"As blind as a bullet, a son of a gun,

a man was shot at the rise of the sun.

I'll see you in heaven, you'll see me in hell,

If life never started I wouldn't have fell."

It was a simple night. It was cold, raining. The rain poored as the night fell. As day broke, it was still dark, still cold, still raining. It was raining at Hepburn Heights.

A blind man stood on the corner of Hepburn. He was punished for his deeds, as he thought, anyway. Life was a horror for him. Life was no more for his friends.

He extended his arm, coffee mug in hand. He prayed for change. He prayed for some decency in this town. He prayed every night, and he prayed every day.

He has no religion, no friends, no enemies. He did in the past but the past was no more. His friends were dead because of him, his enemies, too.

This man had thought about what happened in life. He hadn't read newspapers because he couldn't see. He hadn't talked to anyone because he knew no one.

People knew him as an old man; they knew him for pity. He knew himself as a man with a black heart. He wished for redemption. He didn't go confess his sins, he didn't cry for others. He cried for himself, as no one else would.

One thing this man did, though, was beg for change. He begged for change in more than one way: he asked for spare money, and asked for an alteration of this pitiful life.

The blind man wanted change so he could do the world a favor. He had destroyed bridges, apartments, property. He terrorized the world through murder and law breaking.

He had spoken no words. He didn't know if he forgot how or if he chose not to. Before this town he had no history. Before this town he had no life.

Before this town he had nothing. After this town he had nothing. During this town, however, the town didn't want him. It was vice- versa: he wanted the town.

Water hit the mug he held out. He ignored it. Water was no friend, no enemy. Water was the tears of the gods. Water showed sympathy for you.

Were the gods crying for the blind man or someone else? Why would they cry for this blind man? He had unleashed a body count higher then people could count. He had sex with prostitutes just to restore health. He was racist.

This man had prayed that life would change. Life would change; not for him, but for the people. This man has feelings, and he always did.

The blind man with no name, nationality, language; nor religion or supporters.

He was a blind man. A blind man who had a gun in his past, but was replaced with a coffee mug full of petty change and water droplets.

He was blind. He was as blind as a bullet.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I don't plan on making more chapters for this. I believe it deserves the title of "Gran Theft Auto's 50th story" and lives up to it. And lastly: guess who this character is?