Foiled Peasant

Frequent visitors to HomestarRunner.com may be familar with Peasant's Quest, a parody of old-school text-based games. I played around with it tonight out of boredom and found myself frequently amused by the game's many "little touches". It's easy to move around the game map, but interacting with the environment recquires text commands ("look ground", "get berry", that sort of thing), and what's needed to advance the plot isn't always obvious. Many of the locations in the game are locked at the start, and to amuse myself I would type things like "jimmy the lock", or "set fire to establishment". Here's another example.

Instead of the game telling me it didn't understand the command, though....

As far as I can tell, this is the only location in the game that responds to that command in that way.

The Party

Vice City Let's Play Contents:
In the Beginning, Parts I and II
Mood Music: Unaesta, "La Vida Es Una Lenteja".
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It’s been a nice week. Rosenberg gave me a set of keys to a car -- “The Oceanic parked outside your hotel? Ring a bell?” Apparently Forelli arranged for some wheels for Harry and I before we got here. It’s not the best-looking car I’ve seen in Vice, but god knows there are worse.



I’ve hit the beaches, done a little swimming, played volleyball, watched women, and generally taken it easy.




Some guys were racing little robot cars on the beach, and I won a little money betting on the races.



These same guys also race RC planes near the Washington Mall --  I bet there, too.



 I also found a shotgun in a lifeguard stand, which is convenient, given that I’m probably going to need firepower in the coming days.

I didn’t spend the entire weekend slacking off, though: I also got some work done. The hotel room is being paid for by Forelli, and the sooner I start footing my own bill the better -- so I “borrowed” a taxi from a cabbie and started taking fares. Not only did I earn a little spending money -- and since I’m not giving any of that to the company, it’s all mine -- but I learned my way around the city a little.




I also delivered pizzas, which was a laugh -- not.  I try to keep in touch with Rosenberg, but he doesn’t answer the phone at first. I guess he figures it’s Sonny, calling to theaten to kill him or something like that. I have no idea why someone this panicky got involved with the Mafia. Jesus, we’re not pleasant people. I drop by his place before the party to tell him I’m about to go see this colonel of his, but he balks at my clothes.

“Hey, buddy, I liked 1974, too --but this ain’t gonna be a beer and strippers ‘do!”.  So, on his advice -- and on his dime -- I stopped by a nearby clothes store called Rafaels to buy a suit.  Now I look like a schmuck, but on the bright side everyone else does as well. People have lost their minds since ‘71.




I find the Marina easily, thanks to the cabbying, and pull in as the sun sets.






I introduce myself to the Colonel. I’m pensive about meeting the guy, actually. He set up the deal, so he could have easily set up the ambush.




From the looks of this yacht, he’s certainly got the money.  Of course, Forelli wouldn’t be too happy about it, but maybe this guy’s got resources Forelli doesn’t.

 He tells me that what happened was “unfortunate” -- no, seriously? -- and then introduces me to his daughter, who shows me around while her dad chats people up. Her name’s Mercedes, and I can tell just from looking at her that she’s dangerous in a good way.




The list of names she rattles off mostly goes in one ear and out the other, but when a little Napoleon swaggers in from downstairs and the atmosphere of the entire deck changes -- everyone moving out of his way if they’re not pandering to him -- I pay attention. “Who’s the loudmouth?” I ask.




“That’s Ricardo Diaz,” she says, “Mister Coke.”  He starts hitting on her, and we beat a hasty retreat. “Take me to the Pole Position?” she asks, referring to some club in town.

“How about a tour first? Mind showing me around?” She doesn’t.
“Mind if I rest my hand in your lap?” I don’t.  We don’t take my Oceanic -- she produces keys to a blue Cheetah parked nearby. “It’s Gonazales’,” she says. “Let’s borrow it.”

Apparently his work hasn’t been satisfactory to her dad, so the Colonel arranged for her to take a joyride in the guy’s car if she wanted. “Don’t be afraid to ding it up a little bit,” she says, giggling. Jesus, remind me not to get on this Cortez’ bad side.




She shows me the town’s party sites, chiefly the club Malibu. We cross the Prawn Island bridges to go downtown, “accidentally” scraping alongside cement barriers as much as we can.  The car is smoking by the time we return to the North Point Mall, leaving it in an area frequented by hoodlums who wouldn’t hesitate to take it for parts.

We walk a few blocks to a friend of hers and she borrows his bike for the drive back across town. I soon learned that Mercedes was not only dangerous, but wild. She goaded me into stunting with the bike, which is a bad idea given I haven’t ridden since before prison.




I made five or six jumps along the way, listening to her scream  every time. We’d been out the entire night, and the sun was coming up by the time I took her to the club. I don’t think she minded.

Nice night.

In the Beginning, part II

This is part of my "Let's Play" of GTA Vice City. Part I is here.  When appropriate, I will link to a song from the game's soundtrack. Since "Broken Wings" plays during the game's introduction, I again recommend it.

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So I found out the deal was legitimately ambushed. Sonny was pissed, too pissed to fake . He’s a lousy actor. Not much of a businessman either. He doesn’t do too much well, that Sonny, not that I’d ever tell him that much. Hell, mouthing off to  his father is probably what got me fifteen years in the pen.

I had to make the call without thinking about it.  Sonny…Sonny went off like Mount Vesuvius, slamming things around. I figure he’s in the Bistro like always, playing the part of the respectable business owner, tearing the place apart. 

Look, Sonny, I say, I’m gonna hunt down the bastards that did this. I say it with an edge in my voice, like the time I told his old man that I’d show the Leones why they shouldn’t try to edge him out in the cab business. That was the night before their garage burnt down under the most mysterious of circumstances. Sonny knows that edge. It mollifies him.

“Because you’re you, Tommy, because we got history, I’ma gonna let you handle this. For now.” He hangs up. I sit there, fuming. I don’t have much else to do, so I get a drink from downstairs and fall asleep watching the local news.  I woke up early, and after a few hours paid a visit to Rosenberg. I had to jog there because someone stole his car. That’s two things gone wrong in his life this week. 

Rosenberg is not in the best of mental states. He’s back to being a beserk rat. “Go get some sleep?! I have been sitting in THIS chair ALL night, with the lights off, drinking COFFEE.”

I shrug. “Shut up. Sit down. Listen to me.”  You know what I did this morning? 

I went to the beach and watched the sun rise. First time I’ve really seen the sun in fifteen years. Fantastic. I sat there for hours, mesmerized. 

“Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to find out who hit our deal. Then, I’m going to kill them.”  He blinks.

“That’s a good idea. That’s a great idea.”

I prod him for leads, and he suddenly remembers the guy who got us into this deal: Colonel Juan Garcia Cortez. He’s having a party in a week, and Rosenberg’s been invited, being his lawyer. “All-lll of Vice City’s players are gonna be there,” he says, “But not me! No, no, no, no! I’m going to stay he --”

Jesus, man, shut up.  With no other leads and a week to kill, I’ve got life to live. The beaches are calling my name. 

In the Beginning, part I

For purposes of my own entertainment, I'm doing a "Let's Play" of Vice City. All missions, side missions, and challenges will be done for the most part, with the except of perhaps a few unique jumps. So far as I remember it, I will include a link to an appropriate song from the game's soundtrack.
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Mood Music: "Broken Wings", Mister Mister


It’s eleven o’clock on a Saturday night, and my life is ruined.

Again.

Fifteen years of incarceration ended for me on Thursday afternoon when the doors of Liberty State Penitentiary slid open and I saw Harry Cardoni waiting for me. Cardoni is one of Sonny Forelli’s favorite goons. He was a toadie back in the day: I suppose he still is.  Sonny, bless his bastard heart, was giving me work. Good work.  The work that makes you a rich man. He was sending Harry and me along with another goon -- a new guy, Lee something or another -- down south, to Vice City.  “’It’s the land of opportunity,’ Sonny said,” said Harry as he drove us to the airport. I stared outside through the windows, looking at the city I was born and raised in: Liberty City. It was grey, cold, dark, and depressing. Reminded me of prison. “The coke trade is huge down there, and we’re goin’ to set ourselves up as distributors.” Apparently we were going to down to Vice City, buy a large quantity of coke from a dealer, and then start a distribution network.  It sounded promising: easy money. I could start living again, and this time do it better than living in a cruddy apartment in Liberty.



We landed in Vice City and were met by a lawyer, a guy named Rosenberg. Excitable. We drove straight to the meeting point from the airport, which sucked:  I could have done with some sleep.  Things went smoothly at first: the dealers didn’t give us any problems.



 I could barely keep my eyes open, but then all hell broke loose.



Harry, Lee, and the dealer were hit. Fifteen-year old reflexes from my hood days in Liberty came back in a flash, and before I knew it I was half-inside Rosenberg’s car and screaming for him to floor it. Whoever hit us wasn’t interested in pursuing -- they even let the dealer’s helicopter get away.  Rosenberg starting coming apart even as we parked the car, like some terrified rat running on one of those exercise wheel things. I tried calming him down, telling him we’d start sorting this mess out tomorrow. “Get some sleep,” I said. “That’s what I’m going to do.”




Only I can’t. I’m sitting in the hotel right now, but I can’t sleep, because I’ve got a call to make. I’ve gotta tell Sonny that I just lost all of the money he sent me down here with.  I don’t even know that’s not what was supposed to have happened. I don’t know who those gunmen were working for. Maybe this was Sonny’s way of having me hit and seizing the coke without paying the money for it.

So who knows? Maybe I make this call and Sonny realizes that oops, the Harwood Butcher survived. Then what happens?  They try again. Only this time, maybe they succeed.

On the other hand, if the deal was an ambush, and Forelli did lose his money, I’m just as dead. So much for living again. I’m a dead man already.

Hell of a phone call to make.

Flagg Park

This is Flagg Park, an apartment lot of five units -- although the game only allows for a maximum of four playable apartments per lot, filling in the one remaining with a non-playable character. The trailers you see here all have identical interior layouts, which are modified versions of a trailer I spotted nearly a decade ago on one of the first Sims 1 fansites, called "Coasters". I may elaborate on the Coasters layout later on. Ironically, although trailers are regarded as low-income housing,  the game's engine generates apartment costs and NPC neighbors based on the amount of floorspace -- with more floorspace responsible for higher rents and higher-class neighbors. The NPC neighbors generated by this lot are (oddly enough) very middle class -- business executives, medical specialists, and the like. I wanted Flagg Park -- kudos to you if you can guess at the origins of that name -- to be a community of lower-income Sims, and as you can see, there are spaces for the neighbors' kids to get together and play. At the back of the lot, you can see that the lot itself is not quite level with the surrounding area, so there's a ridge. I made that look believable by making it gravel-y.

Currently I have four families living here: the Picasos, seen here are the only Maxis-made family.