[Tyla]

I've been asked to repost my first chapter from the locked topic, so here it is. I've also included Chapter Two.

Series One, Chapter One
Prologue.

Bleakly scattered clouds of industrial pollution obscured the early morning twilight overhead the distant city limits on the outskirts of Liberty. Fog rolled across the rippling waves, the flickering red lights of buoys dancing within the water poked through the mist littered across the seascape. The isolated patch of land purposely sat far away from the rest of humanity; those who had parented its construction wanted to see to it that those that made a visit there became permanent residents of this segregated society, exiled from those innocents they deemed to be honest, hard-working citizens. Liberty City Maximum Security Penitentiary was a hell, known as one of the toughest high security wings in the country. Only the toughest survived, it was rare for anyone to ever prosper.

The prison lay dead, the high concrete walls laced with spikes of barbed wire surrounded by seemingly complete silence. Inside, activity was prospering within a murky corridor, a crowd of three guards lined up outside a tightly restricted cell, congregating around a thickly bound steel door. It had been an early start for the prisoner, whom they led away in solemness through the winding turns that appeared to lead to nowhere.

A balding corrections officer lay slumped across a dimly lit desk, resting his head within his palms. Years of early starts and watching cons come and go did little to improve his work ethic. The group arrived and like clockwork, spread themselves apart behind the departing guest. Cockily, the officer in the middle gave him a shove forward with the butt of his baton, to which the prisoner did not flinch, only allowing himself to regain his straight posture. Awoken by orders, the corrections officer began to unearth the forgotten possessions in which the man of custody had hold of at the time of his arrest; a particularly gruesome incident.

Pushed across the desk were a beaten brown leather jacket, a slashed and torn black undershirt and dark trousers, the prisoner being instructed to take them into his hands. Seventy-Three Dollars and several spare cents were also placed down on the desk; a monetary amount once within his wallet. Finally, the officer rolled out a form accompanied with a pen.

Signing on the dotted line, he stepped backwards and was led away by anxious guards to change out of the once bright orange jumpsuit he had donned for so long. The time had arrived for him to finally be paroled, but those that knew of him were almost certain he would return. Sent down at twenty, it was aged thirty-five that Tommy Vercetti would become a free man once more.

They led him to a small sail boat moored outside the facility; water was the only means of access. They marched him on board, exercising their authority over him until the last second, but the image of Prison was soon to be a distant memory. For Tommy, it had been fifteen years of his life, and he had made sure each day had been well spent. Planning, plotting, strengthening himself within his own bounds. He made a point of keeping his head down and not saying a word, not even considering selling out the Forelli Family in return for a house and new identity upstate. Tommy had a very personal beef with the Forelli’s, a score he deemed only himself worthy of settling. It was a testament to his strength that he had waited so long for his chance to put things right, never publicly voicing any dissatisfaction with Sonny Forelli; a name that Tommy once pledged his loyalty to, a name involved in his imprisonment, a name rumoured to have orchestrated it.

A guard tossed a rope ashore, guiding the boat to a stop beside the land of Shoreside Vale. The other occupied himself unlocking the door on the deck, providing the gateway to the free land. Tommy walked along the short plank of wood connected to the pathway, the early morning sunrise now piercing it’s way through the rolling clouds of dusk; a new day, a new beginning. He wanted to get the ball rolling, and decided visiting an old haunt would be a good place to start. Walking down the gravel laden beaten track back to civilization as the boat engines stirred away from the shoreline, his gaze shifted to a chequered taxi cab travelling along the street; he extended his arm and flagged it down, climbing into the back seat, passing a handful of aged notes forth into the driver’s hand.

“Take me to Saint Marks.”

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Series One, Chapter Two
Saint Marks, Portland, 1986

RUNNING feet pounded the street in desperation, he nervously threw his head over his shoulders to see if they were still there. Cold lines of sweat poured down the pimps head, inappropriately dressed in a blue pinstripe tuxedo with an immaculate pearl white rosette in the breast pocket. He began to fling his arms up into the air, dicing his way through the crowds of morning window shoppers as the mobster appeared from around the corner, eyes darting in his direction.

Breaking free of the crowds, he felt sure that he had escaped their wrath. For the pimp had been dealing narcotics; acting as an associate of Sonny Forelli and with Sonny’s permission, had been pushing in the Red Light District, Forelli Family turf. The pimp had been dealing to his girls, who then offered it to their clients, and the ordeal soon became a vicious circle, the pimp unable to control his loose tongue. It had sealed his fate; bragging in the various seedy dive bars about his new found wealth, about how he was the man, about how he was on the up. Sonny feared this would bring attention from the other families of his growing interest in drugs; something he wished to keep at arms length. Sonny had passed control over the hit down to Franco Forelli, his cousin and a Capo within the family; whom was also involved in the narcotics ambition.

Nearly free, the sight of a second mobster pouncing in his direction from around the corner averted his path to freedom down an alleyway. It was a dead end, his feet became stone as he was faced with nothing but a brick wall; he span around to see the two mobsters joining in synchrony at the head of the alleyway, slowly walking towards him as he backed up against the wall.

“Got you now, you f*ck.” Pronounced one of the mobsters, struggling for breath. Compared to his counterpart; a significantly younger man, he was considerably overweight, sporting a protruding gut from beneath his open jacket.

“What’s this about, man? What did I do to you?” The pimp pleaded.

“You know what you did,” The mobster spat at the pimp’s feet, barely missing his patterned loafers, “Don’t pretend your the f*ckin’ victim here.”

“f*ck you! Your ‘gonna have to get me, bitch!” The pimp raised his hands, prepared to fight. He knew deep down it wouldn’t end well for him, but his back was against the wall; he had to come out swinging. Considerably well built, he stood every chance.

Pugnacious and taciturn, the two mobsters stood side by side, legs parted in stance for a brawl. Like lightning, the younger mobster leapt forward, landing a quick short jab on the pimp’s jaw, disorientating him enough to be able to tug his hands behind his back, leaving his torso open for his partner to go to work. The elder Mafioso withdrew a switchblade from the pocket within his leather coat, and eagerly flicked the blade out of the weapon. As junior held back the pimp, senior slowly plunged the knife deep into the pimps chest, pulling it out amongst groans of pain and alarming amounts of blood withdrawal. For a second time, he brought back his arm, stabbing another wound in the pimp’s torso. Junior felt rushing warm sensations over his hand, used to cover the victims mouth; blood began to convulse inside of him, having being fatally stabbed, he began to cough it up from his gut. Defeated, he keeled over onto the rugged stone, dead.

“Get the car.” Instructed Junior, pulling the corpse by the arms behind a corner, in hope of temporarily concealing it. Off wandered Senior to go collect his vehicle, left just around the corner from where they had chased their mark to his death.

The cab ride from Shoreside Vale was dominated by extended bouts of silence, the only sounds being the engine and the driver heading into furious rages at other motorists. It pulled to the curb outside a row of terraced housing in the heart of Saint Marks, Portland. As soon as Tommy set foot on the tarmac of the hustling, bustling street, the cab shot away, and he was left facing a run-down old guest house, littered in graffiti and brutal neglect. A twenty four hour neon sat in the window amongst some blinds; barely visible in the daylight.

The Forelli mobster parked his car in the opposite alleyway, stepping out and anxiously looking around for anyone who would potentially witness them stuffing a corpse into the back of his vehicle. Scanning the crowd of the street opposite, his face turned to stone when his gaze caught sight of Tommy Vercetti, who had little reservations about openly looking around, casually reminiscing about the times he had spent in this neighbourhood. Shocked at the sight of Vercetti, Senior hurried to tell Junior.

“You won’t f*ckin’ believe this...”

Unaware he had picked up any attention, Tommy walked into the guest house in front of him, taking a stand at the front desk, where a man was fast asleep after spending the night on late shift. A stray cigarette burned dying embers in a dish, and a small television sat on top of a cabinet showcased the fine offerings of children's television. The bright colors and dancing characters in costumes didn't capture Tommy's imagination, who banged his fist on the desk, awakening the clerk who jumped to attention.

“I’d like a room.” Tommy stared down at the man.

“Yeah? I’d like to screw Candy Suxxx...” The clerk responded sarcastically, but changed his tune when he saw Tommy remove money from his jacket, “But I think we can accommodate you, sir.”

Tommy nodded, understandingly, placing the remainder of his money upon the desk. It was enough to get him a bed for the night.

“Here’s your key.” The clerk pushed a small key across the desk.

“Thanks.” Tommy picked it up and walked away, looking at the room number – three – embroiled on the key ring.

The stairs were old, creaking as Tommy walked. Several rooms were loitered throughout the corridor. Moans and screams could be heard beyond the doors of the first he passed; a hooker and her client, while there wasn’t a sound from the second. Room number three was on the corner, just across from the stairwell. Entering, what was before him was old, and worn, but it was a roof over his head. He parked himself on the sofa, contemplating when he would get himself back on the streets; he wanted to alert the Forelli Family to his presence back on the streets of Portland, and wasn’t the type to hang around waiting.

--------------------------------------------

Chapter Three & more coming up soon.

[Build Up Your Vice Gang]

Tyla: First story already added Money for the inconvenience of double posting was also added and a great second chapter, the atmosphere was brilliant and setting two scenes at once is a brave but clever thing to do. I'll pay $60 for the story, can't wait for the next chapter-it looks promising.

[Tyler]

Prologue: Setting the Atmosphere
______________________________


Vice ,2010. Many years after Tommy Vercetti took over, I'd say about 1994, the new Haitian leader Poppa Bomblet proposed a peaceful end to gang disputes in vice. The ,man talked like a diplomat, constantly asking for peace in Vice City. Finally after months of talk, All the leaders of every big gang in Vice met up at the Hotel San Andreas downtown, to talk of peace and prosperity.


I was new back then. New to crime and the Cuban way. 1994, I had turned 19 and was going to see Vice become a happy city for once. Our leader at the time Umberto Robina, gathered Dominque, Armando, Erik, Salazar and me for the representatives of the Cubano's. "Now I understand you might now think peace is possible, but we been fighting for too long here. I need you all acting respectful, and mabye we can end our troubles in this town for f*cks sake!" We all knew he was anxious about this thing, since he was now officially the longest ruling leader in Vice City, even if he wasn't the most powerful.

On saturday, we all shuffled into two seperate taxi's, and drove to the meet. All the main men were there. Vercetti, Bomblet, Scorcsi the leader of the Sharks, everyone. We all sat in a business room of the lobby, making small talk while the leaders got comfortable in the high chair's at the table.

"Quiet, everyone of you," The room quickly ceased any kind of chatter, and we all turned to Bomblet, who was sitting facing everyone else. "Now then, you all agreed to come here under one pretence. Peace. Peace for us all no? Well my friends it seems like dispite what you may think, peace may not be so hard. Look at this here, we got Sharks, right next to the Gomez boys, and look over there, we got Cuban's right next to the Vercetti Ranger's. Now let me say this again, mabye peace ain't so hard huh?" Everyone listened to him while he spoke, his voice mezmerizing us all with propaganda. "Now here's the deal. We got hundred's of Gang member's, in fact we got over 2,000 gang member's for every 1,500 cops. Now why are we still having trouble taking over this town? Well, I think mabye we are wasting our time fighting each other, when we could be fighting them cops," everyone was agreeing quietly while he paused for a moment. Suddenly, a haitian man walked up to Bomblet and whispered something into his ear. He nodded and sent the boy off, then continued. I watched the boy as he walked out of the room, and followed him subtley.

He walked into the hotel lobby and up to a toll booth, and started talking to someone hastily as he looked around. I hid behind a crowd of executives and listened as closly as I could. "No,no the San Andreas that's where tey are mate'. Ok, ok get them ready and go through te front doors, we go through the back at 1:20. alrght mate this good," he hung up and started walking back. I ducked below a couch and ran back into the room. " What the hell was that about meyn?" Erik was looking at me as I sat down. " Look I think something is up. Get everyone ready at 1:20, that haitian boy was talking to someone about it. Mabye the cops I don't know"
"The f*ck, alrght," He nugded everyone else and quietly told them to kee on alert.

It was 15 past one, and I got prepared, grabing my gun on my hind waist. " So my friends, we can all collaberate, Sharks will take over the racket's, while Cuban's get the Fronts, Haitians getting the drugs, and Vercetti will take any political jobs. Now then, does anyone have something to offer up or want to take?" 1:20 ticked in and as if by clockwork, a group of men walked into the hotel. All zipped in black masayko army outfits, fitting hard glass masks, and holding AK- 74's by their sides. They all quietly gaurded around the door of the room, and got into cover. On the other side, Bomblet continued speaking. "wait a minute I'm sorry I must use the restroom," he muffled as he walked out the back door with the boy, and two other haitians, Ferro and Selconi. As soon as he did this, I and Erik sat up and stood ready, just in case.

Crash! the door's fell in and 4 men rushed in, guns blazing. Men stood up, and were quickly gunned down. I fell backwords and curled up behind the couch. Erik did the same, but the others were quickly shot to death. I pulled my tec-9 out and blindly shot over the couch toward the door. My ears were ringing loudly from gunshots everywere. I drew up and pointed at the one farthest left, and fired half of my clip into him. He dropped down and fell ontop of his own gun, and made it fire into a Haitian running at him with a knife.I grabbed Erik and pointed at the back door. We crawled past bodies and couches, finally reaching the door. I pulled up and ran outside into the Shining sun. " We gotta get Umberto man, I saw him he need-"
"He's dead Erik, he's f*cking dead. Nothing we can do for him now. Let's just get back home," I dropped my tec-9 and started slowly jogging back to little Havanna. Beach shined on to the left of us, glimmering with beautiful women.

Couple of hours later, as I watched the news, the report came in about the hotel shooting. Apparently the thugs were haitian mercenaries. I felt like ripping that lying peace of sh*t a new *sshole. I knew though, that before we did this, me and Erik would have to help the Cuban's get back on track. Umberto was dead, and so was every leuteneit that we had. Erik was next in line, so on Monday, we here going to get every man we could to the Cafe, to talk about our next move...

[Tyla]

Series One, Chapter Three
Marco's Bistro, 1986

TIRES squealed, eager hands throwing the driving wheel around the corner into the discreetly positioned courtyard of Marco’s Bistro. The Bistro sat on top of a winding hill in the heart of Saint Marks, just opposite the El Train station and backing onto lines of terraced housing occupied by hard working Dockers. It was their time to leave their work at Portland Docks, they were rushing home along the pavements and pouring out of the hourly train as another pair of workers began to get busy.

Parking up aside a row of steps, the mobsters stepped out of their car and walked over to a figure leaning against them, cupping a cigar in his hands that was lit by a second man.

“Franco, we took care of that thing.” Tony, the eldest Mafioso, proudly announced to his contractor, Franco Forelli.

“Where is he?”

“In the trunk.” Anthony, the youngest of the two mobsters spoke. He was keen to appear as a rising star in Franco's eyes. He was young, on the make, and tired of being Tony's junior.

“Put him in the freezer,” Franco took a long drag of his cigar, then exhaled a thick cloud of smoke into the faces of the two men before him, “Dino, help ‘em out.” He patted his associate on the back, gently pushing him forwards.

“There’s one more thing,” Tony piped up, “We caught sight of Tommy f*ckin’ Vercetti earlier on...”

Interrupting, not appearing overly shocked, but keenly intrigued, Franco inquired, “Where?”

“Down in Saint Marks, goin’ into that guest house.”

Franco nodded, knowing well of Tommy Vercetti, knowing well of why the Forelli Family kept him at arms length. Vercetti was intensely disliked within the Forelli Family; it’s members weren’t about to welcome him back with open arms, “Thank you Tony.” Franco let the cigar drop to the floor, squashing the remaining embers with his tailored Italian shoe. He turned and walked up the stairs without a word, heading through to the bar as his associates began to unload the corpse of the unfortunate pimp murdered earlier on, and dragged him up the steps, into the backroom saloon of Marco’s Bistro. They pushed the body through a hook, between two large cuts of meat; they admired their work, and placed a quarter in the jukebox tucked away in the corner.

Their socialising banter was interrupted by the arrival of two men, both of whom instantly stamped their mark on the room, commanding the three to attention. Sonny Forelli, the boss of the Forelli Family, his accompanying associate and cousin, Giorgio Forelli, set foot through the saloon doors, and unnerved them instantly with cold looks as if to tell them they were misplaced. As Sonny’s bodyguard stepped towards them, the three decided to flee; heading out to the bar. They passed Franco Forelli, who was also heading to the back room for a routine sit down with the hierarchy.

After introductions and pleasantries were exchanged; consisting mostly of forced hugs and pats on backs, the inner circle of the Forelli Family sat around a wide wooden table in the centre of the room. A jukebox in the corner hummed a tune, and the smells from the kitchen wafted through the lounge doors. Sonny Forelli headed the table, a large man with a fiery temper and nervous disposition. His two relatives sat either side. To the left, Capo Franco Forelli sat still in his seat, and to the right, cousin Giorgio Forelli fidgeted in his. Franco knew he had to present the news of Vercetti’s release to Sonny, and the presence of Sonny’s hulking bodyguard was unnerving him. He was a quiet man, average in height and build. Looking at him, one wouldn’t realise he was a mobster in control of Staunton Island’s vast rackets, but appearances could be deceptive. He knew Sonny’s nature would soon run them into the ground, and was already formulating a plan to take over. Greed was always Franco’s vice, but luck was an unpredictable partner.

“Guess who just got paroled...” Franco said to Sonny, who responded by looking at him blankly, shrugging his shoulders and slouching back in his chair comfortably, “Tommy Vercetti.”

Sonny shot upright in his seat, trying to conceal a look of disbelief. Gone was his relaxed posture. “Tommy Vercetti? Huh... sh*t. Didn’t think they’d ever let him out!”

“He kept his head down. Helped people forget.”

“People will remember soon enough!” Sonny countered on the defensive, “When they see him walking the streets of their neighbourhoods it will be bad for business.”

Giorgio Forelli perked up, having just taken a sip of cold water from his glass, “So, what are we gonna do, Sonny?” Giorgio was a man of little intelligence, brought into the hierarchy for the sake of him being a relative. His escapades were legendary, and there were rumours being passed around of a second life he led. Harmful rumours; rumours he had killed men for to stop them talking.

Sonny rubbed his forehead and looked over to Giorgio, knowing he had to save face in front of his dumb cousin, and especially in front of a man as ambitious and greedy as Franco. “We treat him like an old friend and keep him busy out of town, okay?” Sonny waited on both men nodding in approval before carrying on, “Vice City is twenty-four carat gold these days. The Columbians, the Mexicans, hell, even those Cuban refugees are cutting themselves a piece of some nice action.”

Franco sipped water from his glass, raising an eyebrow to Sonny’s suggestion, “But it’s all drugs, Sonny, none of the families will touch that sh*t.”

“Times are changing. The families can’t keep their backs turned while our enemies reap the rewards. So, we send someone down there to do the dirty work for us and cut ourselves a nice quiet slice, ok?” Sonny proudly propped himself up, pointing his finger across the room at Giorgio Forelli, who possessed the most knowledge of Vice City out of the men in the room, “Who’s our contact down there?”

“Ken Rosenberg, schmuck of a lawyer... how’s he gonna hold Vercetti’s leash?” Giorgio scratched his head.

“We don’t need him to.” Sonny was quick to execute any doubts Franco & Giorgio had about his plan, “We just give him a little cash to get started, okay? Give it a few months. Then we go down. See how he’s doin’..”

The two men nodded in agreeance. Both had their doubts, but toasted their cups in Sonny’s direction to pledge loyalty to the family in whichever course he would lead them. The three men eventually split, with Sonny being escorted back to his mansion in Shoreside Vale, and Giorgio silently skulking off. Franco headed out to the bar, where he approached his associate, Dino, who was drinking alone, having parted company with the sister-act hit squad.

“Head over to the guest house a couple of blocks from here. Pay Tommy Vercetti a visit. Rough him up. Tell him I want his ass over at my casino tomorrow.” Franco wasted no time, walking away as soon as he had arrived, leaving Dino no time to question his orders.

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Chapter Four coming up. I don't mean to write out just what happened in Vice City, I just intend to give a little more background on what the situation could of been, tieing things in and such.

[Landstalker]

My chapter was not rated

[Build Up Your Vice Gang]

Unoriginal44 : Good chapter and good length.

Watch out for some errors that you repeated at some place.

QUOTE

Vice ,2010.

It should be Vice, 2010. You have some spell errors too. Words like "Mabye" or "Alrght". For that, I'm giving you 36$


Tyla : Good length, good chapter, I liked it another time. Hope to see chapter 4 real soon. "TIRES" should have been spelled "Tires".

For that, I'm giving you 44$


Landstalker : You're story will be rated as soon as possible.

This post has been edited by Build Up Your Vice Gang on Thursday, Apr 1 2010, 00:42

[Build Up Your Vice Gang]

Ladies and gentlement, mrpain has been added to the staff of BUYG Vice Edition.
Now with the ratings:

Landstalker: Good length for a prologue but I had a problem with ALOT of grammar problems. The Bold words are the grammar mistakes.

QUOTE

The Korean looking man, was waiting on the ship deck facing the hot and beatiful sun, tipical, of Flordia, Vice City. He was having black hair, red eyes, he had not a lot of muscles, the same for his fatness and was white or yellow. In fact, no one could say by the time. All of that because; he was hidding himself the best he could. No one knew his name, his age or either where he came from, even, if he was looking a little bit Korean. The man was strange, even weird some persons exagerated, calm, gentle, helpful, not talkative and was on his guard every time, every where and even while doing something relaxing. The Korean was at the same spot every day or in his chamber. That Korean was me. I was about to get some sleep when I saw Vice City dock. I was about to return to my chamber to get my things when the cruise ship, Ex-Bower, stopped for no reason. Every one was suspicious. We heard some shoots and cry from the place where the captain was boating the ship. I approached the location and saw four guys with M4 exiting the murder place. I hidded the best I could against the wall. More of them arrived by Predator, Reefer and Maverick. All of them were armed of M4 too. In total, they were twenty with the four others who were already aboard. I runned toward the stairs and got downstairs to my room. When I reached my room, I entered it, took my things and ran to the other side of the corridor. I took the right stairs. At the same time, five armed guys arrived in the corridor by the other set of stairs. Me, in all my state, with my adrenaline, sprinted to the front of the cruise ship and jumped out of the boat. Fortunately, I jumped bad and got on one of the Reefer the attackers used. When the engine started running, I boated the boat as fast as I could. Those guys still got able to get a shot or two on the boat. I reached the docks and...

I'm loving your last paragraph but the first two definitely needs some grammar improvement. My advise to you is to check everything first before you post. Also try to add some desricption instead of things like 'he did this' or 'he ran there'.

For this story, I'll be giving you $35. Try to improve next time


Rating done by
mrpain
My very first rating.

[mrpain]

Yup its official, I'm a staff.
I would like to buy brass knuckles and molotov cocktails please.


Chapter 2: ROCK and ROLL!

Mitch drove off escorting the Love Fist limo without me. The president was always impatient. I ran towards my bike, trying to avoid the bullets flying around me, and followed Mitch without haste.

It was hard keeping up with him and the Love Fist limo, especially agaisnt Downtown traffic. Also, it was definitely not a good day to speed on the road with heavy rain flooding the roads. I struggled to keep my bike together when I almost hit a curb. A truck driver behind me was honking at me and bellowing out vulgarities at me. He backed off after he saw a stubby shotgun attached to my bike.

The moment I caught sight of Mitch was the beginning of a major f*cked up. Not long after I finally caught up with Mitch, a Haitian Voodoo was tailing us closely trying to ram us off the road. It was not a problem at first, not until they started firing an Uzi at us.

Mitch shouted fiercely, "Haitians, bunch of motherf*ckers! Drake spilt up, let the Haitians follow you."

I questioned his order, "What? Why do I want somebody who wants to kill me follow me?"

Mitch chuckled, "Because I'm your president. Duh!"

I turned at a junction and stopped my bike to take a shot at the Voodoo with my shotgun. I fired two shells at the car before the shotgun jammed. Unfortunately, a shotgun's range isn't very far but they did however noticed somebody shooting at them. And that somebody was me.

I hesitantly threw my shotgun away when they were driving fast towards me. I drove off but later lost control of my bike due to the slippery road. My bike slid across the road and I was flung ten feet away from my bike. The Haitians stopped their Voodoo and got out of their car to finish the job on me. I taunted them the middle finger and apparently, taunting a middle finger to the Haitians was like murder to them. And revenge for murder was not very satisfying. They took out a motherf*cking M4 from their Voodoo just to kill me.

I already fractured my left arm due to the crash and I was glad I had a Colt 45. tucked in my jeans. I ran into a nearby Pizza Shack to take cover. I fired two shots in the Pizza Shack to clear the area as I did not want any innocent people to die just by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The customers and the staff ran out in fear and the Haitians fired rounds into the place blindly. It killed two innocent people and I was definitely remorseful about it. And to add insult to injury, they shot my fractured left arm.

I pounced behind the counter and nervously loading my gun. I had never in my life been put into a situation like that. I said a prayer silently, took a deep breath to calm my nerves and got out of cover to shoot the Haitians after me. They fired back and I waited for them to run out of ammo. They kept spraying rounds of M4 into the Pizza Shack and gave me no opportunity to pop out of cover to shoot back. Pizzas and sodas were replaced by bullet holes and gun powder.

I scampered the entire place for something useful against the Haitians. I opened up a fridge and saw bottles of alcohol. I remembered what my father taught me of Molotov cocktails and I grabbed my lighter and those bottles to make some. I lit up a bottle and threw it at them. They were not afraid by it and continued firing at me. I threw a second on and it made the run like the cowards their.

I taunted them as they were running, “You pricks, come back here and fight like the bitch you are!” At that moment, I never knew Karma actually existed. The Haitians came back with reinforcements and surrounded the Pizza Shack. My face suddenly changed from tough and confident to wimpy and scared.

All I had was one good arm and a Colt 45. The Haitians had a f*ckload of firepower and plenty of backups trying to f*ck me up.

I literally had no way out.

[WelcomeToLibertyCity]

I think I'll join with the Haitians at the Drug Factory. I'm not sure if I'll often have many stories up but I'll try.

Also, after awhile if this gets quite popular you should try the gang wars idea from back in the older BUYGs, where weekly gangs are pinned up against each other. It makes for interesting stories as well as a larger inspiration for people to write.

This post has been edited by WelcomeToLibertyCity on Monday, Apr 5 2010, 14:17

[mrpain]

Just two pages and this topic is dead already?

[Tyler]

Sorrym you need to spice things up and frequently update man.


Put a short story, like the BUYG news, chatting about things that will be happening in the Vice world. Like

QUOTE

Today, a prominent Hatian gang leader waas placed into custody of the VCPD and is being transferred to VC correctonial via bus.

Just an idea.

[Build Up Your Vice Gang]

mrpain:A brilliant improvement pain, the grammar and punctuation has been improved brilliantly! Keep it up! Also don't forget, you're only 3 stories of your first bonus. $60 has been added to the bikers.


Vice City news updates are being coded now, sorry for the dead delay, I have been locked out of this account, post more stories please people! Alot of new features are going underway.

[Ziggy455]

I'm going to throw myself in:

I'll join the Cubans as the Havana Laundromat.

[Landstalker]

Sorry for inactivity. I will post as soon as possible.

[Tyler]

Well, this'll be it for about a day or so .


Chapter 1: It’s a deal!

-------------------

24 years after that ‘peace’ meeting, and every gang in Vice was as angry as ever. Erik Delamano, my best friend since I came to Vice city was now the leader of The Cubano’s. We had established a new power in Vice once the leaders of every gang had been massacred at the San An. Hotel and casino. Everyone, except that bastard Haitian Bomblet, who set it all up.

We, and by we I mean Erik and, sat smoking in our Hermes. The sound of Esperanto in the background, we spoke about what was about to go down. “Alright Man, we’re going to take the deal they gave us. Once of heroin and clear cut into the drug business,” Erik sighed and handed me a pack of cigarettes. “Man, we stayed legal for a reason. Umberto was right drugs are only going to cause us grief. Besides I think cleaning up the Café and opening it up again would help us out a lot m-“
“No. It’s sh*t man, Haitian’s, Sharks even the f*cking skinhead biker’s get money from drugs now. You know what Cuban’s got? Sh*t. absolutely nothing, legitimate business isn’t even an option anymore. We need to get sh*t started again and get us on top,” Erik’s tone hastened, and he became angrier with every word. “We got a contact, this will work man, we’ll be back on top,”

“Alright. Who’s the contact?” I leaned over and pulled the stick into gear and started driving. “A local pot-head, name’s Johnny Gonzales. We meet him at the old Ice cream shop on Havana st. he’s got a good amount of brown.” Erik pulled out a Colt from the glove box and handed it to me, then pulled another rusty ass gun for himself.

We only had about twenty people officially in the gang anymore, we needed as much attention as we could get. I pulled up to the alleyway, as the sun was beginning to roll over the watery horizon. I parked next to a pile of old- decrepit boxes sitting behind the Ice cream shop, and we both got out of the car, putting the clips into our back pockets.

One good thing about our Cuban outfits, was the fact that our jeans had the biggest pockets around. I could fit 40 pounds of feathers in the sh*t for god’s sake.

We slowly walked to the garage door. Erik’s big feet thudded around the dirt and sand that lay wistfully on the ground, stirring up into a miniature dust devil. A short Mexican looking man came out, with a Jamaican headband around his long, black dreads. “Hey pendeho, how you doing meyn?” The man lifted up a hand and Erik playfully smacked it in the air. “Who’s your friend man?” he pointed at me and gave a look of confusion. “Thought you would be by yourself eh?”

“C’mon, he my partner. Me and him been through a lot you know? He’s cool don’t worry,” Erik’s heavily Cuban accent showed, as he couldn’t say don’t without missing the t at the end. “Ok, I trust you eh, but can he wait outside while we do business? Just a precautionary thing you know the deal. Anyway you got the money?” He twisted his arm around Erik and they began walking into the Garage. I leaned onto the hood of my Hermes and think about the whole thing. I pulled my headband off, and folded it into my pocket.

The sun had now completely set, and the moon began rising over the city. Partygoer’s could be heard in the distance, talking about the latest club to hit. I sighed and pulled out a cigar, then a match. Strike, then I lit it up and slowly took a puff. I looked through the window of the factory from where I sat and observed what I could barely see.

There was Erik, standing over that Johnny kid, who was leaning over a desk. Holding the bad in his hand, he pushed his other hand out, as if he was a church boy asking for donations. Erik pulled out the clip of money and sat it neatly on the desk, then grabbed the heroin out of Johnny’s hand. The two consorted for a while then Erik started walking out. A breeze slowly crept above my head, blowing the dust along with it and giving me relief. The Garage door slammed open and Erik trotted out, smiling and holding the bad of heroin. “We good?”

“We good man! We very good ahaha,” He laughed and got into the car. I jumped back in and reversed out back into the street. “So he going to give us a steady supply eh?” I clutched the wheel and turned to Erik. “Hell yeah, he said as long as we get this moving, then this is going to be our town.” I slowly drove past a cop car, me and Erik simply glared at the man in the driver’s seat as he gleamed back. “So, where we going to sell it anyway?”
“Well, we going to have to go downtown man,” Erik lit up a cigar and blew smoke into the windshield. “Downtown? Doesn’t them Vercetti boy’s rule down there?” He nodded then shined his teeth again, and continued rambling along to the song on the radio. I pulled my arm over my head and wiped off the sweat, knowing that this wasn’t going to be as easy as Erik said it was.

----------------------

Well i'll buy an ounce of Heroin, as you could tell. More up soon.

[Build Up Your Vice Gang]

Unoriginal44: Great story, it flowed great, beautiful atmosphere and description. I hope you keep up this level of work Uno. There were only a few mistakes grammar wise.

An ounce of heroin has been added to your gang and $50 has been also added to your gang's money.

[Ziggy455]

I’d like to buy a gallon of Love Juice.

"Diesel Eh?"

Vice’s cherry popper factory was running continuously like one big machine. The sound of Vercetti’s worker’s packing the mixers with that secret ingredient no-one had knew about. The f*cking smell that radiated from the vents made me woozy. I was sitting out back for two reasons-one would be that I was trying to score a gallon of Love Juice, the second was because any other place to deal usually was busted very quickly by those donut eating bastards.

I was sat on a huge crate, my legs dangling as I kept an eye out for a seller. He wasn’t here yet, where the f*ck could he be? I’d been called by him on the phone, his east coast accent thick.

‘Yeah, yeah…meet me behind cherry poppers-alone! Don’t be late.’ Was what he barked over the phone, obviously being a long time Cubano- I told him I knew how these things go down, but there I was sitting down perched on that same f*cking crate with cash in my pocket and nearly a whole smoked cigarette.

After I flicked the deathstick and lit up another one a scrawny man shuffled into the compound-hard to believe he was carrying a gallon of Juice behind him freely, as he came closer he turned back-somebody was talking to him but he was too far away for me to see who it was.

‘Yeah don’t worry officer, just takin’ this to fill up my car.’ He yelled I flicked away my cigarette and moved quickly, hiding behind the crate; my colt clenched tightly. Couldn’t these bastards ever leave a criminal alone!?

As he turned and kept walking forward I loosened up, I walked out. The light drizzle of overcast began. The man’s feet dragged across the gravel. ‘f*ckin’ hell, what the f*ck was that about?-what took you so long? You got the stuff?’ I bombarded him with questions.

His face was grimy-an dirty shadow of a beard was evident-cuts and bruises were covering the poor mans face.

‘Just Pigs y’know, and I said 11:15’

11:15!? What the f*ck, the guy with a sh*tload of drugs and a junkies physique was telling me what I already knew.

‘No, it was 11:00 on the dot, you told me yourself.’ I wiped my forehead. He placed the Gallon forward.

‘You’re just going to hand it over like that?’

‘Yeah?’ he replied curiously, he had no idea that this was a screwy move in a deal, you throw the merchandise ahead first, and you’ve just killed yourself.

He smiled and pulled out a Colt Python. Oh!

‘Well anyway, that’s erm…’ his face went blank. I pulled out my cash wad and handed him some.

‘Oh well, that’s a hundred and eighty.’ He said pulling out the right amount.

He seemed like an honest dealer, he even found the decency to throw a couple of dimes into my palm.

‘Holy sh*t!’ I said as I grabbed the gallon, that’s a sh*tload of juice.

‘Yep, all from the personal lab of Marty Jones.’ he bragged, we both chuckled a bit before shaking hands and heading for the exit.

‘Y’know I have a buyer for that sh*t-he’s a good pay, he mixes that sh*t with stuff y’know, but he pays well. I’ll give you his number.’ Marty explained, he handed me an address and number. I took it willingly and threw it into my vest pocket.

‘I have someone who’s willing to buy this for three hundred, unless he’s a madman who’s married to the stuff I won’t bother.’ I began to explain. The dealer chuckled as we edged closer to the gates.

‘He’ll pay three sixty at minimum,’ he said with a menacing tone ‘so, we should go see him.’ He suggested.

As we moved out Marty made the dumb move of yelling ‘It’s good sh*t anyway, I’m sure he’ll pay that much.’

We both came face to face with a pig, he smiled evilly.

‘So, diesel eh? You f*ckin’ prick,’ we both moved backwards slowly.’ GET ON THE GROUND NOW!’ he yelled, his gun aimed at us both, I pulled out the colt and fired, a stray bullet flew through his shoulder-he screamed like a girl and hit the floor.

‘Marty, back inside!’ I yelled grabbing his shoulder.

‘I knew that f*ckin’ pig didn’t believe me.’ The dealer yelled as be headed back inside.

We moved back into the compound; slamming the gate as we did. I locked it with a stray bar-‘This way Cuban boy!’ yelled the dealer as we began to move. The police’s cries for backup were heard as we moved.

Where could we go?

[mrpain]

Okay came up with a much smaller artwork. And I noticed I do not have brass knuckles and molotov even though I bought them.


Chapter 3: TRAPPED AND WOUNDED

"I'm a man, who does not prays a lot. I'm a man, who has commited lots of sins. I'm a man, who is an outlaw. I should be in hell for now." The sudden flashes of buried memories stunned me as death approached me. Those words were spoken by my father, the founder of the Bikers. I closed my eyes just to finish up the memory that was flashing by me, "My son, although I am a..." He paused for awhile to withdraw his guilt, "I am a criminal, know this. Your daddy can't do very much and this is the only thing I know how to do. Outlaws of the road, yes indeed I am. I know one day you will take over the Bikers and be damn sure I will be proud of you."

The memory was interrupted after I almost got shot by one of the Haitians surrounding the Pizza Shack. Blood was gushing out of my left arm and I only had 3 clips of my Colt 45. left. I frantically searched through my pockets for anything useful agaisnt the Haitians and to my anger, I only found my phone. I shouted in my stupidness, "Of course, backup!"

As you can imagined, my shouting was very loud. So loud that the Haitians, who were busy firing their guns at me, heard me shouting. There was a deadly silence in the air and that was when I knew they were sneaking into the building. I locked all of the back doors and took cover behind the counter, waiting for them to enter by the front door. As I took cover, I dialed Mitch's number to request for backup. "Beep, beep, beep..." I hated phone beebs, especially at a time like that. It turns out that a Pizza Shack has bad phone reception.

"All right you sons of bitches, one way in and no way out." I whispered to myself just in case they did not heard me shouting again and go apesh*t all over me. As I predicted, they came in the front door like rats chasing the cheese. I fired my Colt 45. at nothing but the front door. My eyes and my gun were only focused on the wave of Haitians storming through the front door. I had a troubled time reloading my gun with only one good arm. I tried lifting up my left arm but it hurts very bad. I felt like I was running out of blood.

I took a deep breath, clicked my gun and popped out of cover only to find the Haitians in front of my face. I prayed, for anything that could save me. And with that prayer, I blacked out.

I woke up, only to hear the familiar roars of engines. Gunshots soon followed and lastly was somebody screaming "f*ck, yeah!" I struggled to get up on my feet but was later helped up by somebody. That somebody was Otto.

He hugged me and applied a bandage onto my bleeding left arm. He asked joyfully, "You really got yourself into a mess, eh? Where's your bike?"

I was too tired to talk and just pointed to a wrecked Freeway outside of the Pizza Shack. Otto cheekily responded with a laugh, "Alright brother, how about riding shotgun on my bike?" I showed him my Colt 45. to tell him I was out of ammo. "Out of ammo?" He looked around the place to see how many Haitians bodies were there and he gave a big laugh for that. "Ok I can understand that. Here take this Uzi and start talking would ya?"

I hopped onto the back of his bike and we drove to the Love Fist concert we were suppose to protect. I noticed a car tailing us suspiciously and without haste, I sprayed my Uzi onto that car. Otto panicked and almost lost control of the bike, "Hey, what the f*ck man?"

I finally spoke a word, "Go!" Well one word anyway.

I waited for that car to do something before I started firing again. After a few metres of road, a Haitian finally popped out of the side window with a motherf*cking M4. Curse my f*cking Karma. As he was busy shooting at us, I realized he was the same Haitian who shot my left arm. "Time for revenge." I thought, with the sickest of doings.

The Haitian nearly shot us and I blamed Otto for his handling of the bike, "Drive faster!"

But Otto felt that I was the one to be blamed, "Shoot better!"

It was time to end this once and for all.

[Build Up Your Vice Gang]

Ziggy445: Although I only spotted one grammar mistake which was...

QUOTE

secret ingredient no-one had knew (Should be know)

Also, you tend to use ' instead of ". The same goes for - when it should be a ,.

Overall, I'm kind of let down by your first story but nonetheless its still good. $45 added to the Haitians.


mrpain: Story to be rated soon.



Ratings done by mrpain.

[mrpain]

Just a bump to remind the staff to rate my story please.