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[sarcasmisalligot]

Like many lamented promises from a whiskey warped mouth, he swore off thieving in his last spat with Amanda to pacify her irritation and his own. But... what was that they said on Die Already 3 during the big court scene? An intoxicated witness discredited any accountability, yeah. That, and since Michael had kept his hands clean for a few days while his darling wife had been busy pilfering overpriced handbags for free, he argued entitlement to some time away from his family. What better way to spend it than finding funds for his next big flick budget whilst vacationing in Los Santos' inbred cousin: Steelport. There wasn't a search engine photograph out there could do justice to the looming edifice of the passing building, looking like giant dollar signs to Michael as its enormity was hard-pressed to stay the main focus of their view as they zoomed past. "If I wanted all that celebrity glamour I would have stayed in Vinewood, pal. But you are damn right about the scores." 

It was a personal practice of self betterment of his not to be so easily impressed by big homes and a million dollar line up cars, but he could afford an approving whistle on their stroll to the penthouse elevator. "Before we finalize any details on this, I'm gonna need to take a temperature of the place. I'd ask ya to tag along, but I'm pretty sure more than half the people in this state know your face already. So here's what I'm thinking----"

   Presenting the tactful scheme board conveniently set up around the kitchen area: a number of tacked on maps and personally scrawled lists as the seasoned robber laid it all out.

   "----It's integral we do the escape as subterranean as possible, I'm told the air response here is quick and we're gonna test that later. Now the get away'll ultimately be about the same. Infiltration is what's still up in the air. You know your crew best, so I'll let you decide.

   Oddly enough, it's not the cops we gotta worry about so much as the tellers and the guards on the inside. Crowd control is essential to snatchin' the most of a take, so... We can keep 'em off our backs by diverting their attention-- I was thinking we launder some funds to some, uh, unaffiliated kids in Steelport, have some guys talk up the score and hype them up. They get booked in the attempt while we, disguised as the first response guards, assure everything's just peachy inside the vault. We'll need the code or a hacker.

Another option is we could go in guns blazing. One guy still gets to work on the inside, either a guard disguise or cash pusher whose identity we snatched. He could be one of ours or someone we blackmail for all I care, what matters is he'll be there when we hit. We come in from all sides. Storm the front and either entrance and as we neutralize the problems - boom. - our inside guy blows the vault and he'll clear any threats for us once back there, where we'll rendezvous.

Now from there we blow a path to the underground-- A second layer to Steelport, intel tells me you guys get a bunch of seismic activity, so the bank's got this pit and a bunch of passages under it that'll work perfect for us and our escape. We'll need climbing gear to get down safely with all that dough; oh and one guy on get away.

   Now how do you wanna do this?"

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"Yeah, like that lemon jizz bullshit 'Sprunk' is any better? Jesus, I forgot how pretentious Vinewood people can be.” What’s a friendship between felons without a whole lot of snarky lip?

Why he still bothers to check behind him when he’s backing up he’ll never know. Alas, with his left elbow tethered to the passenger seat’s edge, he watches the extent of proprietary damage through the distorting cracks of a busted rear windshield (and just as easily neglects the flutter of headline rainfall that comes after flattening two, innocent newsstands). “Don’t worry, man. I’ll microwave you a nice bean and rice burrito in the when we get to the penthouse. The burger scene around here isn’t really what you’d call existent.” Informant. Right. For a second he considered asking if that ‘informant’ was his wife also. That is before remembering some rumors that spread faster than Mrs. De Santa. 3rd Street homie rule #4: don’t fuck with a man’s main bitch. Though she did sound very “informed”, at least according to the inept production team clogging the set of Gangstas in Space. And that’s exactly where - amidst the glut of purple, the ostentatious display of fortune and the insipid gossip - he and Michael happened to meet. Outrageous as Steelport may be, there’s something about Los Santos that stupefies the movie companies, if only for those million dollar scenes that needed the bigger sets. But back to their repartee. "So the city’s a little gaudy but you get used to it! Abundance of drugs, sex and murder. What’s not to love? Y’know what’s gonna make all that even better?" He nods towards the unmarked skyscraper looming on the right side of the highway. "The banks."

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The pragmatic situation swept him up in the moment, shortening his fuse pertaining to handling wary coworkers. Michael started his rebuttal with the proverbial rod. "We need that Stingray device if we want to take out the security's communication tomorrow, F. I know the get-ups are a little fucking outdated but, hey. A job is a job, so stop your complaining."

Being facetious he shrugs and his brows lift, fifty years shy permanently deepening the reassuring lines creased there.

   ”Just go with it. It’ll work. These techy guys don’t know their head from their ass, believe me. Just act. Natural. Follow my lead.”

"Have a little trust in me."

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"I dunno, dog. This plan seems kinda… Crazy." 

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Endless list of favourite characters: Michael De Santa (GTA V)

"I pay you to listen to my problems. I’m rich. I’m miserable. Half the time, my kids can’t stand me. The other half, my wife is cheating on me. I kill people without remorse, Doc. Hell, I’m pretty average for this town, really”

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   Michael laments knowing this gyrating fool isn't earning enough to be worth that get up. Enough to crinkle his nose, the only thing that could cause him further distaste after experiencing the ass-flavored contents represented by said lurid outfit would be the usage of his martial status, declaring it to the tune of sagely interjection. "Yeah, my stylist otherwise known as my loving wife would disagree, pal. But I'll keep the suggestion in mind!" Grimly put cynicism says otherwise. It comes into full swing as he assumes the passenger side, the bludgeoned namelesses and their corresponding splatters (and what is clearly the paint of some unsuspecting, municipal mandated bystander) across the bumper are under his critically watchful eyes all the way to the door. Opting to use it in more dry-humored snark, he goes on to say. "I except this is gonna be a smooth ride.

   "Fans really like that kinda stuff, huh? I'll remember that." Skeptically commits it to memory to relay to his co-film producer. To be the creative force behind another movie, a man could only dream for the next chance. "Hook me up with something to wash this damn taste out of my mouth when we get there." There's a particular graceless artistry in the way he plops into his seat. "My informant tells me you can afford it."

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"Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!” Greets a mordant tone in all its haughty earnest, risen over the sounds of a knocked out fire hydrant belching up water thanks to the Boss’ magnificent parking skills. “I dunno, I think you’d look good in a purple, suede suit!”

Who wouldn’t? Enter the suggestive pelvic motions of a life-size Saints Flow can, bestowing both criminals with advertisement at its tackiest prime. The quiet squeaks of bulge-hugging spandex fill the awkward, conversational void left by their shiny vulgarity, until a blasé hand gesture from the leader sends the mascot elsewhere. The complying sack of creaking violet sulks on to the next pair of customers where it continues its asinine dance routine. "What can I say man, the fans eat all this shit up. Welcome to Steelport. It’s…homey, right? You ready to see the crib?" He asks rather pointlessly - it’s not like he waited for any form of a yes before making his way to the car, though he acknowledges that the offer might have been more welcoming without the bloody dents on the ride’s grill. Whatever.

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"Pale?" Ignoring an earned tan from a backyard staycation to give an unsought diagnosis, Michael's contempt for medical staff opinion lessens more. His hubris has disregarded the pallid gradient seeping through his sunkissed face over the course of the last week, not to mention that itch in his throat which he so promptly clears. "I'm as healthy as an ox, bud. Now just fill out that paper so I can get out of here."

" —Hey, you okay? You’re looking kind of pale."

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   Annoyed thoroughly by the pompous primadonna of a customer, the flight reservationist was only quelled by a billfold of laundered green and (with a little less bite) booked an alternative route with all the trimmings. To Michael's anarchic joy, at the expense of another passenger's seat.

@SanJefe

Change of plans. For SOME reason, all the Stilwater airports are having delays. Someone parked a plane across the runway like an idiot. Who could have done that? Send me that address of that place in Steelport.

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   His phone is lost somewhere in an inner pocket to his Ponsonby's sport jacket, a vibratory summoning from whichever of them left ignored. Verily annoyed by the limited clothing options therein and (unsurprisingly) irritated by the surplus of hyper stylized bobbleheads, Michael's curiosity for a Planet Saints shopping experience is thoroughly diminished-- wrought further with a Saint's Flow filled strife staining his tastebuds. Knowingly, he directs his complaints straight to the figurehead behind it all, to whom has just arrived the scene of the tourist's exiting. The infamous gangbanger he's certain the wannabes back home would be crooning over. "Fuckin' A. How do you get away with selling this shit?"

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   "No, sweetie, you aren't buying a new car while I'm outta town. I don't know, I'll tell you about it la-- Okay, fine, sure; yell. That'll make me wanna call you back later." An aggravated breath hisses out at the blinking screen of the device, revealing the abrupt end of a disembodied conversation. Sometime during the pocketing of his phone and the ginger collapse onto the sidewalk bench he'd been pacing beside, he took a glance at his target. His informant's voice is incessantly relaying the pay load discreetly in his ear, keen eyes serving as reconnaissance to the Steelport bank just ahead. 

   Disguising brief glances as mere people watching, he surveyed the surrounding guard and rooftops for future reference.  

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During the rampant shouldering of guards, cursing, and tossing of billfolds that covered well over the likelihood of bail, he had not stopped to wonder the credibility of Amanda's claims -- her sticky fingers would come under examination later, despite the inevitable protests, and not within earshot of the bastards who put her away (rightfully so or otherwise). Dominant fist came up to the bars of the cell he had bullied his way to, giving it an open palmed whack before directing its index threateningly at the frazzled sentinels to worsen their anxiety. "Let her outta here before I make some calls you guys definitely won't want."

Presumably with their jobs on the line, and her dollar amount paid in full, they collectively decided that it was as harmless as it was in their favor to release her from her bonds -- only for Amanda to be recaptured by the invariably firm hand intertwined with hand via her husband, his unoccupied other flipping them the bird as they made their melodramatic exit. 

      “Michael!” Amanda gasped the second she heard his voice from down the hall. She immediately pressed herself up against the bars of the holding cell, grasping them as she did her best to peer around the corner. “Get me out of here! They’re keeping me here in this dirty cell with a…prostitute and some crazy old bat who keeps calling me ‘Cheryl’. And this guard is a total asshole! He won’t even let me have my pills out of my purse! They’re not stolen, in case you were wondering." She directed the last sentence to the guard, who folded his arms indifferently. "…And neither were those shoes! This is a total misunderstanding!"

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"It was that, or die…I don’t expect you to understand it, not yet, but you will, when you’ve got ties of your own. Look, you wake up one day and your legs, they just give, and you can’t run anymore."

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   Simultaneously speaks his resignation while he forbears urges to lash out in a, "Wow." For the time being, he had bigger fish to fry-- bigger than picking petty fights with his significant other. Namely, directing those fights at any asshole moronic enough to lock her up. "Hang tight, I'm on the way." The conversation cuts off after a digitized beep, his breastpocket settled with the weight of the device added to it.

   He drove hectically to their impromptu rendezvous, an impeccable mixture of rage and skill that resulted in a few dismissible close calls with pedestrian and fixtures alike, and arrived unannounced; bringing his temperament along with him. Within seconds of entering the building he was already interrogating an innocent man in uniform for the whereabouts of his wife, spitting a stern but unoffensive tone. He'd not leave without answers.

      Amanda shifted uneasily from the other end of the line. “The… county lockup. ——Just come here, okay?”

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(mrsxdesanta) [Phonecall.] "Michael. Please come get me. And don't ask questions, okay? Just give me a ride home."

      “No questions?” Irritated curiosity defeated the purpose of her request in two measly words. His freehand easily slid over the steering wheel to change the course of originally intended direction in spite of the trouble abiding by his wife’s rules. “Just tell me where I’m headed.”

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@AmandaDeSanta

jewelry shopping? greaaaat.