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Poap

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Poap last won the day on February 13

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  1. Poap

    Username: Buck Comment: Ship those terrorists back. What is this world coming 2?! asdfa132414 222.www.penisenlargement.net
  2. Poap

    User: Datawars Salesteam Comment: Get that pussy-footed lesbian alliance sponsored communist garbage out of here. All Datawars products are made of 100% real reptile protein and processed reptile protein bi-products.
  3. Vicarious Drunk Magazine is a periodical that explores the more colorful aspects of our mundane reality. The Author: Thaddeus S. Hickman is an amateur tobacco pipe collector and regular contributor to the magazine. Known for such critically acclaimed articles as "Three Days in Hell: My Trip to Carcer City" and "Cats. What the Fuck Man?", T.S. Hickman continues to entice audiences with his mastery of the English language. “Los Santos and the Fourth Reich” is his ongoing periodical detailing his maddening journey to the center of Los Santos’ peckerwood gangs. Los Santos and the Fourth Reich An in-depth look into the Aryan gangs of Los Santos Ghostwritten by T.S. Hickman Esq. Part 2. Hold the Hollandaise Robert “Picket” Flatwood (Courtesy of Face Browser) The time was 9:15AM. The location was San An's Tacqueria: a run down burrito shack located in the armpit between Los Santos' dangerous Rancho neighborhood, and the gentrified yuppie paradise of Mirror Park. For an overweight Nazi, Picket was somewhat of an early riser. The waitress brought us two steaming plates of what Picket called, "Huevos Woodcheros." It was just like normal Huevos Rancheros except with a dizzying amount of hollandaise sauce added. My stomach turned at the sight. "You gonna eat that?", inquired the hairy Aryan orangutan before me. I shook my head in reply, preferring to keep my stomach empty until I've finished my morning ritual of three mimosas and black coffee with a splash of bourbon whiskey. "So what's the daily routine of a Wood?", I asked my mutant host. "I'm gonna show you some real wood shit T.S.", Picket replied while loudly chewing his food. I stared at the bits of hollandaise and egg that had transplanted themselves onto his scraggly beard. What the hell is "wood stuff"? ***** The drug and arms trades are controlled by various gangs spread throughout the Los Santos metro area. Most gangs tend to stick to one specialty, and most of the street gangs tend to stick to their own neighborhoods as well. The Peckerwoods were different. Their strict prison background tended to draw recruitment from all over the state of San Andreas. They literally had the pick over the litter of the state's worst degenerates. They also tended to split themselves up into smaller gangs. You had peckerwood gangs in Vespucci, Rancho, Sandy Shores and even as far north as Paleto Bay. Unlike the Chicano or black gangs, the Peckerwoods rarely fought among themselves. This was because they all aligned under one banner and one ideology. Peckerwood culture prevailed over all. This alliance of white gangs meant that the peckerwoods had reached a level that was unheard of compared to the other street gangs in Los Santos. Instead of sticking to one area, they allied together and formed non-aggression pacts that allowed them to share resources and operate in all corners of the state. This also meant that while one peckerwood gang may focus mainly on drugs, and another on arms smuggling, they would pool their assets together and ensure that all the gangs had somewhat equal access to their spoils of war. Karl Marx would have been proud. They sure knew how to exploit the "socialist" part of "National Socialism". ***** Out in the parking lot I could hear the rumbling of a motorcycle exhaust. The bike pulled up next to Picket's truck. I couldn't make out the driver's face because of the dark helmet being worn by the rider. I could make out, however, that the rider was definitely a wood. He was also definitely a member of PEN1, as evidenced by the tattoo he wore on his arm. One identical to Picket's. "This is Remi. Treat em' with respect", Picket barked out to me. Remi huh? What kind of nickname is that? It sounded kinda fruity but I decided to keep that comment to myself. "Nice to meet you", I said after Picket's remark. I stuck my hand out to shake with the rider. He ignored my offering of friendship. The rider took of his helmet and I could make out blonde hair, blue eyes and short facial stubble. This was my first time meeting Andrew Conway. Perhaps the only Nazi who was more notorious than Robert "Picket" Flatwood To be continued in Part 3.
  4. Vicarious Drunk Magazine is a periodical that explores the more colorful aspects of our mundane reality. The Author: Thaddeus S. Hickman is a part-time editor and full-time contributor to the magazine. Known for such critically acclaimed articles as "The Migration Patterns of the Mozambique Ferret" and "43 Amazing Emoji Designs", T.S. Hickman continues to thrill readers with his in-depth analysis of world events. Los Santos and the Fourth Reich An in-depth look into the Aryan gangs of Los Santos Begrudgingly written by Thaddeus S. Hickman Part 1. Traffic, Nazis and Flatwood’s Towing My plane landed at around midnight as I exited into a busy terminal. The red eye flight from Liberty City was a terrible trip. Imagine being stuck on a cramped tin can full of politicians, wanna-be method actors and two-bit salesmen. It was a metal cage full of fake people with fake plastic surgery breasts and perfect grins, "Oh you starred in that dog food commercial? Congrats on your big break!" It was in the terminal of the Los Santos International Airport that I met him. A scraggly man who looked like a cross between an Elvis impersonator and a Lebowski cosplayer. "What’s up Picket?", I casually asked. "Not much my Aryan Brotherrr..." replied the hairy out of shape and middle-aged ape of a man. We awkwardly shook hands, the cheap pot-metal of his knock-off "SS" ring making our grasp ever the more awkward. I looked down at his right arm and laid eyes on the tattoo, "PEN1" it read. I was reminded of the time I made my attempts to make my graphing calculator spell "PENIS" in high school. We left the terminal. The desert air was thick and hot this time of year, like the inside of a sauna. "Your car around here?", I asked. Picket replied with a nod and his trademark "H-yeah.", grunting as we crossed the street and entered the parking garage. "It's right over there", he said as he pointed his finger towards an old beaten up Saddler pickup truck. I climbed into the passenger seat as Picket began to drive towards the freeway. ***** Los Santos is a depraved city, not that Liberty is any better. Some old rich guy decided to build a city in the middle of the desert. What a great idea. Oh, and how about we fill it with every depraved degenerate type our great capitalistic republic has to offer. I've been to Los Santos many times, and it was usually for work. This time I was sent here to write the magazine's next hit piece of journalistic degeneracy. I was tasked with writing an article about some local big shot, Spencer Jameson, and his ever progressing campaign to take over the San Andreas state economy. "Well that's fucking boring", I thought to myself. What's more interesting than writing about some rich asshole? "Nazis", I thought to myself. I'm going to write about some mother fucking Nazis. The rise of "Aryan" prison gangs began in the 1950's, deep inside San Andreas' many penitentiaries. The SDRC (San Andreas Rehabilitation and Corrections) agency has more or less lost their fight to eradicate gangs from the state's prisons. Eventually the violence from these gangs spills out onto the streets where collateral damage is high and law enforcement's resources are low. The gangs are divided along racial lines, a gang for the blacks, a gang for the Mexicans and a gang for the whites. The white gangs are the smallest, but also the most organized and violent. The three notable gangs operating within the concrete walls are the Aryan Brotherhood (The Brand), The Nazi Lowriders (The Ride) and PEN1 (Public Enemy #1). It was to PEN1 that Picket belonged, apparent from the tattoo he proudly wore on his forearm. ***** I stared out the window as we drove up the freeway, away from the city. Cactus and tumbleweeds littered the landscape like rocks breaking up the shoreline at the edge of a large ocean. “Where are we headed to?”, I asked my Nazi contact. “Sandy Shores” he grunted in reply as “Wheel of Fire” by Johnny Cash blared from the trucks tinny speaker system. I had met Picket on one fateful journalistic trip to Los Santos, I think it was the winter of 2003. I was there to write about Vespucci Beach weightlifters and was far behind deadline. To make things worse I had broken down on the downtown freeway during one particularly sweltering Los Santos rush hour. Semi trucks and vans loaded with gangs of soccer moms encircled me from every direction. I thought I was going to drown in that sea of exhaust fumes. Just when I thought there was no hope in sight he came. A knight in an old fluorescent vest driving a beat down Vapid tow truck that was way past it’s prime. “Flatwood’s Towing and Recovery” read the print on the side. He approached me and we arranged the terms of him saving my rental car from this God-forsaken hellhole. I noticed his Nazi tattoos as he made no attempts to hide them. “Nice ink my dude”, I said to him. “Thanks my Aryan Brotherrrrr...” he said in reply, weirdly rolling the “R” as if he was inflicted with some speech impediment. “I can’t say I’m much of an Aryan but I am one twenty-fifth Bavarian” I cackled back in reply. This was the beginning of my friendship with one of Los Santos’ most notorious Nazis gang members. To be continued in Part 2.
  5. User: p1cketluvsf3rr3ts Comment: What an awful bar wouldn't allow me to bring my service ferret, Falcor, inside.
  6. Poap

    #trail-of-tears
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