the gun is loaded

anonymous asked:

Hi here to talk about kinks and hooo boy theres just something about guns. They're soooo hot ya know? Like someone with a gun who's like. Towering over you? Hot damn. I also read a fic where a guy put a gun up his ass and it was loaded and oof I wanna do that so bad

That’s pretty interesting!! I saw a rlly hot art of someone blowing a gun before, that was great.


Pls be safe though nonnie and if you wanna try gunplay irl, do it with an unloaded guy with the safety on and someone you rlly trust. Also, consider gun shaped dildo’s for insertion - they exist, and are rlly neat.

(This has been a safe kink psa from your friendly neighborhood gore blog)

A super-powered version of the FAHC is an awful, unstoppable thing. Powered humans are rare, sure, but not unheard of; the Fake’s aren’t the only group out there defying reality in broad daylight. What makes them so remarkable, so formidable and distressingly hard to combat, is the way they use those powers. The way each member has taken their gift and twisted it, pulled and torn and stretched it to unforeseen territory, used their powers in ways no one else has even dreamed. Ways most could only imagine in their worst nightmares.

Ryan might be the most obvious example, the clearest illustration of the perversion of abilities, power turned on its head and used against its intention. He’s inspired them all, one way or another, to push their powers to the limits, into shapes they don’t belong in, powerful and strange and noticeably tarnished. On anyone else Ryan’s gift would be one of healing, of hope and restoration, empathetic and inherently altruistic. Its not a power most would associate with a life of crime, outside perhaps a medic, definitely not one most would pick for a mercenary, for the infamously deadly Vagabond. Ryan though, he’s never been one to let a little thing like reason set him back, never felt constrained by expectation, and he wasn’t about to let his powers derail his goals. Ryan has taken the ability to heal and broken it down into stages, approached inexplicable magic like a scientist, methodically identifying how to extract the exact elements he was after. He has the power to heal, yes, but what can be healed may also decay, that which can be stitched back together may just as easily be disassembled; it is no more difficult to displace blood than it is to correctly route it. With a touch Ryan can stop hearts, can rend tissue and implode organs. He can push natural reactions into overdrive, can encourage minor ailments into unstoppable disease, convince various systems to shut down without exposure to extreme circumstance. The only limit is Ryan’s own bountiful creativity, and while it might not be what people expect from the Vagabond he wouldn’t swap his abilities for anything.

Jeremy can change his density at will. Becoming immensely dense has some obvious uses in their world; bullets literally bouncing off his skin and fists that can shatter bones with a single punch, but becoming unnaturally light has just as many applications. Jeremy can change his weight mid-jump to achieve inhuman distance, can fall from great heights without a parachute, can climb sheer walls and hold his entire body up on the tip of a finger. There is no weight Jeremy cannot lift, no wall or door that can keep him out, let alone cuffs or bars to contain him. If Jeremy does not want to move there is physically no way to make him, and if he sets his sights on destroying something little can be done to stop him.

Geoff can communicate telepathically. This comes in handy when getting a hold of his crew, so long as they are within his range he can speak to them comms or no, but they are not the only ones he can speak to. All it takes is some connection, long term emotional links allow for greater distance but as long as Geoff is looking at someone he can get into their mind. Can sneer at police officers, whisper threats to rivals, force unsuspecting strangers to have the most peculiar thoughts and terrify anyone who tries to stand in his way. While Geoff can only really scrape through the top level of someones mind, more emotion and direct thoughts than any deep secrets, it is no great difficulty to convince people that he sees a lot more. Let them feel him poking around, quote a few stray thoughts back at them and suddenly not only do his victims believe he sees all but they are much more likely to think loudly about the very things they hope he doesn’t notice. Geoff can push images as easily as word, useful when sharing a story but even more so as a form of torture; he can fill minds with his darkest thoughts, plague dreams with images from his nastiest nightmares, provide a personalised hell that is impossible to escape from.

Michael controls heat. It’s a power people tend to fear, think it synonymous with mastery over fire, imagine sparking fingers and raging infernos. Which, to be fair, isn’t wholly inaccurate, but is hardly the extent of Michael’s power. He can create fire sure, can raise the temperature to extremes in pinpointed locations to ignite a room, but he doesn’t need to. Michael can press heat straight into a body, can warm someone up or cook them from the inside out, can burn slowly or kill in an instant. His powers extend to objects too, he can melt metals, boil water, absorb and deflect heat, and set off explosives. While people don’t associate it with him the way the do fiery rage, what can go up can of course also go down. Michael can drop the temperature, can produce dangerous frost and sharp ice shards, freeze someone in water and induce frostbite with a simple touch. Michael is completely unbothered by extreme temperatures, can render himself undetectable on thermal imaging cameras and change the temperature of objects so suddenly they shatter. Even those who flee aren’t safe; careening into danger as roads are  suddenly coated in black ice or bubble and melt beneath flaming tires.

Ray can multiply himself, a series of duplicates capable of drawing fire and completing simple tasks. They were once mere mindless echoes of his actual self, near translucent and noticeably different if you looked closely enough, quickly giving birth to the term Ghost Ray when describing them. They didn’t stay that way though, Ray quietly practising and practising until they not only solidified but he could split his conciousness between them, could act as all bodies simultaneously and be in half a dozen places at once. It’s disconcerting, the way they all look real now. The way they all are Ray now, will fade away like they were never there when Ray lets them go, or when they die, but until then he can be in any and all of them at once. It bears thinking about, considering some die. Considering one stays. Considering the way Ray doesn’t like to talk about it, practises late at night and sends his selves off on private missions, laughs and deflects and fades away.

Jack can manipulate the wind; her jets are always boosted and her cars caught and righted before they can ever spin out, while any who pursue her find themselves shoved off the roads. She can deflect bullets, catch plummeting bodies and stir up various weather phenomena. As though this was not enough Jack’s power over the air allows her to create small vacuums, granting her the ability to suck oxygen from a room. To steal it right out of lungs, suffocating her opponents without lifting a finger to touch them. Alone she is more than dangerous, but Jack has always worked best with others. Her powers are particularly effective when combined with Michael or Jeremy; catching Jeremy up and hurling him like a canon ball and taking ice or flame and whirling them into deadly tornadoes. She can, just as effectively, force them all to calm down when things start getting out of hand; wind separating fights, extinguishing fires, airless pockets keeping anyone from storming away in a huff, and being sudden drenched by rain provides a wholly undignified end to any petty squabbles.

Gavin’s power is all about luck. It’s not the most exciting power at first glance; he can see probabilities, split-second calculations that manifest in inexplicable feelings, knowing just when to duck, when to take a detour, when to blow off a meeting and stay home instead. It’s not a power most people would associate with violent crime, rather imagine lotto winnings and effortless celebrity, but most people aren’t Gavin. It was simple intuition at first; shoot now, trust him, buy the ticket, check your phone. But Gavin, being Gavin, pressed for more. Worked out how to manipulate his own luck instead of relying on chance, concentrating on what he wants so his powers bend around him, gift evolving from simple suggestions into something else all together. When Gavin assures himself that all he needs in the world is to shoot his way out of a situation there is no way he will be unlucky enough have a gun run empty, when he needs to make a purchase he will never have the misfortune of running out of money, when he settles himself as the frontman of the FAHC none will be lucky enough to resist his charms. Now that he knows how to push, the limits of Gavin’s power are completely unknown – the least visibly impressive and yet the possibilities are as astounding as they are impossible. He needed a worthy crew, so he found one; they desired power, so they got it; it would be unlucky to die, so they don’t.

2

A toddler has shot and killed someone every week for the last two years

  • Toddlers have shot about one person a week for the past two years.
  • The problem speaks to the ubiquity and normalcy of guns in the U.S. and childrens’ access to loaded guns.
  • Guns can be found in one in three homes with children.
  • Around 1.7 million of those children have easy access to loaded guns, which owners failed to lock away.
  • As part of this lobby to promote gun safety laws, the Brady Campaign created ToddlersKill.org, a site which catalogues the epidemic of toddler-led gun violence. Read more

You know the Lads would be a fucking nightmare if they were kidnapped. Not the irritation of Geoff’s sarcastic drawl, the disquieting politeness of Jack’s unerring calm or the terrifying menace of Ryan’s entire existence, but a full blown regret all your choices, please god take them back nightmare.

Ray not so much; he shoots off a few snarky comments then closes his eyes and settles down, for all intents and purposes appearing to go to sleep despite the chains on his wrists and the cold concrete cell they’ve been locked in. Just sleeps and refuses to stir, limp and unaffected by anything from physical pain to the yells of his crew-mates. It’s an infuriatingly difficult reaction to combat and eventually their captors just give up and ignore him.

It’s impossible to ignore their other three captives though; they’re fucking loud, for one. Michael is throwing insults around left and right from the moment he opens his eyes, from the state of their lodging to the intelligence of their captors and everything in between; no threat works to shut him up and hurting any of the others only makes him exponentially louder. Michael calls out every ridiculous statement and every ineffective torture technique as though he’s merely watching a bad movie rather than living through one.

Jeremy is nearly as vocal as Michael though not nearly so straight forward about it; Jeremy drips sarcasm as he pushes every question back against his asker, inviting them to share where they stole their ideas from, who they thought they were kidding with this whole big bad act, if they’d chosen their last words yet. He and Gavin goad each other into increasingly absurd conversations whenever things are getting too tense, and Jeremy repeatedly acts like he’s broken and is ready to talk only to whisper another dumb pun into the interrogator’s ear; cackling wildly at his own jokes even as he spits blood.

Gavin flips back and forth between antagonising and commiserating, endearing himself to their enemies only to pick on their weaknesses and instigate in-fighting. He critiques their captors like they are on even footing, scathingly judgmental and haughtily unimpressed, identifying soft spots for Michael to tear into. For all his ability to deflect the anger of other people Gavin’s never been great at sitting back and watching his boys get hurt, so when things get a little too heated his comments tend to get more vicious and offensive. He twists deep into every insecurity, grinning wide enough to show all his teeth as he carefully pulls everyones attention back to himself. This honestly only pisses Michael and Jeremy off - Gavin you are a twig alright, just shut up and let the brawlers take the bruises - so soon enough all three are fighting each other as much as their captors, bellowing so loud and incomprehensible that the cell doors rattle and their interrogators are forced to take frequent breaks or risk going deaf.

Another strike against the Lads is their combined impatience; never content to just sit back and wait for the Gents to collect them, no matter how dire or trivial their situation may be. It’s not like the Gents won’t come, it’s not like their arrival wouldn’t be one hell of a show, a firestorm of possessive rage and righteous fury. It’s just that the Lads have never been passive, have always been threat. It’s just that they’re smarter than anyone gives them credit for, and nastier than most could ever imagine. It’s just that the Lads never could let anything slide, lean full force into everything they do and what they do is devastate, what they do is destroy.

The end begins, as most ends do, with a regrettable mistake. With a guard cocky enough to come in on his own, to taunt and jeer and rile them up. A guard green enough to let them see the keys he drops into his pocket, to think himself safe in their shackled presence. He’s clearly not well versed in the art of breathing menace, his efforts are rudimentary and uninspired at best, an embarrassment to the craft, and the Lads play him like a fiddle. He’s frustrated when Gavin lays on the mocking flirtation too heavily, circling behind in a clumsy attempt at intimidation and failing to notice to moment his pocket grows lighter. He rises to the bait when Jeremy sneers out a cutting commentary on his skills, completely missing the flash of silver flicking from Gavin’s hands to Michael’s in the blink of an eye. He turns his back on the three of them to aim a petulant shove at Ray, whose eyes pop back open for the first time in hours, snapping into motion as quick and dangerous as a snake. Ray uses his chained hands to pull himself up and deliver a solid kick, propelling their guard right into Michael’s waiting arms.

It’s unsalvageable after that; not quite quick, by no means clean, but hopelessly unstoppable; something akin to watching a man being torn apart by wild dogs. The rest of the mysterious crew have no chance to intervene, left watching in shocked silence over the security feed, their horror unnervingly acknowledged as the Lads bare their teeth at the cameras, chilling mockeries of real grins, full of promise. It doesn’t get better, the restless energy in the cell only growing as the four efficiently free each other from their remaining binds, laughing and crooning out childish singsongs as they destroy the room; Ready or not here we come.

See, the worst thing about taking the Lads hostage, the very worst part, isn’t their volume or aggression, isn’t the indifference and blatant disrespect. It’s not the looming danger of retribution from the rest of their crew, not even the way they will eventually, inevitably, break themselves free from any restraints. No.

The worst thing is the fact that even when they get out the Lads will not leave. There is no stealth, no mad rush for freedom or careful plans to storm the exit; they won’t escape, at least not until there’s nothing left to escape from. When the Lads break loose they don’t look to regroup, aren’t interested in taking a moment to recover before coming back with support. They want their vengeance and they want it immediately; want compensation for every injury, want to fulfil every promised threat, make good on every nasty laugh and hungry smirk, watch the terrified realisation in the eyes of their prey. When the Lads break loose they want to play.

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.

Interactions with the FAHC can be wildly beneficial; so long as you play by their rules. So long as you pay your dues, defer to Ramsey and fulfil your promises, so long as you remember that for all their wicked laughter the Fake’s do not play around when it comes to threats. When it comes to debts. If you don’t produce what you owe, if you fall behind, try to deceive or slink out of the city, you’ll quickly find yourself hosting an unwelcome visitor.

The FAHC have three key enforcers, three heavyweights who enact the majority of the crew’s dirty work. There are others, of course, some that come and go, some that have other roles, but all of Los Santos recognise these three. The guard dogs, the brawlers, the muscle; the violent core of an inherently dangerous crew, they keep order, deliver punishment, deal with any who grow more problematic than the FAHC are comfortable with.

If they merely accompany one of the others, shadow Ramsey to a meeting or the Frontman to a deal, they’ll be silent warning, visible promise; so long as everything goes to plan they are no danger, unnecessary unless they aren’t. If they come alone though, if one comes knocking all by himself, shit is about to hit the wall and nothing you do or say can stop it. There’s no telling which enforcer will show, and there is great debate surrounding which of the three is the worst, which is the one you should pray to avoid.

The Vagabond is a popular option, the obvious choice for worst of the worst; no one want’s to open the door and see that skull grinning back at them. Nobody wan’t to explain their shortcomings to the boogieman of Los Santos, to the mercenary who’s said to have no mercy, who’s said to have no restraint, whose lust for death is curbed only by the wishes of his master. Everyone’s heard the stories, everyone’s seen the aftermath; the Vagabond is not a man to be taken lightly.

But quietly, privately, some have admitted that when it comes to a shakedown, to a threat and a nasty reminder rather than an actual punishment, a visit from the Vagabond might not be the worst Ramsey has to offer. There’s something meticulous in the Vagabond, something endlessly patient; it’s an unspeakably horrifying quality in a killer, but not quite such a bad thing in an enforcer. He’s terrifying, yes, and if he actually plans on carrying through there is no escape, but in terms of deadlines and ultimatums at least he’s upfront. At least he’s clear; there are rules to interacting with the Vagabond, and so long as you abide by them you won’t attract his ire. He’ll fulfil Ramsey’s wishes to the letter but so long as you keep your head down and your nose clean that’s as far as he will go.

This is not always the case with the Fake AH Crew’s resident short fuse; Jones, Mogar, rage incarnate, the walking personification of destruction. If Jones is sent to knock some heads together there is absolutely nothing stopping him from throwing in a few broken bones for free. As loyal to the boss as the Vagabond but where the mercenary seems willing to carry out orders as requested, Jones likes to embellish on them. There is no overstating the volatile nature of the mans temper; Jones can jump from complete calm to irrevocable rage in the blink of an eye, can seem utterly reasonable one moment and irrationally furious the next.

While fully capable of unexpected bouts of tolerant patience Jones has no time for perceived idiocy, no sympathy for broken promises. He is, in a way, a man of honour and once you’ve lost his respect there’s no coming back. Even those he leaves unscathed may not escape unmarked; like a dog with a bone his disdain will follow you, a dark blot noted by all who fear his wrath. He might not have the same reputation as the Vagabond, might not swing the same flavour of danger, but stories of his temper are no less prevalent, warnings against pinging his radar no less profound. If Jones turns on you not even your gods will protect you.

Then there’s Dooley, Little J, the newest of Ramsey’s attack dogs. Based on looks alone he seems like he could be trouble, compact but visibly strong, handling his weapons with practised ease, but unlike Jones or the Vagabond Dooley always comes in smiling. Comes in with a slap to the shoulder, a friendly chat, some commiseration over the difficulties of the job. It’s easy enough, after that, to think that he’s a light touch. To think Ramsey’s newest enforcer lacks the presence of his partners, lacks their eager viciousness, to think he is easily the best of the three to have turn up at your door. Foolish.

See, for all that banter Little J is no less committed to his crew, no less judgemental of your disappointing display, no less breathtakingly ruthless. When the Vagabond brings up your failings he gets begging. When Jones sneers at your incompetence he gets excuses. When Little J asks about the complications you had, friendly and understanding and naively inexperienced, you’ll open right up. You’ll spill your fucking guts, and he’ll let you. He’ll listen and nod in all the right places, he’ll smile like you’re buddies and you’ll be so sure you’ve gotten away with it that you’ll fail to notice the way he never let go of your shoulder. The way he never stepped out of your space. You’ll keep digging your own grave right up until his hand tightens and shoves you into a wall, until he holds you there effortlessly despite your struggles, until he leans in close and explains just how badly you’ve messed up. There’s no room for excuses now, not after you’ve admitted everything, no chance to change your story; all you can do is nod, is agree, is promise and grovel and plead, say whatever it is you need to say before Dooley is satisfied. He’ll step back then, let you go and straighten your shirt, clap you on the shoulder as he turns to leave, still chattering away like nothing happened. Still smiling like you’re buddies.  

There’s great debate about which of Ramsey’s enforcers is the most intimating, which would be the worst option to find knocking at your door. Its a conversation with no resolution, an eternal loop; they argue about the worst, because god knows which of the three is the best. God knows which could be called relief, called merciful. They argue about the worst, all knowing exactly what the answer is. Knowing nothing could trump a visit from more than one, nothing could be more dangerous, more worthy of abject terror. If Ramsey sends a pair of his enforcers things are guaranteed to get nasty, things are guaranteed to get wildly unpleasant, but even two cannot compare to all three. If all three come knocking there is no escape, if all three come knocking the game is up, your run is over. It’s overkill to the extreme, the rare combination of raw threat, blinding rage and subtle menace so powerfully unnecessary it can only be a message. If the Fake’s key enforcers come knocking the very best you can hope for is to be the one chosen survivor left to spread the word.