Dr. Friedlander: |
Your son, James. He's a good kid? |
Michael: |
He's a good kid? A good kid? Why? Does he help the fuckin' poor? No. He sits on his ass all day, smoking dope and jerkin' off while he plays that fucking game. If that's our standard for goodness, then no wonder this country's screwed. |
Dr. Friedlander: |
And what about you? |
Dr. Friedlander motions his hands, wanting Michael to talk. |
Michael sits up straight. |
Michael: |
I didn't have the advantages that kid has. By the time I was his age, I'd already been in prison twice. I robbed banks, I ran whores, I smuggled dope. |
Dr. Friedlander: |
And you consider them achievements? |
Michael: |
These were the opportunities I had. At least I took 'em. |
Dr. Friedlander: |
And where did these opportunities get you, Michael? |
Michael: |
They got me right... |
Michael stands up and walks around the office, expressing his anger. |
Michael: |
...fuckin' here! The end of the road! With a big house and a useless kid, and I'm stuck talking to you because no one else gives a shit! Oh, I'm living the dream, baby! And that dream is fucked! It is... fucking fucked! |
Dr. Friedlander: |
Let it all out. |
Michael: |
I think I just did. |
Dr. Friedlander glances at his watch, noticing the time. |
Dr. Friedlander: |
Oh, well I, think that's all we have time for. Same time next week? |
Michael stands back up and walks towards the door to leave Friedlander's office. |
Michael: |
I gotta tell you, I ain't too sure this shit is workin' for me. |
Dr. Friedlander stands up from his chair. |
Dr. Friedlander: |
Well, a sense of overriding futility is a vital part of the process. Embrace it. |
Michael: |
Whatever you say, Doc. |
Michael walks out and closes the door behind him. This marks the transition to the game's opening sequence, which consists of numerous establishing shots of Del Perro and the surrounding area. These include a bird's-eye view of the Great Ocean Highway, the Los Santos skyline, the near-entirety of both Vespucci and Del Perro Beach, and a Jetmax speeding past the pier. In addition, we get a glimpse at several interactions between the inhabitants of Los Santos: a cyclist narrowly riding past two beachgoers; bodybuilders lifting weights and exercising; a retriever sprinting past a sunbathing woman; and finally, two joggers passing by Michael, who is merely strolling past the beach houses of Del Perro. He notices a police officer failing to capture the attention of a vagrant stumbling along the walkway. After watching the man with a look of empathy, Michael sits down on a bench. |
Michael: |
[quietly] I know just how you feel. |
Lamar: |
Man, shit gotta be around here somewhere. |
Franklin: |
Unless they buried it under the sand, fool. Another brilliant Lamar Davis production. |
Lamar: |
Man, fuck you. [to Michael] Hey, excuse me, homie, can you tell me where Bertolt Beach House is? |
Michael: |
No, homie, I cannot. |
Franklin: |
[to Lamar] Man, would you come on? Fuck! |
Michael quickly rises up as the two begin to walk off. |
Michael: |
Actually, yeah... it's that house right there, with the yellow stairs. |
Lamar: |
Yeah, good looking out, homie, appreciate it. |
Franklin shoves Lamar away. |
Franklin: |
Man, get your stupid ass on. Damn! Why don't you ask him if he knows the fucking owner? Or better yet, do some sky writing that reads there's a couple of ni**as here about to boost some cars in case somebody didn't realize. |
Lamar: |
See, what you don't realize, is that we ain't boosting. This shit is legit business. |
Franklin: |
Legit? Oh yeah, I forgot, huh? 401Ks, tax returns and all. Yeah, right. |
Lamar: |
You the one all pumped up on doing this lick, ni**a. I'm getting my money in the hood, I'm straight, fool. I'm cool. |
Franklin: |
You cool? Cool what? Slinging dope and throwing up gang signs? Yeah, right. |
As the opening credits end, Franklin and Lamar arrive at the beach front house. Franklin speedily opens the gate. |
Lamar: |
Yeah, homie, this the spidnot right here. Your boy Simeon wasn't bullshitting. |
Franklin: |
Man, get your ass in there. |
Lamar: |
Bring your ass, fool, you're always trying to boss somebody. |
The two hastily sneak around the house. |
Lamar: |
[whispering] Come on. Come on. Shit, come on. |
They get to the driveway, occupied by a white 9F Cabrio and a red Rapid GT convertible. |
Lamar: |
Damn. This ni**a must got the baby dick. |
Franklin: |
Yeah, and all this shit paid for with bad credit. |
Lamar: |
Whoohoo. Come to Daddy. Which one you want, ni**a? |
If Franklin doesn't decide |
Lamar: |
It ain't this complicated. * You goin' call this or what? * Come on. Which one of these motherfuckers you want? * I'm about to take away your privileges. * Come on, homie. * Makin' decisions - it's business 101. |
The duo each enter a car, having a unique exchange depending on the car Franklin gets into. Franklin will retract the roof on either vehicle. |
If Franklin enters the 9F Cabrio: |
Lamar: |
You always was an old choosy motherfucker. |
(Franklin opens up the top) |
Lamar: |
Aw, you ballin' hard with the drop top, huh? |
Franklin: |
I might just be. |
Lamar: |
Whatever, ni**a, it ain't gonna make you go no faster. Hit me on the speakerphone, I'm movin'! |
Franklin: |
Oh, it's like that, ni**a? |
If Franklin enters the Rapid GT: |
Lamar: |
Like that? Bobby big dick on the ni**a, huh? |
Franklin: |
Shit, for real, homie! [retracting the roof] Damn, this motherfucker got a robo-roof and everything, ni**a. |
Lamar: |
He shoulda paid the nizote! [laughs] |
Franklin: |
Man, you got to grind to keep that shit. Now it's back on us. |
Lamar: |
Hell yeah, I wanna see what it do. Hey, hit me on the speakerphone, lo. |
Franklin: |
Oh, it's like that? Fo' sho', homie. |
Franklin quickly follows, accompanying Lamar in a high-speed chase. The two weave through traffic on the Great Ocean Highway before making a sharp right turn, heading uphill through Del Perro. Franklin calls Lamar, talking to him on speaker. |
Lamar: |
Right up here, homie. I'm ‘bout to go nice and slow for yo' bitch-ass. |
If at any point Franklin gets ahead of Lamar in the race. |
Lamar: |
How the fuck you get in front of me? * How the fuck did you get up front? * That you in front, you fat motherfucker? |
Franklin: |
Your slow ass should be askin' why I didn't get here sooner. * I been faster than your lanky ass since kindergarden. * Who else, you lanky bitch? |
Franklin: |
Eh, remember, we got to be careful with these rides, homie. ‘Cause Simeon ain't about to dock my pay again... |
Lamar: |
Homie, man, if you need some bread, I could hook you up with JB's tow truck. It ain't got glamor but there's some money to be made. |
Franklin: |
So him and Tonya could smoke crack in peace? Homie, I'm good. |
Franklin: |
If you wanna chuck them thangs? |
Lamar: |
Damn, dog, how much we gettin' for these repos? I'ma be one reluctant motherfucker givin' this up. |
Franklin: |
Man, there's enough bad credit going around, homie. It's like there's an endless supply in this fucked up ass country. |
Lamar: |
This meant to be your shit. |
Franklin: |
Get out the road! |
Lamar: |
I'm thinking left. |
Franklin: |
Hey, dog, we'd be doing Simeon a disservice if we didn't test these rides out. |
Lamar: |
He ain't even gonna know if they good if we don't push them to the brink. You feel me? |
Lamar: |
Up here, through the studio. Let's show these movie people how we do! |
Lamar smashes the security barrier, and speeds through the studio, with Franklin in close pursuit. They speed through, narrowly avoiding people in the process. |
Franklin: |
Oh, we flimin' shit here! Huh? |
A Benson blocks the road further ahead, forcing Franklin and Lamar to drive down an alley. |
Lamar: |
Eh, eh. Down this alley here. |
Lamar: |
Remember this is Yetarian's car. |
Franklin: |
Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. |
Franklin jumps over a canal bridge. |
Lamar: |
We hangin' a left. |
Franklin: |
Yeah, that's cool. |
Lamar: |
Whoo! You wanna get whips like this, you gotta stay on yo' gridnind. |
Franklin: |
N***a, and do some time over nickels and dimes? I'll stick to repos, dog. |
Franklin: |
Whatever, homie. |
Franklin: |
Whatever you say. |
Lamar: |
Left here. We going through the parking lot. |
Lamar: |
You ain't even testin' me. |
Franklin: |
Screw you too, homie. |
Lamar: |
Keep bustin', loc! |
Lamar: |
We buzzing the Union Depository, motherfucker! * I'ma make a withdrawal, homle. |
Franklin: |
That super bank? Motherfucker, you an idiot. * You dumb motherfucker. That's the Union Depository. |
They speed through the Union Depository, and emerge at the car park on the other side. |
Lamar: |
Finally, bitch! When you goin' learn how to move something? |
Franklin: |
I'll show you how to move something, n***a! |
Franklin: |
What you go and slow up the road for, dog? Move over so the traffic can flow through. |
Lamar: |
Whatever, n***a. I'll let something flow through your ass. |
Franklin: |
Dog, I ain't too sure that joke works, dog. |
If Franklin wins but the car is damaged |
Lamar: |
That bucket don't look like the whip we picked up. |
Franklin: |
Existing damages, motherfucker. |
Lamar: |
Yeah, whatever, homie. |
Sirens ring in the distance |
Lamar: |
Oh shit, the one time! |
Franklin: |
Be cool, fool, we got the paperwork. |
Lamar: |
Whatever, you explain that shit. I'll see you at the dealership! |
Franklin: |
Explain that shit my ass! |
Police Dispatcher: |
Attention Downtown units: we have a 5-10 in progress. Suspects fleeing the Union Depository parking lot in sports cars. Vehicles reported stolen. |
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