Grand Theft Auto: Liberty City Stories
You were looking for a reason to buy a PSP. This is it. Our biggest review to date.
Published: November 1, 2005
WARNING: Just to save us some grief, if you aren’t old enough to buy Liberty City Stories, you shouldn’t be reading a review where we tell the reader to buy it.
It’s early Saturday morning, and I’ve just finished sprinting all over St. Mark’s looking for a proper ride. Wow, I’m panting like crazy. I really should start running more, build up the ol’ stamina. I turn a corner and spot a perfect candidate: a Sentinel with my name all over it. Sure, the guy driving it right now doesn’t know it yet, but he’ll soon find out.
Recovered, I sprint in front of the car, making sure to flip him off and then give him the appropriate fist/forearm salute due to him for honking at me when I was so clearly walkin’ here. No matter, I’ll just borrow his car and we’ll call it even.
Ahh, the sweet sounds of The Marriage of Figaro washes over me from the darkened leather seats while the former owner tries in vain to catch up to me as I slowly turn the corner then gun it. Looks like he runs about as much as I do. I really should start running more. I make a quick left, and then a right, ambling along with no place to go as Mozart’s Overture builds to a climax.
Another left. Then another. Up ahead, a rain-soaked shootout erupts between a couple of clearly unhappy gentleman. I pause, watching things play out from the safety of my heated, very dry sedan, the first notes of Nuremberg Symphonic Orchestra’s treatment of I Pagliacci: Vesti la giubba dancing across my eardru—oh hell, did that guy riding that sportbike just get creamed by the incoming paramed—yep, he’s a smear. Wow, never saw it coming. He probably would have willed me his bike anyway, I’ll just save the executors a step.
The rain now passed, I settle onto the molded seat of this crotch rocket and give it a few light pulls on the throttle, lurching forward. Responsive, I like that. Ah, but I’m facing the wrong way. I’ll just punch it with the front brakes on and spin this thing around a couple times, the pavement could use a little rubber kiss. I’m off, the wind whipping my jacket around as I scream towards a familiar alleyway.
I always did like that little jump there, though it seems to be missing a familiar wanted level reducer, and there are a lot of cops around this part of tow-. Oh hell, I just hit one. Right in front of one of his buddies. Something tells me Liberty City’s Finest aren’t very fond of seeing one of their own mowed down by some punk with a permanent five o’clock shadow. That something is the pair of bullets that just punctured my shoulder and leg after they decided that the front of my bike and their police cruiser should become intimate in that way only metal and metal crumpling on impact can do.
Gravity would also like me to get more familiar with how my face and street have missed each other, but my faceplant is the least of my problems right now, what with a couple of slugs now either buried in or ripped through parts of my body. I should run, but I’m spilling blood like a four year-old trying to carry a big glass of milk across a freshly shampooed carpet. There’s only two of ‘em, I could probably take one down before I’m gone.
Yeah, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll make one of those guys pay for avenging their friend’s death. Don’t they attend Mass? Don’t they know God says vengeance is His? Clearly I should tell them in between a flurry of punches and kicks. I’ve almost pummeled Jonsey here to a pulp when his partner feels the need to cave my head in with his nightstick.
As I slump the to the ground, the whine of a siren filling my ears, I find myself wishing I could hear a bit more Mozart as my vision goes white, and a single thought remains in my head:
I really should start running more, build up the ol’ stamina.
It’s early Saturday morning, and I’ve just finished sprinting all over St. Mark’s looking for a proper ride. Wow, I’m panting like crazy. I really should start running more, build up the ol’ stamina. I turn a corner and spot a perfect candidate: a Sentinel with my name all over it. Sure, the guy driving it right now doesn’t know it yet, but he’ll soon find out.
Recovered, I sprint in front of the car, making sure to flip him off and then give him the appropriate fist/forearm salute due to him for honking at me when I was so clearly walkin’ here. No matter, I’ll just borrow his car and we’ll call it even.
Ahh, the sweet sounds of The Marriage of Figaro washes over me from the darkened leather seats while the former owner tries in vain to catch up to me as I slowly turn the corner then gun it. Looks like he runs about as much as I do. I really should start running more. I make a quick left, and then a right, ambling along with no place to go as Mozart’s Overture builds to a climax.
Another left. Then another. Up ahead, a rain-soaked shootout erupts between a couple of clearly unhappy gentleman. I pause, watching things play out from the safety of my heated, very dry sedan, the first notes of Nuremberg Symphonic Orchestra’s treatment of I Pagliacci: Vesti la giubba dancing across my eardru—oh hell, did that guy riding that sportbike just get creamed by the incoming paramed—yep, he’s a smear. Wow, never saw it coming. He probably would have willed me his bike anyway, I’ll just save the executors a step.
The rain now passed, I settle onto the molded seat of this crotch rocket and give it a few light pulls on the throttle, lurching forward. Responsive, I like that. Ah, but I’m facing the wrong way. I’ll just punch it with the front brakes on and spin this thing around a couple times, the pavement could use a little rubber kiss. I’m off, the wind whipping my jacket around as I scream towards a familiar alleyway.
I always did like that little jump there, though it seems to be missing a familiar wanted level reducer, and there are a lot of cops around this part of tow-. Oh hell, I just hit one. Right in front of one of his buddies. Something tells me Liberty City’s Finest aren’t very fond of seeing one of their own mowed down by some punk with a permanent five o’clock shadow. That something is the pair of bullets that just punctured my shoulder and leg after they decided that the front of my bike and their police cruiser should become intimate in that way only metal and metal crumpling on impact can do.
Gravity would also like me to get more familiar with how my face and street have missed each other, but my faceplant is the least of my problems right now, what with a couple of slugs now either buried in or ripped through parts of my body. I should run, but I’m spilling blood like a four year-old trying to carry a big glass of milk across a freshly shampooed carpet. There’s only two of ‘em, I could probably take one down before I’m gone.
Yeah, that’s what I’ll do, I’ll make one of those guys pay for avenging their friend’s death. Don’t they attend Mass? Don’t they know God says vengeance is His? Clearly I should tell them in between a flurry of punches and kicks. I’ve almost pummeled Jonsey here to a pulp when his partner feels the need to cave my head in with his nightstick.
As I slump the to the ground, the whine of a siren filling my ears, I find myself wishing I could hear a bit more Mozart as my vision goes white, and a single thought remains in my head:
I really should start running more, build up the ol’ stamina.
