Downtown Metro City, 12:05 AM
Twenty-six-year-old SSX competitor PSYMON STARK is standing under a streetlamp on a deserted side-road in downtown Metro City. He is leaning against a tattered red car that is parked next to the curb. The car window is rolled down all the way. There is a driver inside, a young man who can't be much older than PSYMON. The two of them are talking in hushed tones.
DRIVER: Wait a minute. You want me to do what?
PSYMON: (He rolls his eyes.) I already explained it to ya, man. If you can't get it right the first time, then I may just have to take my business elsewhere-
DRIVER: No, no, wait. (He holds up a hand.) Just hang on one minute. I don't think I heard you quite right. Now correct me if I'm wrong, but it sounded an awful lot like you said that you want me to run over some guy-
PSYMON: No, ya fool! Don't run over him. Not all the way, at least. Just make him shit his pants a little. Know what I mean? (He chuckles darkly, then pauses, his expression abruptly turning serious.) Oh, and for the record, it's not just some guy. We're talkin' about Mac Fraser, man. SSX veteran, local DJ...royal pain in my ass.
DRIVER: Hm. And you're serious when you say that you'll give me $10,000 dollars for doing this?
PSYMON: You bet I am. I may even throw a couple extra hundred bucks in there, too. I've got the dough, and I'd be more than happy to oblige...that is, if you do the job right.
DRIVER: And what would be your definition of "doing it right?"
PSYMON: Making him scream, cry, and wail like a little wuss! Haha! (He bursts into maniacal laughter.)
DRIVER: Err...right. So, um, what'd you say this guy looks like again?
PSYMON: (He is still laughing.)
DRIVER: Hey! You with me here, dude? (He reaches over to the passenger seat, grabs a rolled up umbrella and wacks PSYMON on the head with it.)
PSYMON: (He blinks, then looks at the driver, seeming to have only just remembered that he is still there.) Yeah?
DRIVER: What'd you say this Mac Fraser kid looks like?
PSYMON: Ooooh, right. Well, for starters, he's got a lot of hair. It's in his face, in his eyes, all over the freakin' nation.
DRIVER: Uh. Come again?
PSYMON: Ya know, the typical skater guy bullshit. Long hair, baggy clothes...real short guy, too, like 5'6 or whatnot. Looks like he's about twelve.
DRIVER: And you said he'll be coming from over there? (He points in the direction of a large brick building that sits on the corner just ahead.)
PSYMON: Yup. He'll be walking home from the skate park. He's there every single freakin' night, man. Every freakin' night.
DRIVER: (nods) Okay, I think I've got it. Out of curiosity, though, why are you so determined to nab this kid? I mean, what'd he ever do to you?
PSYMON: I could ask you the same question couldn't I, pea-brain?
DRIVER: Um. Yeah...I guess you could.
PSYMON: So don't worry your pretty little freaking head over it. That is, if ya still want the $10,000 dollars.
DRIVER: All right, all right. Say no more.
PSYMON: Good. And FYI, I'll be watching you.
DRIVER: (He nods again and rolls up his car window. Just as he does, though, PSYMON taps on the glass. The driver sighs and rolls it back down.)
PSYMON: One more thing. Sometimes at night I'll see a girl or two walking with him. Apparently he's got quite the fan-base these days. (He gags exaggeratedly to show his disgust.) Bottom line is, if you see him and he's got a girl in tow, ya still have to do it. Otherwise the deal's off. Got it?
DRIVER: Sure, sure. I got it.