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When I enter the world of Saints Row the Third, I enter a new dimension. In this dimension, I’m transformed into the beautiful Russian gangstress by the name of Missy Dvorak. She is young, around 26, but has seen a lot of action in her life. You don’t become the head of a universally known gang without a few people noticing.
Today is a normal day for Missy.
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She’s been busy trying to clean up a mess of rival gang activity in Steelport since the death of a partner in crime and The Third Street Saints’ idol — Johnny Gat. Missy has taken his place in all but name as the head of The Saints and is seeking revenge on three gangs who all coordinated the attack that led to his death.
Missy has her hands full.
However, she’s taking a day off from normal gang activity (whatever that means) to pursue some hired hits. She does contract killing on the side for cash and more local respect in Steelport. She has several contacts who email her descriptions of the targets, complete with photos, and how to best lure them out into the open for slaughter. Once a target is in the open, all bets are off. Missy can kill as she pleases. She can go point-blank with a shotgun, snipe from a distance, bludgeon with a baseball bat, run over the target, drop a helicopter on his or her face… the list goes on… Every once in a while, a target will require a little finessing with some stricter rules, but it’s never anything an experienced mechanic such as Missy can’t handle.
She opens her contract list and reads the first entry. It’s from a friend at their crib. Apparently the cable company is overcharging the shit out of them, and he won’t stand for it anymore. Well, she guesses he’ll stand for it until someone takes the cable guy out because he sure as hell isn’t going to do it.
Missy remembers a saying she learned after she came to America, “Never send a man to do a woman’s job.” Killing is her job, what she’s best at.
She stands outside of her penthouse and raises her phone from her leather street-biker pants. They’re black with hot pink and turquoise accents. She’s wearing a matching leather jacket that cuts above the midriff to show her toned abs and light blue star tattoos on the side of her torso. She phones in a maintenance request with the cable guy. Before long, he’s on the way.
He’ll never reach the penthouse alive — she thinks.
She stares off down the street, her eyes lined by Lady Gaga-esque mascara and topped with teal eye shadow. Her hot pink, side-swept bangs obscure her vision a bit. She sees the dirty cable van turn the corner and close in on the penthouse parking garage. Missy lifts a rocket launcher from the ground, raises it to her eye to aim, and fires a single rocket straight into the hood of the van.
The explosion launches the vehicle into the air.
“That was too fucking easy.” Missy mutters to herself.
She opens her phone to see what the next contract is — hopefully something a little more creative.
A woman is scheduled for pickup at an airstrip on the north side of town. She won’t come out of the airport until the private plane rolls up. Missy needs to be her surprise in-flight chauffeur. Little does the target know, The Saints actually own the airstrip she’s flying out of.
Missy glides off her penthouse rooftop in a helicopter and floats to the strip, an appropriate entrance after all, for the occasion. When she lands, she opens the hangar and steers her plane out of it. When she halts in front of the designated hangar, her target is escorted to the plane with two bodyguards. The guards stay back as she enters the plane. Dumbasses.
Missy proceeds down the runway, as if nothing were awry. When she ascends off the runway, she flies into the heart of Steelport. Just before the plane collides with a skyscraper, Missy pulls up and shoots it directly into the sky, like a rocket.
When Missy, the target and the plane are all high above the city, Missy bails out of it and skydives toward the freeway, — the target still trapped in the plane.
She opens her parachute to sail downward and watches as the plane glides down to the pavement and explodes upon contact.
Missy pulls back on the parachute cords just before hitting the freeway. She rolls out of her landing and stands up to brush herself off. She opens her phone again, but not for a contract. This time, she calls one of her homies to deliver something.
In seconds, a sexy friend of Missy’s, who’s wearing an elegant, violet evening gown with some gold bangles, rides up in Missy’s favorite street bike — a black, turquoise and hot pink, fully customized Kenshin. Missy takes the handlebars, turns on the neon blue underglow lights and rides off into the night as DeadMau5 pounds in her eardrums.
Just another day in Steelport.
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