Cold Sunday Night
Disclaimer: I do not own Grand Theft Auto, GTAII, GTAIII, GTA Vice City, GTA San Andreas, GTA Liberty City Stories or any other GTA games, characters, merchandise, or any other GTA products. I do not own Deftones, or any of their songs, or any Deftones merchandise, unless they own a Gibson replica, a Sabian B8 cymbal set, Remo drums and pedals, Zildian hi-hats or Zildian Vic-Firth 5A Nylon-tipped drum-sticks. Same goes to all other bands included in the story. All characters are property of me except for Tommy Vercetti and all other GTA characters, and all GTA cities included in the story are property of their respective owners.
I got a call from Robert again on Friday. He needed some pot. I was fresh out from the week before, sitting in my house by the fire listening to Deftones and drinking water in order to deal with the damn cottonmouth. Alone by the fire listening to low minor-key music and smoking weed. It tends to make one depressed.
So I sat depressed, by this fire that gradually grew colder after every inch away from the world I went, every step away from reality I took, and every hit of my grass taken by the lips of which I bear, the ones that sit motionless by the cold fire, un-movable. So as much as I wanted to scream about my slow descent to rock bottom in the cold 2-bedroom house of which I lived, with-out a soul-mate, I could not, and so I sat, bearing this fact upon my mind, that I could never feel so much more in touch with myself, more in touch with life, and more in touch with the 9mm being pressed against my neck.
There's an urban myth that when smoking weed and getting high you get a weird dose of reflex, that is, you can catch a falling glass of wine in mid-air with no problem, yet you can't get up and walk even if you tried. Very strange idea, isn't it? Well in my case, it surprisingly worked.
I spun around as fast as I could have turned on a faucet of water in my kitchen sink, and with the same amount of ease, as well. I then took the gun out of his hand faster than my own finger could have pulled the trigger. Well, that's what I thought, until I did pull the trigger. Amazingly it was silenced, and I was very grateful. But, not entirely grateful, because of one thing:
I just fucking killed a man.
I was no longer high.
I was no longer depressed.
I was only scared out of my mind.
All the questions went through my mind. "What do I do with the body? Where do I take it? How do I cover up the blood? What do neighbors think about a man coming up in a huge Compact pickup, wearing a mask, wielding a silenced 9mm and seeing that the man never came out?
It was then that the phone rang…perfect timing. I noticed I still wielded the gun, and I still noticed that "Minerva" – Deftones was playing. Not noticing, I shot the radio and stopped the beautiful music from coming out of it. I then proceeded to picking up the phone, which was greeted warmly by a raspy of a very pissed off Italian.
Don Joey Leone of the Liberty City Mafia was on MY phone, cussing ME out. On any other occasion, I might have been honored.
"You…PRICK! You mother-fucking PRICK! You killed Toni fucking Cipriani! You better watch your fucking back, 'cause we gonna KILL you for that!"
That was it. Dial-tone after that was all to be heard. It took me a moment to let it soak in. First I was just sitting and going "…damn, he is PISSED." Then it hit me like a bullet, and thankfully it wasn't. I was soon to have a bullet hit me, unless I figured out a way to get myself out of this. I had to think quickly. I had to figure it out.
In about 5 seconds, I had it. I'd change my name and find a place to stay, probably with one of my friends. I'd dye my hair jet black and grow a goatee. I'd die that black as well. And I'd be named…
James Wren. The name comes from my old friend, Alex Wren, right before he died about 3 years ago. He was Tommy Vercetti, but nicknamed himself Alex Wren.
And about my current life … well … I'd burn the house down and make them think that it was a rival gang act, and it would destroy the body as well as "myself," or at least, that's what the Mafia would think happened to me.
It was flawless, and it would work.
I grabbed the body and put it into the fire. I poured some oil right in front of the fire and made an oil trail to different parts of my 2-bedroom, 1-bathroom, and 1-kitchen house. The stove got some as well as the rug and couches, and some lights were tipped onto the primary trial. One trail forked from the other two back to my room. After I grabbed my stuff, which consisted of clothes, CDs and MP3s and my CD/MP3 player, and the 200 dollars I had, I rushed back into the living room, where the body was already fried to a crisp and the trails were already starting to get lit. So I had to get the fuck out of there, and fast.
2 hours later it was 1:37 AM and I realized I was still kind of high. I laughed softly as I watched the house silently burn down from across the street where I sat under a street-light. I was just making sure during that whole 2 hours that it was gonna go DOWN. And no police, no fire, no nothing. Not yet. Thank god this little Liberty City break-off cul-de-sac never has any night-life. So by the time someone called the police, the building would be down. Finally, I rose from the curb and stole a car I hot-wired that sat across the street. It was nice, a Stallion… which is nothing special, but a good car, none-the-less.
So I set off to find my new life.