i hate the way this turned out

i. I miss you. each day that you’ve been gone has felt like a bullet hole in my chest, and whenever I try to pull it out another one takes its place. I’ve missed you so much that looking at you hurts, because all it does is bring back everything I’ve ever felt for you and suddenly I can’t breathe. so whenever you look at me and I turn away, please don’t take that as an “I hate you,” but an “I hate that I can’t look at you without dying inside.”

ii. you are beautiful. you are so lovely in your own conventional way that everyone else are flecks of brown and gray. you are wildflowers in june, the eye of a hurricane, city lights at midnight, sunlight through glass. there is nothing manufactured, nothing plastic about your eyes formed from stars and the freckled marks of the earth sprayed across your cheeks.


iii. I will never leave you. I know the last time you let me in your heart I fumbled and let it break, but please forgive me. I was blindsided and weak and I will gladly spend forever making up my mistakes to you. I have always loved you and always will, it just took me a little longer to realize. but you always knew this, and if you’re still sure then say the word and I will be too.


iv. I love you. not the kind of traditional, puppy-eyed love, but the kind that breaks down walls and can be heard from miles away. the kind that romeo and juliet died for, the kind that our grandparents live for. I love you the same way the ocean loves the shoreline, and no matter how many times I am drawn away, I will always find my way back to you.

—  all I ever wanted to hear

Gentrification creates a stifling homogeneity in urban areas that makes it less suited for the everyday lives of the lower class and more suited towards the leisure and tourism of those with expendable income.

An old, decrepit laundromat gets replaced by an upscale bakery? And people are mad? It’s not that the poor hate organic vegan cupcakes, it’s that most of us don’t have a way to do laundry in our own home.

Run-down corner stores replaced by hand-made designer clothing boutiques? We don’t hate your eco-fabric shawl, but I can’t eat that for dinner after work like I could have a can of beans I grabbed from that corner store when I don’t have time to take the bus to the real grocery store after work.

What gentrification brings in and of itself is not typically bad, it’s that gentrification brings institutions of leisure and pleasure and makes it so that the poor have to go farther out of their way for basic necessities. It turns low-income living spaces into local tourist attractions. It can even create food deserts by putting restaurants, grocery stores, etc. in that the majority of the lower class cannot afford.

Imagine if someone totally renovated your house and turned it into a mini theme park - they took away your sleeping space, where you prepare food, where you clean yourself and get ready for your day, and replaced it with things that will please people who are visiting, who have their own homes they can go back to, who are here not for their entire life but just as a distraction from their otherwise mundane existence. It’s not that you hate theme parks, it’s not like you’ve never been to a theme park and vow to never visit one again. It’s just that you need to live! To survive! And the leisure of those who have more than you should not invalidate your existence.

Some Teenage Angst Zimmermann Thoughts

- Jack Zimmermann had a crap ton of cliche teen angst and has at some point said the following things to his parents “ugh….you just don’t get it!” “Gawd your so humiliating…Papa stop waving he see’s you! People can see.” and “Mama I am not wearing that to school! i don’t care if it was on the runway in Milan last week it has feathers!” 

-Jack had a boombox in his room and whenever he was feeling particularly Extra he’d turn it up all the way and blast French Rap, which Bad Bob Zimmermann hated so much it made him want to set the boombox on fire. 

- Jack has a tongue piercing…he absolutely does…he 100% has a tongue piercing you can ply this head cannon away from my cold dead hands. This closeted-Emo grumpy motherfucker has a fucking tongue piercing. (when Bitty finds out thats a whole other post all together) (when Shitty finds out Thats a whole other post all together) Surprisingly when Bob saw it, he just rolled his eyes. Alicia almost had a heart attack. “He put a hole in his tongue Bob….HE’S SIXTEEN!” 

-Whenever Jack was angry at his Dad, he’d show up at Hockey games wearing the opposing teams Jersey. “Hey Bob, What the fucks your son doing in a Senators Jersey?” “I’m making him miss hockey practice to go to Alicia’s movie premiere.”

-Jack once wrote a paper on how Henri Richards ( the record holder for the most Stanley cup wins) was his hero, and Bob said belligerently ‘ Jack I’m your father, i’ve won two Stanley cups!’ and Jack replied ‘Yes but have you won eleven?’ 

-Pre overdose Jack has one thousand percent snuck out of the house to go to a party, and I assume they live in a three-four story detached family home that looks more like a castle than a house with an iron gate and electronic locks and the whole nine, so imagine not only a pubescent and drunk Jack Zimmermann trying to climb down and scale the wall of that house but also trying to climb a giant iron fence at two in the morning and getting caught by his father with a flashlight a robe and bunny slippers. 

-Jack Zimmermann has experimented with both girls and boys in the confines of his room and at many high school house parties and has come home covered in hickies that look like he got slapped in the neck with a puck and Alicia just about loses her mind…Bob snaps a picture for his embarrassing Jack Photo collection. 

-Bad Bob does that Dad thing where he rhymes everything and thinks it’s hilarious like “Hey Papa this is my friend Paul-” “Oh yeah, paul eh? tall paul from montreal? Gonna have a ball?” Jack’s facial expression is a solid mix between wanting somebody to mercy kill him and wanting someone to mercy kill his father. He later gets back at him by wearing a leafs jersey to one of his games (the leafs weren’t even playing)

- Alicia makes the whole family do a professionally done Christmas photo every year to send to family in matching Christmas sweaters. Jack believes he had burned them all in the great cleansing of ‘09′. It’s not until Shitty’s multimedia best man speech at his wedding that he realized his father had kept electronic copies and a very embarrassing photo of Jack with a floppy Bieber fringe, eyeliner, a serious scowl, and a bright red sweater that has a giant stocking sewn on his broadcast for his utter humiliation. 

-Jack wrote lyrics on his shoes in permanent marker. These weren’t eighty dollar converse…these were 2000 dollar Rick Owens running shoes his Mom brought back from France. 

i. I absolutely cannot stand the snares of your hands,
or how I catch myself on your barbed wire mouth,
when I choke on your gasoline voice,
or cut myself on your switchblade fingers.
I loathe these weapons of yours more than I loathe the actual tangible knifes you keep hidden under your sleeves.
I hate that somebody did something so awful to you that you were forced to wear hatred as a second skin.
I hate myself more that I wasn’t there to shield you from it.


ii. I wonder how different our lives would be if we had been switched.
Me: Andrew.
You: Aaron.
Me: Given up on.
You: Kept.
Would everything turn out the same? Would we have led completely different lives? Would we be broken again? Made whole?
(Would she have hit you, too?)
(Would he have used me, too?)


iii. I hear the way people talk about you when you’re not there.
Like you’re this awful thing.
Like they’ve taken a bite out of you and realized you’ve gone bad in the middle.
When they speak, they’re trying to get the taste of you out of their mouths,
Spitting and spitting until there’s nothing left to expel.
Sometimes I want to say something.
Sometimes I want to argue.
But we come from the same batch, after all.
How can I argue when I taste just as bad as you do?


iv. I went to the Circle K around the corner one night and bought myself a pack of cigarettes: the same brand you use.
I stood outside and popped one in my mouth,
lit it with unpracticed hands.
I had seen you do this so often,
I thought maybe it would come almost naturally, like I had been the one catching fire to things all these years instead of you.
But the weight of it felt so wrong between my fingers,
the motions unfitting for me,
the taste acidic and raw and awful.
It reminded me too much of him—of that stray dog that follows you around all day—and less like you,
less like home.
I’m trying to understand this. I’m trying to be okay with you-and-him.
But there are some things that people shouldn’t get in the way of. This was one of them.
The box cost $7.89 and screamed your name. I didn’t even hesitate when I threw it away.


v. Every once and a while I’ll dream about that night.
Sometimes it’s me instead of you, or I can’t move at all and I’m forced to watch, or I beat him over and over but he keeps getting back up.
Either way, the entire time you’re just laughing.
Like I told a joke and you think it’s the funniest thing in the world.
I’m beating him to death and sloshing his blood around and you’re laughing like you’re at a comedy show.
Whenever I wake up from those dreams, I never want to sleep ever again.


vi. I never understand our fights.
Normal people throw around words they don’t mean and slam doors they would usually leave ajar.
But us?
We fight like our lives are on the line.
We fight like it’s a race and there’s only one winner.
You leave me aching and I leave you waterlogged.
We become such ferocious animals, all sharp teeth and heavy claws, ripping and tearing without a care to give.
The entire world comes to a stop when we have even the slightest disagreement,
a spotlight shining down to showcase our own personal brand of hate.
I sometimes wonder if that’s us making up for lost time.
All those years we never got to spend fighting like brothers.
Maybe we’re finally making up for that.
Maybe we’re trying to meet our quota before our time is up.
Before we can’t fight anymore.


vii. One time when you weren’t looking, I stole one of your pills.
I saved it for when you wouldn’t be around and swallowed it dry, felt it run down my throat.
I thought that if they made you smile all the time, maybe they’d make me smile, too.
But all I felt was this hallow ache in my chest,
like something bad had grabbed hold of me from the inside.
I was used to flying high, higher than most people would dream to go,
But this was just wrong on so many levels.
It lasted only four hours before I started to wind down, but that was one of the longest four hours of my life.
I wasn’t happy. But I smiled anyway. I couldn’t stop. My cheeks hurt after.
I think I understood you a little better after that day.


viii. I voted to name your cat Sir Fat Cat McCatterson. And I’m not even sorry.


ix. (I’m sorry.)


x. I love you.

—  Ten Things Aaron Wants To Tell Andrew (But Never Will)

i hate it when senile old ppl try to drive because they’ll be out here with like, two cataracts and a hearing aid doing whatever they want on the road just assuming everyone around them will be able to deal with them driving over curbs, swerving turns 40mph into parking lots, and going the wrong direction down one way streets because they couldn’t read the sign

WHAT AN ENTP WANTS TO SAY TO ALL OF THE TYPES.

RATIONALS (NT)

ENTJ-  You scare me. You are such and incredible leader, how do you do that?? But also I hate authority and feel a need to disagree with you at every turn because you’re so bossy. You’re not as cool as you think you are, but you’re almost as cool as you think you are and that’s pretty damn cool. Be my friend.

ENTP- Fuckin’ chill out you memelord. You’re either coasting through life or putting WAY to much effort into shit. You’re a bit of a narcissistic fuck but you’re still my favourite type (*coughs*). You’re too excitable and too much of a dick and you’re personality doesn’t make sense. Stop being mean to you’re friends. Learn to be more comfortable with emotions, it’ll be important later on in life. Be the friend that can cheer others up with jokes when they don’t really wanna talk about what’s wrong.

INTJ- You’re cool, you get shit done and you’re a bit of a supervillian. What’s not to love? You’re a rare bird. There aren’t many of you out there, but you are important. If you weren’t here, who else would the ENFP’s annoy? You’re a behind the scenes leader most of the time, pulling the strings from a safe (and smart distance) but you aren’t afraid to get you’re hands dirty. You’re good at shit.But don’t forget, you’re not superhuman. Remember other people have these pesky things called emotions, be wary of them STILL i want you to be proud of you’re inherent assholeness.

INTP-  Mad scientist. I’m constantly searching for your approval because of my unresolved daddy issues and it freaks me out. Yes, you are a daddy. Some of you have your heads shoved up a little too far in you’re own arse. Just because you’re introverted and intuitive and darn cold, does not make you better than others honey. Basically, you’re a condescending shit. But hey I still put you on this weird pedestal, so we’re both guilty. You’re the genius on tv shows that isn’t diagnosed but falls on the aspergers spectrum somewhere.

IDEALISTS (NF)

ENFJ-  Baby, I worship the ground you walk on. You are so cool, calm and controlled while still being awesome, enthusiastic and excitable. Don’t be my friend, date me. But stop trying to fix everything. Think about yourself a lil okay buddy, and use logic sometimes too. Actually scratch all that, you’re perfect, I love you.

ENFP-  You are a beautiful, annoying bastard. You’re too nice and I don’t feel comfortable making mean jokes at your expense (because you’d probably take it seriously and cry yourself to sleep), but you have effortless charm. Stop thinking about the individual and start thinking about the bigger picture, you’re not realistic. Be my friend, but not like close friend, y'know.

INFP-  Hello, the human equivalent of tumblr. Fuck. People either love you or hate you. I don’t know where I fall on that scale tbh. Sometimes you’re just a little too much honey, I’m not sensitive enough for you. Other times you are too precious for this world and I just wanna wrap you up in a blanket and protect you. I am strangely attracted to you despite how awkward you probably think you are. You have a lot of knowledge in that head of yours. Be that person I have a weird co-dependant relationship with, that really isn’t healthy but I can’t exactly live without you and I’m not sure why.

INFJ- Ah INFJ, I haven’t met many of you but BOY, are the ones I know pretentious. You’re one of the least common MBTI type, and you probably know and take pride in this. You’re good at reading people, I know, but you can just talk to me instead of analyse from a distance bud. You’re ultimately very cool and creative, a little bit of a know it all but it’s justified. You’re a sweet bundle of joy and I love you. Be my best friend. You’re good at being a friend. Really good.

GAURDIANS (SP)

ESFP-  I like you a lot kid, you remind me of a younger me. We shouldn’t get along but I love/envy you. You’re caring and you have a great childlike spirit. Make some art and ramble to me some more. I seriously appreciate you so much. You bring me back down to  the ‘now’ with you’re crazy impulsive attitude and caring demeanour. Just learn to listen to me a lil more when I tell you you’re thinking with you’re heart instead of you’re brain again. You do it a lot, buddy. Be my lover.

ESTP-  You’re cool man. You’re Ferris Bueler. You’re a salesman that’s constantly selling me on your personality. Look we get it, you’re good with one liners and you’re athletic and everyone loves you, but also hey, think about others you little sociopathic flirt. Also, sometimes people really DO know more than you, I know! Crazy. Be my Idol.

ISFP-  You probably reaallly like music. Chill out buddy, I don’t know much about you but you seem stressed and too fierce for ur adorable demeanour. I know you are your own individual beautiful creative person, you don’t need to tell me. People DO care about you, i know sometimes you doubt that, but you got this life in the bad. You’ll probably never grow out of your angsty teen years tbh but it’s okay, find yourself an ISFJ and you’ll be okay.

ISTP-  So you’re just as cool but less attainable, loner ESTP. You’re in control of your own everything but also out of control and mildly self destructive? Be the mysterious kid I rarely talk to, but everytime I do I fall in love with you a little bit.

ARTISANS (SJ)

ESFJ-  Hey there soldier. In the best case scenario, you’re cutie Monica Geller, that’s a lil anal and mildly manipulative but really! very! sweet!. In the worst case scenario you are literally my worst nightmare. Your the squad’s glue tho. Sometimes you offer a cool third perspective, but you over simplify things and don’t try to understand my crazy theories and that’s annoying. Learn to get over yourself a lil, stop playing the victim buddy and compromise. Be my friend in a few years when you learn to self reflect better.

ESTJ-  You’re a manipulative bitch. You’re so judgemental, you’re Rachel McAdams in Mean Girls. You’re pretty cool. Even more of a rampant psycho than ENTJ. I don’t like you all that much (and something tells me you don’t really care) but I respect you a LOT. Stay a safe distance away from me and please don’t judge me. You’re too savage.

ISFJ-  Hey my emo saviour. You understand everybody and nobody truly understands you. You’re the reliable Colin Firth that the world of Bridget Jones’s run to after their crazy escapades with Hugh Grant. Just remember to have standards baby, and don’t accept everyone that runs into you’re arms. You’re worth more than what most people are willing to give. Be my favourite sweet emotional little kid brother (even if you are female.)

ISTJ-  You say 'interesting’ a lot. If life were a tv show, you’d be a sassy little hate muffin that tumblr idolised that everyone would remark didnt get enough screen time. You’re all business and sometimes you should let down that gaurd fam :) Think about people a little bit more bud. I respect you. I’ll be your friend! But it will probably take three years to build up our relationship and it will probably be accidental, but im here for u anyway.

it’s 2016 i have nothing to lose anymore and i’m applying to a famous writer via the broken website tumblr.hell and

i think, although i meant this to be funny, although some part of me wants you to laugh with me at the absurdity of the century: i think there’s something pretty beautiful in the way that we as a generation handle our impossibilities. 

i don’t know. message your heroes. message the people who wrote your heroes. we are living the age of ramen noodles, we have nothing to lose. and that makes us silly with bravery. we say, “sure” and fill out the job application because we’ve already been turned down by the rest of them. we send in twenty college applications because we’re going to be rejected by at least some of them. we post poems we hate and make our art a tour of our personal demons. we fear nothing. what will you do? we are already hungry and homeless or close to it. we might as well be risk-takers.

i’m never getting hired by joss whedon. he’ll never go look at my writing. and that’s kind of okay. all of you out there who know it will never happen, who are writing and drawing and living anyway: thank you for being the superheroes of the modern day.

I feel like we don’t talk about Draco/Astoria enough ??

Like after the war Draco is basically hated on both sides because the death eaters are like “you’re a fucking coward and so are your parents” but everyone else is like “you’re a disgusting death eater” bUT here is this girl who fucking loves him to death and shows him light when he’s in a really dark place takes all the pieces of this broken boy and puts him back together and he loves her so much that he stands up to his PARENTS for her,,, (something he never does),,,and marries her despite what anybody thinks and they just love and care for each other so much that they lock themselves away from society and spend everyday together and decide to have a child for THEMSELVES. Not for the pureblood, not to continue the family name, for them and their love for each other. And Draco’s so devastated when she dies that he literally has to restrain himself e v e r y d a y from using dark magic just to spend one more fucking minute with her and I feel like their love is so overlooked and ??? Honestly I’m just really emotional about Draco and Astoria

8

I was lost in the darkness. I couldn’t find my way. As I stumbled through the dark, I started forgetting things - my friends, who I was. The darkness almost swallowed me. But then I heard a voice - your voice. You brought me back.

I didn’t want to just forget about you, Sora. I couldn’t.

I think about you constantly.

I wonder what life would be like if you were still here. I imagine all of the things you’d say. I imagine all of the different adventures we would have gone on.

I wonder who I would be if you were here. I wonder what we would all be like. I think about all of the different ways things would’ve turned out with you in our lives.

I miss you all the time. I miss you so much that my heart hurts. My heart literally clenches tightly when I think of you, as though it’s trying to hold itself together while my thoughts try and tear it apart.

Time is supposed to heal all wounds but, it seems as though time just provided me with a band-aid that gets old and falls off more often than not.

I know you’d hate it, but I still cry for you. I still sit up at night and wish that you were here. I still talk to you and ask you for advice.

I can’t help but want you here. Life has moved on but my heart and emotions haven’t. I can’t move on.

I have your picture everywhere. I think it’s because I’m afraid that one day I’ll forget your face.

Keep reading

When they’ve got him in the interrogation room every officer seems to have the same question; was it worth it? With all that happened, with how it turned out, the years of drunken revelry, the constant media attention, the heists, the hubris, the way it ended in a bloodbath the likes of which Los Santos has never seen. This is your legacy Ramsey, was it worth it?

They ask like his answer means anything, ask like they even care what he thinks, ask like they don’t think he feels anything at all. They ask like it wasn’t his plans that brought him here. Like it wasn’t his plans the led to six body bags and a single pair of handcuffs, a room full of tactless officers and a kingpin with no one left to call crew. They ask like can’t help themselves from asking.

Was it worth it?



There’s never a serious discussion, no big heart to heart, but there’s no escaping the fact that the Fake’s all know they are dying in slow motion. More or less signed their own death certificate’s years ago, living on stolen time, and sooner or later they’ll find themselves in the ground.

They took Los Santos by storm and defended it with their lives. With each others lives. Have sacrificed themselves and the ones they love to a city that takes no prisoners. They fought hard for their crown, and kept on fighting every single day to succeed, to profit, to reaffirm themselves as the city’s biggest bads. They knew that they would only be unstoppable until they aren’t. Until the day they fall, and eventually they must fall.  

Even after all the years of action, all the blood, sweat and tears they’ve poured into this empire, everyone knows there is no such thing as retirement for the Fake AH Crew; for all they’ve already trained their own successors the frontrunners of the reigning crew in Los Santos will never be allowed to simply step down and move aside when their time is over. Between old enemies and constant rivals, members of law enforcement and anyone simply looking to boost their own reputation, there are countless numbers who would hunt them to the ends of the earth. Everyone knows, one way or another, the FAHC is going out bloody.

And by god, did they go out bloody.



The Fake’s die halfway through the afternoon on a Tuesday. What a fucking inconsequential day right? They were owed a Friday at the very least, were meant to go out past midnight, meant to go out in a blaze of glory. They were meant to go out all together. They weren’t meant to go out at all.  

The wheels fell off weeks before, a series of questionable jobs and public fights, a level of disorder totally out of line with the crew’s trademark cohesion. Rumour has it they were rife with in-fighting. Rumour has it after all this time the cracks were finally showing. Its easy, afterwards, to read into the events that came before, to manufacture clues, to swear the writing was on the wall for anyone to see. In reality no one saw it coming. In reality the whole damn city was taken by surprise.

Maybe they bit off more than they could chew, maybe they were distracted, out of sync, or maybe it was just the inevitable finally catching up with them but in the end the Fake’s wind up in a firefight they aren’t winning. After endless years of near misses and close calls, of lucky runs and brilliant timing, after thousands of impossible victories, the FAHC finally lost.

To lose like this, picked off one by one, powerless to save themselves, to save each other, must have been their worst nightmare. With every body on the ground those left only grew more furious, more reckless, lose whatever feeble grasp on self-preservation they ever had, throwing away any possibility of retreat in favour of retribution. It wasn’t enough.

In the end the only one left breathing on either side is Ramsey. The scene finally gone still, silent, the echoes of screams and gunfire fading away into a shivery stunned kind of shock. They say Ramsey’d fallen to his knees amongst the grime, iconic suit near indistinguishable under all the dirt and ash, the blood of men and women who thought they’d live forever. He kneels there in silence while sirens grow ever louder, makes no move to flee, doesn’t even look up from bodies as cars scream to a stop around him.

The messed up thing, the really fucked up part? They say Ramsey was laughing by the time the police got there. Say he stood and brushed himself off, surrounded by the bodies of those he claimed family, drenched sickly red while his empire lay in ruins, and laughed. And god doesn’t that confirm what everyone’s always thought, doesn’t that just prove he always was a monster. Never cared for anyone, for anything, not really. People used to say the one thing Geoff loved was his crew but it seems Ramsey’s cold-blooded ruthlessness won out in the end.



In the fallout of a travesty, of a victory, of an unexpected bloodbath, in a stark grey room faced with a distressingly apathetic villain, in circumstances none could have predicted, all the detectives seem capable of asking is if it was worth it in the end. They ask and ask and Ramsey’s answer never changes, his cold smirk never fades, so calm and unconcerned they catch him glancing at the clock, as though he’s bored. As though even now he’s got somewhere better to be. And still, full of horrified disbelief, they have to ask.

Was it worth it? Yes. Was it worth it? Always. Knowing what you know now, knowing how it ends, how they all go down for you, would you do it all again? Every damn time. Surely you have regrets, you had to know one day it would end like this.  

Oh baby, who says it’s over?



It comes together as a joke more than anything, the cumulation of too many late nights followed by too many bad movies. Their last job was tense, a heist with months of preparations and so much on the line, and while they’ve certainly celebrated their victory like royalty they didn’t come away unscathed. The injuries, numerous though mostly minor, serve to once again remind them all how lucky they’ve been so far. How most don’t make it nearly this many years without tragedy, couldn’t be in the game this long, let alone running the game this long without signing up for devastation. How losing a member, to outright death or crippling injury, is without a doubt only a matter of time at this point. How such a loss will be so much worse in this ridiculously close-knit crew than any they’d experienced before.

Sobering thoughts, combined with the difficulties of winding down after endless weeks of  stress eventually leads to the discussion they never have, the question of what else they could be doing with their lives, what choices brought them here, what they would do if they could just step out, sign off, retire. It’s not that they’re bored of this life they’ve built – how could they be when the world is their oyster – but there’s no denying the fact that after all this time terrorising Los Santos doesn’t quite thrill them like it used to.

If you’d asked any of them ten, five, hell even two years ago they’d have scoffed at the idea of ever retiring, would have sworn up and down that they wanted to go down in flames, to end with a bang, and at the time they meant it. At the time it was true. It still is, in a way, they’ll probably always see something dreadfully appealing in going out on top, but with every passing year it’s harder and harder to look at a room full of people they love and consider playing a role in their deaths. Every time they get hurt it takes a little longer to heal, the old aches and pains are becoming more prominent, and their ever growing patchwork of scars have started looking less badge of honour than they do morbid countdown. Obviously they’ve still got it, still in their prime enough to keep their crown, but between age and gratuitous injury, time is creeping up on them all.

The Fake’s used to joke about the end, said whoever lasted longest won, got to make off with the fortunes, live like a king, but that reality isn’t quite so funny anymore. The idea of surviving, of being left behind with nothing but cold hard cash and heyday memories is enough to make them physically ill. So maybe retiring doesn’t seem quite so unappealing anymore.

Maybe a passing comment way too late at night, after far too much mixing of alcohol and pain meds, in the spirit of some dumb con movie they’d all been heckling, was enough to plant an idea. A ridiculous, unrealistic, completely unattainable idea, but still an idea nonetheless. They’re all a bit hung up on it, still joking, still assuring one another that they aren’t serious, but still bringing it up all the same, running through all the possibilities.

It would take far more than simply disappearing; they have too much wealth and notoriety, have far too many enemies, the world is simply too easy a place to comb through these days. People, at least the vast majority of people, would have to be convinced not to come looking. Convinced there was nothing to look for, nothing to track, would have to think the absent members of the Fake AH Crew were in the one place no one could ever reach them.

There are ways, of course, to feign death. For those with the right contacts, with endless money and enough resources, there are ways to trick the body into something close enough to pass, at least for a time. But even then it’s not so simple; there must be witnesses, there must be evidence, crook and cop alike must be sure. Of course with a public death comes increased risk- it wouldn’t do to go so far in their act that appearances became reality, to go to such lengths to imitate death only to wind up that way regardless. Somehow, someone’s going to have to play guardian, prevent anyone’s corpse from catching a stray bullet to the brain, or jerking back to life too late with guts already laid out on an autopsy table. Someone has to be ready to whisk them all away, and who do any of them trust more than the man they’ve been following all these years. The boss they’d die for. The boss they will die for.

They don’t talk about it, because no one wants to admit it might be happening, no one wants to burst the bubble, to invite reality to rush in and crush the unbelievable thought that the Fake’s might get a happy ending, but at some point they stop laughing. At some point they each quietly start getting all their ducks in a row, using their free time to organise their affairs.

No one questions the way Geoff and Jack have started having day-long meetings with the support crew in-between jobs, the way Lindsay’s spending far more of her time recruiting than ever before, the way Gavin’s taking calls at all hours of the day, rarely in english, clearly haggling over something. They don’t wonder why all their money is getting moved around, why Ryan and Michael are busy collecting all outstanding debts while Jeremy and Ray are plotting the layout of the police station, the morgue.

It’s all happening on the down low, all behind business as usual, but eventually, after nearly a year of quiet organisation, they are just about ready to disappear. All that’s left is the bang, the flashy smoke and mirrors, the hook to stop anyone coming after them, anyone even thinking to track them down. One final step, one last decision to make, a choice they must commit to as one or not at all. All they’ve got left to do is die.



Over the years the Fake AH Crew has grown exponentially but the original elements have never drifted apart, never gone looking for something else or turned on one another. The crew has flourished, become a full blown empire, but nothing can touch the unity of the innermost members, as strong now as it have ever been. For all their loyal familiarity was mocked back in the day, for all their closeness was seen as a weakness, after all these years it seems only death itself will seperate them now. If they had the chance to evade their own mortality one last time, to get out, to be free, would they make the leap?



The Fake’s die halfway through the afternoon on a Tuesday. Pattillo, the Vagabond, Mogar and the Golden Boy, Little J and Brownman, but not the boss. Well not on paper anyway – any who knew them must know Ramsey’d never recover from the loss. Any who didn’t just know the LSPD took seven bodies away that day and none of them ever came back. It’s not a stretch to assume Ramsey’s survival was a rumour. To believe it wishful thinking, to say he died at the scene or died at the station, delayed injury or the cops cleaning up the last loose thread of the group who’d made their lives living hell for years.

There’s paperwork out there, somewhere, claiming a different story. A report that barely makes a lick of sense, the sworn record that a kingpin arrived in chains and left with corpses, slipped out of his cell like he was never there, without a hint as to how he got free. He disappeared like smoke, not a trace left behind, and none of the seven alive or dead ever resurfaced. The story is embarrassing, inexplicable, and it reflects badly enough on the LSPD that it is quickly buried.

Even if it hadn’t been there are few who would believe it. Few who could believe for even a moment that Ramsey could walk free and not be with the last of his crew, that he would let another run his empire, run his city, if he was in any way capable of preventing it. No, however it went down Ramsey did not survive. It’s fitting, really. No one can live forever and the OG Fake’s were certainty pushing their luck, had been pushing it for years; a crew that close should go out together.



The Fall of the Fake AH Crew isn’t much of a fall, in the end. The seemingly inevitable power vacuum one would expect following the death of the group who’d been running the city for endless years never comes. It shouldn’t be possible but even after the most devastating loss imaginable the the FAHC isn’t toppled from their throne. They restructure almost overnight; many of the oldest, original members of the support crew bow out, disappear on the wind without a trace, but there are more than enough left behind to fill their shoes. It’s almost perfect, almost unbelievable, some of support shuffling into the spotlight while still more unknown faces are revealed to boost their ranks. Their ability to keep their enemies at bay during the turmoil is impressive enough, but it’s the absence of internal conflicts that is truely boggling; there are no betrayals or executions, no public power plays or jealous feuds, somehow the city’s most scrutinised gang managed to completely restructure after the loss of not just their leader but all their key members without a single hitch. Almost like they were ready, like it was planned.



If the Fake’s had the chance to stay together, to start over somewhere else, stop waiting for the day one of them inevitably doesn’t make it home, but in return they had to step away from the action, give up everything they’d built, hand if off to legacy and fade out into legend, would it be worth it?

Apparently, yes. For all of them, from the moment the possibility arises, throughout every conversation, every debate and consideration, with everything they will lose, with everything they stand to gain, every goddamn time without fail, yes.



Somewhere out there, worlds away from Los Santos, a man sits on a private beach. He isn’t armed with anything more than a beer, there are no weapons, he simply sits upon the sand enjoying the breeze. There’s a woman to his right, sunbathing, a man to his left doing the same; golden tans make their startling number of scars stand out in stark relief but the heat of the sun does wonders for stubborn pains. At the shoreline old friends are knocking shoulders, bumping each other nearer and nearer to the water, not quite rough-housing like little boys but they’re getting close, voices rising on the wind.

The single house behind them is huge and noisy, full of music and chatter, full of monsters and overgrown children, the most loyal humans the man has ever had the honour of knowing. In a brief moment of silence sound from the television drifts down to the beach, an American news anchor reporting the latest infraction of some criminal organisation in a far away city; the house cheers and kicks back into a merry roar. Down by the water there is a betrayal, a splash and screeching protest as one winds up in the waves against his will. Safe on the sand, without a trouble in the world, the man laughs.