Diary of a Mildly-Sophisticated Gangsta (Saints Row The Third).

diary-saints-logo[NonTechnicalities: Thanks to avlee for screenshots. Technicalities: The diary was written after the in-game story, as this allows for more options. Even with that, I quickly found out why making diaries out of GTA-clones is rather difficult and often pointless. Without the story, all that is left is just a big city in which you can explode stuff and smite everything that lives. That doesn’t make for compelling diaries. And wacky violence doesn’t last forever. So, basically, I needed to create fun myself and become a mildly-sophisticated Gangsta. This is the post-hangover quest to the tattoo parlor in order to find out what day it is today.]

I really don’t know what day it is today, 7:00 AM.

I woke up with the hangover of the century – my head was pounding with the power of a thousand gigantic bells. If it wasn’t for the pain in my forearm, I would be only mildly disconcerted. But seeing another tattoo on my body, send my blood pressure levels into the stratosphere. Thankfully, not everything was bad, my sneakers were still on my foot, my belly was naked but unharmed, and my badass shades were firmly placed on the nose. A quick inspection of my body proved  that there is only one new tattoo there. So, that’s good, and it even looks quite cool. Maybe I will not beat the living lights out of they guy who did this. Or again, maybe I will too.

I scanned the surroundings for aspirin, but instead found that there seem to be a lot of chattering people in my living room. Like a stealthy catlike creature, I moved towards them to ask some questions that needed asking. And was completely ignored, stumped, as if they weren’t in the same space with the gorgeous gang leader slash celebrity. They were all so busy talking with each other that giving me a moment of their time was definitely out of question. Now, I know violence is never the answer, but remember that I’m only mildly sophisticated.

I think less said about the circumstances, the better.

And a little bit confused, but I think the less said about what happened there, the better.

It kind of feels like a Saturday, 7:35 AM.

After the disaster of beating a large number of people in the Halloween-themed clothes shop that turned out to not be my home, I wanted to get some fresh air, and take one of my cars for a spin.  So I went to my place, but there, I pressed a wrong button in a wrong elevator and ended up on the roof. Oh, how I hate these big houses – now getting back to my garage would take me ages. Instead, I decided to jump off the ledge (with my trusty parachute on the back). It wasn’t really an adrenaline boost that I expected. To the contrary! It was a significantly boring experience. Thus, to spice things up, I ran to the nearest street – found a car with a person inside, conquered the car, and then drove around my house for a bit with the usual results. Not content with the amount of crime I committed, I turned to the most evil thing one could think of in such a moment of solitary sadness:

Jaywalking like crazy and not answering phone calls. No one can stop me now.

Jaywalking like crazy and not answering phone calls. No one can stop me now!

Definitely not a Monday, 8:25 AM.

By this time, I had already taken a bath and performed criminal activities on the streets. Therefore, it felt like the right moment to put the shirt on. As usual, I found my selection of clothing severely lacking and decided to go against the flow and wear something outrageous and vaguely hipster-ish for my anti-tattoo-parlors rampage. Superhero Panda costume seemed optimal. One elevator ride to the garage later, and I was sitting in my brand new sparky super convertible. Proudly, I took it out into the sunny streets of Steelport, aaand it started to rain. Seriously, I’m not even joking. This is the equivalent of slipping on a banana peel. Just like that, the world made me look like a fool. Thus, I reacted in the only way familiar to me – I started screaming and shooting rockets into the sky. Because I’m angry. And pretentious.

I’m thinking  Sunday now, 10:02 AM

A friend called to loudly inform me of his intent to join the adventure. I wasn’t too keen on that, but within two minutes he was almost by me. Fortunately, he stopped around two thousand feet away (a nearby garden wall seemed to have intercepted him), allowing me to call an air-strike unto his general area. I don’t really know why I did that, it just felt right and appropriate. And, yes, the situation quickly escalated and the next hour was a Looney Tunes cartoon with guns, grenades and fast cars. Our struggles couldn’t really end peacefully yet we had to finish our little conflict here and now. So he proposed sports. But running is boring and racing meh. We contemplated jumping off the skyscraper simultaneously, which is a brilliant idea, but even in ridiculous unrealistic worlds as this one, consequences of falling half a mile into the ground aren’t really all that compelling. Then, police showed up, a shootout ensued. There was a lot of yelling too. And in the whole thing, a connection was established. The cops turned out to share my hobby – planes! We talked and talked, and talked, and did imaginary flying and performed planes to each other. It was fun:



I like planes, helicopters and all the magic flying things that traverse the skies. That’s why I have bought myself an airport – I can watch the glorious machines up-close all day, ride in my cars around them. All that stuff. I really am a fortunate Gangsta. Still, I can’t really fly them. I mean, I somehow learned to start them up. I’m just not really good at taking off, or landing, or not crashing. I strongly believe the problem is in the quality of the vehicles themselves. The staff at the airport usually frown upon that and explain that maybe I should get a pilot license. Silly people. I don’t have a driver’s license either, and I haven’t seen anyone complaining.

The evening, 8 PM.

The misadventures, team-ups and destruction couldn’t last forever, and I finally found time to arrive at the tattoo parlor. It looked like every other tattoo parlor I’ve ever seen – it had the same furniture, the same tattoos and the same guy was standing there behind the counter. In other words, it was virtually impossible to truly locate the place where I made my latest tattoo. My rampage was in a serious danger of being canceled! So, I punched the guy in the face. Without a second thought, I added, “You know why!” He stood up, and cast his eyes down in shame.  Perfect communication. And, I felt, a perfect resolution to the problem.

After this, I just went through the main door, head held high, and ‘Eye of the Tiger’ playing in my mind. (Later, it turned out, it was just a drunk dude driving a street sweeper, and listening to his radio too loudly.) In that moment, it dawned upon me, I forgot to ask about the day. And then another realization occurred to me – I don’t care anyway. Never did. About anything, really. It’s all about the journey sometimes, not the destination. Yes, I’m more sophisticated than I give myself credit for.

Saints Row The Third - Exploding the Tattoo Parlor

About tobecooper

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