatever vehicles passed, which became even more sparse by the minute, until there was only a single car passing every no and then. It was circling the block and from where the pimp had placed his car, they had probably not even noticed that her pimp was already on her route. It was first instinct for the pimp to go to the aid of his women, whenever they were in any sorts of danger; first, throwing his car down an alleyway behind his building, then relinquishing the car of the burden that the Baretta was for it, before heading out to check up on his girl. This brisk night was not one to linger outside for too long.
"We gotta go." He'd arrived, brushing thick dreadlocks out of his eyes, at her side as soon as the car turned safely down the block for it's fifth or so commute. His chrome-plated tool was in his hand, only because he knew that they'd be coming faster this time. This time around it was the hit to take place, though he was still baffled by who would want to bury one of his girls, and his best girl to think of it. He ushered her from beneath the lamppost and beside his most seasoned girl when they turned the corner once more in that black Kurama. It was too late. "Shit, run!" He exclaimed and sent her on a shoved start, pointing his handgun at the windshield and wildly firing round after round. He was usually a decent shot; actually one of the best, yet panic had stricken his nerves and he fired like the Diablo's out of Hepburn Heights, riddling the car with bullets, yet hitting no one.
Someone pointed a gun out of the passenger side door and fired on him, sprinkling the ground near him with lead and frightening him into sprinting off. He raced down the sidewalk towards the subway, firing wildly behind him as he did. The Kurama's momentum increased with every passing moment while the driver leapt up onto the curb and floored it, apparent in the sudden gunning of its engines. Everything seemed sluggish about the dreadlock as the adrenaline kicked in. He pulled the trigger, yet a hollowed click was its response, instead of the neighbor-waking explosion that would normally kick a bullet for yards at a time. The station was just ahead, mere feet that needed to be turned into no feet before the driver of the vehicle turned him to a vegetable. As funny as it was, for as close as it was, it took him more than the desired time to leap into the air and over the walls that protruded upwards and invited daily commuters downstairs on any typical morning. However he managed to pull it off he did, the crunching of metal against stonework being music to his ears. However it didn't stop there, the car lurched forward and attempted to crush him, rather making him dead than a vegetable. A graceful leap downward and he was out of harms way, with the Kurama crashing down behind him and him in the subway system. It was said to never ride the subway without some sort of weapon on you at nighttime in Liberty, and the only thing pimp had to his name was a Baretta with an empty clip. Bluffing was a useful skill anyway.
Going within the depths of the system (and hopping the turnstile) he stood on the desert platform, awaiting the next available train to Staunton Island. Hopefully the train car he was in would be just as desert, it was no joking around when it came to survival in Liberty City. A distinct ringing came from his cell phone, a chart-topping song they continuously played on the airwaves of Game Radio by a prominent Westside artist named Madd Dogg. It was cut short however, when Cinnamon's name came up on the caller ID.
"Cinnamon? You aight?" The dreadlock tried to keep it as suave and debonair as he possibly could, which was really not that much of a problem for him. Cinnamon could easily be replaced, he had merely put excess time and effort into her, and any other girl could be trained to service the way she did. There was only something about Cinnamon that made him not beat the shit out of her, as he did some other girls from time-to-time.
"Yeah, I'm okay. Where are you?" Her voice carried with it worry, and the man chuckled for that.
"I'm on the subway, on the way to Staunton Isle."
"Johnny, you know you can't go back to Staunton. Why are you go—," She started, but the man cut into her speech.
"I go wherever I want, whenever I want." The man named Johnny began to grow slightly infuriated at her comment. "I'll see you in the mornin'."
"Wait, Johnny… Think you could come over for the night? I like the way you handled that back there." She cooed into her end of the receiver, nearly turning Johnny over. He'd developed a sort of barrier to the affection of women, knowing exactly when to turn them down, how to turn them down, and how to keep them coming back for more.
"I don't know, I'll see. I'm gonna have to drive all the way from Staunton and all that, baby. I don't even know, there's money to pick up and all that." Johnny rummaged through feigned excuses as the distant, yet distinct echo of a train down the tunnel came to his ears.
"Come on, you never come over here anymore. Just for the night, please." She pleaded through her teeth, whispering promises of a night of hard-earned ecstasy. That was what made him tell her he would come, the pleas. When a man got a woman to plea for what he wanted even more it was truly the genious of the man, or was it really the inner yearnings of a woman. It was a little of both, when you sit down and think about it. For him, this was only one of those long nights at work and he would go home, as the average man does to his wife, though to one of his girls. The other ones were, most likely, already in their own beds after doing their services for the night. He would spend the night with her, only because deep within the recesses of his heart he loved that girl.
The train pulled in and sparse numbers of people exited while he got on, chuckling to himself and lost in thoughts about the reactions of the late night commuters that would find themselves sealed in a train station and stranded until the next one came. Fortunately for him, the car had two Diablos who exited the train when he flashed the chrome-plated Baretta tucked away in his pants. The rest of the trip was nondescript and he hadn't run into anyone who wished to start trouble in Staunton Island. The drive back to Portland in a stolen Esperante had only been stalled by a routine police stop on the Callahan Bridge for a broken taillight, when Johnny had 'accidentally' dropped a stack of cash out of his car window the policeman told him that he could be on his way and within minutes he'd turned up at Cinnamon's lovely abode in Hepburn Heights. It was a lot better than the other apartments, with hers actually having some class in it. It had even better décor than when the Diablos had turned to drag racing to decorate some of the furnished apartments further. The night was still young and Johnny laid his exquisite hat over the bedroom doorknob.
And as far as the late introduction, he's Johnny Wolfe, Uptown Yardie-turned-promoter of prostitution.
Back in the Red Light District a single man stumbled out of the wreckage of a Kurama, blood seeping out the side of his head and smothered across his face. Of course he had left some for the dashboard. ChatterboxFM plays in the background, though he doesn't bother to pay attention to it, nor does the occupants; seeing how they were dead and all."Hello, this is Lazlow from ChatterboxFM and you've won a roundtrip, all-expense trip to San Andreas!"
"R-really?" There was definitely some exhaustion in his voice. Besides it was about one in the morning.
His jet-black hair is matted with perspiration, as he'd never been involved on the receiving end of an accident so devastating. He gathered himself up and stumbles back downwards, hearing that name. That San Andreas, it was about time he went back."No, not really. Who gives out prizes at one thirty-two in the morning?"
And they cut him off.
Before he went he had a job to do, however. He had to kill the man who did this to him. All he'd wanted to do was to have a little fun, pick up a prostitute and then let him and his good friends take advantage of the twenty-minute increment fees, and then dive in for seconds. However, that had to be cut short by a pimp. A pimp who decided to pull his girl off the street when this man decided he wanted her, and then to shoot at him without reason. With that, he limped off, towards the hospital. It was a good thing the hospital was around the corner, because even the cops hadn't turned up yet. And he'd be damned if he was linked back to the cache of an armory in that Kurama. There had to be at least a quarter-million dollars worth of weapons in that Kurama, not to mention the cocaine he was supposed to be delivering. He was supposed to leave Liberty City behind and take a road trip, then ship out to Los Santos. From there he would lay low in San Fierro and, who knows, maybe end up out in the country racing for pink slips. Like the old days. However that would have to be postponed.
He's known as Fido, Kid, even the ex-hired muscle of the Leone Family. However his name is Claude, a mute ex-con whose lived it up in Liberty City for quite some time.