Welcome to the Family
Disclaimer: I don't own GTA or any characters that were created by Rockstar Games™. I made up some characters in this story, and you'll be able to tell. Also… I'm unsure if there is a Flaming Shits out there, and if there is, I apologize. Please email me at and we can settle this like gentlemen.
Chapter 1: Invitation to a Dream
Ah… beautiful, big-time Liberty City. What an amazing place. So amazing they won Worst City in America … again. People coming and going [usually being imported and dying, new places being opened, usually by immigrants, and closed, usually shut down or taken over, and of course, us that work to keep everything working smoothly and running the way it was meant to run. We're always around, always busy, and always kept in our "groups," usually categorized in the following fashion: new to the family, henchman, dirty workers, handymen, star pupils and then the big time men themselves, respectively. We all worked for the same couple big timers, but we always fought about who was the best and the most successful. I belonged to no group … none at all, actually, from where I begin this story … I was just small time and confused as to where I wanted to end up. But I can tell you this for sure: I wanted to be BIG. I wanted to snap my fuckin' fingers, and up pops a guy with a tux and a parted hair-style giving me any kind of wine I ask for, even if it means he has to kill someone to get it to me within the next ten minutes.
As I said earlier, I begin uncharted. On no map. I was my own man. It all began when I met Charlie, the craziest punk I'd ever seen. It was around noon, and I was eating at the Cipriani restaurant, owned by Toni and his mom. I lit a fresh cigarette when I suddenly heard this beeping and shouting. I love chaos; so naturally, I went to see what was going on. I step onto the sidewalk, among many others, to see a guy in a Flaming Shits t-shirt and tight black pants with a blue Mohawk flipping the bird at this driver. The guy continues honking and more frequently…and in longer honks. So this punk puts on a huge grin and shouts "BEEP! BEEP! BEEP, BEEP, ASSHOLE!" He runs over to the door and yanks it off the hinges. Now this guy isn't even that big, maybe 5' 10" or so, and he pulls the fucking door off the car. I knew I needed to know this guy. So he pulls this stupid fucker out of the car and pulls off the shit's glasses. He then proceeds to pull the gun out of the offender's own pocket and shove it in his own jacket.
"Well, look what we have here," he whispered excitedly, "a fucking prat honking at me when I'm crossing the road on my own time. Well, I want to give you the opportunity to see what I have to go through." In the middle of a frozen intersection, he scans around the sidewalks to find anyone, and then he pans his eyes to me and says "You! Come 'ere." Smiling, I put out my cigarette and walked over. He says "Alright, lift up the hood and then hold it for a second." I do as I'm told and I look back over. He puts the guy over the front of the car so his nose is about 3 inches from the engine.
"Good. Now, close it. And if he moves around, give him a good thwack on the head: That'll get him to quit squirming." So I close it and wait. He goes into the car and lights a cigarette.
"Brace yourself!" he calls. Before I had a chance to decipher it, all of the sudden the horn sounds straight, for well around thirty seconds. The driver starts shaking and tries to get out. I give him a good hit and he tries to fight it. I keep hitting him over the head and this horn is sounding and still sounding. Finally, the guy stops moving and this punk steps out of the car.
"Move," I take a step back. He opens the hood and looks at the guy. In almost a whisper he says "Learned anything?"
"WHAT!?" shouts the driver. The punk smiles and gets around an inch away from this guy's ear and exclaims "GOOD!" at the top of his lungs. He looks at me and says "Get in the car or I'll blow your fuckin' brains out." I can't exactly argue with that. So I step into the car and sit down and light up another cigarette.
"Charlie," he says calmly.
"Jimmie," I reply. He starts to drive off and then this rock hits the back window. It's Toni, shouting at me for not paying my bill. Charlie stops the car and says "Give me that cigarette." I had around three hits, but I gave it to him because he so-kindly asked. He rips half the nicotine and says "I'll be right back."
He steps out and I hear a few gunshots from the restaurant. Then out the window pours this big, fat body. It takes me a minute to recognize it but then my eyes widen.
"Oh…shit!" I scream. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"
Charlie steps out of the restaurant and jumps back in the car. "Alright," he says, "we're off."
I was acquainted to a guy who just beat Toni Cipriani within centimeters of his life.
I turn my head to him.
"…What…in the HELL…WERE YOU THINKING?!" I shout.
He gives me a threatening look and stops in the middle of a turn and says "I was thinking that someone broke MY CAR'S window, and I didn't feel too happy about it. So I KICKED HIS ASS. If you have any problems… THEN GET OUT!"
We sit in silence for a few seconds and he turns back to the road and continues driving. He takes a turn out in front of the Don's house and an ambulance speeds past us, sirens blaring. Charlie starts busting up laughing.
I look at him.
"Heh…funny…" he says between gasps, "…usually takes them around 4 or 5 minutes longer to get to an emergency when I do that." He gasps and pulls up his fist, which is full of broken glass and Toni's tooth and is bleeding like all holy hell. He shoves his hand in his shirt and says "well…how about some music?" to which he throws on some hardcore punk band from who knows which corner of New York.
And that's how I met Charlie. From there we did everything together. We decided to move into a small apartment behind an auto shop run by some beat-nick asshole. From there, he just fucking changes my life. Him and I start doing cocaine together, in to which time he would start getting into his political speeches.
"Look, man," he'd say, "no matter what we do, the only effective solution is anarchy." This went on for a while, but finally, I pluck up the courage to ask, "Why?" So he laughs and exclaims "Where do I begin!? Well, first of all, the government is doing insane shit, as we are all aware of, but can not do anything about. BUT, there are the SOME of us that actually DO … do something about it. And for those people, you know where they go? Straight to a secret fuckin' prison in the middle of NO WHERE, where they are TORTURED, and RAPED, and WORKED, and STRIPPED OF THEIR RIGHTS, until they DIE. UNTIL THEY DIE! Which means there's nothing else we can do BUT ALL REBEL TOGETHER!"
I sat and thank about it. We were on coke and all, and I was drunk, but to my surprise, I replied "You know…you're right." So lately I have adopted the whole punk fashion and way of life. I enjoy it, but it isn't exactly where I want to be, but I still like where I'm at for now.
A few months have gone by with no real excitement but drug-dealing. Oh, big deal, you know? We sell coke, whatever. But one day, we're touring Portland Island when Charlie says, "Hey, Jim, want to start doing something worth more money?" Naturally, I like money. So I reply with a "Fuck yeah, let's get a real job, for Christ's sake!" and he turns around. He heads through Chinatown and pulls into the Red Light where we end up in front of this strip joint. Something seems familiar. Then it hits me.
"Hey, doesn't Luigi Leone own this place?" I ask. Charlie nods. So I step out of the car and Charlie says "See you around," and takes off. I am a bit confused, but I forget it and walk into the club. I see a sign that reads "Manager's Office" and is guarded by two men in the mafia. I walk up and they stop me. I tell them I'm here for work and they search me. I was clean so they let me in.
"Sit down," he says, looking sharply at me. I close the door behind me and have a seat. I am about 3 feet from him which is perfect Mafia shooting range for up close and personal killing. He leans forward and puts his hands on the desk.
"So," he begins, "You need work?" Gingerly, I reply "Yeah. Charlie sent me."
"Charlie?" he says. His eyes get huge. He looks pissed for a SPLIT-second, and then a calm smile passes slowly over his face. "I know him. I can give you just the job. Well, I trust you, but you need to prove yourself, so I am going to make you take someone out, understand?" I nod.
"Good. Here. Take this picture," he says, handing me an 8x10 glossy. It contains a picture of a little heroin junkie who must be around 19. The kid's a skinhead and he doesn't look all that happy in the picture.
"See him? His name is Jeff Scassa. He lives in apartment 834 in The Cock Hotel. Go take him out. Use this." He hands me a bat.
"Beat the shit out of him and get a good picture with his brains splattered out and make sure you're in it. Here's a camera." He hands me a camera and shoos me out. So here I go, walking out of a club in the Reed Light District with a bat in my hand and a camera in the other. I don't have a car so I do what any man with a baseball bat hopped up on coke would do.
I ran up to the nearest parked Banshee and busted the window and got in the car. I whip around and take a left until I reach a corner where I have to wait for a light. I see this girl. A hooker…but a beautiful hooker…the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. She had straight, jet-black hair with blue tips. Her eye shadow is a bit thick and her lipstick is a dark red. She was wearing a black leather jump suit that is skin tight for the pleasure of the eyes. She looks over and flashes me a sneer, to which I kindly return, remembering my obvious punky look.
The light turns green and I follow the route to the apartments, passing by a broken down shack with the words "LIBERTY WILL PREVAIL" on the front. This is the obvious shack of the Jerry, the cute and lovable crazy hobo. He comes into our story a little later.
I stop and get out of the Banshee. I suddenly realize how stupid it must look. Some broke-as-shit punk guy stepping out of a multi-ten-thousand dollar car….with a bat…
So I climb the stairs and arrive at 832, which means right across the hall must be…ah, there it is. 834. I knock on the door. The door opens up and this skinhead kid steps out and says "Come on in, man. You look sick. Love the band on your shirt," and flashes me a toothy grin. The kid seems alright, which means it will kind of suck when I have to kill him.
I step into this … one-room hole of shit … to see nothing but a bed and a mess of clothes and food in the middle of the room with white walls and black graffiti. His TV's on, but nothing is really on it. Just flashing lights, as far as I can see. That's probably what he had it for as well.
So, after a few minutes of small talk I do him in and get the picture with me in it giving the biggest bullshit smile I could give in hopes of maybe getting a good pay from Luigi for humorous benefits. Then I drive back to the club, seeing Jerry preaching about Satan and all that. When I stop back at the club, a man in the mafia is standing guard out front. I walk up and he tells me Luigi wants me to use the back entrance from now on because it's easier. So I round the corner and go on in and enter Luigi's office.
"Got it?" he asks. I show him the picture and he smiles. "Good. Get this copied and give me them both. I want to keep one and send another one off." I use the copier in the office behind the employee section. They just run the money transactions. Well…the legal ones…
I left the club with 10,000 dollars and a bat. I hop in my Banshee and decide to get some good food tonight over at Punk Noodles. After around 5 minutes of eating I get a call from Charlie.
"Hey," I greet him.
"Hey," he says. He sounds troubled.
"You alright?" I ask him.
"No. Luigi called me and told him to come down to pick you up. I arrive to realize that you are not there. Apparently, you drove off in a nice BANSHEE that you stole. Well, that's all fine, but I'm a little ticked. I spent a few good minutes of my fucking time to come get you. So I see Luigi, and ask what this is all about. Know what he does? …"
"I SAID DO YOU KNOW WHAT HE FUCKING DOES?" he screams.
"NO! NO!" I shout back.
"Well…he smiles. He smiles and says 'Sorry. You just missed him. He took off in his nice blue sports car, but he wanted me to give you this,' to which he hands me a PICTURE… a nice, 8x10 glossy of a certain friend of mine, whom I TRUSTED, kicking a kid named Jeff's ass. Jeff Scassa, I believe, is the name?"
"Oh, yeah," I said, "I got a job, man! Isn't it awesome? I got 10 grand off beating that little junkie's ass!"
"Jim…my last name is Scassa. That 'little junkie' was my brother. I hope you're ready to fucking die because I am going to find you in your little piece of shit sports car and I am going to KILL YOU! UNDER-FUCKING-STAND!? I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!"
And he hangs up.
I'm scared. I'm very fucking scared.