Bonita Benjamin - All Points Bulletin

Bonita Benjamin

Arlon Benjamin's daughter, and his best hope for the continuation of Benjamin name and the ideals he's tried to promote throughout his career, both business and criminal. She's everything he hoped for, and everything her brother isn't; smart, conscientious, in tune with her father's thinking, socially progressive, and mindful of the needs of others, realising that money has its uses but that's ultimately only a means to a hopefully more enlightened end.

Or, anyway, that's what she wants her father to think, and the old man buys every line of the story she's been selling him.

Arlon's no fool, but his daughter seems to inhabit some female-shaped blind spot that he's had his whole life. He was brought up in an orphanage; she grew up in a world of wealth and privilege, attending a private college out in Virginia Gardens and an exclusive finishing school in Europe. He lived rough on the streets; she looks down on those streets from the fiftieth floor windows of corporate boardrooms in the Needles. He had to work - and fight - hard for everything he's ever achieved; she was given it all on a silver platter, wrapped up in hand-woven silk bow from one of the many Shianxi boutiques where she has carte blanche credit.

So what did the old man think was going to happen? His world isn't hers, and she hasn't been formed by the same experiences he has been.

Don't get her wrong; she loves her father and respects what he's trying to do, but it's never going to work. At least, not the way he wants it to.

He's right about one thing, though. The old order in San Paro is crumbling, and something's got to be there to take its place. He's preaching street revolution and self empowerment - like anyone really gives a shit about that kind of tie-dye philosophy stuff anymore? - but she's talking market placement and brand recognition. The SPPD are an irrelevance, due to crash and burn in a municipal funding crisis coming right round the corner any day now (or sooner, if the civic disobedience campaign - the one covertly financed by her father, at the suggestion of his new friend Mr. Waskawi advocating non-payment of city taxes, really starts taking off) but it's the Praetorians that get her attention. Justin Teng can flash that six-figure smile in as many primetime infomercials as he wants, but all Teela Benjamin sees is San Paro Old Money circling the wagons and doing what Old Money does best, which is looking after its own interests.

Bonita's friends at that private college out in Virginia Gardens and at that fancy European finishing school? They used to laugh at her, call her daughter of the Red Hill garbage recycling king. They see her now, cruising down Silver in an electric blue sports car with a phalanx of heavy-armed and ovestruck G-King gangbangers, and they don't dare say shit.

Shifting power centres. Market placement. Brand recognition. Getting the G-Kings name established, and making sure that the Benjamin family business is there at the transition of power from Old Money to New.

Daughter to the Red Hill garbage king, or genuine San Paro gangster princess - which would you rather be?

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  • Subject
    Respect due


    Thanks for taking care of that thing. All were looking for is a little respect, and thats the kind of shit I have to put up with?

    Know what they used to call me at that fancy school pops sent me to? The Garbage Princess of Red Hill, cause of pops recycling plants.

    Caught up with some of those little bitches not so long ago, me and some Gs. Took them down to one of pops places and made them eat some of that fucking garbage.

    Now whos the Garbage Princess, bitches?


    Bringing you up to speed

    Hey, its Bonita.

    I guess you did okay, so you can stick around for now. Youre at a different level here, so youd better understand that we operate to a different standard. The skate and tats stuff is cute and brings in the recruits, but you seriously think I want to be seen having lunch at Mode with any of those people?

    Before my family came along, the G-Kings' ambitions stretched about as far as being in control of the New Cross Skatepark on a Saturday night. The stakes are kinda higher now.



    I scratched your back.


    Had dinner with pops the other day, at some place youre never going to be able to afford. He was asking about you. I told him what I thought, but he still seemed interested. ;-)

    Hes a great man. He just needs fewer fuck-ups and snakes like Harmon and Grayson around him, and more people like you and me. People who want to get shit done and leave the save-the-world crap to others.

    Hooking up with him is a major chance for you, so youd better not fuck it up.

    You owe me. Big-time.


    Beware the greasy Grayson


    You met that greasy little snake Grayson Fell yet, or is that treat still to come?

    Greasy little snake  I said that part already, right?  thinks hes in line to take over if anything ever happens to my dad. Doesnt he know hes got the wrong surname for that job? The G-Kings are strictly part of the Benjamin family business portfolio.

    Or maybe he thinks Harmons got a chance, with Grayson pulling the strings in the background. What a fucking joke!

    Graysons got his uses, but hes not the only one who can cut deals.

    Stick around.


    You met Harmon yet?


    You met my brother Harmon? If you havent, try the nearest drunk tank or needle-exchange clinic. Or the dumpsters in the alleys behind Restaurant Row. He used to eat out of them, back when he was away "finding himself".

    What a loser. And he wonders why no-one takes him seriously?

    Pops given him one last chance by putting him in charge of operations on the Waterfront. Wonder how long itll take big brother to fuck things up there?

    Oh well, at least me and my people will be there to pick up the pieces, right?

    Stay in touch,


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  • Subject
    Biography: Crime

    In San Paro, crime is both a job and a hobby. It exists in every strata of society. Sometimes it hides, but mostly it struts. For some it's about greed, or status, or the feral thrill of a life without laws, but for most it's just about survival.

    For the young and independent, burglaries are the staple, the same tenth-hand electronics swilling from living room to pawnshop and back again. Pickings are thin; not so far removed from working a regular nightshift. There's muggings too, but it doesn't take long to work out that anyone with anything worth taking is commensurately well-armed. Liquor stores are like magnets, and as a result most pay protection to one gang or other.

    Throw in the constant risk of treading on the wrong toes and then maybe getting your feet shot off, and most kids are scoping a gang apprenticeship before they hit ninth grade.

    The system's as simple as it ever was. Make yourself useful and they let you stick around. Hang on long enough without having your tail shot off, you get colours. They give you a piece of the business to look after, a bit of turf maybe, and you're away. It's a beautiful demeritocracy, a flowering of the capitalist dream, no less pure than anything that happens in the corporate boardrooms.

    In most areas, the city is a carve-up. From time to time, territories bleed and shift, but a balance maintains; there are some things which are understood. Red Rain got most of Midtown. Whispa runs that from the Y-House, back of Green Street. There are occasional would-be usurpers, kids high on cordite who don't want to pay tithes. Blind Flies were one, Deathskulls another. Without the skills, without the contacts, they get stepped on soon enough.

    The Antoinettes run in Midtown too, and it's all smooth enough if they keep it east and arterial, club action only. They get their kicks late-night shopping in Havalynd, browsing Border Street for the best threads in town; most shops accept ramraid. Through the daylight hours they lay up in Charlesworth and Brinkley, preening in their penthouse apartments, or tweaking old ladies in Central Park.

    Then there are the speed tribes. Gangs like the Rollers and the Dead Hundreds. They groom their terrifying machines, fretting and tweaking, coaxing torque. Then at night, when the boulevards become hot torrents of neon and halogen blue, they hit the streets in quicksilver formations, Nu-mo exploding out of their speakers. The Police always know they're coming, always give chase. They can try; the new Fencer will out-accelerate a patrol car over 200 metres and leave it for dust on the straight.

    Not all the gangs are self-serving. There are groups that have evolved out of a social necessity. Communities let down by the system, assailed by criminal elements, bled dry by taxes, unprotected by the law. They take the only route they can; they fight back. Down in the Yard they're not waiting for the cavalry. The Liberators on Joseph and Twenty, Peace Union buried deep in the Grub. They foray over Camber Tracks, pulling raids in Rain territory. They've got a soup kitchen running under the South Ring L, hot meals for the hungry, whoever they may be. In some areas of the Yard there are barter systems evolving, localized skill economies, an organic response to an environment in which, through its unrelenting absence, the concept of money is no more relevant than the concept of God.

    The gangs are consumers in a chain, and someone's supplying. Street soldiers pack basic heat, but the captains carry exotics. The tech doesn't come from nowhere. There are connections that nobody wants to talk about. Only two ways into that kind of R&D; federal government and corporate hive. Neither has any legitimate reason for business in the hoods. But it's people on the ground that vote, that administer the vote, so it's the people who must be controlled, indirectly through media bias, or directly through the city-wide terror campaigns wreaked by well-armed gang militias.

    The Feds have had that action forever. Now the corporates got it nailed too; the gangs are determined and pitiless in their pursuit of little prizes, but they lack the ambition or the imagination to think beyond being top cock in their own backyards.

    The corporations don't deal directly with the streets; they use agents. Only Luke Waskawi is able to negotiate with them as anything like an equal. He's got some serious weight behind him; the corporate respect that. His brand was value-added in the hoods and the pens ever since he blew away old man Derren. His unscheduled departure from the Block only cemented the legend. Now he's playing serious power games. The corporate think they've got a handle on him - a crimelord with delusions of grandeur; talking revolution only to recruit street trash rubes to do his dirty work for him. They think they can control him, that, if he ever does take it over, it'll still be business as usual.

    They have no idea of just how much they might have miscalculated here.

    Biography: Luke Waskawi (Part 4)

    He waited for ten years in prison, until the conditions were right, until he sensed the city was ripe to explode, and then he made his move.

    How do you make high explosives in prison, enough to blow apart solid walls and heavily-guarded security points? Enough to facilitate the mass escape of hundreds of dangerous and highly violent criminals? Simple. You mass manufacture it in secret, using nitric acid from the vehicle batteries in the prison workshops, phosphorous extracted from bird faeces and rendered human fat unwillingly donated by the occupants of the prison's sex offender wing.

    Word of the escape was on the city streets almost before it even happened. The escapers disappeared into the San Paro criminal underworld, spreading out to re-establish contact with their old street gangs. Some of them were the bitterest enemies in the world outside the prison walls, but they all carried with them the same word, a word that passed as a persistent whisper through the city's dis-united new criminal fraternity. It was only one word, but it was enough to get enough people's attention.


    Luke Waskawi had spent long years preparing for this moment. Prison was the perfect place to do it all from. A revolving door justice system saw hundreds - thousands - of the city's most persistent criminals pass in and out of prison, all of them coming into contact with Luke Waskawi. Coming under the system of protection and fair adjudication that he had established inside the prison. Now all those years of preparation were about to pay off.

    Waskawi was out. He was the Man With The Plan, the dude that was going to lead them all to the Promised Land. San Paro was theirs by right, was there for the taking, and he was going to give it to them.

    He got to work, putting his people into the place among the city's new criminal landscape. Money, force, coercion and - most of all - subtle manipulation were his tools. Many of the ordinary members of gangs under his oblique control - or, at least influence - had never even heard of the name Luke Waskawi. He was a ghost, a man who didn't exist, a name that bribes to the right people had ensured was erased from as many official records as possible. Asylum was founded and fortified, made into being even before the city authorities even knew it was there. It was his powerbase, but he still moved around the city with relative ease, often passing unnoticed among his own followers.

    Waskawi. Enough people knew the name. Few of them knew the face that went with it.

    The sudden ascent of Jane Derren, her appointment of August Carter and the subsequent cleaning-up of the SPPD was an unwelcome surprise. He still remembers her as the frightened little girl that day on the steps at City Hall, staring at him with incomprehension as he gunned down her father. Jane Derren makes him feel ashamed. Ashamed of how he allowed himself to be used by the men who sent him to kill her father. Her presence back in San Paro is not welcome, and is not part of the plan.

    Carter's rebuilding of the SPPD is also not part of the plan. A corrupt, inefficient police force only brings more people round to Waskawi's way of thinking, and moves things along in the direction he wants. In a way, he admires Derren and Carter. They're radicals, in their own way, challenging the old, broken-down ways of doing things, and trying to make the city a better place. They're wrong, though. They still believe the city's political, financial and law enforcement systems can be reformed. Waskawi knows the damage runs too deep now. The systems need to be destroyed completely. Power in San Paro will come from the streets, where it belongs.

    The City Security Act was a bold move, one that has forced Waskawi to accelerate his own plans, turning the heat up on the city's law enforcers and putting more guns onto the streets. The resultant increase in violence is Derren's fault, he tells himself. The CSA will only prolong the agonies of the death throws of the old San Paro, and bring about the deaths of far more people than Waskawi anticipated.

    Jane Derren should never have come back to San Paro. She's the threat to the security of the city, to the better and fairer city he's trying to create. John Derren tried to bring change to San Paro and was killed by forces he was unable to control. The forces unleashed by Luke Waskawi are larger still, and - he thinks - more or less unstoppable. He doubts whether Jane Derren will be able to survive them.

    Biography: Somatic A-TAS

    Somatic A-TAS (Somatic Advanced Tactical Systems)

    Somatic National Laboratories (a National Security facility) is a major weapons research and development laboratory, managed and operated by the Somatic Corporation. Their main secured campus is located on Silverfield Air Force Base. Established in July 1945, and developed during World War II and the Manhattan Project, the primary mission of Somatic Advanced Tactical Systems is to develop, engineer, assemble and test, advanced weapon delivery platforms. Their weaponry is developed in close collaboration with the Government Defence Forces, using joint R&D groups to modify and develop new products through field-testing and active deployment in the theatre of war. Conspiracy theorists argue that testing occurs closer to home, with rumours of a Somatic-equipped covert division within the Praetorians. Wilder tabloid reports even suggest midnight manhunts on the streets of Havalynd. All unconfirmed.

  • Name Stages Final Stage
    NOT IN MY BACKYARD 6 Delivery
    REPO RACERS 5 TerritoryControl
    OBJECTION! 4 Escort
    GUN-KINGS 5 Escort
    GUN RUN GANG 3 TakeOverDeathmatch
    EVERYBODY COMES TO RICK'S 4 TerritoryControl
    EXEC EXPRESS 4 TerritoryControl
    BOX-LOCK AND .52 BARREL 6 Delivery
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    OPAL ROUTES 5 MovingTarget
    OPEN AND SHUT CASE 5 MovingTarget
  • Level Name
    10 Something Stylish (15 Joker Tickets)

    I'm thinking of switching my pistol for an SMG. I'm just worried that I might not have the firepower needed to get from the club to the hotel and back again in one piece. Can you demo an SMG for me? Just <col: Yellow>kill 5 Enforcers with an SMG.</col>

    Kill <col: Yellow>5</col> Enforcers with Sub Machine Guns.