Cold eyes gazed through a smudged and cracked windshield, facing the desolation in front of him that some people called Liberty City. It was nothing more than a highly populated cess-pool, ridden with violence, sex, and drugs. During the last decade it had become unsafe to step foot outside of one's home. There wasn't a single neighborhood, not one, that didn't have a local gang HQ within a few miles. Even the 'good' part of town, in the Shoreside Vale projects, petty street gangs had begun to expand and take over. The sky was always filled with billowing torrents of black pollution being steadily pumped into the atomosphere every day as a result of paper mills, factories, and crank labs. All through the night gun shots ring out at random times, adding to the statistics.
As the killer exhaled, he looked at his own breath, a mesmerizing cloud blowing around inside the cab of his car. He lit a cigarette and wrapped himself tighter in his worn brown coat, warding off the cold for as long as he could. His fingers had gone numb a long time ago, beginning to get difficult to move. Occasionally he'd work his right index finger a couple of times to ensure that it wouldn't lock up on him at an inappropriate time. As the killer's eyelids became heavier and heavier, he had to try harder to keep himself conscious. Three days of no sleep's worth of exhaustion was taking it's toll, giving him the shakes, chills, nodding off constantly, etc.
As the familiar smell of smoke filled his senses, he inhaled deeply, sucking up as much of the death haze as he could. The cigs calmed him down when he needed it, he considered the threat of lung cancer a fair price to pay for the comfort he found in the tobacco and nicotine. There was one other thing that could give him comfort like that, and that was the feel of the cold steel of his glock pressed against his chest within his coat. With his gun on his person, he'd often feel invincible, almost hoping someone would mess with him.
A light rain began to fall, making the pavement glisten. Ghostly reflections of street lamps and car headlights were cast everywhere, making his brain throb. He squinted slightly in a vain attempt to see to the end of the street he was on. One of the shadiest looking streets in the city. All around him porn shops, sketchy internet cafe's, laundromats, and a sleazy strip club glared at him like towering creatures warning him to get out of their territory. He didn't feel he belonged here, and wanted to leave as soon as possible. That's why it was essential to get the job done tonight, without a hitch. It had to be perfect so he could go home, drink a beer, and go to sleep. He could take a few months off, fly down to Miami and relax. He was being worn down by all the work lately, dirty, hard work that always contained difficulty. Barge into a Triad laundromat and demand protection money, crack someone's ribs who happened to be in debt to people higher on the ladder than himself, make a bartender disappear... It was bad. The pay was pretty good for this line of work, so he kept with it. But this job, this job was huge. He'd proved his worth in the last few months so he was trusted. The pay was unbelievable. Make Luigi Goterelli a grease spot and he had himself two hundred grand.
Every night for the past year, at around midnight, the short, squat italian nightclub owner would pull up in his sleazy limousine and go inside. He'd hung himself by following such a strict schedule. Anyone who wanted him dead knew where he was at night, and right when he'd get there. A sitting duck, nothing could go wrong. However, it wouldn't be as easy as it might have sounded. When he gets out of the car, he's inside within seconds, surrounded on all sides by four hulking bodyguards that would gladly tear a man's spine out of their back to protect their boss. He'd had to kill him fast, before he could reach the safety of the inside. Italians, they're either fanatically loyal or dangerously treacherous, always unpredictable. He didn't trust the wop bastards, having too many bad experiences.
Still waiting. His eyelids felt like solid steel now, almost impossible to hold open. He'd slap himself, stick himself in the arm with his lit cigarette, anying to keep him awake. But everything was failing, it was hopeless.. His vision became hazy, shapes hard to make out. The sounds of beat up cars rolling slowly across the asphalt became distant, and he could faintly feel his forehead resting against the soft leather of his steering wheel, no memory of his head falling forward. He gave up fighting and let the exhaustion overcome him.
He fell asleep on the job.