What We in the 'Biz Call, "A Fixer-Upper"

Rider Upon the Pale Horse

Stepping back from the whiteboard, Jeremy capped his marker. "There. What do you guys think?"

"All you did was circle the words 'Fake AH'," Ryan said, sat in the front-row swivel chair.

"Yes," Jeremy said. "It's the crew name, Ryan."

"What does AH even stand for?" Jack asked, index fingers pressed against her mouth.

"It- you-" Jeremy flubbed. "It doesn't have to mean anyth- hot dog doesn't have any dog in it alright? Look-"

Jack raised her eyebrows. "Are you saying the H stands for hot dog?"

Jeremy sighed, wondering why he even bothered.

Beside from the newly acquired whiteboard, the house had changed a lot in the past year. Now there were succulents and cacti where Ryan had left his mark, and the garden out back was in full bloom. There were signs of dozens of regularly rotating lodgers and vagabonds as the little home with the creaking front gate had become a hub of a blooming gang. Pretty good considering it was a place where the front step broke so often that someone had stuffed a Yellow Page underneath it and called it a day.

"Clearly," Ryan said, "Rimmy Tim here is referencing the 1980s band 'Aha'. Which is in good taste, well done Jeremy."

"Yes," Jack agreed, "quite good taste."

Ryan's new friend was sitting at Jeremy's workbench, which wouldn't bother him except with how easily she did it. For as long as they'd known each other, it had taken until now for Ryan to feel comfortable taking off his mask on a regular basis—but he'd known Jack for barely a month and suddenly he felt completely comfortable around her. They had met in Siege or something, and ever since then she'd been hanging out at least as much as the other people who didn't live there.

"Well," Ryan said as he slapped his hands on his knees and rose, "as productive as this has been I'm getting back to work." Ryan still kept a part-time job at the local theater, which was completely unnecessary with the amount the crew brought in. Jeremy was starting to suspect it was only because he didn't like to pay for facepaint. "Oh, by the way, thought you should know: Monki's back in the country."

Jeremy blinked, the clear expectation that Monki was someone he should know. "Uh. Who?"

Ryan raised an eyebrow. "Really Jeremy? Most dangerous mercenary in all of Los Santos and you haven't heard of Monki?"

"Hey," Jeremy bristled. "I've only been doing this for a year, alright? I can't know every shmuck who this city decides to jerk off to for a day."

Ryan shook his head. "Monki's not just some up and comer, she's been the most sought after merc for years. She has a higher killcount than the rest of the crew combined. You have to have heard of her—and don't give me that newcomer shit! I've been doing this just as long as you."

That he had. How he'd thrown himself so deeply into the violent culture of the city's underbelly while also being a gardener who kept the house smelling like apple cider vinegar, Jeremy couldn't say. Ryan was his main point of reference for most things, how he kept in touch with the finer cultural points of Los Santos.

"Alright, fine," Jeremy said. "I'll look into seeing if she'd consider working for somebody as lowly as us. Happy?"

"What? No!" Ryan looked aghast. "I told you that so you can stay away from her. We want to attract as little off her attention as possible if the Suns put out a hit. She'll be less likely to take it if she doesn't know who we are."