Blockheads is the 13th mission in Grand Theft Auto: King of The Hill.
It's the third mission given to Miklos Lipton by Victor Sax.
Plot
The faint smell of cheap tequila and cigarette smoke lingers in the air as Miklos steps out of his trailer, the desert sun already blazing down on Sandy Shores. His head throbs slightly from the previous night's partying with the Aztecas, celebrating the fall of the Armenian's gun racketeering. His new criminal empire is beginning to take root, but the price is sleepless nights and a constant swirl of uncertainty.
Outside, Victor is hunched over the hood of his Warrener HKR, muttering angrily to himself. A small engine part dangles from his hand, its purpose long forgotten.
Victor: Lousy sonova... bitch! Start, damn you! Fuck!
He throws a part onto the ground in frustration and spots Miklos.
Victor: I hope that part isn't important... Hey, King! You know anything about cars, ese?
Miklos: Not much, honestly. I know how to drive, and I know what I like, but fixing them? Not my thing.
Victor: Well, shit. I was hoping you could help me out. I've gotta get this baby running again. Hop in and try starting it while I tinker under the hood.
Miklos shrugs and climbs into the driver's seat. As he adjusts himself, his eyes catch a photo taped to the dashboard. A young woman, vibrant and smiling, stares back at him.
Miklos: Umm... Who's the girl?
Victor: What girl?
Miklos: This one in the photo on the dashboard.
Victor: Oh, that's mah girl... uh... Carmelita, I think. Yeah, Carmelita.
Miklos picks up the photo, revealing the fuel gauge. His face twists in disbelief.
Miklos: Victor, you don't even remember her name? And look at this! The fuel gauge is on empty! There's no gas, you idiot! That's why the truck won't start!
Victor: Whuh? Oh... uh... yeah, I might've forgotten about that.
Miklos: MIGHT have?!
Victor: Hold your horses! Okay, I screwed up! I'll fill it up and problem solved, alright?
Victor grabs a gas can and fills the tank as Miklos slumps back in the seat, muttering to himself.
Miklos: I can't believe this... Crissakes...
A few moments later, Victor hops into the passenger seat, beaming with confidence.
Victor: Alright, all set. Try it now.
Miklos: Are you sure? Maybe you just think you filled it.
Victor: Man, one tiny mistake and suddenly I'm an idiot. Start the damn beast already.
Miklos turns the key, and the engine roars to life. Victor smirks triumphantly.
Victor: Told ya. By the way, I came up with a plan last night. A PERFECT plan to fuck over the Armenians for good.
Miklos: Yeah, you mentioned it in your text. Care to explain it now so I can decide if it's actually a good plan?
Victor: Sure thing. But first, let's swing by Ammu-Nation. You're gonna need a sniper rifle for this one. You drive the beast.
Miklos: And the tank is full this time?
Victor: It. IS. Jesus... Fucking go already.
Ammu-Nation
The bell above the door jingles as Miklos steps into the dimly lit Ammu-Nation. The faint scent of gun oil and burnt powder lingers in the air. Behind the counter stands a middle-aged man with a stern expression and well-groomed facial hair, Melvin, the store owner. Miklos recognizes the scrawny figure next to him instantly. Dennis Oak, the eager Merryweather recruit.
Dennis is gesturing wildly with a mock rifle stance while Melvin sighs, shaking his head.
Dennis: Dad, I'm telling you, if I had a proper sniper rifle, I'd be unstoppable! They'd call me the Ghost of Merryweather!
Melvin: Dennis, you can't even hit a tin can with a pistol. Now stop playing soldier and help me stack those boxes.
Miklos chuckles under his breath, walking up to the counter.
Miklos: Dennis? What are you doing here? Don't tell me Merryweather's got you running errands picking up gear for them.
Dennis spins around, his face lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning.
Dennis: Mikkey! Buddy, I didn't know you shopped here! This is my dad's store! Isn't it cool? We've got everything: pistols, rifles, grenades, even a rocket launcher, though he won't let me play with that one...
Melvin glances up, sizing Miklos up with a skeptical eye.
Melvin: So, you're the guy Dennis keeps yapping about. Mickey Lipton, right? The "badass battle buddy" from Merryweather?
Miklos: Miklos Lipton, yeah that's me. And I see the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Dennis has... quite the enthusiasm.
Melvin: Yeah, well, enthusiasm doesn't always mean competence. What can I get you?
Miklos: I need a sniper rifle. Something precise, with a bit of kick.
Melvin rubs his chin, nodding thoughtfully before reaching under the counter. He pulls out a sleek, matte-black sniper rifle and sets it on the glass.
Melvin: Here's a beauty for you. Shrewsbury. High-caliber, long-range, and dead accurate. Comes with a built-in silencer for taking out "deer" silently. Normally, this would set you back quite a bit... but since you're friends with my kid, I'll knock off 20%. $4000. Dennis may be a pain in my ass, but he's got good taste in friends.
Dennis: Thanks, Dad! See, Miklos? I'm useful sometimes!
Miklos: (Smirking) Thanks, Melvin. I'll take it.
As Miklos hands over the cash, Dennis leans in, grinning ear to ear.
Dennis: Hey, Miklos, next time you're doing something cool, call me! I'm ready to go anytime, anywhere. (Whispering) That last time was wild!
Miklos: I'll keep that in mind, Dennis.
Melvin snorts, shaking his head as Miklos slings the rifle over his shoulder and heads toward the door.
Melvin: Good luck out there, Lipton. And if Dennis gets in your way, just shove him in a crate or something.
Miklos laughs, pushing open the door and stepping out into the desert heat, leaving behind the sound of Melvin scolding Dennis for playing with the grenades again.
Sandy Shores
As Miklos gets back to the truck, Victor is back in the driver's seat, looking out the window with a grin.
Miklos: So, what's next?
Victor: The lumberyard near Mount Chiliad. The Armenians are having a big meeting there.
Miklos: And I'm guessing I'm supposed to slaughter them with this thing?
Victor: No, no. Just one guy, homes. Eduard Khachaturian. He's one of their key players.
Miklos: How's killing one guy going to wipe out the Armenians?
Victor: Dear God... Maybe because he's so important? Khachaturian is Alan Nazarian's right-hand man. Without him, Nazarian is a clueless wreck. He's so narrow-minded he can't make decisions on his own. Trust me, this is the move.
Miklos: And Nazarian is the leader because...?
Victor: You ask too many questions.
The sound of the engine hums steadily as Victor steers the Warrener HKR through the winding mountain roads. Miklos sits in the passenger seat, meticulously assembling the collapsible rifle, his thoughts a swirl of skepticism and anticipation. Victor's confident grin never wavers as the lumberyard comes into view below.
Victor: Alright, King. Show me what you've got. Let's see if you're as good as Perry says.
Miklos leans forward, squinting out the window at the bustling scene below. He picks up the rifle, adjusting the scope as Victor parks the car in a discreet spot overlooking the lumberyard.
Miklos: So, uh... what does Kha... Kharchu- Karchakatasa...
Victor: Khachaturian. Keep up, man. Your name isn't easy to say either. Look around with the rifle, I'll help you spot him.
Miklos peers through the scope, scanning the crowd of armed men moving among stacks of lumber and cargo. His gaze lands on a figure in a cream-colored suit surrounded by guards.
Miklos: That him? The guy in the fancy suit?
Victor: Nah, that's Alan Nazarian himself. Looks harmless, right? Ha! That's why he needs Khachaturian to hold his hand. Keep looking.
Miklos continues scanning the yard, frustration bubbling beneath the surface as time drags on. An hour passes, and another...
Miklos: I'm starting to think our target's not even here. I should have just shot Nazarian.
Victor: Be patient, M. If Nazarian's here, the puppeteer's gotta be close. Ah, there! See that ese in the red coat, pacing near the cargo truck? That's Khachaturian.
Miklos zeros in on the target, watching as Khachaturian barks orders to his subordinates. The man's confident swagger paints him as someone who thinks he's untouchable.
Miklos: Alright… I've got him.
Victor: One shot, clean. Show me you're worth all this trouble.
Miklos takes a steadying breath, finger brushing the trigger as he lines up the shot. He squeezes it gently.
Blam.
The rifle cracks sharply through the mountain air. Down below, Khachaturian collapses, his red coat turning even redder. Chaos erupts as guards scatter, shouting in confusion and looking for the shooter.
Khachaturian is dead.
Victor: Damn, King! Perry might've been onto something with you.
Miklos: Told you I'd get it done. We better get the fuck outta here.
And so they did. Victor slaps the steering wheel, clearly impressed, and throws the truck into gear. Miklos disassembles the rifle as Victor weaves through the mountain roads. The tension in the air gives way to a quiet sense of accomplishment.
Victor: Whoo! Alright, King! Armenians are history!
Miklos: Yeah, it was so easy, let's hope this really shakes them up.
Victor: Just wait and see. Without Eduard, good old Alan is as lost as a headless chicken. They go way back, always been working together. Eduard is.. was, Nazarian's brother-in-law.
Miklos: Man, you've done your homework.
Victor: Can't make plans if you don't know your enemy.
Yellow Jack Inn
The sun dips below the horizon as Victor pulls the Warrener into the dusty lot at the back of the Yellow Jack Inn. The Aztecas lounging around the bar perk up, their baby blue bandanas catching the dim light. They cheer and slap Miklos on the back as he steps out of the car, a growing sense of camaraderie filling the air. Miklos nods, acknowledging the respect he's starting to command among the gang. This was Victor's crew, but Miklos was earning his place.
Inside, the Yellow Jack buzzes with life. The rustic bar is filled with the smell of cheap liquor and cigarette smoke. Perry Harris, predictably, leans smugly against the counter in a suit, nursing a champagne glass, an odd choice for Sandy Shores. He raises it toward Miklos as if toasting his "success."
Perry: Look at you, King! You're starting to fit right in. Just like I said you would. All part of the plan, eh?
Miklos: Sure, Perry... Whatever you say...
Perry: Relax, M. This is what we wanted, isn't it? Fame, power, respect. You're halfway there.
Miklos: We'll see.
Victor joins Miklos at the bar, ordering a tequila shot and slapping Miklos on the back.
Victor: Now we just wait for the results. The Armenians will be feeling this one, trust me.
Miklos: I still can't believe it was that easy.
As Miklos sips his beer, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, glancing at the screen. It's Sergeant Otto Matic. He groans inwardly, leaving the Yellow Jack before answering.
Matic: Private Lipton! Where the hell are ya? I don't remember firing you... yet.
Miklos: I've been working for Mr. Weston, Sarge. You were there when we agreed on it.
Matic: Yes, but that doesn't mean you're off the hook with Merryweather! You're still under my command! My office, tomorrow morning!
Miklos sighs, hanging up the phone and heading back into the bar.
Victor: Trouble?
Miklos: Just my Sarge being his usual self. Looks like I've got more work to do.
Victor raises his drink with a smirk.
Victor: Well, don't let him kill your buzz, King. You're running the show now.
Miklos finishes his beer, pushing the glass aside. With a nod to the Aztecas, Vix, and Perry, he steps back out into the desert night, his mind already shifting to the next challenge.
The next mission, Eagles Cry, is now unlocked.
Reward
- Monetary Reward: $7000
- New Weapon: Sniper Rifle
Objectives
- Go to Ammu-Nation
- Go to Mount Chilliad
- Kill Eduard Khachaturian
- Leave the area
- Return to the Yellow Jack Inn
Gold Medal Objectives
- Time - Complete in 7:00
- Accuracy - Kill Khachaturian with one shot
- Clean Getaway - Leave the area without being chased
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