The “Bulk Beer” bar was located next to the industrial area of South Los Santos.
The storefront was so dilapidated even bums didn’t want to go in.
But the beer was indeed cheap—two bucks a mug.
It tasted like dishwater, but it could get you drunk.
When Richard pushed the door open, he saw that person at the corner of the bar immediately.
Franklin Clinton.
A dark hoodie, a clean-cut short haircut, and an expression somewhere between “don’t mess with me” and “I can’t be bothered with you.” He was slowly drinking water from a glass, his eyes on the baseball game playing on the broken TV on the wall.
Lamar walked over swaggeringly and slapped the bar counter.
“Hey, homie!
Let me introduce you to an interesting guy.”
Franklin turned his head, his gaze moving from Lamar to Richard, lingering for two seconds.
“Richard?”
“Richard.” Richard nodded.
“How’d you end up with Lamar?”
“He’s short-handed, and I’m short on cash.”
The corner of Franklin’s mouth twitched, unclear if it was a smile.
He tilted his chin toward the bartender.
“Get him one too.”
Richard sat down and took a sip of the dishwater beer, barely holding back a gag.
Lamar had already started bragging to the drunk nearby about the chase earlier—the version had now become “we were hitting two hundred on the highway with three cop cars chasing us, and Richard drifted under a big rig.”
Franklin ignored Lamar and looked at Richard.
“You can drive?”
“A bit.”
“Lamar said you got out of gang territory without getting caught.”
“Just good luck.”
Franklin was silent for a moment, then said, “Whoa…
well, good luck is a skill in itself.”
Richard found that Franklin was exactly like in the game—a man of few words, but every sentence hit the mark.
He wasn’t the type to get friendly immediately; you had to prove you weren’t an idiot before he’d say more than a few words to you.
Richard decided to take the initiative.
He put down his glass and said as if casually, “Are you still helping Simeon repossess cars lately?”
Franklin’s expression changed.
“How do you know that?”
“Who on this street doesn’t know?” Richard spread his hands.
“Simeon’s dealership sells cars on the surface, but in reality, they’re all repossessed or stolen.
You help him get the cars, and he gives you a cut.
But Simeon is stingy and mean.
Last time he had you go after that obey, the other guy was armed.”
Lamar chimed in, “Yeah, yeah, yeah!
F almost got shot that time!”
Franklin stared at Richard for five seconds, seemingly judging whether he was well-informed on the streets or had some other background.
Finally, he looked away and said, “You’re right, Simeon’s no good.
But I don’t have anywhere else to make money right now.”
Richard felt a secret joy—wasn’t this Franklin’s early mindset in the game?
Wanting to make money, wanting to leave South Los Santos, but not knowing where to go.
“I have an idea,” Richard lowered his voice.
“There’s an ‘amateur racing scene’ over in Vinewood lately.
Win a lap and you can get two thousand.
Your driving skills are definitely enough; I’ll be your navigator.”
Lamar’s eyes lit up.
“Racing?
I like that!”
“Not you, Franklin.” Richard ruthlessly pushed Lamar’s face away.
“Your job is to get us a drivable used car.
It doesn’t need to look good, just as long as the engine is solid.”
Franklin hesitated.
“You know people in the racing scene?”
“I know the rules.” Richard smiled.
He had run no fewer than five hundred street races in the game; he knew every shortcut, police patrol point, and opponent’s cheating method like the back of his hand.
Franklin looked into Richard’s eyes and finally nodded.
“Fine.
Tomorrow afternoon, I’ll find you.”
Lamar raised his hand.
“I’m in charge of getting the car!
I know where there’s good stuff in the scrap yards.”
“Are you sure it’s ‘getting’ and not’stealing’?” Richard asked.
Lamar looked hurt.
“Am I that kind of person?”
Franklin and Richard said in unison, “You are.”
The three of them were stunned for a moment, then Lamar was the first to laugh.
“Damn, you two are really in sync.
No way, I gotta buy you guys supper.
Let’s go, I know a taco stand at the corner that’s open until three in the morning.”
The nights in Los Santos were noisy, with sirens wailing in the distance and helicopters circling in the sky.
But the lights of that taco stand were a warm yellow, steam rising from the griddle, and the owner was shouting in Spanish, “Carnitas!
Pastor!”
The three of them sat on plastic stools, munching on tacos and drinking sodas bought from a convenience store.
Lamar was telling a story about the time he got chased out of a strip club by a three-hundred-pound woman.
Franklin actually laughed, and Richard laughed so hard he almost choked on an onion.
He pulled out his phone.
On the system mini-map, a faint green light lit up next to Franklin’s name—Favorability: 28.
It wasn’t as high as Lamar’s, but it was a start.
“By the way,” Richard wiped his mouth, “that aunt of yours, the one you live with…
how’s she doing lately?”
Franklin’s chopsticks stopped.
“You even know about my aunt?”
“Like I said, news travels fast on this street.” Richard lied without blinking.
“I heard she’s not in the best health and needs someone to look after her.
It must be tiring carrying that on your own.”
Franklin’s mouth twitched.
He lowered his head, his voice muffled.
“It’s fine.
I’m used to it.”
Lamar unusually didn’t chime in, but instead patted Franklin’s shoulder and said to Richard, “F’s mom passed away early, so his aunt was the one who raised him.
You’re right, sometimes he really does need more help.”
Richard didn’t say anything more.
He knew Franklin was the type who wasn’t used to accepting sympathy; knowing when to stop was enough.
After finishing the last bottle of soda, the three of them split up at the intersection.
Lamar staggered toward the east, Franklin went north, and Richard walked back to Blue Hill Apartments alone.
The night view of Los Santos was actually quite beautiful, with the lights of the skyscrapers forming a continuous glow and the highways winding into the Desert like glowing snakes.
Richard stood on the overpass for a long time, suddenly feeling that his transmigration might not be entirely a bad thing.
The phone vibrated.
A system prompt:
[Mission Triggered: [Street Starting Point].
Complete a street race with Franklin and Lamar.
Reward: Driving Skill +, Mini-map Marker Upgrade.]
Richard closed the prompt and muttered to himself, “Racing tomorrow…
gotta find a way to win.
There are two shortcuts on that track in the game; there should be some in reality too.”
He walked into the apartment and collapsed on the sofa, falling asleep in less than ten seconds.
His dreams were filled with the roar of engines.