Your dream of opening your very own tattoo shop can't be accomplished if you don't save up enough money, which you can't do if you don't work... and you can't do either if the more-garbage-than-not 2002 Declasse Asea that Trevor was so generous to fish out of the car pound and "expertly refurbish" and give to you keeps dying every 200 meters of summer sun beating down Sandy Shores road. Now, your path forcefully diverts from the faint, mirage-like asphalt streets of Los Santos to the dusty plains toward Trevor fucking Phillips' trailer house. He will drive you to work and fix your car, you'll make sure of it, even as, when you arrive and enter unannounced, you notice a white, powdery trail on the musty kitchen counter and under his nose... meth has never messed with his driving skills, anyway.