lots of homophobia is violent, but there’s a quieter type that’s just as damaging, just as dangerous. the kind that comes from the mouths of loved ones when they say “god, not every movie needs to have gays in it” and when they say they are fine with gay ppl “despite their sin” and when they act uncomfortable when they see gay ppl. it gets inside ur head, tells u ur wrong, tells u to hate urself. it sneaks up behind you and makes you put on a mask
I really liked the line 'the dark side of the king' from your question about enforcers. would you maybe be willing to talk some more about Gavin and Ryan being terrible doing Geoff's dirty work??
Fake’s might joke that Geoff is a pushover, too adoring of his
crew-mates to really lay down the law as boss, but in reality there
are few men more feared than Ramsey. Few legends with more ruthless
reputations, more stories of heartless brutality; for those outside
his limited family Ramsey is nothing less than an unmitigated horror.
there are certain things Geoff can’t be seen to be involved in,
things he must stay above, be diplomatic about. Times when an issue
needs to be taken care of without the blowback, when there must be
violence without inevitable retribution; ferreting out moles,
persuading recalcitrant informants, dealing with a problem who
belongs to a gang the FAHC are supposed to be allied with.
easy enough to think that in a crew with a reputation as terrible as
the FAHC there is little need for a designated ‘bad guy’. They’re all
the bad guys, just ask the citizens of Los Santos, just look at the
bodies in the morgue, track down the ruins of all who have thought to
oppose them. There isn’t a single member with clean hands, isn’t one
who didn’t choose this, who isn’t having the time of their life every
singe day morality be damned. And yet there are still jobs Geoff
wouldn’t push any of them into, deeds too dark to be forced onto even
the most loyal. In those cases that call for abhorrent action Geoff
can’t take on himself there is one pair he tends to turn to.
would truly be surprised to hear that Ryan is one of the two who tick
this box, but that his partner in absolute depravity is Gavin would
catch some unaware. There are, of course, members of the crew more
suited to being paired with Ryan for all out violence, and those more
apt to accompany Gavin for subtlety, but together the pair of them
are unrivalled in their gruesome innovation, their unflinching
is being willing to do the dirty work, and then there is enjoying it.
Excelling at it. Relishing in the snap of bones and panicked
pleading, in the creativity of cruelty, the intricate art of fear.
They are violent and terrible, all wrath and retribution like the
stories of old, they are a reckoning. Unlike most others there isn’t
even a moment when either of them regret. Not a single hesitation
before doing whatever must be done, no matter how terrible, how
brutally unforgivable. No threat
is too dark, no act is too far, no reaction too extreme. In this
there are no lines to cross, no moral code to offend or gods to obey.
And worst of all, they enjoy it. They have fun,
entertain each other, safe in the knowledge that out of sight of the
rest of the crew, with none but Geoff really knowing what exactly
they are up to, there is no judgement. No one who matters will think
differently of them for unapologetic iniquity when they are each
other’s only witness and their ruin matches up oh so well.
is delightfully petty, can whip out flippant comments and passing
jokes from months or even years ago in his monologue, twist them into
some pithy one liner on the fly, like a hollywood villain without any
cheesy dialogue to detract from the menace. He knows just how to
frame their attack, laying out exactly what infraction has brought on
Ramsey’s ire and building an awful sense of suspense as he
delightedly meanders around what they are going to do about it.
not something that should be appealing, it’s awful really, bitterly
cruel, but it makes Ryan’s sense of melodrama sing. Ryan who could
have chosen any mask in the world but went directly for a blackened
skull. Who drops his already deep voice two octaves when he purrs out
threats and has a terrible habit of laying wait in dark corners until
he spots the perfect moment to loom in sight. Ryan who’s never crumbled in the
face of desperate begging, never seen grovelling as anything but
undignified, who can’t help but appreciate the way it merely makes
Gavin turn up his nose, roll his eyes, toss Ryan increasingly
incredulous looks; Christ isn’t this one pathetic?
share enough languages to communicate in privacy no matter the
situation but even without planning they are synchronised enough to
work in tandem, playing into each others proclivities, teasing
chatter as much for their own genuine amusement as it is for taunting
their prey. There are no hard and fast rules to their partnership-
sometimes Ryan’s feeling particularly chatty and sometimes Gavin’s
itching to pull out his lovely gold knives- but more often than not
Gavin wheedles his way into the mind of their victim before Ryan
quite literally pulls them apart. Just as Gavin strokes Ryan’s ego
when he leans in and pleasantly explains all the horrific things the
Vagabond has done, Ryan pander’s to Gavin’s ever vicious whim; drags
things out, slows them down, get’s disgustingly creative.
always been something distinctly animalistic in Gavin, the way he
slinks like a predator, grins wide enough to bare his teeth, the way
he can’t help toying with his food, but in this he isn’t Gavin Free,
the Fake’s happy-go-lucky wrecking ball of chaos, isn’t the Golden
Boy, Ramsey’s unbelievably persuasive frontman; this is another
creature all together. On these jobs Gavin is no less the showman,
still all insidious cunning and attention-grabbing flash, but for
once he does nothing to disguise his own decay. Doesn’t inject false
emotion where none exists, doesn’t manufacture empathy, won’t even
pretend to give a solitary shit about anything outside his own world,
his life, his people. Amusement as chilling as it is cold-blooded,
crushing any hope that he might be the tempering force, that the
presence of the glittering Golden Boy will reign in the Vagabond.
Ryan, good grief Ryan. The Vagabond already has so very many tortured
tales attached to his name, already inspires so much fear, but people
do like to hope his reputation is inflated. Like to think the man
behind the mask can’t truly be as terrible as they say, must suffer
the same bouts of guilt and mercy as anyone else. Think the
Vagabond’s greatest secret is the fact that at the end of the day he
is just a man. The look in their eyes when they realise they are
wrong, realise that while the skull may be a mask Ryan
has always been the monster, is the stuff nightmares are made of. The
Vagabond isn’t soft on a good day, but in this role he is ruthless.
It would, perhaps, be a relief if he were cold, detached. Would be an
easier pill to swallow if he acted with his usual air of
professionalism, but this? This is Ryan in his element. This is the
Vagabond having fun.
a tossup who’s better off; the victims who die slow and painful or
the ones who get to live. The ones who spill their secrets, who
suffer their punishments, and in the end are left to crawl free.
Those who never really stop thinking about bloodstained teeth and
razor-blade smirks, distressingly fond banter and cold flat
eyes. None of them come back right, none of them return the same way
they left, have suffered terror beyond words, experienced horrors
they will never be capable of explaining. Most wind up leaving the
city, even a passing mention of the Fake AH Crew enough to send them
shaking, the possibility of another run in utterly intolerable, but
those who stay only serve to further boost the duos reputation.
one thing for anyone with half a brain to fear the Vagabond, it’s
quite another for well-known crooks to literally flee when he
appears, spike classic fear-mongering rumours with far more truthful
tales of vicious depravity, go to absurd lengths to steer clear of
the FAHC at any cost. In the same vein the denizens of Los Santos can
only say Gavin’s name with increased reverence after a mere wink
tossed at some thug playing muscle in the background of a meeting has
the man throwing up all over himself. Can only be more impressed when
a slow smile and whispered comment has another back-peddling so fast
the Fake’s make off with way more than they were owed.
of course, suits Geoff just fine, reaping the boons of the pet
horrors he keeps in his pocket for a rainy day; rare, but undeniably
memorable. To see the three of them at work is a sight to behold,
Ramsey strolling along flanked by his most wicked miscreants, one the
darkened menace of death incarnate, the other almost alight with his
own glittering hubris, not a scrap of restraint or morality between
them. They are apocalypse, are inevitable disaster, the end of all
things good and holy and with an unseen signal they peel off, leave
their grinning king to walk alone as they melt back into the night,
set free once more to hunt.
Favorite actress series | Glenn Close: [On being a actor] “I think it is a great privilege, to be an actor. I think our job is to make people believe. Everyone wants to believe something. And besides helping people believe, I think we can remind people what it means to be a human being; how connected we are, how we need love, how hate is destructive. That to me is a privilege.” - Glenn Close
The Stanford prison experiment was a human experiment to psychologically study the human responses to captivity - half the subjects had to play the role of inmates, and the other half prison guards, living in a prison environment. The experiment was conducted by Philip Zimbardo of Stanford University in 1971. The inmates and prison guards adapted to their roles and even stepped beyond the boundaries of what had been predicted, which lead to psychologically damaging and dangerous situations. One-third of the prison guards were judged to have exhibited “genuine” sadistic tendencies, while many prisoners were emotionally traumatized and two had to be removed from the experiment early. Finally, Zimbardo, alarmed at the increasing abuse and anti-social behaviour, terminated the experiment earlier than intended.
But it is not really difference the oppressor fears so much as similarity. He fears he will discover in himself the same aches, the same longing as those of the people he has shitted on. He fears the immobilization threatened by his own incipient guilt. He fears he will have to change his life once he has seen himself in the bodies of the people he has called different. He fears the hatred, anger, and vengeance of those he has hurt.
This is the oppressor’s nightmare, but it is not exclusive to him. We women have a similar nightmare, for each of us in some way has been both oppressed and the oppressor. We are afraid to look at how we have failed each other. We are afraid to see how we have taken the values of our oppressor into our hearts and turned them against ourselves and one another. We are afraid to admit how deeply “the man’s” words have been ingrained in us.
To assess the damage is a dangerous act. I think of how, even as a feminist lesbian, I have so wanted to ignore my own homophobia, my own hatred of myself for being queer. I have not wanted to admit that my deepest personal sense of myself has not quite “caught up” with my “woman-identified” politics. I have been afraid to criticize lesbian writers who choose to “skip over” these issues in the name of feminism. In 1979, we talk of “old gay” and “butch and femme” roles as if they were ancient history. We toss them aside as merely patriarchal notions. And yet, the truth of the matter is that I have sometimes taken society’s fear and hatred of lesbians to bed with me. I have sometimes hated my lover for loving me. I have sometimes felt “not woman enough” for her. I have sometimes felt “not man enough.” For a lesbian trying to survive in a heterosexist society, there is no easy way around these emotions. Similarly, in a white-dominated world, there is little getting around racism and our own internalization of it. It’s always there, embodied in some one we least expect to rub up against.
Cherríe Moraga, “La Güera” in This Bridge Called My Back
On reading my stories, one might believe that Holmes and I have
always been as we became, co-conspirators in everything. This was not at
all the case. To begin with, I was a little in awe of him. Sherlock
Holmes is possessed of an abundant and even unreasonable vitality, while
I had entered upon our association in broken health. I was a young man,
then, but moved like an old one, having compounded the effects of fresh
war-wounds with the constitutional damage wrought by a dangerous fever,
contracted in the recovery wards of Peshawar. Upon my return to English
shores, amid the slow rebuilding of my strength–painful walks on
warmer days and silent nights at home, studying the medical advances
which I could not yet put into practice–stretching my shoulders and
shifting my hip against the aching trail of the Jezail bullets–I felt
my limits keenly. Holmes seemed limitless.
I had had enough of
human suffering by then to weary me deeply. I bore a kind of exhaustion
of the soul which put me in precisely the frame of mind to appreciate
Holmes’ endless speculative talk, his boundless enthusiasm. I listened,
first amused by the extravagance of his confident assertions, and then
astonished to find him capable of proving every one. He was more than
talk; he was action, decision, adventure. His singular spirit animated a
body which, slender, and used more to study than to sport, still seemed
capable of exceeding the energy of every criminal in London. When
presented with a question he could not solve by talk alone, he would
begin his own investigations; put on the clothes of a gentleman and
infiltrate glittering clubs and great men’s homes, or affect a workman’s
tongue, and go among builders and craftsmen in search of information.
As I went to my rest, I would see him just leaving, poorly dressed to
maintain his anonymity, for a sleepless night about in the vile miasmas
of the back alleys of London. He never seemed to suffer for it. Upon
conclusion of such a case he would sleep until noon for three days
running, and then return to an ordinary schedule, with the
constitutional elasticity of a boy in school. He delighted in the
demands of his work. I only saw him restless and worn under the pressure
of several weeks of perfect peace.