In fact, there is a good chance, if you played the game when it first released-and thus had no clue what you were in for-that your memory of it is mingled with an intimate selection of bodily pains. The game, of course, was Grand Theft Auto III, which we would later come not so much to know as to inhabit, breathing in the murk of its streets over the course of many months. The man was unnamed, though we would later come to know him as Claude. He needed to get off the street, and he needed a change of clothes, but he was free. The police convoy bearing him off to a life behind bars was attacked, and, amidst the confusion, he made a break for it-a figure of jumpsuited orange, slipping away into the rain. He was betrayed by his girlfriend, who shot him, took the money, and left him leaking in an alley. Twenty years ago, a man failed to rob a bank.
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