A/N: Basically something I came up with after three days of writing. Set in San Andreas, lots of O.C's but also game characters. Give it a shot...R&R
Gunfire awakened the more idle residents of Willowfield. A grisly cocktail of unwholesome sounds replaced the usual chorus of birdsong: rattling machinegun fire accompanied by the clinking and clunking of falling shells. Now and again it would stop, only to be punctuated by the thrum of pistols or flurry of clicks as fumbling hands thrust metal into machine and conducted another verse of hot lead into the air- eventually leading to a horrific, thumping crescendo of tearing flesh and noxious groans.
Ryan paused shaving and frowned. Carefully placing the razor down, he leaned over and shut the bathroom window, stifling any chance of a refreshing breeze into the humid room. He had always seen his mother follow this procedure when the neighbourhood got 'disturbed': shut the windows and sit tight. He calmly continued to run the blade over his cheek and a few minutes later finished with a splash of aftershave. He glared at his reflection in the mirror and mentally criticized it.
'I need a fucking hair cut,' he muttered, flicking his dark brown hair and running a hand through it.
He wandered into the kitchen, picked up a white phone and punched some numbers into the keypad.
'Its Ryan….I'm gonna be late,' he murmured, staring up at the ceiling, shutting his eyes as the sound of a baby crying resounded through the apartment-making anybody, apart from adoring mothers, want to tear their hair out.
'That all I get….no explanation?' replied a sleezy voice, followed by the squelching and chomping of tobacco.
'Turn on the radio….see you soon Eddie'. He hung up. Eddie Barker could fire Ryan on a whim if he wished, but unfortunately had a poor grasp of what it meant to be a boss. However, Ryan and the rest gave him the respect he deserved, after all he was the best mechanic Los Santos had to offer (he regularly made the point of drumming that title into their heads on every working day) Eddie wasn't a bad man either, married with two children in a semi-detached house in Verona Beach. Not a bad man at all. Ryan changed into a tired pair of blue overalls, lit a cigarette, settled back into an armchair and waited for the sirens.
Delaney: a household name in San Andreas, the title behind Pay N Spray, Delaney Driving School and Transfender. The well known, but not uttered, Bomb Shop and the cancerous import and export businesses that infected San Andreas' ports: go out of your way to bad mouth these enterprises and one of Delaney's mob links will quickly silence you. The well used 'I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine' policy, after all, the state was drowning in pestilence that the high and wide variety of crime syndicates produced. All of these organisations benefited from Delaney Garages, whether it be wheels enhanced by explosives, stealing a Banshee and driving it to the harbour to make a little extra cash, or simply pulling up into a garage and remerging with a new colour scheme: everyone is happy. Though Owen Delaney was currently tying a rope around his 70 year old neck and preparing take a short step off the edge of a desk.
A few floors down from this act of god, the young man who was about to become an orphan was marching down the corridors on the second floor of HQ with a cell phone firmly attached to his ear and a cigarette slipping out of his lips. A small, lean, grey suited woman was trying to keep up with him.
'Well I'm telling you stupid bastard the driver probably hit a speed bump to quick….the bombs are delicate…no I'm not offending your mother…no…oh fuckin' chink'. He threw the phone behind him, took a drag from the cigarette, ran a hand through a black matt of firmly gelled hair and massaged his temples.
'O.K Audrey, send a written response to Mr. Fried Rice on our car-bomb polices…' he said as the assistant jotted a jumble of words on her clipboard.
'Yes sir…what about the Thais?'
'What about them?'
'You told them, in response to their service complaints, 'to go and shove their chopsticks up their asses,' she replied timidly, brushing off some ash that had trickled onto his pinstripe suit.
'Uhhh…fuckin' hell I don't know…send them a gift package or something…'
'Yes Mr Delaney…' she mumbled, doubling back to retrieve the cell that had found its way into a potted plant. She did feel a certain extent of sympathy for her boss: Conlan Delaney. He single-handedly held together Delaney Autos while his father slowly fell into alcoholism and his brother could usually be found lying in the gutter with a syringe. Yet, unfortunately Conlan was still a bit of bastard.
Head Garage was another Delaney establishment and its employees were a tightly knit group as Ryan had found out on his first day several months ago. There was Eddie: head mechanic on 20 cigarettes a day and pushing the boundaries of obesity. 'Tics' was a sufferer of Tourette's syndrome with a tendency to sniff every second and include the words 'Fuckin' A' in every sentence. Alex Loei gave the garage a touch of feminism but much to her annoyance was referred to as 'one of the guys'. Ryan joined the group after a guy named Harvey Castello had ironically been hit by a car. It was a small step up from his apprentice job in a shabby garage in Playa Del Seville where he only had a fat slob and a dog for company. Unfortunately the garage suffered from an arson attack in last years riots and Ryan had to find himself a new job.
Half an hour after battling his way out his street, which was now crawling with police and medics, Ryan entered the dingy office in Downtown Los Santos; work.
'Mornin' Ryan,' Alex muttered, slumped in a chair and staring fixatedly at a clipboard with a mug of coffee in one hand. He mumbled something in return and sunk into a chair.
'So what I got today?'
'Well…a Remington with a transmission problem and a Feltzer that needs servicing'.
'Right…' he mumbled, yawning loudly and stretching his legs and arms.
The sound similar to a forced cough implied that Tics was about to emerge.
'Hey…Ryan…fuckin' a man, I heard that Willowfield was interrupted this mornin'…shit man I mean who was it this time? What were they using? Didja see anyone get shot?' spluttered Ticks in a series of unsettled coughs. Ryan rolled his eyes: ever since last years riots Ticks or 'Jonathan Mills' had developed an unhealthy obsession with gang related crime.
'Ahh I don't give a shit… hell man, go do your frickin job,' sniggered Ryan throwing a rolled up newspaper at his skinny frame. Tics ambled off mumbling something inaudible. His presence was quickly replaced by Eddie's, who was fully occupied with scratching his backside and smoking a cigarette.
'See you got out your house alive…' he said.
'Yeah…don't sound too happy…'
'Go haul your ass to that Feltzer before I fire your sorry butt,' he replied.
'Yeah yeah...' Ryan heaved himself up, picked up the keys to the Feltzer and pocketed them. He was about to make his way into the main but the thundering sound of bullets and the thump of a shot gun suddenly erupted.
'WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?' bellowed Eddie. The gunfire continued a few more seconds.
Alex and Ryan shot horrified looks at the door, where the sound was coming from, leading to the main garage and glanced at each other; mentally saying 'you first'.
Alex pulled a draw open and pulled out a Glock 26 and pocketed it inside her overalls.
'Jesus Christ...' said Eddie in disbelief.
'Where'd you get that?' said Ryan, raising an eyebrow.
'Dead cop in the riots,' she said casually. Eddie's eyes widened: he had issues with female dominance. Seconds past, neither Eddie nor Alex were showing any signs of moving.
'O.K ladies…I'll go first,' said Ryan. He opened the door into the large room, which looked like an ordinary, everyday automobile repair shop: tools, tyres, a car, although the five black suited men brandishing an assortment of pump action shotguns and SMG's suggested otherwise.
'Fuck me…' muttered Ryan, stumbling back. A squeak from below caught his attention: Tics was lying face down on the floor where a shiny black shoe was ensuring he continued kissing concrete. Ryan stared at Tics captor. He was definitely of oriental descent: Chinese, Japanese?
'Hansup!' said one of them with short black hair and sunglasses. All five looked like clones: black hair and shades, apart from one who was entirely bald. He heard the footsteps and gasps of Alex and Eddie behind him.
'HANSUP!' another screamed.
'What?' squawked Eddie.
'Shut the fuck up Ed!' hissed Alex, holding her arms up and signalling that he should do the same.
'Yu Deyaney…no?'
'Uhh….' began Ryan, pretending he knew what they were talking about. From behind him Alex began to speak, but not in English. In a language he had never heard before. The men seemed to understand and shot something back in the same dialect. Ryan dared to look behind and saw Eddie looking at Alex like she had suddenly sprouted tentacles.
'What did you say to them!?' Eddie spat.
'Shutup!'she replied, her face strained in concentration. Ignoring her command Eddie continued.
'Fuking hell Alex, who are they and WHAT THE FUCK ARE THEY DOING IN MY GARAGE?!'
One of the men fired a shot into the ceiling. Everyone jumped as plaster and dust sprinkled onto the floor.
She sighed and shot a filthy glare at him.
'There Thais, I think someone at HQ really pissed them off… it looks like were hostages…' she murmured out of the corner of her mouth.
'Shit…I always thought you were a chink,' he muttered back. There was more exchange in Thai.
'Okay…they want us to sit down and keep still…if we do anything that guy will kill us' she said, ignoring Eddie's back comment. She nodded at a burly looking man grasping a sawn off shotgun. Ryan heard Eddie gulp
'Ask them if we can smoke Alex,' said Ryan, his hands itching to grab the packet of Redwoods in his breast pocket. She mumbled something and the men looked at each other and nodded. It seemed they possessed a hint of human compassion. Ryan settled down next to Alex and took a long drag of the cigarette only to have it stolen by Alex who appeared to need it more. Tics was released from the foot that had held him and crawled over to them, shaking and coughing uncontrollably.
'Fuckin' a man…' he muttered.
'Fuckin' a…' repeated Ryan, lighting another cigarette and staring at the ceiling.
Several miles away, in a dingy corner of East Los Santos lay, sprawled out on the sidewalk, 20 year old Bradigan Delaney: vomit all over his cheap, red Hawaiian shirt and smeared in his short black hair.
'Fuck me Brad that was a heavy night,' groaned a lump next to him.
'Where the fuck are we Roy? Jesus…what the hell was in that dope?' replied Brad trying to tell where his feet were in relation to his body.
'You got your cell? Call a freaking Taxi'
'Yeah…. Shit shit shit!' yelled Brad, slapping his pockets.
'What man? shut up your hurting my head!'
'My fucking wallet and cell have been nicked!'
'Hahah…I bet it was that Michelle…man were screwed…' sniggered Roy.
'Fuckin' bitch! You got any frickin' money dude?'
'Oh yeah…' Roy grabbed a scrunch of notes from his pockets. A few painstaking minutes later they both managed to stand up.
'Wahey man!' cried Roy, wobbling slightly.
'Mornin' ese,' came a voice from behind. A man with beige pants and a white tank top came into view, followed by three others in similar attire.
'Jeesus eseey…why you wearin' a balaclava?' stuttered Roy, his vision still extremely blurry.
'ARGHH!' yelled Brad, as a crowbar came into contact with his head. He slumped to the ground. One man in blue pants and a white shirt picked him up and slung him over his shoulder.
'What shall we do with this bendico?' said one in a thick Hispanic accent, pointing to Roy.
'Whatever the hell you want ese….'
Roy took a few steps back as two of the Mexicans stepped towards him.
'Ahh…fuck….hey look man I got money take it… take it!' he spluttered, throwing the notes at them.
'Thanks ese…' one of them sneered. It didn't stop them though, from lobbing a crow bar into his stomach and leaving him for dead on the side walk.
R&R- like all writers I thrive off them ;-)