Strange Days

Just when did my life get so god damn weird, exactly?

I’ve been working for Woozie down at the Four Dragons casino on the main strip in Las Venturas. We were getting ready for a heist and seeing as how high explosives always come in handy on such occasions I went to check out a quarry on the edge of the desert. After taking care of some business there, including disposing of a dead cop and his bike before any more heat turned up, I ended up running the place. A kid from downtown Los Santos driving a dozer sure is weird, but that’s not the weirdest thing – no sir.

I got another call from Mike Toreno, up at the abandoned air strip to the north of the quarry. Not many men scare me, but Toreno is one of them. I still don’t know who he was working for – CIA, FBI or the Russian Mafia – and after a lifetime of double dealing, I don’t think he does either. The crazy mother got me learning to fly a plane so I could run some deals for him, and somehow it ended up with me blowing up a cargo plane full of goons in dark suits somewhere over the desert and bailing out with a parachute on, so high up I couldn’t even see the ground. Sheeee-it.

Then it got weirder. The Truth turned up again, talking about aliens and conspiracies and green goo. He gave me a pair of night vision goggles so I could sneak into a secret military base (Area 69, would you believe?) and steal their secret project which turned out to be a jet pack, like something out of a whacked out James Bond movie.

A homeboy like me flying round on a jet pack is powerful strange, but it’s still not the weirdest thing. It’s not even my new girlfriend – a croupier from the casino who likes me to dress up in a gimp suit and whup her ass with a two foot long plastic johnson.

Nope. The weirdest thing was standing at the side of the road and seeing Elvis riding by on a motorbike. Damn straight – the King on a Harley.

Strange days indeed …