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Richard 'Dicky' Monti Richard "Dicky" Monti's life was a symphony of chaos, set against the unforgiving backdrop of New York City. Born into a close knit community, is early years were a blend of intoxicating smells and sounds—freshly baked bread, bustling markets, the melodic hum of his grandmother's old record player. Yet, behind the laughter and the Sunday gatherings, the Monti family was barely scraping by. Dicky's father, a man once full of dreams, had fallen into the grip of heroin addiction. The substance had turned him into a shadow of his former self, leaving a void in the family that no amount of love or effort could fill. This dark presence loomed over Dicky's childhood, shaping his perception of the world and his place in it. When Dicky turned fifteen, the Montis packed their lives into a beaten-up van and headed west to Los Santos, hoping to escape the relentless grind of New York. But Los Santos was no paradise. It was a sprawling mess of neon lights and broken dreams, where the rich flaunted their luxury and the poor fought to survive. Dicky soon found himself adrift in this new world. The friends he made weren’t the kind to invite home for dinner. They were streetwise, hardened by the city's dark underbelly. Alcohol and cocaine became Dicky’s new companions, numbing the ache of displacement and the weight of his family's expectations. His descent was swift. What started with minor hustles—lifting wallets, selling hot goods—escalated into more dangerous territory. Dicky had a knack for deception, a silver tongue that could charm or threaten, depending on what the moment demanded. He became a known figure in the seedy circles of Los Santos, a small-time crook with big-time dreams, always teetering on the edge of a bad decision. Despite his addictions, Dicky had ambition. He wasn’t content with petty crime; he wanted to climb the ranks, make a name for himself in the underworld. But every step forward seemed to pull him two steps back, the ghosts of his choices haunting his every move. His nights were a blur of neon and narcotics, his days a haze of regret and resolve. One night, Dicky found himself at a clandestine rave, deep in the industrial heart of Los Santos. The warehouse was alive with energy, a throbbing pulse of electronic beats that echoed through his veins. Strobe lights flickered, casting sharp, fleeting glimpses of a crowd lost in the ecstasy of the moment. The air was thick with sweat and the sweet, acrid scent of synthetic highs. This was Dicky's escape—a place where time seemed to stand still, and the pressures of his reality melted away into the bassline. The music was relentless, each beat a jolt that kept his heart racing and his mind spinning. Here, among the neon-soaked bodies and euphoric faces, he felt a fleeting sense of belonging. But even in the euphoria of the rave, the shadows of his life lingered. Deals were made in the corners, whispers of bigger scores and riskier heists. Dicky couldn't resist the allure of the underworld woven into the fabric of these nights. It was here, in the pulsating heart of the rave scene, that he plotted his next moves, fuelled by the high and driven by desperation. As the music crescendoed and the night wore on, Dicky knew that this momentary escape would always end. The harsh light of day would bring back the reality he tried so hard to forget. But for now, amidst the chaos and the rhythm, he was just another lost soul, dancing on the edge of oblivion. As the sun rose over Los Santos, casting a harsh light on the city’s hidden corners, Dicky found himself trapped in a vicious cycle. His current situation was a far cry from the hopeful dreams his grandparents had when they first set foot in America. Dicky lived in a cramped, one-room apartment in a rundown neighborhood. The walls were thin, stained with the residue of countless arguments and broken promises. His meager belongings were scattered around haphazardly, a testament to a life lived on the edge. The constant hum of the city outside served as a reminder of the opportunities just out of reach. Money was always tight. Dicky took on whatever odd jobs he could find, from washing dishes in greasy diners to running dubious errands for shady characters. The work was inconsistent, the pay meager, and the danger ever-present. Each paycheck barely covered his rent and a few basic necessities before disappearing into the haze of his addictions. Despite the bleakness, Dicky held onto a flicker of hope. Every so often, he’d catch a glimpse of the life he could have had—one where he wasn’t bound by his vices or haunted by his choices. But for now, he was just another lost soul in the city, surviving day by day, paycheck to paycheck, always chasing the next high. Dicky's story is one of struggle and survival, of a man caught between the shadows of his past and the harsh light of his present. In the sprawling chaos of Los Santos, he remains a figure of raw ambition and enduring desperation, forever teetering on the brink of redemption or ruin.
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╔═*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*═╗ janice sutherland ╚═*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*═╝ a tale as old as time... just from jan's pov
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this thread will follow the development of Grand Senora Desert local Tyler "Birdman" DiStefano. a hardcore punk enthusiast, hustler, FMX semi-pro, and pastime drug addict.
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Tobie Zhao is a 19 year old drug dealer hailing from Chinatown in San Fierro. He was forced to leave home due to increasing law enforcement, as well as familial, pressure.
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This thread will follow growth and development of Ayana Wallace.
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This is a thread. For the stuff that's just not spicy enough for a faction thread. 🥵
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This topic will follow in the life of Melissa Patel. Backstory: Melissa Patel is not your average white girl that you think you know; she grew up in a not-so-average trailer-park home with an abusive father that held her and her mother hostage for years with verbal and physical abuse. As the years went by, the courage and fear were growing inside of Melissa towards her own and her mother's mental and physical health, as her father's rage was growing and breaking more and more boundaries that eventually led to Melissa trying to make a run away from home but eventually being caught and beaten, leaving scars, often cigarette burns, on her body as a way to discipline her that there is nowhere she can go. At her high school, even staff were curious about why she was quiet and standing alone from the crowd, where she got these scars and bruises, but her father always managed to make up a story or an excuse, often putting fear in the staff members, letting nothing happen, and often making Melissa skip out on school days and events. One night, Melissa's mother tried to stand up for herself after a verbal arguement that lead her to be brutally beaten up and being taken to the hospital, and giving the last drop into the cup that was filling over the years inside Melissa to make a move, she took her fathers working gloves after he fell asleep, and carefully planted a cigarette between his fingers loosely and poured from some of the alcohol he was drinking out onto the floor and even managing to pour a small amount onto his father before lighting the cigarette with a match afterwards, she threw the burned match into the poured out alcohol alongside with the gloves and watched as the cigarette fell into the poured out alcohol, lighting his only home and abuser into flames, as she watched she felt a sudden calming comfort seeing her finally being set free but even then this wasn't the end for her, the fire marshals later indentified the case as accident as they found the lead cause of the fire a cigarette butt and knowing that the victim was heavily toxicated at the time of the incident. Being sent out with no home and future, Melissa obviously dropped out of school and turned to drugs to cope with the pain inside her and the flames that saved her that night.
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Kenneth Nakagawa From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia Kenneth Nakagawa, also known as "Kenny" or "Ken" (born April 20, 2004) is a Japanese-American MMA-Fighter. Biography Early Life Kenneth was an orphan and troublesome youth, something which dettered prospective foster parents from adopting him. Once he graduated from high school at the age of sixteen, he left the Orphanage behind and moved into the Asian Community Center in Little Seoul. After moving out, Kenny spent a lot of time hanging around various communities, such as Little Seoul, South Central and El Burro. Shortly after he started to live in the ACC, Kenneth started visiting Gyms all over the City in order to maintain a good physique. In August of 2023 Kenneth started spending more time around Vespucci, due to his job at the Shingle Fish. During his employment there, he reconnected with an old friend, Jonathan Ishikawa. After reconnecting with Ishikawa, Kenneth was signed on as an amateur MMA fighter and spent his days training and polishing his techniques for his debut at the Rockford Dome. Career Last updated : 22/12/2024 Amateur Record: 2-1 ᴡ - (2-1) - VS Michael Rogov - (Rockford Dome) - (TKO + Fight of the Night) ᴡ - (2-0) - VS Matias Murphy - (Legacy Gym) - (Submission, Tap) ʟ - (1-2) - VS Sam Duke - (Rockford Dome) - (Submission, Stop by Ref) Pro Record: 7-4 ʟ - (1-2) - VS Robert Malakian - (Rockford Dome) - (Submission, Stop by Ref) ʟ - (1-2) - VS Travis Caldwell - (Muscle Gym) - (Submission, Stop by Ref) ᴡ - (2-1) - VS Michael Rogov - (Sweathouse) - (TKO + Fight of the Night) ʟ - (0-3) - VS Leonid Tukhachevsky - (Rockford Dome) - (KO) ᴡ - (1-0) - VS Daniel Kardos - (KOTR Arena) - (Submission, Stop by Ref) ᴡ - (0-0) - VS Wade Diaz - (Muscle Gym) - (No contest) ᴡ - (3-1) - VS Michael Koczo - (KOTR Arena) - (KO + Lightweight belt) ᴡ - (1-0) - VS Juris Palodze - (KOTR Arena) - (KO + Title defense) ᴡ - (2-0) - VS Makai Lee - (SAFA Arena) - (TKO + Exhibition fight) ᴡ - (1-0) - VS Daniel Kardos - (Fight Factory) - (Submission + Title defense) ʟ - (0-1) - VS Juris Palodze - (KOTR Arena) - (KO + Title defense) External links 1. Little Okinawa 2. Mountain MMA 3. Bellicose MMA 4. King of the Ring
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The Nobleton brothers sre fully functioning alcoholics. Grant & Phil arrived in USA from Heathrow airport in 2015, little is known about the brothers activities in the USA as he does not contact his mother or son back home in London. The city of Los Santos presents great opportunity's for the Nobleton brothers.
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Message @Pompey or @mars if you're interested in joining.
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-Dean Everett 08:24 A.M. 2/6/2025 —The San Andreas Sheriff’s Department isn’t a force of law; it’s an ecosystem, a bizarre zoo where power-hungry hogs wallow in the muck of authority, snorting and grunting with a hunger for dominance. A fever dream made flesh, these porcine predators, yes, pigs, through and through, plod down the sun-scorched veins of Blaine County, leaving behind the sour stench of fear, stale whiskey, and the electric buzz of flashlight batteries. It should’ve been a quiet night. One glass of whiskey, a couple of Oxy, and a slow goodbye to Grapeseed’s indifferent horizon. But fate had other plans, dressed in beige uniforms and pig-snouts, masquerading as deputies with all the moral clarity of a broken vending machine. There they were: three deputies, their faces contorted with the smugness of men who had never been told "no" in their lives. Their flashlights weren’t tools, they were instruments of oppression, beams cutting through the night like righteous spotlights, tearing into my very soul. “ყơų ɖཞųŋƙ, ცųɖɖყ?” one of them oinked, his breath thick with the stench of stale coffee and a superiority complex. They circled me like buzzards with badges, their questions less about finding answers than inflating their pathetic egos. Each insult they lobbed felt like another brick in the fortress of their fragile power, built high on insecurity and ignorance. They prodded, they goaded, they shone their lights into my face like they could somehow force a confession out of me. What they couldn’t see, what their piggy little eyes failed to understand, was that the only thing they were illuminating was the ridiculousness of their own existence. And then there was Caveman. A homeless drug dealer with the aura of a fallen wizard. Imagine Gandalf, if Gandalf traded his staff for a cracked glass pipe and let a lifetime of poor decisions render him mad, yet somehow more coherent than the deputies themselves. Caveman had once drugged my friend at a club, an event not so much horrifying as it was absurd. She thought she was hitting crack from a balloon, but ended up stuck in a K-hole, her brain lost somewhere between the dance floor and oblivion. Meeting Caveman was like shaking hands with chaos itself. His beard, a maze of crumbs and lost secrets, his eyes flickering with the remnants of a thousand bad choices. His words came in fragments—cracked wisdom, laced with the kind of manic truth only a street prophet could speak. Earlier that day, I had taken refuge in a bar in Grapeseed, a place steeped in the odor of cheap disinfectant and bad decisions. The bartender was a hulking man, with a beard and ponytail as dark as a Viking's soul. He had the demeanor of a man who'd fought in wars and lost, only to be pressed into the dull task of slinging drinks for a living. His eyes told stories of violence and regret, tales he’d never speak aloud. The whiskey was cheap, but it was a necessary anchor as I floated through the absurdity of Blaine County, a place where everyone’s hiding something, and no one’s story is ever finished. Back on the scene, the deputies made their move. They arrested me for DUI, their snouts twitching in self-satisfied glee. Sure, I’d had my share of whiskey and Oxy, but it wasn’t intoxication that put me in that cell—it was their desperate need to assert control, to play the role of tyrants in a kingdom that no one asked for. NOW FOR COMMERCIAL BREAK!! Handcuffed and humiliated, I realized it wasn’t justice they were after—it was theater, a pathetic play where they cast themselves as the stars, all while misunderstanding that fear isn’t respect, and authority isn’t earned. In the cold, graffiti-scarred walls of the holding cell, I thought about Caveman, the Viking bartender, and the three little pigs who had me cuffed. Each was a different facet of the madness that defines Blaine County—a place where the absurd is just another day, and reality’s a joke no one’s in on. The deputies with their flashlights and fragile authority were nothing more than clowns in uniforms, playing dress-up as protectors. Caveman—flawed, filthy, and far from “sane”—was more honest in his madness than the deputies were in their so-called order. And me? Just a witness in the wreckage, trying to piece together a world that makes no sense, all while scribbling feverishly in the margins of it. Blaine County isn’t a place—it’s a story, a dark fairy tale where the pigs wear badges, the wizards sleep on the streets, and the lessons are taught with bruises and breathalyzer tests. The San Andreas Sheriff’s Department can snort and strut all they want. Beneath their pomp and pretense, they’re just pigs in uniforms—trapped in the fragility of their own myths. And somewhere, probably laughing somewhere in the back of his mind, Caveman is free. A wizard without a kingdom—but more freedom than any badge could ever give. ((COMMENTS ARE ENABLED)) ((Username: Comment))
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-Dean Everett 02:24 A.M. 2/2/2025 Where the sky bleeds neon, and the pavement drinks it like an alcoholic uncle dodging rehab. A sprawling nightmare of glass, steel, and forgotten dreams, stitched together with bad decisions and the hollow promises of billboards—“Live Fast, Die Faster, Sponsored by eCola.” In this city, the air doesn’t breathe. It inhales. Lines of white powder mirrored by lines of white luxury cars parked outside Vinewood clubs with names like Oblivion and Lust. DJs with God complexes spin tracks louder than the collective anxiety of their crowd, their beats synched to the rapid-fire heart rates of MDMA-soaked bodies writhing under strobes that flash like seizures. Everything here is synthetic—a plastic utopia built on overpriced drinks and underpaid souls. But beneath Vinewood’s neon pulse, the real game plays out—not in crypto or contracts, but in powder, pills, and paranoia. The drug trade isn’t a shadow economy—it’s the main stage, with Vinewood flipping roles like a junkie desperate for its next fix. While the youth worship at the altar of bass drops and bathroom deals, the older gods ride on. Enter the Sinners MC—grizzled men on ancient chariots that growl like they’re pissed off to still be alive. These aren’t weekend warriors or Facebrowser-sponsored 99’ers. The Sinners are relics, fossilized in leather, stitched together by outdated grudges and whiskey-soaked decisions. They roam the streets like outlaw archaeologists, digging up the bones of a culture buried by a new breed of criminals—tech-savvy, coked-out, and too polished to know what it’s like to get your hands dirty. The Sinners don’t deal in apps or algorithms. They deal in drugs, guns, and violence that doesn’t need a retweet to be real. But somewhere between the basslines and bike engines, there’s a mystery—maybe more of an obsession I can’t shake. Psychedelics. Not the trendy kind sold in boutique dispensaries with names like Zen Gardens or SoulBloom. I mean the real shit: peyote buttons tucked away in dusty corners of Blaine County, hash handled like ancient relics, marijuana strains so pure they could make a priest question reality, and MDMA that doesn’t just get you high—it makes you feel alive. I need to find it. Not for the story, but for the experience. Because somewhere between the "Jump Out Boys" of the Sheriff’s Department™️ manifesting like tactical phantoms and the Sinners MC thundering through the night, there’s a thread—maybe a breadcrumb trail leading somewhere beyond the high. A mantra wrapped in mystery, hallucination stitched to cold, brutal truth. And speaking of truth—did you know pigeons can’t fart? Random, right? But that’s the thing about Los Santos: random isn’t random. It’s just Tuesday. Imagine a city where its veins pulse like tangled neon wires, where every beat of the heart is a siren wailing at 3 AM. This is the terrain the Jump Out Boys carve their name into—mutant cowboys, not with spurs but tactical vests, charging through the streets in armored chariots, cutting through neighborhoods etched in graffiti and reckless decisions. Sirens? Not warnings—battle cries. Later that night, beneath the flicker of streetlights in Jamestown, West Los Santos, we slid into the chaotic hum of Rancho—a place stitched together by pride, paranoia, and the unspoken legends of the Travieso Gangsters 13 gang. Their name bled through alleyways, painted on walls in cryptic symbols, a language written in shadows, known only to those who had truly walked its dark streets. Their history wasn’t ink—it was fog, laced with the whispers of those brave (or foolish) enough to repeat it. Then, like phantoms from the cracks of reality, the Boys appeared. Not men. No. They were anomalies, creatures wrapped in tactical armor, flickering like heat waves off the cracked pavement. Their visors didn’t reflect light. They consumed it, splintering the world into twisted fragments. Their limbs—unnatural, bending in impossible angles, like grotesque marionettes twisted by invisible strings. And how did they talk? Not with words—vibrations. Low, bone-shaking hums that filled the air, mixing with the static of radios fused into their bodies, like cyborg shamanic chants. The Travieso gangbangers didn’t move—just stood there, shadows hardened in defiance, eyes burning with a mixture of fear and bravado against such a foe. Out from the edges of the scene, a kid emerged. Barely old enough to shave, his fresh ink still oozing in dark swirls across his skin. He shouldn’t have been there. But youth never respects the weight of ritual. One of the green creatures shifted—its head cocked at an angle that felt wrong—like an animal with the mind of a machine. "ʞᴎi ʜꙅɘɿꟻ," it buzzed, its voice a strange mix of distortion and something older, like rust scraping bone. Another one stepped forward, limbs jerking in a grotesque dance, pointing to the kid’s tattoos with a gesture that was part command, part curiosity. "⸮ǫᴎiʜƚɘmoꙅ uoʏ ꙅɘʞɒm ꙅiʜƚ ʞᴎiʜƚ uoY" it hissed, the low vibration making the nearby walls tremble, flakes of old paint falling like dust. "˙ɯǝɥʇ ɹoɟ pǝǝlq noʎ ssǝlun 'suoıʇɐɹoɔǝp ʎʇdɯǝ—ʇɐɥʇ ʇsnɾ ǝɹɐ sloqɯʎS" The kid’s posture faltered for a second. His eyes flickered between defiance and fear, like the wires in his head were short-circuiting. "คเภ’Շ ץ๏ยг ๒ยรเภєรร," he spat, his voice tight, his words crumbling under the weight of the moment. The air grew thicker—electric, charged, but not quite sparking. It hung there, too fragile to touch, like the calm before a storm. Across the street, I stood, notebook gripped tight, pulse syncing with the city’s warped beat. On instinct—or maybe madness—I stepped forward, waved, just enough to draw their attention. One of the deputies—or what passed for them now—turned its gaze toward me. Its visor caught the light, not showing my face, but something fractured, a distorted reflection. For a moment, we locked eyes—not as man to man, but as observer to anomaly. "What do you see?" I whispered, unsure if I said it aloud, or if the words just thudded through my mind. It tilted its head, something like amusement—or annoyance—etched across its mechanical face. Then, just as quickly, it turned away, the interest evaporating like smoke in the wind. The kid was left standing there, his tattoos no shield against whatever strange data these creatures were collecting in their cold, synthetic minds. No violence. No arrests. Just tension absorbed, moments archived, reality shifting like sand underfoot. And me? I walked away with a notebook full of scribbles that made less sense the longer I stared at them. There was a taste in my mouth—metallic, like I had just licked the edge of the city itself. And that nagging thought—The Jump Out Boys weren’t here to enforce order. No. They were here to watch the collapse. Piece by piece, they were cataloging it all. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s not. But one thing’s for sure—they’re still out there. Engines idling, watching, blurring the lines between reality, ritual, and something far darker. COMMENTS ARE ENABLED ((Username: comment))
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"He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” Richard Tagaloa Richard "Surfs" Tagaloa: The Mixed Mutt from Apia to the County's Underbelly Richard Maria Tagaloa, known on the streets as "Poko," was born on September 27, 2000 by his mother Sandra Mariana Tagaloa ( Hispanic ) and very.. distant father Preston Tagaloa ( Samoan ), in West Apia, the bustling capital of Samoa. A young man hardened by a lifetime surrounded by violence, without a father figure, he grew up on Molu Street, a place where crime and poverty went hand in hand. His childhood was shaped by the powerful pull of the WTN (West Tongan Nation) gang—a notorious crew of mixed Hispanic/Tongan works alike, feared and revered across the islands. For Richie, gang life was the only path he saw. School meant nothing to him, and the streets held both promise and peril. A Gangster in the Making Richard entered the world of crime with a hunger and determination that quickly caught the gang's attention. He became a trusted runner, handling drug deals and extortion for the WTN with a ruthlessness that was rare in someone so young ( 15 ). He was known for his collective demeanor and a strange, almost ill-minded loyalty to the gang. Carrying guns and threats, he left his mark on the streets, calm and collectively. His reputation grew, and so did his role in the gang— armed robberies, trafficking, and endless brawls that left both him and his opponents scarred. As he got older, Richard started to feel the weight of his choices. The brutality he once embraced began to feel hollow, and he began to question the endless cycles of violence and retribution. Prison stints came and went, each one eating away at his humanity. He had a young son he barely knew by the age of seventeen, a child growing up without a father because of his endless stretches, months at a time. The life that had once promised him respect and power was instead taking everything he held dear. A Glimpse of Change After a three years of prison time for assault & battery, Richard found himself suffocating under the weight of the life he had chosen. He started to make his way out of the gang in increments, first by securing a job at a local woodworking shop. The work was hard, the pay minimal, but for the first time, he felt like he was building something, even if it was just furniture. It was honest work—a small rebellion against the life he had known. But the streets don’t let go so easily. Leaving the gang wasn’t a clean cut. He had debts to pay, promises to keep, and enemies who wouldn’t let him go. Every day felt like a countdown, and he knew he had to leave Apia for good if he wanted a real chance. So, with one last goodbye to the gang and the island that had been both home and prison, he headed for Los Santos to sought out his cousin [Violet]. The Mongols MC: A Darker Descent In LS, Richard was introduced to Isaac Montanelli, the vice-president of the Mongols Motorcycle Club. Montanelli was captivated by Richard's wild-eyed fearlessness and saw potential in him as a man willing to go to any length to survive. The Mongols were a different kind of beast. They were older, more formed and some would even beg to say.. more ruthless, and far more connected than the gangs Richard knew in Samoa. They offered him what the WTN never could—a vast network of money, a home, some respect and an introduction to a more organized aspect of power. Now nicked-named "Surfs" he became absorbed in the MC mindset by the help and guidance of his new-found sponsor [Isaac Montanelli]. The club became his new family, a twisted echo of the brotherhood he once had with the WTN, but far deadlier. The work was relentless, dangerous, and took him even further from the boy he’d once been in Apia. Personal Information: Name: Richard Maria Tagaloa Gender: Male Nick Names: Richie, Surfs, Richard. Current Age: 24 Zodiac: Libra Current Address: █████████ Place of Birth: ████████ ████ Height: 6'1ft Weight: 210lb Blood Type: A+ Family: Malcolm "Buster" Tagaloa ( Brother ) Violet Mendez ( Cousin ) ( Samoan ) Preston Oku Tagaloa ( Father ) ( Hispanic ) Sandra Maria Tagaloa ( Mother )
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The late afternoon sunrays made their way through the thick, purple curtains into Corsentino family's living room. Mirabella Corsentino sat on the couch, her fingers fidgeting with an old doll, while her twin brother, Nicholas, stood by the window, arms crossed, watching their mother pace back and forth. Samantha Corsentino clutched the phone tightly, her voice sharp with frustration. "Five thousand dollars? Are you serious? That painting is worth three times that!" Her voice echoed through the room, as Mira and Nix exchanged worried glances. This had been happening more and more lately- another phone call, another argument, all while the pressure of their father's death and the mounting bills weighed on their family. "It's an original Roquin! Do you even understand what that means?" Samantha's face flushed as she spoke. "It's not just some decoration- " Nicky sighed, his jaw tight. Mira knew he hated hearing this, but what could they do? The family was broke. They relied on Gerald's income, a small time opera singer and nightlife enjoyer who found his way to the United States of America by sheer luck and a tad bit of talent. Left with nothing after the burial, the only way to stay afloat and pay their debts was selling their family's art collection, one by one. "Mamma," Mira said gently, trying to cut through the tension. "I know it's not what it's worth, but we need the money." Samantha turned, her eyes blazing with anger. "Mira, you don't talk to me about what we need. I am your mother, I know what we need." "You're not alone," Nix muttered, loud enough for Samantha to hear. He stepped forward, arms still crossed, but his voice steady. "No one's paying this much for a painting anymore, no matter who painted it. It's all on the Internet now, uh... like the NFTs." Samantha's face twisted in frustration. "Your father would never have settled for this." "Dad's gone," Nix said flatly. "And so is the money. So what now?" Samantha slumped into a chair, the fire draining from her as quickly as it had flared up. "I just... I don't want to lose everything." Her voice cracked, and she looked smaller, more fragile than Mira had ever seen her. "That painting... it was one of your father's favorite." Mira's heart clenched. She hated seeing her mother like this- so lost and helpless. The room fell silent. The ticking of the old grandfather clock felt louder, like the world itself was reminding them of how little time they had left before everything fell apart completely. Mira knelt beside her mother, taking her hand gently. "We'll figure something out." Samantha's shoulders slumped further and Mirabella saw the deep lines of exhaustion and stress etched into her face. She hadn't been sleeping much, barely eating, and the constant strain of their financial troubles had worn her down. "I just wanted to keep one piece of beauty," their mother murmured, her eyes distant. Mira could sense the slow decline that had been creeping up on her mom ever since their father died of throat cancer. It wasn't just the money, or the loss of the art- Samantha was losing herself in the grief, in the stress of trying to hold onto something that was already gone. The older brother looked at his twin sister, knowing what they both had to do. They couldn't rely on their mother to fix things anymore. It was up to them now.
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This thread will follow the day to day events of Malcolm & Thomas Sawyer.
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adventure of serena williams
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This thread will follow the story of Amanda Li as she tries to cope through various bad habits she developed and keeps developing after her little brother's untimely death. Sorry I wasn't active back then @Lane.
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This thread follows the story of Rodrigo Fernandez, a Mexican American male who made it big in the Liberty City crime scene and slowly is creeping his way into the LS crime scene. This thread will slowly introduce screens from the GTAW:LC forums, (old screens). *Old screens and gifs from LC* Present day:
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need to fill in later
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Oliver Callaway, 13, Vespucci, Los Santos. Oliver was born and raised in Vespucci, Los Santos. He lived with both parents at one point, who were both married to one another. His mother was a stay-at-home mother who looked after Oliver on a day to day basis. She'd cook, clean, cater and fulfil Oliver and his father's needs. Oliver's father on the other hand was a full time construction worker. He'd go to work day in day out to provide for the family. When he got home, he'd usually eat the meal that was prepared for him and then head out to the local bar until late night. Oliver hardly ever saw his father as this was the case, unless it was the weekend. Oliver used to go out with his father hunting, shooting, fishing and other fatherly-son activities. They bonded greatly in these times, and Oliver looked up to his father a lot. Jessica Callaway, 38 (Left). Arthur Callaway, 39 (Right). Arthur and Jessica met each other at a street party in Vespucci at the age of 18. From thereon, they got to know one another and fell madly in love with each other. Arthur at his young age had a reputation and was well known for his violent behaviour. He was well established with the law enforcement and landed himself behind bars plenty of times throughout his life. Jessica on the other hand was your average teenager at a young age. She'd go out drinking, taking drugs and fucking just about anything. At the age of 20, two years into the relationship, Jessica fell pregnant with Oliver, where both of their lives changed drastically. They both made a promise to each other to provide for Oliver the best they can, regardless of the shit situation they was in. They didn't have money, assets, an owned house or even a car at one point, but they made do and worked their best to provide. Arthur settled down in time, focusing on the construction work and less time at the local bar. He become a good father to Oliver, before his life was taken by a house fire. House fire, Vespucci, 2019. Unfortunately, Oliver and Jessica lost Arthur to a house fire in 2019. Jessica and Arthur had a fall out, which led Jessica and Oliver to reside with Jessica's sister for the week. Within that week, Arthur took to booze. He got so pissed one night that he forgot he left the stove cooking, which inevitably led to the house fire. Arthur was knocked out during this, which caused him to burn to death. Jessica and Oliver lost Arthur in 2019, as-well as the house and everything inside it. As you can imagine, Oliver went downhill from there as he had no father figure to look up to. His grades went downhill, as-well as attendance. He became somewhat careless to the world, getting in with the wrong crowd and doing ultimately stupid things. Oliver has struggled within the past five years, and it shows. Jessica now lives off the system, renting in Vespucci where she knows best. Oliver did live with her up until recently, where she kicked him out for drug abuse. Oliver couch surfed for a few days, until be became a problem. This is where his story continues...
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