A/N: This is quite probably more random than my Vertical Bird story, and with me, that is possible. The characters are all the ages they are in their games, but for some reason Tommy has a PS2. And that's not the weirdest thing.

um. . .


Tommy Vercetti and Claude "Fido" "GTA3guy" Speed are sitting in Tommy's Starfish Island mansion playing GTA: San Andreas.

Claude has the controller. Tommyis cheering him on.

"Ha ha! This game is awesome! Make him jump off the building again!"

"Nooooooooooooo!" came the voice from the wide-screen television set.

"Claude, drive to the "S", dumb ass. You're supposed to be doing a mission."

Claude ignored Tommy's remark and continued to throw the helpless Carl off of rooftops and drive his car off of cliffs, while giggling feverishly (or smiling manically, since he can't speak).

"Alright, hand it over, it's my turn now."

Claude jerked his joysti. . .controller away from Tommy's reach and continued to play.

"You suck, Claude. It's my turn! You're not playing fair! I hate you! I hate you!"

Claude plugged his ears with his fingers, causing Tommy to scream louder.


Eventually Tommy had had enough of yelling, his throat now hoarse and his eyes near to tears, so he walked off to his office to play "Hit insert name here with Heavy Things", a game he found he was playing a lot lately. Right now, the game involved his "friend" Lance.

"Hey Insert Name Here!"

"Yes, Tommy?" said Lance. "What can I do you for?"

"Don't say that."

"So, Tommy, what can I do for you?"

"Uh. . .why don't you stand at the bottom of the stair set there and face the entrance?"

"Uh. . .well. . .alright, Tommy." Lance walked quickly down the stairs with a slight skip in his step. He stopped at the bottom. "Here okay, Tommy?"

"Perfect!" said Tommy as he threw a vase squarely at the back of Lance's head.

"Ah, that hurt, Tommy!"

"Yeah, sorry I was just warming up. Stay there."


"Dumb bastard."

"What did you say Tommy?"

"I called you a dumb bastard."

"Oh, okay."

Lance turned around again. Tommy looked around for something to throw. His eyes had just settled on an object in his office when Lance turned back around.

"Wait, Tommy. . .why did you call me a dumb bastard?"

"Coz you are."

Lance stared silently at Tommy, a little perplexed.

"Hey, Claude," yelled Tommy, impatiently, "is Lance here a dumb bastard?"

Claude nodded.

"Well, two against one, Lance."

"I guess you're right. Hey, Tommy, why are you holding that heavy iron safe above your head?"

". . .no reason. No reason." said Tommy innocently.

"Okay, then. I'll just turn back around so we can continue the game, shall I?"

"That would be best."

The disconcerting shadow forming in front of Lance, growing in size, taking on a sort of, safe-like shape was awfully confusing for him. He turned around to ask Tommy what it was, but was unfortunately knocked out by a large safe.

How odd, thought Lance, as he passed out.

Tommy went back to join Claude. After letting his anger out on Lance, he felt calmer. He walked into the lounge area at the bottom of the stairs, as two of his tediously simple minded gangsters put Lance's body in the car and drove it to the docks where they tied him in a net, placed him in a speed boat, sailed into the middle of the ocean, tossed the body into the river, threw a grenade into the river, dismembering the body into several pieces which were conveniently eaten by a shark which was then shot.

Tommy turned round and saw Lance standing, perfectly fine, if a little disoriented, near the entrance.

The words "nice going, jackass, you made Lance die" appeared in front of him.

He was going to have to have a word with the programmers about the hurtful ways his failings were portrayed. For example:

"How the hell could you get Busted you freakin' loser?"

"You came in fifth! My grandmother can drive better than you."

And his favourite so far:

"Mission failed: FUCK HEAD!"

By now Claude had reached Sweet's house in Grove Street, Los Santos, and had walked into the coloured marker.

The mission was "Grove 4 Life", and the main character, Carl "CJ" Johnson and his brother Sean "Sweet" Johnson were to provoke gang wars with a local gang.

"Hey, Sweet, you ready to do this?" said CJ.

"Yeah I'm ready."

"Good, coz -" Carl's words were cut short as he raised his Desert Eagle and shot Sweet in the face.

"SHIT! SWEET! You alright, bro? You know I can't control myself. I'm, like, under a spell or somethin', man."

"It's alright Carl. Doesn't hurt a bit. It'll take more than that to kill me – just check out my health bar."

"Health bar?"

"Yeah, you got one too, see?" Sweet pointed to the top of the screen where Carl's health bar was located, as well as a list of his weapons and the time.

"Man, four in the morning, out pickin' off Ballas. . ."

"What's wrong, Carl?"

"Sweet, I haven't slept in nine days, man. And I've been wearing the same white vest and blue jeans since I arrived here from Liberty. Whoever is playing this game really sucks."

"At least he gave you a haircut."

"The afro and beard Sweet? I look like a fuckin' roller disco DJ!"

"At least it attracts the chicks."

A young woman walked by.

"Hey, handsome." she smiled seductively.

BANG! Carl shot the young woman in the head.

"Dammit, that's it! I am gonna find the person playing this game, and I'm gonna kill him! See ya around, Sweet." Carl marched off.

"Uh. . .CJ. . .the Ballas? C. . .CJ. . .help. . . fuck."

Tommy returned from killing Lance for the second time to see Claude staring, shocked, at the screen.

"Hey, where did the guy go?"

Claude looked up from the screen, shrugged his shoulders, and returned to staring at the empty space where his character should be.

Lance spawned next to him.

"The hell?" said Lance, puzzled. "Did I die again?"

Back in San Andreas, Carl took his private jet (a Hydra he spawned in front of his house, to the amazement and death of many pedestrians) and flew it to the Truth's hotel in Angel Pine. Under a minute later (an hour in Carl's time), and well above the ground, he evacuated from his jet, and to his dismay, discovered he was minus a parachute.

Now six in the morning, the Truth opened the door to the hotel, and saw a bright light in the sky.

"Woah! No way dude! It's like a supernova. All red and shiny and -"

The explosion of the jet crash landing inches away from the Truth was heard for miles.

Fortunately, he spawned back in his hotel seconds later, badly injured, barely breathing, but happy to be alive, and ready to live life to its fullest and do everything he ever dreamed of doing.

He slouched back into his arm chair.

Meh, maybe tomorrow.

Exactly six hours later, Carl found himself outside the hospital across the street from the hotel.

His weapons were gone, and so was a hundred of his dollars, but he was happy to give it up. After all, those guys must be hella good surgeons. So far he had been shot to death, blown up, dismembered, disembowelled, run over, drowned, crushed, flattened, fallen from a plane, fallen from a cliff, fallen from a kerb (long story) and burned to death.

But always he felt good as new, exactly six hours later.

He walked across the street and was hit with some force by a Packer.

Exactly six hours later he was at the exact same point. He walked out of the hospital, and a plane randomly crashed to the ground in front of him, exploding on impact, sending him flying several feet along the road, where he was hit by another Packer.

Exactly six hours later, Carl had learned his lesson. He made sure to look both ways before crossing the road.

"Pizza man! yelled a voice. Carl ignored it and continued to walk, until out of no where, and with NO WARNING WHATSOEVER, he was HIT IN THE FACE with A PIZZA!

Six hours later he wondered how that could have killed him.

It was probably best not to think about it.

He saw a figure walking – sorry, sprinting – sorry, tumbling down the hill near him. It was Sweet.

Carl's brother was badly bruised, and covered in cuts and gashes and had blood spurting out of his arm.

"Carl." he said finally, "Has anyone ever told you you were a busta?"

"Sweet! I can't believe you're alive!"

"I told ya, it'll take a lot more than two or three dozen Ballas armed with AK-47s to take me down." Sweet shuddered at the thought.

Carl stood, staring at his almost dying brother. The health bar! It was almost empty! The slightest jolt could kill him!

"Sweet, we gotta get you to the hospital before you d-"


"SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!" yelled Carl as a square shaped pepperoni pizza projectile sliced his brother's head clean off.

Mission Failed: Sweet is dead.


Aw well, no use cryin' over spilled blood. Carl started to walk off towards the Truth's hotel.

Minutes later he returned, picked up a few morsels of pizza and walked off again.

"Bless you, Sweet." he said as he ate.

He walked across the street successfully for the first time in three or more days, and opened the door to the Truth's room. There he found his hippie friend wearing bandages and a cast, holding crutches.

"Geez, Truth, what happened to you?"

"Some idiot jumped out his Hydra two days ago and it came down and landed on me! Pretty colours though."

"Uh. . ." Carl stuttered anxiously, ". . .it was probably some drugged up government official." he said hastily.

"Oh, don't get me started on the government. Bunch of no good -"

"Yeah." Carl interrupted. "Look, Truth, I need help."

"Who are you?"

"C. . .Carl. . . it's Carl."


"You know when you went through that phase when you thought you could see into other universes?"

"Yeah. Heh, those were good times."

"Uh. . .yeah, anyway, think you can do it again?"

"Well, of course, Carl." he lied. "But first. . ." the Truth thought for a second, "but first you have to acquire me a tank." Under his breath he added, "Nice save. There's no way he'll get a tank."

"Okay, back in a minute."

"See you then, stranger."

"T. . .Truth, it's me."

"It was a figure of speech, jackass."

"Why does everyone call me that?" Carl whined.

"Anyway, get me a tank, and I'll share my wisdom with you."

Minutes later, Carl drove a tank through the wall of Truth's one bedroom home, crushing him in the process.

Truth spawned in the chair a few feet away.

"Nice driving, idiot."

"Alright, I got your tank."

"How the hell did you get a tank in under two minutes?"

"I just did."

"Will you tell me?"





"No no no no no!"

"But the script says you're meant to tell me."

"I know, I'm just trying to make the story last longer."

"And how are you doing that?"

"By spouting a lot of nonsense that isn't in the slightest way relevant to the plot,therefore adding to the story's word count."

"You mean like what we're doing right now?"

"Exactly like this, but don't say "we're", it shortens it to one word. Say "We are"."

"Oh, good idea."

"Very good idea."


"Oh, it looks like I've been shot again somehow."

"Well that's not good, is it?"

"Not at all."

"What's happening to you?"

"I'm dying, I'll be transported to the hospital."

"Woah, that is so cool! You're, like, all transparent!"

"See ya in six hours!" were Carl's last words before he disappeared.

The Truth waited in his chair for a while for Carl to return. He had nothing better to do anyway.

No less than eighteen hours later, Carl walked through the door. The tank still resided in the space in the wall.

"Where the hell were you?" yelled Truth, as if he was Car's mother. "I have been sitting in this chair, worried sick about you, young man!"

"Truth, I'm a big boy now, leave me alone."

"Don't you give me lip, boy. I got no problem spanking you!"

"Did you just say that?"

"Yeah, sorry, got caught up in the moment." He sat down. "What took you so long?"

"I. . .had stuff to do. . ."

"Carl, we all know you don't have any stuff to do."

"Fine. . ." Carl started to mutter. "I couldn't find your hotel."

"What was that Carl?"

"I said I couldn't find you hotel."

"It's right across from the hospital!"

"But there was a different car there this time and I got lost and ended up in the desert. . ."

"Carl, you're an idiot. How could someone like you get the tank?"

"That nice man across the street was giving them away."

He pointed to a one armed man surrounded by Rhino tanks. He was standing at a small wooden stall with "Phil's army surplus and lemonade stand" written on a sign above it.

He waved at Carl.

"Well that sucks, Carl. I was expecting a story of heroism and bravery."

"What do you expect in three minutes? Now show me the gateway to other dimensions."

"Okay, Carl."

Truth led Carl to a small fence, part of which was broken away. There was a small gap in the ground under it.

"Carl," he said nervously, "I give you "Blue Hell"."

"Neat." said Carl as he jumped head first in to the hole. Seconds later he respawned on the road nearby.

He walked over to where Truth was standing.

"Well that was unimpressive. I wanted to contact the person playing the game."

"We're all playing a game, Carl. And it's called life."

"Shut up, I'm serious. Our life is a video game."

"Pfft. And they said I did too much drugs."

"I'm serious, I wanna contact the gamer. Remember you did it last summer when Sweet wanted to meet that stripper in the Pole Position in Vice City?"

"That poor girl. They never did find her legs. . ."

"Well do it again!"

"I. . .uh. . ."

"Are you trying to say you can't do it?"

"Well. . ."

"Because what kind of psycho, drugged up hippy would you be if you couldn't summon people from other dimensions?"

"That's true. . ." Truth thought for a moment. "Okay. Let's do it." He raised his arms to his face, licked his lips, and began the ritual.

Claude and Tommy, who had finally found where the game character Carl had went, watched the two talking.

Bright, hypnotic, mesmerising colours sloshed together around the screen, dancing in front of them.

Ken Rosenberg walked in and looked at the screen, then at the small packet of white powder in his hands, and back at the screen.

He threw the packet on the ground and walked away, shaking his head.

He returned minutes later to retrieve the bag, unaware that Tommy and his friend were missing.

The two men were standing next to Carl and the Truth, examining their surroundings carefully, and suspiciously.

"Great." said Tommy. "Now we're stuck in a video game."

" "We are"." corrected Carl.

"Hey! You're that guy from San Andreas!"

"That's me."

"Wow! What an honour! I've always wanted to meet you!"

"Really? Why?"

"So I could do this!"

Tommy punched Carl full force in the face causing him to fall down. He lay on the floor, a little dazed, trying to decide if he had the willpower to stand up again.

A rumbling noise behind him filled him with fear. It almost sounded like a tank engine.



It is a tank engine.


Truth and Tommy spoke during Carl's six hour absence, both trying to get to grips with what happened.

"Okay," said Truth, "you're telling me that I actually summoned you here from your world?"

"Looks like it. Me and my friend here -" Claude waved "- were playing GTA: San Andreas and all of a sudden we were inside the game. Aint that right, Claude?"

Claude didn't look up. He appeared to be setting things on fire.

"Ignore him." said Tommy. "Anyway, do you think you can get us home?"

"Do you mind being horribly mutated in the process. Its not unusual for my victims – I mean clients – to return home with no limbs."

Tommy stared at his arms and legs.

"Well. . .I do use these a lot. . .but, what the hell. You only love once."

"Not me, I live hundreds of times."

"Me too." said Carl as he entered, bruised but healthy.

Claude raised his hand to tell everyone the same happens to him.

Truth looked at him.

"The hell is wrong with him?"

Claude threw his arm down angrily, grumbling inside his head.

"Hey CJ," said Truth, "you ever wanted to go to Vice City?"

"Not really."

"Perfect. Let's go."

"But I said -"

"I heard you."

Truth mumbled some more indecipherable mumbo jumbo. Tommy thought he could make out phrases like "leave your message after the tone BEEEP", "Polar bears really do shit in the woods," and "kill all humans."

Ah, whatever. He looked at Truth in his tattered plaid jacket, scruffy hair and bandanna, drugs piled everywhere around the room which wasn't all that pretty itself. . .

Yeah. He's trustworthy.

With a flash, they were in the lounge of Vercetti Estate, much to the surprise of the stoned Ken Rosenberg.

"Hey, everyone everyone look! Tommy's back from the dead, guys, back from the. . .guys? Aw whatever who needs em eh Tommy? You know what I mean right? So who's your friends you gotta introduce me. What a diverse bunch eh Tommy? Tommy, you got an African American guy a hippy, a quiet lookin' guy in a leather jacket and some idiot in a stupid blue Hawaiian shirt. Oh that's you Tommy. Sorry about that. Hey anyway while you're all here you wanna play Twister coz I just got this great new – oh. Oh you're gone."

In fact they had been gone from the line "who needs em". They were all up on the roof for no apparent reason.

"According to this convenient computer I have in my back pocket," said Truth, "We are in the year 1986. There appear to be numerous discrepancies, probably a result of all the cheats entered into the game by lazy players that can't be bothered to practice. The most noticeable error is Claude here, who should technically only be twelve right now. Also, the Playstation downstairs, Carl and I, and this computer. These errors seem to have had some side effects. As it turns out, you three are invincible."

"Oh. Neat." said Tommy. "That means I can do this."

He pushed Carl off the roof, impaling him on a sharp looking statue below.

"Well, not strictly invincible. . .more like when you die, you come back to life."

Seconds later Carl appeared back on the roof.

"It would also seem," Truth continued as Carl and Tommy faced off, "that we now spawn immediately after death, instead of the six hour hospital wait."

"Then that means I can do. . .THIS!" yelled Carl as he lunged at Tommy, subsequently falling off the building onto the same statue.

"This is fun, aint it Claude?" cackled Tommy.

Carl again appeared back on the roof.

"Yes, yes," said Truth philosophically, "I'm sure you all want to kill each other now. Metaphorically speaking of course. So. . .be my guest. Just remember, everyone else still dies, except us, and that includes Lance, Tommy."

"Hot damn! I'll be right back!"

Tommy ran off into the house.

The crew could hear voices faintly from inside.

"Hey, Tommy, what are you doing with that rocket launcher? Those things are dangerous, you know. You could kill yourself."

"Oh no I can't."

"Oh yes you -"

Lance's voice was brought to an end with a loud explosion, causing the building to rumble slightly. Black smoke poured out of the doorway.

Tommy materialised back next to Claude.

"Well, Lance is dead. What do you wanna do now?"

Claude tapped Tommy on his right shoulder and quickly moved to his left side. When Tommy turned round, no one was there, so he turned to his left and was shot point blank with a Colt Python.

After a few seconds his lifeless, headless corpse disintegrated and he appeared anew.

"Ha ha!" laughed Carl. "He got you there."

"Yeah he sure did."

They all laughed, until Carl got over excited and slapped Tommy.

"Oh, now you're gonna pay!"

"You gotta catch me first!" Carl giggled before running away.

"Claude," said Tommy, "how would you like to help me catch him?"

Claude shrugged off the request.

"Perfect! Let's go!"

A/N: Okay, this story, now that I have had time to think about it, will go somewhere. Eventually (in a chapter or two), the guys will start travelling through different video games, desperately trying to kill each other. Right now I'm sort of setting the scene and will write some chapters about them travelling through Vice City, before changing to a different game.

If you can still remember your name after reading this mind numbingly pointless story, please leave a review.

Oh, and thanks to Kitty Gaby for helping me develop this idea from. . .well. . .nothing. Thanks to you, there is a plot!