Hotline Miami: New Wave (IC/OPEN)

[Kentucky Fried Land]

PROLOGUE

OOC

“Do you know why I’m here?”

You don’t know why he’s here. The man in the rooster mask hovers above your bed, standing a good foot or two above the floor. The beady eyes of his masks draw you in, glaring into your soul with a hatred that only he could ever comprehend. You aren’t quite sure why he hates you, but you know very well that he does. The cold, deep eyes of this rooster man seem foreboding to you; almost as if they were foreshadowing your life from this point on. But that’s silly, as real life isn't some pretentious film or some English teacher’s favorite novel. But then again, here was the rooster, head cocked at you in fury. Or perhaps disappointment. Either one made your stomach churn.

“You’re a patriot, I suppose.” You hear him speak from behind the mask, still staring at you with those beady eyes. He’s moved from the air by now, both feet firm on the floor. You never even noticed him touching down, he was just at one point in the air and then he was on the room’s carpet. “You feel off. Like you should be dead.” He is correct; something has felt quite wrong to you ever since the end of 1991 but you aren't quite sure what. You started getting that 50 Blessings newsletter, the same one that had been going around back in 1989. But that isn’t what’s making you feel strange; no, that’s something completely different.

You try to speak but are unable to, as you hear the light rumbling of drums off in some dark corner, along with metal scraping against metal. The man in the rooster mask continues his forever stare, right at you. “It’s okay to be afraid. I guess we’re all afraid of something. The man seemed to muse for but a moment, and then continued his lecture. “I don't really have any questions to ask you. I already know enough about you. Just remember this.” The metal was growing gradually louder, clashing against your eardrums, the drums exploding with violent music that bombards your insides with noise.

“Time is a cycle. It cannot be broken; but it can be altered. But the thing about cycles, is, you always end up in the same place.”

And then, he was gone and you were sitting bolt upright in your bed. What a night, huh?

During your slow ascent into lucidity, you hear the familiar beep of your answering machine.

***

Scene 0.5: Wake Up Call

Somewhere else in Miami, Florida, calls were going out like crazy. Rotary dials spun, buttons pushed, coins slid into slots. Signals swam through cords and over phone lines, moving through the busy network of Miami. They passed crack houses, Colombians, hookers, couples in shaking cars, Volkswagen Beetles, all headed towards the phones of a few different assailants.

The homes of Suzuki, Nathan, and Ricky received a message that only said “Hey, this is Susan from Susan’s, uh, Gardening Service, if you could just hang outside of your home we’ll be there to drop off your flowers! Thanks.” And that was the end of that.

The next message went out to Cristina and Valeska, an old man on the other end informing them that “Hey, this is Craig from the boat shop. We’ll have somebody by to pick you up and take you to work soon enough. Thank you for the wait!” Click. At Heat’s home, his answering machine gave a message out that led to the address of Cristina, Valeska, and two more addresses; one specified as the final stop. The man, Craig, said something about carpooling and that was that. Click.

Ryan and Wei also recieved a message, “Hey, this is Gregory from work. I’m sending somebody over to pick you up, we’re gonna grab some beers with some of the guys in a little bit. Thanks!” Click. And that was that.

Outside your door you heard a knocking and then the shuffling of feet. It appears that your package has finally been delivered.

Time to get to work.

[Main Nation Ministry]

Music: Here

Ryan opened his eyes, as he heard the answering machine beep in his living room. What day was it? Ryan got up from his bed and checked his calendar. Today was his therapist's appointment, but he needed plain breakfast. Ryan opened a cupboard and poured a bowl of Pac-Man cereal with some milk. While he was eating breakfast, he let the answering machine let out the recordings.

"You have 1 new message."
BEEP!
“Hey, this is Gregory from work. I’m sending somebody over to pick you up, we’re gonna grab some beers with some of the guys in a little bit. Thanks!”

Ryan raised an eyebrow. "I don't know any Gregory?" Ryan thought. This Gregory person must be someone from the studio. He usually drives to work, but why does someone from the studio want to pick him up? Ryan heard a noise at the door, that was knocking and something being set down. Ryan went to open the door to his house to see no one at the door, expect the package.

Ryan opened the package to see a latex shark mask and a note. He read the note in the package.
"Wear during assignment. Discretion is of essence. Bring something lethal. Failure is not an option. We'll be watching you."
"What the hell does that mean?" Ryan thought again. "Is this note from the studio?"
Ryan didn't have time to decide what to do. He decided to grab the katana that was a gift from a movie director, being a stuntman in a samurai movie. Ryan didn't have time to dress in proper clothes, so he decided to wear a windbreaker jacket, jeans, sneakers, and latex gloves because Ryan feels more comfortable with them on while holding the katana. He grabbed the mask from the package and walked out of his door with his house keys.

[Anowa]

Tape 01

That was quite possibly the weirdest fucking dream Valeska had ever had. She knew that mask, and that Jacket, same one get up that one of the more prominent members of the Russian killers wore. Maybe something mildly prophetic, she didn't fucking know, she usually had off the wall dreams on... Was it even Tuesday? Fuck, she really needed a calendar. At the very least she knew it was mildly dark out. Whether or not she had slept a full day and the sun was setting, or it was rising she didn't quite know. Regardless, she was as awake as she was going to be, and God only knew why there was a message waiting on her answering machine. Groaning she pushed the blinking red button.

“Hey, this is Craig from the boat shop. We’ll have somebody by to pick you up and take you to work soon enough. Thank you for the wait!”

Valeska sighed, another dumbass got the wrong number. Great, he's probably gonna call back later too. Fucking perfect, she needed another braindead twat calling her in the middle of the day. At least in Poland she didn't have to deal with telemarketers.

Regardless, she needed to get dressed for the day. Or at least put pants on for whatever bumpkin door to door salesperson decided to stop on by. She didn't even get to the lightswitch before the doorbell rang.

She paused, throwing caution to the wind she simply made her way to the front door of her small apartment. If they were going to come by this early they deserved to feel incredibly awkward, what with a muscular half naked woman listen to their sales pitch on another fucking vacuum.

Opening the door she fully expected to be met with a face full of suited greasy Oompa Loompa, instead she found no one. Simply a package in a brown box and strung together. Peeking her head out she looked down both sides of the hall. Finding no one walking or even running away. Looking down at the package she hesitated. "Better not be fucking antrax." she mumbled, as she brought the mysterious package inside.

She set it down on the kitchen counter, questioning what was inside. It might be a bomb, by some dumbfuck who thought she was Russian. Or that nerdy guy from the end of the hall could have sent another 'love parcel'. The first time was a collection of hair, shoddily altered pictures a vial of blood. While... flattering, she burned all of it, even the clothes she wore. Whoever the fuck sent blood to someone they were attracted to probably had some kind of bloodborne shit. Throwing caution to the wind she opened the package.

On top was a note:

Wear this and anything else concealing on any outings you have. Tattoos, pink hair, and the scars you have are identifiers, gloves too, and for fuck sake don't wear fingerless. Discretion is key for us.

Good luck, "Orzel"

-PS, bring something to hurt people with.

"What the fuck?" pulling out the tissue paper within she came upon a sight that made her eyes widen, and then a smile creep on to her face as things clicked into place. In 'Jacket's' trial he always went on about phonecalls. He always wore an animal mask on his killings too. The Poor fucker wasn't crazy.

"This is fucked." shaking her head she looked around the kitchen for something that could potentially fuck up a fully grown man. Kitchen knives were a maybe, rolling pin if she felt like a granny... Though that cane machete she bought. Originally she acquired it because she couldn't find a cleaver fucking anywhere, but they were about the same size. Granted the cane machete was about a foot longer and about an inch thicker. That would do.

She frowned, "Well, at least I have a reason to use all the shit I bought for once."

About ten minutes later she was decked out, Kevlar lined gloves, track pants, steel toed boots, long sleeve turtle neck, Level III Kevlar vest, and the mask, which comfortably, yet creepily fit her head perfectly. All the while gazing out her second floor window, waiting for a car to pull up, or some sort of signal that the guy who she was supposed to kill Russians with had arrived.

[Altito Asmoro]

Such music for the machine.

Suzuki rented a room in a motel where her Japanese face didn't quite help the matter, but then again there's possibly nothing to be done. She hasn't done anything substantial, although she came here with documents all of it were forged, and she's undocumented as the result. Taking issues and affairs to the law enforcement won't bring nothing but trouble. She thought sad and depressed about how bad the situation suddenly turned into. Of course, her answering machine (she bought one) answered something on the lines of :

“Hey, this is Susan from Susan’s, uh, Gardening Service, if you could just hang outside of your home we’ll be there to drop off your flowers! Thanks.”

Like, what?

But she decided to do just that. In front of the motel. Morning time.

[

i]Wear this and anything else concealing on any outings you have.

-PS, bring something to hurt people with.[/i]

There's the package and the note. Mask, gloves, and something to hurt people? Well, she still has the crowbar. She put on whatever clothes she has. And now she's waiting, for something. Who knows, maybe this note gave her hope on the death of the Russians.

[Ubaria]

Somewhere in Overtown, Miami

A thin film of cold perspiration clung to his face as if he had been enveloped in a fine mist, nothing but the roosters chant and the roaring of waves seemingly filled his skull, unable to escape the incorporeal realm, trapped inside his own head with a demon whispering, or shouting, at him. It seemed the appearance of this being heralded the begging of something, the start of an era, perhaps it was something he said or didn't say, Wei couldn't tell trapped in his paralytic and unconscious state, the visceral vision continued until a piercing sound ripped the veil away and revealed nothing but an empty and dark apartment.

The sound, made by the answering machine resonated through the apartment and beckoned Wei to listen, yet he hesitated and began to wonder if he should, was he even ready? Without another thought, he leaned over and pressed the headset to his ear, trying to listen through the blood roaring about his eardrums to the voice on the other side.


“Hey, this is Gregory from work. I’m sending somebody over to pick you up, we’re gonna grab some beers with some of the guys in a little bit. Thanks!”

The voice sounded odd, false even, as if it had been fabricated or generated for the purpose of masking the identity on the other side, it was strictly artificial but rendered for the purpose of appearing human, it did a terrible job. As soon as the message had started, it ended with a click, but it was far from over. The message came just before a knock at the door which gave Wei a nasty jolt, his head snapping towards the source of the sound, from behind the thin wooden door rustling could be heard, following by thudding footsteps which vanished down the corridor. Wei waited a second more before opening the door, behind it sat a plain cardboard box with his name taped to it, he peered both ways before sliding the box back into his apartment.

The box, unremarkable as it was, contained two items wrapped in plain brown paper which remained unseen until Wei flicked on the light, revealing something most unsettling. The first item, a frighteningly realistic replica of something resembling a wasp or a hornet, complete with compound eyes and sharp mandibles on the front which shielded a breathable mesh, it seemed to be constructed from a hard type of plastic not too unlike a motorbike helmet, the eyes made of something similar but transparent on the inside, but opaque enough to reflect his own gaze from the outside. The second item was a rather large but pristine butchers knife, made from quality laminated steel with a black plastic molded grip, dimpled for extra grip, the blade sharpened to a perfect point.

Wei sat on the edge of the bed, holding the wasp mask toward him, staring back at his own eyes through the masks, eventually turning it around to try it on himself. It was strangely a perfect fit, eyes positioned to give him a relatively good field of view with enough protection to probably stop a blunt instrument, if it came to that. Wei had little time to shower and clean up, rather throwing on his usual attire consisting of a leather biker jacket worn open with a plain white t-shirt underneath with a simple pair of tracksuit pants and slip on sneakers, hardly the attire of a killer but then again, what was?

With the butchers knife concealed within the jacket and the mask seated inside a simple canvas rucksack, Wei proceeded out of his apartment and towards the front door, passing a few faces along the way, most of them smacked out or drunk, not coherent enough to remember him passing by. With that he simply awaited the arrival of his driver.

[The Valyria Empire]

The Callback

"Sounds like you've got it all planned out."

"I try not to think about it too much... Things never turn out the way you expect them to."

April 2nd, 1992, 6:19 PM

One, two, three...four. Four twists had done, and finally the break was fixed. Ray grabbed the damp handrag and wiped his face. He finally got his 1973 Chevelle working again. After he wiped his face he slid out from under the car and grabbed his water bottle. The cold, refreshing water ran into his mouth when suddenly he heard the phone ring and in reaction he spit the water out. Quick images from 1989 ran through his head then he slapped himself. Once Ray realized what had happened he heard Samantha call from the room above the garage.

"Ray, can you get that I'm in the shower." she shouted, the vents in the house allowed Ray to easily hear people shout from other rooms. Ray went inside, and eventually grabbed the kitchen phone.

"Hello, this is Ray Thomas. How can I help you?" Ray asked, his tone upbeat having pushed the memories to the side.

"“Hey, this is Craig from the boat shop. Can you carpool tonight? Some of our new employees don't have a set of wheels. Here's their addresses.... they need dropped off at our new store location on.... Thanks for being a great employee, you're doing the store proud!" *CLICK*

Ray's eyes widened, his grip on the phone lessened and soon it fell it to the floor with a loud bang. Then Ray ran to the guest bathroom and hurled up dinner. After a minute of vomiting Ray went back to the garage and locked the door. He went over to his NASCAR and other various racing trophy display. There was a big flag for the team he raced for back in 1989, and went moved it to the side to reveal a safe sitting in a small crevis. It only took a minute for Ray to open the safe to reveal the mask they had originally sent him back in 1989. He grabbed the mask and threw it in the car. He went back inside, grabbed his racing jacket and gloves. Then went to the foot of the stairs and shouted up to Sam.

"Hey, Sam. I'm heading out, some buddies just called and wanted to go out. I'll be back around 2, I love you!" Ray shouted and before Sam could reply he quickly ran out to the garage, grabbed his hammer and got in the car. He opened the garage door and put the gear in reverse then backed out on to the street and began to make his way towards the first address that he was given. As he drove he put his driving gloves on and tightened his grip on the wheel. No, I'm not going to let them hurt Sam. Sam, I love you... I... I'm doing this for you. Ray thought to himself.

As the sun finally set and the moon came out, so did Heat. Heat then put the mask on, and it felt comfortable... it somehow put Heat at ease. Then he took a turn, and found himself in front of the first stop. He parked and waited for this co worker to walk out.

[Shark isle]

Ricky woke up with a start. What a weird he had. As he got dressed for his evening jog Ricky could not help but think of the rooster man in his dream. His stare would be etched in his memory for probably the rest of his life. Suddenly, he heard the phone ring. " You gotta be pulling my leg," Ricky said with a groan as he walked to the phone he kept near the kitchen counter. By the time he reached it, he was ready to curse at the telemarketer who called this late at night. " What", Ricky said into the phone in a obviously annoyed tone of voice. This is what he heard on the other end.

Hey, this is Susan from Susan’s, uh, Gardening Service, if you could just hang outside of your home we’ll be there to drop off your flowers! Thanks.”

Flowers? I did not order any flowers." Before Ricky could ponder this puzzling fact, he heard a knock at the door. When Ricky opened the door, there was a brown package and a note. Ricky opened the package and found a dragon mask and a pair of black gloves. Ricky then read the note which told him told him to bring a weapon that could kill Ruskie bastards and not leave evidence on the scene. Ricky then said to himself," Oh, i get what that call was about. Well, any chance to kill Ruskie scum is good for me. Ricky then grabbed his backpack and placed the mask in it. He then started to look around for a weapon to use. He finally settled on a lead pipe he bough from the hardware store yesterday. He placed the pipe in his backpack and went outside and sat on his porch waiting for something to happen.

[Vacif]

“Time is a cycle. It cannot be broken; but it can be altered. But the thing about cycles, is, you always end up in the same place.”

*Click*

Nathan shot up from his bed, black drenched in cold sweat. The Rooster's words echoed in the back of his head, clear as the moment it'd spoken to him. A familiar beep sounded to his right.

“Hey, this is Susan from Susan’s, uh, Gardening Service, if you could just hang outside of your home we’ll be there to drop off your flowers! Thanks.”

Nathan stared blankly at the white and beige machine. Lips pursed together, eyebrows scrunched the same. Silent for a few moments, he reached out delete the message when a quick wrap at the door caused him to jump. It was the middle of the night. Why would anyone be here at this time? The message was obviously directed towards him, nothing could of sounded so fake. No commercial service would also be operating at this time either. If this was a call from the boss, then that meant there was some serious shit going on. No fights were scheduled for tonight.

Throwing his legs over the edge of the bed, he quietly tip toed to the front door, grabbing his pen knife along the way. Nathan cautiously looked through the peephole. No one was in the hall. Just a brown box that did not look like flowers. Undoing the chain, bolt, and door lock, Nathan pulled open the door and retrieved the package. Locking the door behind him, he went back to his room to explore the box's contents. Inside was a see-through plastic bag containing a pigeon mask, and a note.

Put on the mask, and wear something nice. Be classy, and don't show skin. Wear gloves, don't leave a signature. Don't disappoint. Failure has dire consequences.

We'll be in touch.

-PS, Bring something for the party, crowd can get...rowdy

Nathan had had enough run ins with the criminal underworld to know that whatever this was, it wasn't legal, and it wasn't his guys making the call. He didn't know what he was getting himself into, but it'd probably be smart to be on the good side of a criminal element.

His outfit wasn't anything flashy. He looked like a dock worker, or city sanitation staff in his blue coveralls, white gloves, and his steel toed work boots. What set him aside from said workers was the glaring latex pigeon mask, and plastic bags fastened over his feet. It was oddly comfortable. The mask fit well, and surprisingly breathed quite well. With his weapons of choice fastened to his body, he left his apartment complex and awaited his transport. The doorman and lobby manager were disturbingly missing.

[Transoxthraxia]

April 2nd, 1992, ??:.??PM.
????, Overtown, Miami.

“Time is a cycle. It cannot be broken; but it can be altered. But the thing about cycles, is, you always end up in the same place.”

Cristina's apartment was a tiny box in a hole-in-the-wall that only passed building inspection because the landlord's wife fucked the building inspector every time that he came around. Overtown Parkade Apartments, was the name of the building. At least, that's what she thought it was. But she didn't know anymore. Cristina didn't know a lot of things. Sitting in the one chair in her cramped living room/kitchen/bedroom, she vaguely recalled that she had found the chair in the apartment when she moved in. It was a brown leather club chair, and she had haphazardly dragged it in a fashion so that it looked out of one of the two windows in her corner apartment. There were rips and tears all around it; she could remember that she had been the origin of only a few of them. The rest had been there when she first came into possession of one of the three pieces of furniture that she owned.

There wasn't a single light on in her apartment; the only illumination came from the neon lights across the street from and beside her corner apartment as well as the single, small, red light from the half-finished cigarette that hung from Cristina's mouth as if she was dead. The neon blues and pinks that permeated her apartment mesmerized the woman, who appeared to be catatonic, sitting in this chair. She could have sworn she had seen the Rooster again. There, perhaps, like a mirage, for a second, and then gone again; reappearing and disappearing as the pink and blue neon fought for her attention. What had it said? Cycles? Time? Cristina needed another drink.

She took a single, long, last drag of her cigarette, inhaling fully, feeling the tobacco and nicotine flow into her lungs and then through her body. Exhaling, she put what was left of the cigarette out on her chair, ashing it casually one one of the chair's worn arms. She pulled herself up onto the other arm of the chair and swung her legs around, hopping off lightly before walking towards the kitchen; it took the woman three steps to get there. The kitchen was perhaps the only well-done part of the place. There were counter tops that surrounded three sides of the "room", one side of the counters actually forming a wall between the kitchen and the rest of the apartment. There was a fridge, an electric stove, a sink, and a dish rack; most of it was nearly impossible to see, however, in the dim, nearly non-existent light of the apartment. She knew where the fridge was by memory. She opened it up, activating the small light within. The fridge's light revealed a pitying sight: A fridge full of half-finished condiments, but no food. Mustard, mayonnaise, ketchup, soya sauce. But revealing a golden angelic aura were a pair of "forties"; two forty ounce bottles of malt liquor, Olde English 800 brand. It was all she could afford nowadays.

A small sigh was let out as she grabbed one of the two bottles, swung the fridge door shut, and swung herself onto the opposite counter. She cracked the seal, hearing all of the clicks as the bottle's cap gave way. The pungent smell of poorly-made, strong beer, filled Cristina's nostrils. "What time is it?" She asked herself, not wanting to start drinking before eight.

"Does it matter?" She then asked herself, pausing, before taking a swig. It didn't even taste bad to the woman anymore. Finishing her swig, she looked at the bottle again, hearing a voice in her head that wasn't her own. They might call. The voice was right. She fumbled for the cap, locating it, and screwed it on tightly, making sure that there was no spillage, before going back to sit on the chair. She left the malt liquor in the open.

Perhaps the one thing in the entire apartment that wasn't completely filthy or in disrepair was the coffee table that she and her boyfriend had bought together. It was a low-quality light-coloured wood, short and squat, with splayed legs in a traditional 80's style. On top of it were four things: An ashtray, completely empty, a copy of the New American Catholic Bible, a white rabbit mask, and a power drill. The latter two were caked in blood. The table was behind the chair, which had been moved so that Cristina could ogle the lights outside of her apartment. Laying sideways in the chair, legs splayed on one arm and her neck on the other, she looked back towards the table. The rabbit seemed to be looking right back at her in the dim light. She briefly remembered that she had once been afraid of the dark as a child, bemusing a simpler time. That's not who Cristina was anymore.

Locking in her gaze with the rabbit, she could feel her stomach groan and protest the alcohol. Cristina began blinking. They were normal at first, but with each successive blink, her eyes got heavier and heavier. She soon fell asleep.

---

A shrill ring filled her small apartment, waking the twenty-something up with a shock. She jolted away, neck still balanced on the chair's arm, and saw her landline, on the counter tops of her kitchen, ringing. She stared at it for one, two, three, four, five rings. It went silent for a minute before the "messages unheard" light activated, a red square in the middle of her kitchen's darkness. She swung herself nimbly out of her chair, and pressed the messages button.

“Hey, this is Craig from the boat shop. We’ll have somebody by to pick you up and take you to work soon enough. Thank you for the wait!”

Craig's voice was incredibly aged, Cristina could tell through the phone. They called the voice inside her head stated plainly. The voice was oddly familiar in a comforting sense. Cristina tapped the phone, as if it was a child. "Thanks, buddy." She said quietly, before turning towards her "bed", a mattress in the corner of her apartment that had a pile of clothes next to it. She used her sweater as a pillow. She peeled the burgundy pullover off, over her head, and tossed it haphazardly on her blood-stained mattress. Reaching down, she pulled on her "work clothes", and waited for any further signal, such as a van pulling out in front of her apartment.

[Kentucky Fried Land]

April 2nd, 1992, 11:04 PM

The brown Lincoln Town Car came cruising down the street, the engine sputtering along before coming to a stop, right in front of Nathan. It paused there for a moment, the engine still wheezing and coughing its lungs out from its throat. It waited there for seconds, and after those few seconds had left the universe the person inside rolled down the window.

Out leaned a girl, a pretty girl too, with curly brown hair and sunglasses. She was smacking her lips with either dip or bubblegum one; these suspicions were confirmed as she blew a bright pink bubble in Nathan’s direction. It popped, and she tongued the gum residue from her cheeks back into her mouth. “How’s it hangin’?” She asked, a cocky grin appearing on her face inbetween the smack of gun. “Hop in, and let’s blow this joint. You can toss your stuff in the trunk, or hold on to it. Whichever.”

***

April 2nd, 1992, 11:05 PM

As Suzuki waited for the Lincoln to drive her away, a man approached her in the darkness. “Suzuki? Suzuki, hey, what are you doing out here?” His thin brown hair barely clung to his balding head, and thin circular glasses prevented his nearsightedness from getting too out of hand. He was hugging the night robe around him tightly, looking at Suzuki. “Just needed some fresh air? Same here.” He turned and faced the street with her, feet moving in his slippers. He was the landlord, as much of a landlord as the owner of a motel could be. It just so happened that his motel had been a haven for drunks and dregs and the homeless of society, but ever since his wife had been hospital ridden with breast cancer, he had been less lenient.

“Suzuki, I came out here to talk to you. You’re late on your pay, again… your rent…” He said rent with such vigor that it might be perceived as anger flooding through the typically calm man’s voice.

***

April 2nd, 1992, 11:05 PM

Elsewhere, the girl’s next pickup waited on his front porch. Ricky watched his yard, as a drunken man stumbled down the sidewalk. A can of Bud Light was in one of his hands, and the other was stuffed into his pocket. He maneuvered down the sidewalk like a cowboy, cockeyed and sauntering about. He looked up at Ricky, smiling a toothy grin. There was almost a precedent that maggots would be working around his yellow teeth; but they were squeaky clean and white.

“Hey there, boy!” A thick, shrill Southern drawl penetrated Ricky’s ears, as the man invited himself onto Ricky’s porch. He looked at Ricky, grinning. “How’s it been, Rick?” He slapped his back, tipping the trucker cap on his head. The man extended the half empty Bud Light to Ricky, tipping it towards him. “Want some?”

***

April 2nd, 1992, 11:06 PM

Wei stood on the sidewalk, a street lamp his only illumination for the night. It flickered occasionally, as if it were to go out soon, but it never did.

A white van pulled up, stuttering in the night’s air. Wei could see gas blowing from the exhaust and rising up into the sky. The tinted window rolled down, a large, meaty arm propped itself out the window. A face appeared; a boar, it seemed to be. No, it was a man. But he was wearing a plastic mask, one that described an angry boar, tusks protruding with a strange aura of rage about them. “Come on, hop in. I ain’t got all night, we gotta go kill some commies, brother.”

***

April 2nd, 1992, 11:06 PM

As Ryan waited outside his home for the boar’s van to approach, another figure appeared in the night.

It was a pasty, pale white girl with a belly shirt and hoop rings hanging from her ears. Her hair had been cut messily, as if she had performed it herself. Strands of hair stuck out loud, poking and prodding the air around her dome. She was wearing a tight, purple miniskirt as well, along with some black boots. She had no sleeves on.

The girl leaned up against a sign post, where Ryan was able to get a closer look at her. She had been crying, it appeared, her mascara run down her face and lipstick smeared. Bags under her eyes implied a night of sleeplessness, and her teeth were chattering. “H-hey doll, you y-you need…” She paused, looking at the ground and opening her mouth with terrified eyes. “I’m $60 just $60. I’m clean and everything too, I don't have HIV or AIDS or anything.”

[Shark isle]

Ricky shuddered as his drunk neighbor sat next to him. Ever since Ricky moved in, this neighbor had been nothing but a pain in the ass. Constantly playing blaring country music in the middle of the night, drinking 12 packs of beer and roaming the suburbs like a drunken fool and other annoying things he did not want to think about. He then offered him a drink from his beer can. Ricky shook his head and said," No thanks man. I have a meeting I have to go to tonight."

[Transoxthraxia]

April 2nd, 1992, 11:09 PM

Cristina had been looking out her window, examining the street that she lived on for only God knows how long. The lights, the life, and the livelihood of Miami leaking into the dead apartment that she lived in. It was dead because Cristina was dead. Cristina was dead because she had no life. And with the way that she "lived", on a long enough timeline, the metaphorical concept of death would become literal. She wrestled with the concept of life and death and her lifestyle for some time, passively and nearly catatonically staring out the window, extremely sluggish and a tad tired.

A large van of sorts pulled up in front of her apartment. It was white, or at least, it was. it was incredibly beat up, with a lot of graffiti tagged on it. As it pulled up, she knew what it was. Turning around, she rounded her chair, picking up her rabbit mask and her power drill and slipped on her shoes without even tying them up. She peeked through her door, looking left and right, to make sure that there were no unwanted witnesses. As she suspected, there weren't. Mask in one hand and drill in the other, she slipped through her door without even bothering to lock it.

What was there to steal, anyway?

She trotted down to the front of her apartment; she didn't have to worry about witnesses there, since the apartment was too declasse to have any sort of reception or security. She left the apartment, pushing aside the pair of large, glass doors, and walked into the humid Miami night, opposing the van. With complete silence, the rear door rolled open, and Cristina got in.

[Main Nation Ministry]

April 2nd, 1992, 11:06 PM

Ryan looked like a complete stranger in the middle of the night. He was wearing random clothing, holding his katana with the sheath covering it in one hand and the shark mask in the other. Ryan realized that he should have brought a sword bag to accommodate his sword. Then, Ryan saw what he believed to be a prostitute approach him. "H-hey doll, you y-you need..."
"Oh god, I don't need anything, I'm fine."
"I'm $60 just $60. I'm clean and everything too, I don't have HIV or AIDS or anything."
"No. No. I was just waiting for a pick-up of my own. I don't think the suburbs are a good place to look for people."
Ryan waited for the prostitute to leave, as she didn't seem to care about the sword in his hand, though she might have been drunk, anyways. He looked in the street and waited for his pick-up.
He still wondered if the message was about work or something else. But what about the note? Bring something lethal? What did it mean?

[Ubaria]

Somewhere in Overtown, Miami

It didn't take long for somebody to arrive in a less than spectacular style, the white van grumbled down the street and drew up rather abruptly, the brakes groaning under the pressure to bring the lumbering vehicle to a halt. Wei remained stood at first, observing the van until the driver side window scrolled down to reveal a rather butch looking individual sporting a plastic mask similar to his own, yet this one took the form of a tusked boar, there wasn't a doubt this was his ride to wherever they were heading.

“Come on, hop in. I ain’t got all night, we gotta go kill some commies, brother.”

Wei continued to stand still for a small moment more, his brain still was absorbing the situation he was currently in, waiting on a street corner for god-knows who to take him god-knows where, to do god-knows what to a bunch of Russian thugs, not only that but he had a human sized wasp head in his bag and a butchers knife in his jacket. Fuck it. Wei mentally shrugged and pulled the Wasp mask from his bag and pulled it down over his head, making sure it was correctly seated before swinging himself into the passenger side of the van.


“We have another stop to make before the main show. Buckle up” With that the pig man slammed the accelerator and took off down the street in a cloud of diesel smoke.

[Main Nation Ministry]

11:10 PM

Ryan waited in the dark, then he saw two lights at the end of the road. Headlights illuminating him. The headlights got closer to reveal a white van that braked in front of him. At the driver side window was a man wearing a tusked boar mask similar to the shark mask that Ryan gotten. "Get in. We don't have all night. We need to get this done before morning." the masked driver said to Ryan who opened the rear door to get inside the van. That was when Ryan noticed that someone else was in the van with him. It was someone watching a mask of an insect. An hornet of some sort.

[Vacif]

April 2nd, 1992, 11:04 PM

The brown Lincoln Town Car came cruising down the street, the engine sputtering along before coming to a stop, right in front of Nathan. It paused there for a moment, the engine still wheezing and coughing its lungs out from its throat. It waited there for seconds, and after those few seconds had left the universe the person inside rolled down the window.

Out leaned a girl, a pretty girl too, with curly brown hair and sunglasses. She was smacking her lips with either dip or bubblegum one; these suspicions were confirmed as she blew a bright pink bubble in Nathan’s direction. It popped, and she tongued the gum residue from her cheeks back into her mouth. “How’s it hangin’?” She asked, a cocky grin appearing on her face inbetween the smack of gun. “Hop in, and let’s blow this joint. You can toss your stuff in the trunk, or hold on to it. Whichever.”

Nathan had his reservations on how far the vehicle would get them, whoever they were. This girl, this driver, only served to cement his suspicions of this not being his regulars. Wordlessly, he threw open the front passenger side door, and strapped himself in. The pretty girl seemed dressed for an occasion, but he couldn't see her mask anywhere. Was she going to partake in the evening's festivities or was she simply the designated driver?

After getting in, she drove off into the night towards their second pick up. It was now that Nathan spoke up. "Where's the party at?"

[Altito Asmoro]

April 2nd, 1992, 11:05 PM

As Suzuki waited for the Lincoln to drive her away, a man approached her in the darkness. “Suzuki? Suzuki, hey, what are you doing out here?” His thin brown hair barely clung to his balding head, and thin circular glasses prevented his nearsightedness from getting too out of hand. He was hugging the night robe around him tightly, looking at Suzuki. “Just needed some fresh air? Same here.” He turned and faced the street with her, feet moving in his slippers. He was the landlord, as much of a landlord as the owner of a motel could be. It just so happened that his motel had been a haven for drunks and dregs and the homeless of society, but ever since his wife had been hospital ridden with breast cancer, he had been less lenient.

“Suzuki, I came out here to talk to you. You’re late on your pay, again… your rent…” He said rent with such vigor that it might be perceived as anger flooding through the typically calm man’s voice.

Suzuki was just wondering around where the hell the possible vehicle that would picked her up when she was approached by her...landlord. He was more or less the owner, but since she's been paying rent, she decided to called her her landlord. She picked up English fairly fast, too. Perhaps it was a preparation for her modeling career...which was never happened in the end. She remembered about the payment. She could paid it now, but considering that the last time she got cash was when she killed a drug dealer and took all of his money. He would not be remembered, he used to frequented this motel, even though this motel is under control of another American gang. Motel seems to be not a front for money laundering.

She decided to paid it off, of course. Going down on violence is not a good thing, especially on these streets. "Sorry, sir. Here you go, the money," as she gave him a wad of money, enough for the rent. She of course, gave it with her left hand while her crowbar on the right hand, in case...you know.

Something.