Suggested Audio Candy:
[1] The Cult “She Sells Sanctuary”
[2] Wang Chung “Dance Hall Days”
[3] Herbie Hancock “Rockit”
[4] Frankie Goes to Hollywood “Two Tribes”
vice
nouns: immoral or wicked behaviour.
criminal activities involving prostitution, pornography, or drugs.
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Tommy Vercetti and I will be your host for the forseeable. I shall fill you in on my background in due course but, first things first, please allow me to extend you all a welcome to the most happening place you are ever likely to step foot in, Vice City. I’ve been here for a while now and can safely say that there is no Havana on Earth quite like it. Should you have a particular perversion, then consider it catered for, as this wonderful place is simply overspilling with opportunities to fill your brogues. I’ve been around and these eyes have witnessed some rare sights, let me tell you. However, never have I felt so enlightened as I have since witnessing what this sprawling metropolis has to offer. Should sex with transgender hookers be your bag, then count yourself in luck as they populate every last street corner. Fancy engaging in a spot of grand theft auto? Then fret not as folk here aren’t particularly hot on locking their driver’s side doors. Looking to make a name for yourself as an up-and-coming criminal mastermind? Then take your pick from dozens of crime syndicates all looking to recruit fresh blood. The word vice is key here as it’s positively teeming with it.
So a little about me then. I’m what you would refer to as one of life’s wrong ‘uns and make no qualms about it either. Once a dedicated member of the infamous Forelli clan, I have spent the past fifteen years in State Penitentiary for the murder of eleven men and recently made parole. Granted, I’m a bad man, but I also did my time and deserve the same sort of chance as anybody else to make a new life for myself. However, rehabilitation isn’t necessarily compulsory during years of incarceration and, while I towed the line, taking a dead-end job as a short order chef just isn’t an appealing option. You see, the world was mine before judgement was passed, and I see no reason for that to have changed in my absence. The year is now 1986 and past trends are no longer applicable so the first thing that had to go was my tight afro and bell bottoms. But I have to say, the whole new romantic scene is appealing and I’m loving all the tight-fitting spandex. First things first, I had fifteen years of pent-up semen to release and, courtesy of street-walker Brandi, I now have an illegitimate child to my name. One day, should he play his cards right, I may pay Tommy Jr. a visit and my whole empire could be his for the inheritance. In the meantime however, paying alimony is the least of my concerns and I’ll leave all the diaper changing, sleepless nights, and genital warts to his mom.
Prioritizing is key to making it in the outside world and, thankfully, I still had a few contacts to call upon so wasted no time in dropping my former boss Sonny Forelli a line for a hook-up. Liberty City was no longer safe for me as tensions were rising so he suggested that I take a well-needed vacation and start from scratch. After promoting me to capo, he sent me packing to Vice City and told me to hook up with his shady lawyer Ken Rosenberg. High-end cocaine would be my angle and, by making a name for myself by facilitating deals down South under Ken’s guardianship, Sonny could claim the monopoly and establish the Forellis as the most dominant crime syndicate in the whole of America. There ain’t many wise guys I trust and am under no illusion that Sonny would have me hit for one simple miscalculation but sometimes you have to ride on coat tails a little while finding your feet and, once I have become the most feared kingpin the world has ever seen, then I’ll cut my ties accordingly. For now, keeping my head down is paramount, as Rome wasn’t built in a day. That said, when not striking deals and turning white powder into green bills, there’s plenty here to keep me occupied.
Low profiles are overrated in my opinion as the local law enforcement need to know who they’re dealing with and Tommy Vercetti was about to become the name on every crooked officer’s lips. Thus, I mugged a few old grannies, bashed some pedestrian skulls in with a baseball bat I happened across in a back alley behind my safe house, and acquired myself a shiny new Corolla by means more foul than fair. The driver deserved to be dragged kicking and screaming from his automobile for his lousy music taste alone and the first thing I did as I drove over his face and reversed back to infuse it further with asphalt was to embark on some impromptu channel hopping and tune into Flash FM to familiarize myself with modern culture. There is much to be said for ploughing down ramblers at high speeds, then watching them pirouette over your vehicle to the sounds of synthesized pop. Of course, it wasn’t long before the Vice City Vice caught whiff of my road games and sent out a few units to stop me in my tracks. That is where Pay ‘n’ Spray comes in handy. For the handful of pocket change I acquire from some old lady’s clutch bag, my burgundy ride suddenly becomes metallic blue and those flat-footed chumps are left grasping their batons.
Meanwhile, numerous Ammu-Nation outlets are on hand to cater for all of my gun-toting needs and my itchy trigger finger was presented with a smorgasbord of options. From Colt .45 pistols, to pump-action shotguns, Uzi 9mm submachine guns, and heavier artillery like M-60 and even rocket launchers, my every whim is catered for here and, should cashflow be tight, then I’ll just rob them blind as they don’t appear to offer any kind of store credit. If guns don’t kill people, then molotov cocktails sure do and, if I’m feeling particularly playful, then chainsaws and katana blades are just as effective at obliterating all-comers. Some may consider me reprehensible but it isn’t all carnage and there are numerous other ways for me to get my kicks here that don’t involve the murder of innocents. Granted, they’re not quite as gratifying but there’s much to be said for popping across to the nearest strip club to get blown by some struggling single parent trying to make ends meet. I have to keep my wits about me at all times as, last I heard, Brandi was doing precisely that and I don’t have the time to listen to her harp on about Tommy Jr.’s first steps or peruse his school term report. I just want to blow my wad into some bony skank’s tonsil cage.
Of course, being an up-and-coming gangster, my personal wardrobe needed a rethink. While I happen to be rather fond of my Hawaiian shirt, one must exude chic if expecting to be taken seriously, and a pinstriped suit lets folk know that I’m not one to be dismissed out of hand. However, sometimes I just want to kick back and pay Leaf Links Country Club a visit for a few holes of golf and all this blood money afforded me a delightful pair of red plaid pants for suchlike occasions. To be honest, my attention span is fairly woeful, and the idea of knocking my caddy from his cart and going on an unplanned death ride through the sandy dunes wins every time. Indeed, there seems no reason to stop there, as I head off down Ocean Beach boulevard at 10 mph yelling “fore!” as any stragglers bounce off my bumper, laughing maniacally the whole time. Then, once 5-0 are made aware of my skullduggery, it’s off to Pay ‘N’ Spray once again for a quick respray before the air units are dispatched. I’m telling you, living in Vice City is a cushy number and getting away with murder is an absolute cinch.
One of my favorite pastimes involves paying a visit to Escobar International Airport to watch the planes come in. Sounds dull right? Indeed it is but each new influx of clueless tourists provides endless guilty pleasure as, before they can breathe in the sweet Vice City air, I’m relieving them of their valuables and sending them packing on the next outbound flight, more often than not, zipped up in a body bag. Call it preserving the beauty of my homeland as the population explosion is a very real threat and I don’t want to see the place turn to shit. In a way, what I’m providing here is a public service as it’s far less crowded than on my arrival. They should give me the keys to the city but I have every intention of snagging them anyhoots once my kingdom expands sufficiently. Already, I have traded in my poky roach-ridden one-bedroom apartment for a palatial eight-bedroom mansion with two pools and its very own in-house cinema. Now that is what you call industrious. I watch Scarface at least three times daily just to remind myself how the simple man lives. Tony Montana can suck my bag balls as his little friend is nothing on my anti-aircraft missile launcher and all that cost me was chump change.
A question I’m often asked is “does it get lonely in that spacious stately home all by yourself?” and the answer is a resounding “nope”. When you’ve got the kind of money I have, everything becomes possible. Should I be feeling lustful then I simply hit speed dial and, three minutes later, I’m up to my urethra in Puerto Rican honeys. Feeling like a dash of one-way conversation? Then I kidnap a passing yuppie, gag and tie them, and get any worries off my chest, before maxing out their American Express on fine Italian cuisine and dumping their bodies at the nearby landfill. As for true love, well I consider it overrated if I’m honest. Any broad alive would be putty in my hands but I have no intention of providing them an easy ride just to hear “I love you” as they rifle through my wallet for money to get their bi-weekly Botox. The single life suits me just fine thanks and I’ll leave the pillow talk for some insecure douche bag with unresolved detachment trauma. I have none of that harmful baggage on board, indeed, I severed my own umbilical at birth and, after breast-feeding was no longer deemed morally acceptable, fled the nest before my mother could say “my areolae are sore”.
I know what you’re thinking right now. I’m a jumped-up lowlife piece of shit with no intention of giving back to my community. Actually, that couldn’t be farther from accurate as I plan to make Vice City a better place for all. Under my jurisdiction, prostitutes will no longer have to worry about undercover cops catching them with their cheeks full, legalized crime will stick it to “The Man” and make America great again, I’ll oversee local schools in exchange for a measly 90% of their annual turnover, and all the while my golf handicap will continue to flourish. Sure, you could argue that these goals are somewhat unrealistic but, when your name is Tommy Vercetti, anything is possible. Money equates to power in the world we live in today and, with a little hard work and perseverance, the sky need no longer be the limit. My next plan is to terraform the moon and rename it Vercetti’s Star and it would be either a brave or stupid man who tells me I can’t achieve that.
Anyhoots, time is money and I’ve got better things to do with my time than entertain you lot when there are dozens of jaywalking pedestrians simply screaming out to meet my fender. I trust this postcard arrives in quick time as I have no problem with shooting the messenger if it doesn’t. As you can see, my time in Vice City has been wildly productive, and I’m still just getting started. I urge you to pay us a visit and can assure you that your stay will be nothing less than eventful. It may be an idea to book a one-way ticket as, chances are, you’ll never want to (or be permitted to) leave once it dazzles you. I’ll even pick you up from the airport, just to alleviate any transfer worries. Look out for my caddy cart when you come through customs. It’s shocking pink, no green, no paisley. Tell you what, just look for the blood spatters on the soft top and the trail of bodies in its wake. First stop will be the Malibu Bar for cocktails, compliments of Tommy Vercetti. The only thing I ask in return is that, if you run into Brandi on your travels, you tell her you haven’t seen me. Deal? Now who’s up for seeing some holiday photos? This thing has an awesome zoom on it, let me tell you.
Click here to read Escape From The Eighties
