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  1. Goth music and culture come together at The Crypt, Mission Row's most singular Nightclub By Raoul DeSavio A roar comes across the road. It is nothing new to this city, but each time is less comparable to the last. An engine rumbles with each gear shift sending out waves of splendid vibrations down the nearby sidewalks. Oh! To be a pedestrian standing on the corner at this time. A fleeting moment of stimulation that’d only leave you longing for more. Some teasing flash of mechanical brilliance that would have you terrified of standing on these streets because your mind kept trying to figure out just what screamed into existence long enough to startle your sleeping ears to hear. Those of us inside the cabin of this rocketship, this Hellfire, were above such thoughts. We were campaigning with a better purpose during this time while the pulsating noises of American engineering thumped and throbbed with more force than any wall of speakers aligned in a club. In these moments you realize tearing ass down a street at max speed while hitting turns with reckless regard for life or asphalt leads to a disconnect far greater than any night on a dancefloor. This is what rattled around in my mind as we slid into a parking lot. Equilibrium would eventually catch up as I peeled myself out of the seat and set a tingling foot onto the ground. I could already hear the muffled pounding of The Crypt’s sinister playlist, and part of me wondered if I was about to go mad trying to focus on writing a fair review after all. On the other side of the parking lot sits what one could assume was a storied grocery store that had been around since before the area was known as Mission Row. An ominous red glow blankets the entrance to this club which sits in an alleyway and during my visit was currently being occupied by bikers trying to get inside. My technical advisor and owner of the black Bravado that brought us here, Larissa, shared the same same uneasy vibe as me until Lin darted out of the madness to usher us through the door. Quickly, before violence broke out. Later I learned they were too bothered to show their IDs and decided to opt on the Angel side of MC actions. On the other side of the gaping, gothic doors you’re immediately pelted with an intense industrial ambience. A far cry from the clean, modern or slick nightclubs you’d find in Vinewood. Here wire mesh and warehouse railing separates the VIP rooms from the rest (One even complete with its own arcade) and the main floor below gives way to something far more victorian. Closed caskets act as barriers and tables in the lounge where the railing that borders the dance floor looks like something stolen from 0001 Cemetery Lane itself. “Let’s drive forever, let’s drive forever…” It is here where the hypnotic dance music weaves through the crowd. Slicing through groups with a dark energy, though, the glum subject matter does little to hamper anyone’s spirits as the entirety of the room rides a confident wave. Which is easy. You have little to fear in regards to violence or horrible drama so long as The Crypt’s owner circles through her property like with hawkish precision. There is a safety here that allows for a righteously comfortable vibe. The crowd can express themselves beyond the gloomy trance and wave music that hammers your brain into a peculiar mood and it’s all a carefully crafted playlist from Eva Blackwood herself, with the likes of Boy Harsher, KMFDM, The Sisters of Mercy, Nosferatu and She Past Away. We experienced an entire subculture’s history in one night. One single, elegantly guided tour through melancholy and darkness. The freedom of expressing one’s self has always been the driving force of any subculture and the Goth scene overwhelmingly runs off with the notion, seeing it blossom as the mutant lovechild of Punk and Glam. Rebellious expression meets glam’s vaudeville and dipped in a thick black paste. Add a synthesizer, a couple of sad New Wave kids and you end up with Darkwave. Any true Goth will be quick to explain that it started with the music, despite the pioneers of the genre’s best wishes, it rushed to expand from song to fashion, lifestyle and art. You see all of this culminate spectacularly as culture and music comes together on Friday nights to spend at least a few hours free from the fear and loathings that blanket the rest of this city. A jubilant, disassociated crowd with face paint and clothing that directly counters the faces and facades one finds in a neatly packaged Vinewood club. Signing Off, Raoul DeSalvo > Comments are enabled Username: Comment:
  2. Letters from Mission Row, part 1. By Raoul DeSavio The car struggled up the mountain path doing about fifteen miles per hour. The whole damn thing rattles and shakes giving off the impression that at any moment we’d go tumbling back down in minutes. The only true damning thing about this is my inability to roll down the window. Not only would it be an exercise trying to force the device into motion, but we’d all be choking on mountain dirt. I remain committed to damaging my lungs however and crack open the glove box to rummage around for the source of the nicotine stains littering the vehicle and come up with a few Redwoods. I was more shocked that they were Golds more than I was by the lump of old condoms they were perched on. Behind the wheel is Lin who sails her dinky, creaking ship up the dirt path and reacts to noises by either talking over them or simply blasting the radio louder. In the backseat behind me is another member of the lost generation who is currently introducing her knees to my spine. No fault of hers! Just this soviet-era vehicle mass produced to be just as stubborn and narrow as the mechanics who made it. I imagine most cars made anywhere in that time were produced with the idea to survive nuclear explosions so that people could still make it to their nine-to-fives during the apocalypse. The fact the IRS has a chapter in their employee manuals advising its people how to appropriately continue during such leads me to believe they’ve got a fleet of these vehicles in an underground bunker for just that reason! We were on a mission of macabre intentions. It didn’t start as such for me as I was advised to conduct an interview on the Goth community that had blossomed in Mission row under the leather boots of Evanglyn Blackwood. It was supposed to be a brief dive into whatever Wiccan mysteries these girls were hiding behind closed doors or some cute interview on what makes people obsessed with Goth girls. But after a couple of nights in the area I was aware of a more fascinating, and certainly more respectful angle. I had found myself in a rare refuge of the city, where, for the most part, these women felt safe. Their stories about the rest of the city are told with the same campfire ghost story resonance involving a serial killer in the woods and you have to wonder how dangerous these women could be if they ever wanted anything more than just quiet peace. So now here we were getting as far away from the city as possible in search of a less dangerous, more supernatural idea to scare us. Fortunately for the sanctity of where we drove I cannot remember how to fuck to return to it. Hell, late at night now and off my rocker on acid I have to chalk the whole thing up as just a hallucinogenic dream to avoid going crazy. There’s your witchcraft, damnit! They made me imagine all of it and I’m still trapped in this rabbit hole. A paranoid frenzy thanks to their talk of ransoming for safe passage with some tribe of hill people! This state is so radically fucked that they even chided me for being trusting enough to allow them to haul me up a mountainside after only a few hours of conversation, but I was already strapped to this strange rocket and I could hardly back out now. We found our peace and quiet in the void of an abandoned mine. True darkness. A blackness so damning the flashlight we carried only served a purpose of giving a heads up to whatever horror resided within that we were trespassing on its turf. We had talked about the appeal of being in haunted places. To be standing where something truly fascinating or outlandish happened in defiance to life itself is a humbling thing. You walk quietly and if you absolutely must break the air with obnoxious words then you also do so quietly. With enough suspension of belief and faith you can hit that peculiar atmospheric watermark where you can’ttell if your hair is standing straight because you heard something whispering from out of the darkness or if you forgot to update your proof of residency. Shit. Author’s note: Do that. Still, despite all of this my friends were operating at their very best! Our only stumble was getting tangled in some dangling rope that was severely mistaken for a manly defiler. She showed that rotted twine what-fer with a few chaotically placed karate chops and we kept trucking. This was a true way of unwinding. Chasing a more supernatural ghost or spectre is far more entertaining then having to deal with the curses and experiences that culminate into a collective haunting weight on the mind. Maybe it meant something more to them? Perhaps some doors of perception are meant to remain locked and bolted. It isn’t my place. This was their world and I was just a passenger. At the furthest reaches of the mine a note was left. Warning future thrill-seekers and malcontents of the most abject horrors of this lifetime. Reminding us that no matter how far we trek and revere these melancholic places where ghosts linger, we can’t truly get away from our own much more horrifying melancholy and that our car’s warranty has expired... Signing off, Raoul DeSalvo > Comments are enabled Username: Comment:
  3. Old Time Goths Stomp Downtown, The Weasels Panic By Raoul DeSavio I’ve spent the last few nights hiding in a secure refuge from the city’s worst. Trying to both survive and to dig into the minds of two important people behind the Goth scene in Los Santos. They are Evanglyn Blackwood and Lin. Both are characters in their own right and I had little issue or complaint sitting across from them and asking these questions. The conversations I’ve had with these two have been sublime. What makes them who they are will be explored in another time, for now we dig into their thoughts on the subculture and how it’s carved an existence into the city. Raoul(R): What would you say is the most important aspect of your subculture here in the city? Evangyln Blackwood(EB): What is that even meant to mean? Lin(L): Like... R: What appeals to you being goth? L: What makes it better than other- yeah. Gonna be honest? Like. Getting left alone. People uh… They’re kinda just- put off. Uncomfortable. The music’s a good plus. R: I think most people see Goth and think, yanno, occult lifestyles. What would you say about that… Stereotype? L: Lotta overlap, nothing like… Definite? Like… mm. Most chicks I know who believe in ghost’ll show up in black lipstick, but no’ all chicks in black lipstick do ghosts. Trucks are cars, cars aren’t trucks sorta deal? R: Would you say that music is important to the image? L: Yeah- yeah. Very. Well. I think so at least. Lotta people really just like not having to pick any matching colors. EB: Music important to the image, yes. Very. Mmm… I can't imagine the goth scene without the music. It drove it forward, by the ah- Goth music is to the goth scene as punk music is to the punk scene. L: ...Yeah. Without music's just kinda... A bunch of pale people in leather. And they call that something else. R: Give me some musical recommendations. EB & L: Sister’s of Mercy is the original. Good place to start. L: The Cure’s a good classic. Siouxsie and the Banshees… Those’re like. Classic. EB: Okay, so yes. Then there’s also the industrial side. KMFDM. Die Krupps… Skinny Puppy and Nine Inch Nails. And Modern stuff? She Past Away, Boy Harsher, Drab Majesty, Lebanon Hanover.Perturbator’s new album. Author’s Note: At some point a remix of the Luigi’s Mansion Theme song started playing on the radio. R: Fuckin' adore Robert Smith... Do you have any advice for those who might be reading this later. Those who feel lacking or lost. L: Thats's kinda a big one. EB: I'm not a goddamned guru philosopher. I can’t fix other people’s problems. Find community. Stop being a stranger. L: Yeah. Don't be alone, like- no matter how... weird. Just. Find people. EB: Yes, that. I don't know. L: ...Man, I'm barely keeping my own head on straight. R: Well to get personal, I’ve appreciated the kindness you’ve shown me. Last question: A lot of men in the city have an objective fascination with the women in the culture. Do you consider this empowering? L: ...Kinda, yeah. EB: Yes. Come to Mission Row, spend your money on us and be scowled at and given icy looks. Convince yourself it was worth it. L: Like, lil’ objectifying at times, but like. Hearing a dude just yell to his bros, “Fucking love goth chicks, on God.” She begins grinning wide. “When- Yes. I was an absolute bitch. ‘S got some charm.” EB: It does. Maybe. I've gotten this far. Author’s Note: At this moment we paused to allow nearby gunfire to die down before picking back up. R: Anyway! More questions. L: ...More questions. R: Sorry, I'm a glutton for it all. Either way, ahh, easy enough... What's been the biggest hurdle for you all here? EB: The crime rate, I didn't even need to hesitate for that one. This city's a hellscape. L: Wasn't even manageable in Burton. EB: When it gets to the point you have an incident every single opening, there is something wrong with your management or the city. And I know it's not management. Crimerate’s easily the worst thing though, yeah. L: Easily. Couldn’t even keep it low in Burton. Can’t even walk down the street. R: So your club gets harassed a lot on this level? EB: We have good security. Shit happens occasionally. But It's handled. Mostly brawls outside, drunks, or shootings in the parking lot between one group of fuckwits and another. Gangbangers attribute to most of our incidents. R: So the usual, annoying bullshit? EB: Yeah. Pretty much. Think of it as the kind of shit that happens to most clubs, but amplify it by five times as much and that’s Los Santos clubs. R: Mhm. I’ve been trying to compartmentalize it as some kinda’ island madness. L: Isolationism? Huh. Could be. R: Would you like to kick a hornet’s nest and make a statement for all the animals out there? If not, moving along… Any plans for expansion? EB: I don’t kick hornet’s nests. Fuck around and find out. As for expansion? Why? I don’t need to. I’m downscaling. L: ‘s uh… carefully handled club. Not really the kinda thing that’d expand well. R: I appreciate that answer. Here’s a dramatic follow up my boss would be proud of: planning on selling anything? EB: Selling anything… Rogue Vogue in Burton. L: Yeah. Historically a gay bar. Central city, busy corner. EB: Want it to go back to someone with the balls to run an LGBTQ Bar. L: Yeah it’s uh- seriously. Lotta people’ve tried to run one in the city. ‘S an undertaking. All the normal club bullshit, amplified twenty times. EB: Yes. Once it’s out of my hands it’s not my problem anymore though. L: Yeah. Just wanna find someone that can handle it while it /is/ in our hands. R: Mhm. I imagine the bigots and weasels swarm jus’ to get their rocks off being antagonistic. L: Yep. EB: Yep. Pretty much. L: Like I said the last time. Armani suits. Author’s Note: Referencing a previous conversation. Quality of suit clearly doesn’t equal quality of character. R: What would bring you peace of mind? EB: I don’t think that’s attainable on this island, but if I’m being frank with you. The national guard patrolling the streets. R: Are you going to throw on an old fascist officer’s uniform and stomp around with a crop tucked under your arm while they march? EB: I’ll happily live under martial law if it means I’m less likely to be stuck up outside one of my businesses at seven in the morning. Or… Random gunfights in Legion Square. L: I’ve been shot once. Like. They weren’t even shooting at me? Just like. They missed. ‘S hard to avoid. EB: Peace of mind… Even with private security, it isn't really. R: Yeah. Sorry. The sarcasm’s my naivety. I can at least recognize why you’d feel confident enough saying such radical things. EB: Why do you think I’m always here in this nuclear bunker of an office building!? I can’t be outside without dying. R: You know the Governor is comin’ down? Excited to tour the city’s newest enforcement equipment and facilities. EB: Ah. He’ll need at least a motorcade. R: Think that’s where all my stress is pouring from… Numbing to hear about the publicity tour and an hour later have you compare the city’s crime to a third world country. EB: It’s worse than a third world country. I find bodies on the side of the road and it’s not even a shock anymore. I call them in and keep driving. But whatever. Nowhere can be perfect. R: Would you guys ever leave the city though? EB: Uh. I have too many assets here. L: Man. Dunno where I’d even live otherwise. Grew up here. R: You can say friends. I won’t add it to the paper. EB: I didn’t stutter. R: I’ll replace assets with friends just to spite you then. EB: Friends. I have a few good friends. R: I would hope so. I couldn’t imagine being where you were without someone. And now for one last horrible, gossip question. One I’m already more of a fan of the answer: Is there anyone out there who has outwitted you, Eva? EB: Uh. Yes. Probably. L: ...Nobody that’d be good to put in the paper. EB: Yeah exactly. I had an epiphany at some point where I realized these questions were almost more for me than any magazine. I’m still a stranger in a strange land. A pilgrim told me that the west is the best, but I'm quickly learning that is hardly the case and pilgrims are lying bastards… These days if it isn’t wearing tie-dye or black lipstick you can’t trust the culture it comes from. Signing Off, Raoul DeSalvo > Comments are disabled
  4. This thread documents the development and background of Jasper "Jas" Copeland. A misunderstood and hollow individual who stands on weary legs with a heavy heart. I hope you die. Jasper Copeland was born in The Peach State to Thomas Copeland and Abigail Copeland. Growing up, Jasper was surrounded in the rut of physical and psychological abuse brought on by his parents, both of which lashed out on his siblings just as much as him. Jasper's family was a traditional one. The savior Jesus Almighty was praised and worshiped in the household daily, a sort of staple of this all-American family. A modest home with a seemingly normal family laid out the red curtains to the public, hiding the house of horrors Jasper and his siblings were born into. It's somewhat similar to a religious cult, the only difference is your father and mother are the ones lashing you for making a mistake, saying something wrong, wearing something sinful, thinking the wrong way. Thomas Copeland was a pious, preachy man standing at a towering height with a hunch-back stance, lurking around his local Georgian town as an assistant to a minister at a church. Thomas showed up through hail, snow, sleet, rain, and storms in the name of God. He was devoted, and through time and study he rose to the head minister of the church after working there for several years. As he rose to the head of the ark, his flock grew, and he eventually had a congregation of easily a couple hundred weekly. During one of his masses, he met a lovely protestant girl named Abigail and they struck it off. The couple had three kids, two daughters and one boy. First came the boy, born in the frosty December of '97, a joyful and chubby child. Growing up, Jasper was a devote protestant and worked alongside his father at his church, worshiping his father as much as he did God, which lead to a strange obsession with his father. Jasper dressed, talked, and walked like his father, he did everything he could in his power to be approved in his fathers eyes. His sisters were more or less the same, however, Abigail passed along the same mental diseases she was suffering from that lead her to believe in God so devotedly, the major disease out of the batch Schizophrenia. As his age progressed, his voices and mental pain grew, he prayed to God to be healed, to be saved, to make the "demons" go away, as his father coined it, but alas, they only grew louder, angrier, crueler. His adolescence arrived and with that came a new Jasper, a wide-eyed, doubtful and depressed boy with no friends and nobodies should to cry on. He went to a private school but began failing, causing him to be booted to the curb of public schooling, there, he learned what real anguish was. Though the school had many students, Jasper had no-one who thought of him as a person, his outbursts and strange behavior causing people to label him a freak, a weirdo, strange. He started to fall out of touch with God around the age of fourteen and began dressing darker, talking in a more deadpan voice, his joyous laughter being replaced with a dreaded look of pain, of torture. The troubled youth was disciplined day in and out by his once idolized father, beaten, starved, and ridiculed by his own blood. At seventeen he had enough of the abuse and packed up whatever his schoolbag could carry, the voices tearing at him every morning, afternoon and night to end it, to stop the pain that his beloved father brought upon him. He refused it, and opted to escape, to run away, to become someone somewhere else. He left his family in the middle of Summer, on a particularly quiet night and walked several miles away from his home, glad to be out. With the little money he had, he bought a ride on a bus and traveled his home state of Georgia for another decade, his family thinking he was dead mourned their loss, and the church received a wide array of donations, truthfully, his parents never cared about their "failure" of a son, but when you act genuine and spread a faith, you certainly get what you need when you need it. While in Georgia, he spent a majority of his time working low-income jobs, never graduating high-school because he had no motivation to finish it. After another pointless day of existing in a one room apartment on the bad side of town he figured he was gonna end his life, which he prepared to do for the world to see. If he was gonna go, the people around him will know, and with some of his savings, he bought himself a handgun, a video camera, and some painkillers off a local drug dealer. He downed the painkillers with a shot of gin, and began rolling the video, he went on a long rant out how religion was a sham, for if God truly existed, why was he cursed with the voices that drown out his thoughts and imagination? He broke down, crying, defeated, angry, alone. He pressed the gun to his head but decided against it, stopping his attempt on his life. With a broken spirit, he decided to go scour the internet to see how his family was, as much as he hated them, they're all he ever had. To his surprise he found his sister on a social media website in a sunny state full of sand, new horizons and a colorful mix of people. He messaged her and received a reply, two weeks into their conversation he was convinced of heading to Los Santos, in search to a meaning to his miserable existence.
  5. "Even the brightest stars need a little darkness to shine." Located in Sinner Street Alley - a unique, understated venue for those with darker tastes. Featuring artists like: + many more industrial and goth rock hits.
  6. Disryna

    Sabrina Rose

    Full Name: Sabrina Rose FrostNickname/Alias: Goes by Sabrina Rose.Gender: Female Attitude: Pleasant when she wants to be. Mostly aggressive and dominant. Orientation: Bisexual Age: 22 Birthplace: Vinewood, Los Santos Raised in a family of six girls, Sabrina is the third oldest of them. Beautiful and popular, she enjoyed partying, but as she grew older her personality became more aggressive and her company shadier. Eventually she began to act out and learn how to handle herself on the streets. She has a nice apartment, lives alone, and is actively trying to make a name for herself as an aspiring model and actress. This is Los Santos - plenty of opportunity! OOC: I'm on Xbox One. I want to RP her and can do so anytime. My Discord is Disryn#0284. Whether work or personal I'm looking to develop all aspects of Sabrina's character. My gamertag is ThaGodfather987. Cheers! Raised
  7. Theme Song Full Name: Madeline Amelia DunlapPronunciation: măd-ĕ-lĭn ä-mē-lē-ä dŭn-lăp (mad-eh-lin ah-mee-lee-ah duhn-lap)Nickname/Alias: Maddy/MaddieMeaning: Her name is the English form of "Magdalene".Origin: It was given to her by Catholic parents due to its connection to the New Testament, Her middle name is the same as that of her sister's first.Title: N/APet Name: Snowbunny, Strawberry, Princess, Morticia, Queen of DarknessSignature: Gender: FemaleGender Role: She exhibits both feminine and masculine qualities, fancying things like skirts and makeup along with messy jeans and cars.Orientation: BisexualReal Age: 24Age Appearance: She appears to be as old as she looks, if not slightly younger.Birthday: February 5th, 1996Deathday: N/ABirthplace: Edinburgh, Scotland, United KingdomAstrological Sign: Aquarius, though she doesn't believe in the validity of astrology.Family Physiology Health Style Emotional Interpersonal Possessions Love Life Occupational Education Morality Skills & Interests Strengths & Weaknesses Favorites Speech Her Pets Her Tattoos Character Sheet © Character-Resource
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