Zero Tolerance

I awoke, much like any other day. The drilling in my head was a mixture from the alcohol concoctions I had consumed a few hours ago and a side dose of San Paro’s sirens.

“Shut Up!” One day I will get a response. But for the moment I can only take gratification in the sounds fading around the corner. Meanwhile my thoughts are interrupted by my stomach telling me that is was 4 hours past normal breakfast time. As I enter the kitchen I remember a sad truth.

“Ahhh Hell!” Was what I got for trusting the word of someone who was dressed in reminiscent of the 80s. A failed contact who swore that two bit punks were smuggling diamonds in Kellog’s Frosted Flakes. Now my kitchen was stacked to the ceiling with cartons of this stuff. And I remember the box mobile that I had stuffed in my garage. It wasn’t all bad though. I met a lovely teacher who mistook me for a delivery boy. “Heh…” I responded to my head voice out loud. I would never be part of the working class.

The clank of overly sugared flakes hitting a pristine plastic bowl was interrupted by a large explosion. A grin crossed my face. The standoff between the siren’s and punks that had disturbed me erupted in a car explosion. I could only assume one side won. “Now if only the second half of my alarm clock could disappear.”

A full shower and clothes to match the warm July weather was what I needed before steping out to the pavement. “N-tec, OCA, and 4000 bullets.” I reminded myself of the cost from the cereal debacle. I would have to recover my expenses. My Bishada’s upgrades and constant paint jobs were causing me a fortune. But I can’t help it if my taste changes in every direction like my tattoo.

John “the Wallet” Carbone was a contact I worked with prior to entering San Paro. John was a small fry that had delusions of Grandeur. He had recently setup shop outside Vine Avenue and Park Place. He was an expert at importing and exporting all manners of items. Though his goods were ill gotten, the business was legally setup. There was no owner name tied to the business and the company only operated under the name Zero Tolerance. It was setup as a courier company, much like Fed Ex. The name derived from the belief that employees were fired often due to the “no tolerance” policy on delivery deadlines. “And by fired I mean dead.”

“You’ve gotten Fat”, was my first words. John was obviously not taken back. A chuckle rang from his big old belly. He was well aware of my quick trigger of a tongue from our last meetings. Though I would prefer a pound, I accepted the more traditional handshake I knew would be offered.

“And you have gotten sloppy” was his smartass response. He always knew how to push my buttons. And pointing out my failure with knowledge of my hatred of failure was one button that I hated push. “I hope that I do not regret our meeting. I do not want cereal on my face”, was followed by another impulsive Santa impression.

“Trust me. It is a mistake I won’t make again. So what brings you to San Paro? Last I remember, you did not want to trust this place.”

“Business: my friend.” John paused. “There is plenty of room for expansion.” I could almost see the imaginary money he pretended he was holding as his stubby fingers rubbed together. “But we are having a little problem with some local strays that reside down the road from here. I was hoping that you could take care of the problem for us.”

“Sure John. You know if the money is ri-“, I was stopped to a screech by his over shadowing voice. He also knew interrupting me was another button. He was pushing it.

“Let me finish”, he ordered, “My friend”, he added but it didn’t make it sound better. “After recent events in the form of betrayal, I must ask that you work exclusively for me. No other contracts. No other factions. No other connections. I can’t afford more betrayal.”

“John, you know me. I work when I want, for who I want, and how I want. I don’t believe in set plans or patterns. Working with one connection just won’t work. It takes the fun of exploration out of the job.”

“I knew you would say that. Well. When you are in desperate need of money, my offer will be open. But my terms are non-negotiable. Bob, show him to the door.”

Bob knew not to touch me. But I still pushed past him with a shoulder bump. Greedy John knew I needed money, but I would never make promises or contracts. It just wasn’t my style. Back to job hunting.

Two tons of steel plating would collide hard with the indents in the wall. One of the loudest doors I have heard shut close, almost squishing me in the process. “Wooah!” was my exclamation. My thoughts would be followed by the loud alarm. The two minutes it took me to get up the stairs and down the hall was all that the police needed to blockade the street. I told her not to activate the alarm,

“Stupid Bitch”! My exclamation was followed with a boom and a projectile from my silver lined ACC44. At the close range, it nearly blew her face to decimals. Junks of brain and skull fragments would now rest as a permanent stain to denied loans.

“Shit”, it explains itself. Thirty coppers lined the outside of the bank. Their barrels were already pointed my way. I really was slipping. The only thing that stopped them from tearing me to fragments was their sadistic need to see me rot in prison.

“I hate handcuffs.”

“Fuck a phone call.” I got no one I like talking to from behind bars. So imagine my surprise when my lawyer showed up; John “Fatcat Wallet” Carbone. I had not called him, but my teller splattering news was all over the media. They had all the evidence. He had all the answers. Money talked. The trial was a joke. My freedom was false. My contract had started. I hate rails. And working for John was the path that I was now stuck on. I was forced to do his bidding because of my desperation.

“Damn.”

Larry Silverman. Husband to Sue Silverman; Father of 4; Small Chop Shop Owner; Payday: They were all synonyms to me. Working with goons, Jim and Bob in particular, is not usually my style. But my choices were limited. FatCat wanted his new dog on a short leash. “Ten P.M.”, was too early for any chop shop to be open, “Let’s go” I commanded.

Wood splinters, from a badly constructed door, exploded as my size 10 connected. The first shot rang from Jim, lucky bastard. “I wanted first blood!” I yelled as his bullet destroyed its target. Poor guy was crouched on the floor looking at oil cans when he was killed. My N-tec spraying it’s grace all over the place was next to be heard. I aimed it at the trio whose domino game was put on hold so that they could pull out there barrels. Their stomachs and belts got in the way. My bullets were embedded in all 4 targets, a chalk board, some chairs, splattered dominoes and now leaking oil cans. Larry escaped to the backroom. He was an unarmed owner.

“I got him!” screamed Bob. Before I could challenge the order, Bob was through the doors. A shoot out ensued with Larry yelling in pain. Bob proceeded to give the dying man a “Don’t fuck with us” speech. That’s when a hidden employee of Larry popped his head out. Before he could fire out a round, I reacted quickly. My gun’s spit ripped through his skull. Without losing a second, I jumped in front of Jim like a crazed man. As I startled Jim and I squeezed my trigger.

“BOB!” I screamed out as Jim’s corpse descended to the floor. “They got Jim. They fucking got ‘em!” One down I thought. One more left. We looted whatever we thought we could. We removed any trace of our existence and high tailed it out of there. We were just 5 blocks away when we heard the sirens in the distance. They would soon discover our mess.
The appearance of two coppers approaching from 2 blocks away would help formulate a plan. They would never pull us over. “Unless I do this!” which granted a strange look from Bob. Of course I was talking to myself as I turned the car 90 degrees and only to speed down the alley way. As planned the cops followed. With nowhere to go I braced myself. The car was too small to fit down the alleyway. The front end where Bob was would smash into a protruding wall, grinding us to a stop. The alley way was dark enough and the cops had stopped the car far enough for me to get out of the car and plant the unconscious Bob in the driver’s seat. I threw my N-tec in his lap and escaped through another gate. Poor Bob would spend 25 to life in jail.

“Goodbye leash.”

The pay was small working for John. With him holding the evidence of the trial over me, he figured I could make minimum wage. It would take a few jobs before I finally grew bored of the game. I entered the quarters of a sleeping John. It was not my normal style but I needed to get rid of bent up aggression. I took a hatchet to him. The dull blade was suffice and made minced meat out of John. Covered in blood I would make my way down the stairs. It was only fitting that my red soaked jeans would fit into his white leather recliner. Trying to contemplate what to do next, I would knock his briefcase off the end table and onto the floor. The contents spilled out. I tilted my head with a Grinch like grin as I spied the paper work for Zero Tolerance Exports.

“How hard can it be to run exports?”