“Yo, Slick. Get your head in the game.” It was Big D, his cousin and the closest thing he had to a conscience. D was built like a refrigerator, his white tank top stained with barbecue sauce and the memory of a thousand alleyway arguments. “Ballas pushing product on our turf again. Near the old donut shop.”
Marcus didn’t announce himself. That was for movies. He just walked forward, rolling a half-empty bottle of 40 in his hand.
“Carl’s doing three to five up in San Fierro,” D spat. “That leaves us. You, me, and Jamal’s shaky trigger finger.” gta sa hoodlum
Marcus chose a third option. He tossed the bottle. It didn’t hit Stitch; it shattered against the Cadillac’s fender. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet alley. In the frozen second of shock, Marcus pulled the hoodie from his waist and wrapped it around his left fist.
Marcus saw a chessboard. He counted the cash. Four hundred and twenty dollars. “Yo, Slick
“Wrong street, homes,” he said, his voice flat.
He put two hundred in an envelope for his mom’s electric bill. He put one hundred in his pocket for groceries. The remaining one hundred and twenty he folded into a tight square and tucked under a loose brick. That was the "rainy day" fund. For bail. For a lawyer. For a bus ticket out if the heat got too high. “Ballas pushing product on our turf again
He didn’t stop until he reached the rooftop of his own building. Down below, Los Santos glittered. The rich folks in Vinewood saw a skyline of dreams. The tourists saw the lights.