Michael tossed the bourbon into a trash can and climbed in. As Franklin peeled away, tires smoking, Michael checked his backseat. Trevor Phillips was already there, barefoot, reeking of ozone and cheap whiskey, holding a rocket launcher like a security blanket.
Trevor’s eyes were wide, wet, and wild. "Supposed? Mikey, there is no supposed. There's only doing and dying . And I ain't dying until I watch that weasel Steve Haines cry on live television." Grand Theft Auto V
It tumbled end over end, glinting in the dusk light, before smashing onto the rocks of the hillside below—a cloud of silver shards and magnetic tape, scattering like ghosts into the dry Los Santos wind. Michael tossed the bourbon into a trash can and climbed in
He tapped out a reply: "Who's driving?"
The next ten minutes were a ballet of chaos—bullet casings dancing on asphalt, the percussive thump of a grenade launcher, Trevor cackling as he jumped from the moving car onto the hood of a pursuing cruiser, punching through the windshield to grab the driver. Trevor’s eyes were wide, wet, and wild
"Vinewood," he said quietly. "Solomon's premiere is tonight. Let's give him his movie back."
Michael sighed, the weight of a dozen past lives pressing on his shoulders. He wasn't the bank-robbing ghost he used to be. He was a movie producer now—well, a producer with a very particular set of skills involving high explosives and patience.
