Prologue: Where It All Began

Prologue: Where It All Began was the prologue of Liberty City Survivor.

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LIBERTY CITY SURVIVOR PROLOGUE

The rain was falling like small rocks against the pavement. Most people were inside, unwilling to get soaked in the downpour. However, one man was walking slowly through Atlantic Quays, whistling a slow melody. He seemed unaffected by the violent weather, as if nothing mattered to him. He was wearing blue jeans and a grey shirt. His name was Marco Delioni, and he was waiting. Waiting for something to happen. It was the day. The day he had been waiting for. Liberty City Survivor had started. Men would die. He would have to kill at least one man. Then, he would be rich, famous and safe. He smiled.

Not far from there, an ambulance was making its way through traffic. The driver was wearing a white paramedic suit, stained with blood. He was screaming frantically while driving with the sirens wailing. He was looking for someone. Someone who he was supposed to kill. It was going to be hilarious. He was only known by the name “Klaydoggy”. His name was one of the few things in the world that he actually liked.

In Aspatria, another man was walking in a slow pace. His finger touched his pistol gently. He was alone out there, and it was the way he liked it. He didn’t need anyone else. Also, he didn’t really care about the tournament. He wanted to survive, but he only wanted one thing. The death of Tony Escobar who had murdered his father. His name was John Teik, a man willing to do anything for revenge. This tournament would finally bring an end to his obsession. He would no longer have to see Escobar’s grinning face when he closed his eyes.

In the Red light district, a man was locking the door to Woody’s topless bar. He heard a sound an turned around, reaching for his 12 gauge shotgun and saw a cat eating out of a garbage can. “Damn cat.” he muttered while entering his car. The rain annoyed him, the cat annoyed him and the traffic annoyed him. He felt like killing someone. He was Salvatore DiMaggio, Liberty City’s angriest man.

John Jones was leaving his home in Wichita Gardens. He pulled out a shotgun from the trunk of his car, got in the driver seat and drove of. He was calm. He knew that he would be able to win the competition; he had no doubt about it. He was unknown in Liberty. Nobody knew where he lived. It was time to kill.

A blonde man in farmer’s clothes was sitting on a seat in an L-train at Hepburn Heights. He was smoking a clumsily rolled cigarette and looking out through the window. His fate was waiting for him. Death or glory. Countryside bored him. He was tired of meadows and tractors. 15 years in jail had turned him into a city man, ready to kill his way to the top. Johnny Buckshot, feared by the police but unheard of to everyone else. That was going to change.

Over at Rockford, someone was talking to Phil Cassidy. The man said something and Phil laughed. “Sorry, Nathan.” said Phil. “I can’t sell you a rocket launcher while you are in the tournament. That would be against the rules.” “What about an M16?” asked Nathan MacMillan. “No. While you are competing, I can’t sell you anything. Sorry.” “It’s okay.” said Nathan and left Phil’s compound. Nathan “Mad Dog”, was happy. Combat was once again a part of his life. He missed Delta Force and the old days at Fort Meade. Now, he could fight for his life again, killing some enemies in the process. With or without Cassidy’s heavy duty armament, he would fight till the bitter end. Adrenaline was pumping in his veins. Ryan Linear was waiting for the bus. He had received a tip from a friend, saying that one of the targets was currently in Chinatown. He put his hand in his pocket and gave his Uzi a gentle pat. This competition would be great. He didn’t know where the TV cameras were, but that was not important. All that mattered was staying focused and never leaving the home without a loaded weapon. Not that Ryan ever did leave the home without a gun. He liked his Uzi and packing heat was a good life insurance.

A Sentinel drove by the bus stop where Ryan was standing. Ryan didn’t see the driver and the driver didn’t see Ryan. The driver’s name was Joey Goterelli. Years ago, he had been the greatest mob hitman ever. There was no mission that he could not complete. Salvatore Leone, Tony Cipriani and all the other high ranked mobsters had requested his services. However, one of his trusted friends set him up and got him sent to prison. Now, Joey was participating in the tournament to shake the traitor out and finish him of.

In the sewers, another of the tournament’s fighters was sneaking around. He was wearing a dirty hospital gown and was also talking to himself. He had an old baseball bat in his hand. He had no idea where he could find any of his enemies. All he knew was that he was supposed to track them down and kill them. That wouldn’t be a problem; he was used to killing people. He was good at it. “Bill.” he said to himself. “I’m going to kill a lot of people. And then I will be rich.” “Sounds good.” he answered. “Who are we?” “We… We are Bill Grogan, and no one can stop us!” “That’s right! Now find a place where we can get to the surface.” “Okay, Bill.”

A Diablo Stallion made the water puddles splash as it roared along Callahan Bridge. The driver avoided the other cars while keeping the pedal to metal. In the passenger seat, several Molotov cocktails were placed. The entire car’s interior smelled of gasoline. The driver took a Molotov cocktail and adjusted the small piece of fabric stuck in the bottle’s hole. He was trying to shake the TV cameras so that he could buy some more Molotovs from the armament store in Shoreside Vale. The tournament’s participants were not allowed to buy any weapons or equipment while competing. He hated that rule. He ran out of bottles and gasoline two days ago and needed more. He was Marcos Rafael Chavez. Fire and torture was his specialities.

Patrick O´Grady was hiding in a bush, clutching an Uzi in his left hand. The cops were looking for him, and he did not feel like going back to jail only three days after he finally got out of there. The Liberty City Survivor Tournament would provide him with everything he needed to start his own criminal empire and finish the work that he and his Irish comrades had started. Of course, he would have preferred a way of making money that didn’t involve danger to his life, but such opportunities were very rare in Liberty City. For now, he had to stay out of sight and try to track down his enemies.

The few people who were still outside avoided the man in black clothes who was walking hastily towards a blue Rumpo parked at Marco’s Bistro. The man was playing with a huge dagger and smiling faintly. There were 16 men waiting to be sacrificed to his dark lord and master. He was eager to find them soon, but he didn’t want the fun to end. Maybe he could keep some of the men in his basement and play with them. His nickname was “Demon”, a name that he deserved. Lucas Gill was actually not an evil man, but years of mental illness and wild fantasies had made him what he was. He was more than ready to answer the call of the kill. Tony “Esco” Escobar was laughing. He had just found out that one of his new opponents was the son of Steven Teik, whom Escobar had killed in Vice City. It seemed that young Teik wanted revenge for this. Tony would have to kill yet another Teik. “Sure hope this one hasn’t a son. Killing revengeful kids is boring.” he thought while switching his TV on.

A taxi stopped outside a house in Newport and a man got out. He looked around and then entered the house. His name was John Bennett, yet another mafia hitman who got arrested and registered, thus rendered useless to the mafia itself. Bennett was a man on the edge, doing small time jobs for minor sums of cash. He was an excellent hitman, but also forgotten by the people who used to look at him with awe. Liberty City Survivor would be his ticket back into the high ranks. If he won the tournament, he would be the cream of the crop once again.

Only a few yards from Bennett, another man was walking in the rain. They didn’t notice each other and no fight got started right there. The other man was a famous money counterfeiter. Franz Chavez, on the run from his old comrades. With the money he would win in the tournament, he could either form himself an empire and have his old friends assassinated or he could simply pay them to leave him alone. No matter what he did, he had to get rid of his followers.

The seventeenth man was at his house, looking at a map. He was marking the homes of all his opponents with needles. He couldn’t afford any mistakes. Mistakes kill. Outside, rain was beating the windows hard. He wouldn’t go anywhere today. But tomorrow. The D Day. In this case, D meant “Death”. Mario Cerone added the last needle and then sat down in his armchair. Sixteen men… It would take some time.