章 33: Chapter 33: Funeral Fiasco

You need to shake off these thoughts, clear your head. The paranoia and suspicion are driving you mad. You decide to call Avery Carrington, hoping for a distraction, something to take your mind off this tangled web. You grab the phone and dial his number, the familiar click and buzz soothing in a strange way.

"Avery, it's Tommy," you say, trying to keep the edge out of your voice. "Got anything for me? I need to keep busy."

Avery's smooth, Southern drawl fills the line, dripping with that cowboy charm. "Tommy, my boy! Just the man I wanted to hear from. Got myself a mighty fine job for ya, one that'll definitely keep ya occupied."

You can almost see his smug smile through the phone. "What is it?" you ask, leaning forward, the need for action overpowering your previous worries.

"Well, partner, meet me at my place. Got a little meetin' lined up in my limo. We'll talk more there," Avery replies. You hang up, feeling a sense of purpose start to settle in.

You arrive at Avery's place, the sleek limousine parked outside. Avery opens the door, greeting you with his usual charisma. Inside, you notice another man sitting awkwardly, his eyes darting around nervously. Avery introduces him as Donald Love, his protégé.

"Donald here is tryin' to learn the ropes," Avery says, his tone condescending. "But he's got a long way to go to be as good as you, Tommy."

Donald shifts uncomfortably under Avery's harsh gaze and starts to extend his hand towards you. "Hi, Tommy. It's a pleasure to meet—"

"Shut it, Four-Eyes," Avery snaps, cutting him off. "Ain't nobody got time for your pleasantries. You just sit there and try not to embarrass yourself."

You can't help but feel a bit of pity for the guy. Avery continues, getting down to business. "Tommy, there's been a heap of talk. A Haitian Gang Lord recently kicked the bucket, and folks are sayin' the Cubans are behind it. I want you to fan those flames a bit. Attend the funeral, make sure the new Haitian boss doesn't make it through the day. Make it look like the Cubans did it."

Donald's eyes widen as he listens to Avery. "Avery, are you sure this is the best way to—"

"I said shut the fuck up, Donald!" Avery barks. "Leave the thinkin' to the professionals. Tommy here knows what he's doin'."

You sit back, considering the plan. It's risky, but the promise of a fat payday is tempting. Plus, anything to keep your mind off the recent betrayals. "Alright, Avery. I'm in. What's the first step?"

"Head to Little Havana. You'll need to blend in, so grab yourself a Cuban Hombre outfit from the clothes store there. After that, head to the funeral parlor near Little Haiti Pizzeria."

You nod, even though he can't see you. "Got it. I'll get it done."

You hang up, the gears already turning in your mind. You need to keep moving, keep your mind busy. First stop, Little Havana.

The clothes store in Little Havana is a gritty, run-down place that has seen better days. The exterior is marked by a weathered sign advertising "Streetwear" in bold, red letters. The building itself looks worn and aged, with grime coating the walls and windows barred up. It's not the kind of place you'd expect to find high fashion, but it serves its purpose for the local gangs.

Inside, the shop is dimly lit, with racks of clothing hanging haphazardly. Leather jackets line the walls, giving the place a tough, rebellious vibe. In one corner, there's a vending machine, adding to the cluttered, chaotic feel of the store.

You stride in and grab a Cuban Hombre outfit. The main feature is a white sleeveless t-shirt with a bold, red Japanese sun symbol on the front, paired with blue jeans. A red bandana is tied around the forehead, completing the look and giving it an unmistakably gang-affiliated appearance. This outfit is practical and functional, designed for blending in with the Cuban gang while maintaining a tough, no-nonsense image.

You think to yourself, "This getup is perfect. The simplicity of the outfit belies its effectiveness; it's not about fashion, but about sending a message: you're not to be messed with."

The outfit, with its stark colors and bold design, ensures you won't be overlooked. It's perfect for the job at hand – allowing you to blend in with the Cuban gang while still being able to move freely and handle business. The red bandana and the graphic on the shirt make it instantly recognizable, a symbol of allegiance and a warning to others.

Next, you need a car. You spot a classic Cuban Hermes parked nearby, a good outfit needs a suitable car to go with it. It is a striking vintage car with a bold design. The front half is vibrant yellow with orange flames, giving it an aggressive look. The rear half contrasts with a sleek pale blue finish. It features chrome accents on the grille, bumpers, and side mirrors, and classic whitewall tires. With practiced ease, you hotwire it. The engine roars to life, and you peel out, heading towards the funeral parlor near Little Haiti Pizzeria. The streets blur as you drive, your mind focused on the task at hand.

As you arrive at the funeral, the air is thick with sorrow and tension. Mourners clad in black shuffle around, their faces etched with grief. The funeral parlor is an old, decrepit building, its once white paint now a dull, peeling gray. You park a safe distance away, pop the trunk, and pull out your sniper rifle. The cold metal feels reassuring in your hands.

You find a good vantage point on a nearby rooftop, crouching low and taking aim. From this height, you have a clear view of the mourners gathered around a coffin draped in the Haitian flag. The new Haitian Gang Lord stands at the front, delivering a speech. He's a tall, imposing figure with a scar running down his left cheek, dressed in a sharp black suit that contrasts starkly with the mourning crowd.

You steady your breathing, your finger tightening on the trigger. The shot rings out, echoing through the streets. BANG!!!.