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This is the thread of the Adventures of Dean Everett, localized Vinewood scumbag, ex-grad student turned runaway drug addict and party-goer... WHERE HE GOES? NO ONE KNOWS!

-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))

-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))

This is the story of Hope Harrison (previously Sophia Harrison), a twenty-year old hippie, drug addict that found herself indoctrinated into a cult called The Saved - lead by the mysterious, charismatic leader - The Father, Rowley Fletcher. Hope becomes one of the Father's most loyal and devout followers, willing to do anything to protect the cult as it prepares for The Reckoning - the second coming of Christ where the world will be rid of sinners and non-believers, and allow the chosen believers of the Father to prosper as they re-build New Columbia, starting with their camp - the Sanctuary. This is her journey as she delves deeper into the cult, whose goal is to convert as many non-believers as they can to ensure the Father's vision of New Columbia is met. A dark tale of cultism, religion and acid trips. (May have role-play that some may find offensive, sorry! But we're trying to achieve the vision of a dark, mysterious cult. All dark or slightly obscene situations have and will always be okay'd with the other party before any role-play takes place and nothing is ever forced on a person that wishes to role-play with us! ?)

How's it going, man? I hear you want to walk on the steps of how to be a proper San Andreas hippie. Well I tell you what, man, it’s not as easy as you might think. Picking up a tie dye shirt, getting a headband over your head and smoking a blunt doesn’t make you a hippie, amigo. So pick up your notebook and a pen and listen up… Actually, screw the notebook, too many trees are being cut to make it. It’s killing the environment. INTRODUCTION The hippie movement initially started off as a youth counterculture of the 1960s, along with other groups that were mostly composed of people who protested against war, fought for civil rights, free speech and of course equality. It’s believed by many that the hippies came from San Fierro, and so the city became known as “The place where man can escape the man”. I won’t go into full detail as to how the hippie movement started off, dude, I’m not an Wikipedia article. You just have to know that it boomed during the 1960s, especially after 1967, when the famous “Summer of Love” festival went on. Tents, Crazed-ass music and a lot of mescaline vodka, which leaves us to the next chapter. CHARACTERISTICS 1.1 - The art If you probably haven't realized already, man, the hippies are the founding fathers of the psychedelia subculture you've probably heard about. When you want to picture yourself a hippie the first thing you go to, man, is the atmosphere, the buzz, the vibe. Getting the perfect vibe means getting your hands on the perfect sound, and that's the music, dude. Now, the oldies prefer the sweet sound of a psychedelic rock record, some classic hard rock and even some heavy metal. Stuff like Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, Jimi Hendrix and the list goes on, dude. However in the recent years some hippies have started adopting some newer sounds, especially in the metal area, with the introduction of stoner rock/doom metal. Sounds of bands like Kyuss, Electric Wizard, Down, 1000mods and Sleep now populate the speakers of the hippie festivals nobody should know about. If it gives you that good trippy feeling, man, the sound is good to go. Now the imagery, man, the painting. You can't be a hippie without knowing how to decorate your place/car/everything into giving you the perfect buzz, man. YGHtPPV, dude, a.k.a. You - Gotta - Have - The - Perfect - Psychedelic - Vibe. I wish I had the words to explain to you what I mean, man, but maybe these pictures are gonna give you the right idea: 1.2 - The fashion This one's an easy one, friend. If you can't get this one out then why you should even try? It's okay, man, I'm only kidding. Hippies are about accepting, so we're gonna let you in anyways, even if you look like an idiot, you're bound to learn, right? And the time for learning is now, dude. You can pretty much wear whatever you want (as long as it's nothing too offensive or too superficial now, you know? Oh and most importantly, no brands, man, everything either self-made, bought at flea shops or second hand) but you know, tie-dye clothes, man, they're a must to have in your pile, even if you don't wear it. One of the most important things to have as a hippie is the long hair, friend, whether you're a man or a woman. Dudes often had beards, and chicks wore little to no makeup, and go all day without bras. And now, accessories, man, you'll always see a hippie wearing them: headbands, head scarves, those long beaded necklaces and the list goes on. Again, you probably know all these man from all those pictures you've seen of different events, which we'll talk about later. 1.3 - The beliefs When I say "beliefs", friend, there's three things I'm talking about here: Sex, Religion and Politics. SEX: Many used to say that hippies were "promiscuous, having wild sex orgies, seducing innocent teenagers and every manner of sexual perversion.", many of which were kinda true, but it had nothing to do with hippies, man, I tell you, it was all just some bad timing. But you know what we did? We took it and made it become something, man. "If it feels good, do it".. classic line. RELIGION: We don't bother with Christianity, man. If anything Christianity kills cultures, and remember that. We instead go for more spiritual stuff, like Hinduism, Buddhism, Sufism, you name it. There are some very spiritual hippies out there, friend. We call them "high priests", they can give you more detailed teaching on practices you should go through to experience spirituality at a new level, man. POLITICS: We couldn't care less about politics, man, but if you want to label us as something, you could label us as libertarians, I guess. We're pacifist, friend, and that's all there is to it. Make love, not war. 1.4 - The drugs I bet you were waiting for this one, man. It's time to talk about the thing that makes the hippie a hippie... psychedelic drugs. And the most important of all: dope, pot, grass, you name it. When it comes to weed friend, you have many different types of hippies, but we're gonna talk about the most common ones: The Grower and The Consumer. Now, do I really need to go into detail about it, man? Yup, I do. - The Grower: The dude, the man you're looking for when you're out of lucky trees. They grow it, they know everything about growing it, they can find you the best weed. These guys tend to go a bit away from the commune though, man, and adopt a lone wolf lifestyle, like way lone wolf, man. If you have no experience, these guys are gonna be a though one to find, cause you know, they're lone wolf and well lone wolves are alone and like... You know what I mean. They usually sell their stuff, but some are kind enough to give them out for either free, or a very small price, only condition is that they have to smoke with you. - The Consumer: The most common type of hippie you can ever find, dude. And when I mean it... I mean it. You'll find these toking them, talking about them, passing them around, but never selling them. They usually buy from the growers, or from other people. They never really tell you, unless you're worthy of knowing, know what I mean? Like I said, you also have other types of hippies when it comes to psychedelics, dude. You just have to find them out for yourself. IMPORTANT EVENTS & PEOPLE Now that you know how and what the hippie thinks, man, it's time to get on going to my favourite subject: History of the San Anne Hippy. Don't worry, you don't really need to remember all of these, you'll probably forget half of them after your third acid trip, it happens to everyone. But if you want to be far out, you should listen to some of these: 2.1 - Events - "Get The Hell out of Vietnam!" protests: We talked about how pacifist we were, man, but when there's war out there, the hippies were out to stop it. Loads of people gathered out and protested against the Vietnam War, but did they listen to us? They didn't.. And now look what happened. - The PsycheyD-Gathering: Back in 1966, man, the damn government decided to make LSD illegal, because they were too mad we were right about war, and well.. We didn't like it, man. Around seven or eight hundred hippies gathered around the Gant Bridge Park and protested, in our own way. We showed the people that LSD doesn't turn you into a lunatic, man. Because, to be frank, it doesn't. - Summer Of Love: the place where everything started, dude. If you're talking to one of the old schools, they're surely gonna remember this one. 100,000+ people, man, that's like... TOO MANY, dude. Tents, loud psychedelic rock, drugs and most importantly, friend: love, friendship and equality. Random people who joined us, dude, went out enlightened. - The Great Communes: After Summer of Love, we started calming off into our own realm of wonders, and starting making large communes around the places. One of these largest communes were The Dandelion Fields and The Village. The Dandelion Fields were mostly just a normal commune, with hippies taking off into their day to day lives, the numbers sure helped them. The Village is a different story, one of the most spiritual place in all of hippie culture, dude. I mean like, so far out that even the furthest out can't even out it, you know. That's where you find the High Priests, if you know how to search for The Village. - Psychestivals: Your usual psychedelic rock festivals, dude, like the Summer of Love, only not much to remember from them, unless you were there. Though there was a very crazy one during 1986, man, that most people call the Fierro '86 Love-In, but we call it "Psychedeliczilla Festival". You won't believe how many psychedelics people took that day, man.. I think we broke three records in one week. 2.2 - People - The Merry Pranksters: A group of hippies and followers of the novelist and fellow traveler, Ken Kesey, one of the most far out dudes out there when it comes to the psychedelic life. Anyhoo, these Greenwits were super into how far out Ken was, that even started living communally at his home in Bayside. They were known for dealing LSD and all other types of magic to a local biker chapter, but most importantly, they were known for "The Great Greenwit Escapade of 1964", when Ken Kesey and the Pranksters all got along in this cool bus called "Furthur" and traveled through the U-S of A. - The Diggers: San Fierro Activisits and Street Actors who started mocking the 60s government and the issues around it, as long as some other problems in the USA at that time, including the sudden commercialization of the hippies, dude. But, man, most of our real fellow travellers knew deep inside that they were right, and that we were slowly becoming the very thing that we disliked the most, but after all we didn't try doing anything about it, in the 70s we were as mainstream as pop music, but nowadays we're all good. These digger guys also organized some kind of mock event called "Death of the hippie", don't know much about that, really. They weren't bad guys, they even gave out free stuff to the people. Maybe they were fellow travelers, like all of us. - Yippies: A couple of rogue offshoot hippies who started parodying the government and different political parties. They were funny, I'll have to be honest, especially the piggy. But, like the diggers, they were also mocking some of their own fellow travelers. - John Lennon: How can you not know John Lennon, man? - Charles Manson: I don't even want to talk about this superficial scum, dude. - Blake "Merlin" Batty: Fellow traveler and creator of Beam Me Up. The Blaine County government has once tried to stop his by hiring a toxic waste specialist to test the soils around, which at first showed high level of toxicity in the area. Merlin and his followers protested against this and ordered a second test to be taken, and thus the test came back negative, and no toxic waste was used into making Beam Me Up. LANDMARKS An important part of being a hippie, man, is knowing your places. Here we got some of the most known hippie landmarks in all of San Andreas, man. BEAM ME UP What we have here is the pure work of the modern hippie, dude. People who have seen that the problems of today's society can't be fixed anymore, so they've decided to gather around and work on getting help from our own universe, man. And now time for some more history: The creation of the mountain started back in like 1990, when a super cool dude by the name of Blake "Merlin" Batty decided it was time to try and gather the people of Blaine County and seek help from aliens. At first, he got a little bit of kicking around from certain locals, dude, but that only encouraged the hippies to come out and help the man express himself. It only took him adobe, straw, and thousands of gallons of lead-free paint to get the creation done. Unfortunately though, in 2010, old Merlin died of a heart attack, but the hippies can still be found at Beam Me Up, working on keeping the place clean, because of all the vandals coming around the place, like some idiots who thought it was a cool idea to show off their loud muscle cars at the place, only to leave a huge mess. CERES VALLEY The only standing hippie commune in Blaine County, as of now. Here's where your fellow travelers hang around. The community was an usual trailer park during the start of the 80s, but as time went on, the place is now basically a prime hang around spot for all the fellow travelers. SUNSET SHORES / STAB CITY Even though it might not look like it, man, Sunset Shores was and currently is used by fellow travelers as a get-along hang-around place every now and then, because of The Range and all. On your day to day life you'd mostly find different other squatters, rednecks and whatnot. So along with your average psychedeliacs you'll also stumble onto a vast variety of high-proof distilled spirits. You might be wondering why the place looks all bikery and stuff, well, dude, it's simple. Back in like 2000-something some motorcycle club gang took over and basically kicked out all the travelers and squatters. Since then the bikers left and now the originals are all back and well. TRUTH'S DOME OF PSYCHEDELIC WONDERS When it comes to drugs, man, all of us hippies search for the perfect trip. One of these perfect trips can easily be found at this place, man. The Dome, like the name suggests, is owned by a super mysterious but far out dude called "The Truth", and has been the go-to place for all consumers from around the word, man. We can't tell you much about the guy who owns the place, because, dude, we really have no idea about it. Only some are lucky enough to know what The Truth is, like me, but shh.. no telling, man. Unfortunately though, this place is mostly just a myth by now, and I can't really pin-point you the location. But who, knows, maybe The Dome will make a return one day. GRAPESEED Grapeseed is an agricultural settlement dedicated to providing San Andreas with its food. Most of the area consists of large fields of crops and livestock along with barns, sheds, and silos containing the necessary equipment to maintain the crops. The rural town stays true to its slogan and is mostly meant for agriculture or labor To normal people, Grapeseed seems like a boring land full of farms, which is like true, in a way. However, dude, what most normal people don't know is that Grapeseed is the land and home of many potheads, growers, amphetamine makers and various other groovy freaks. A majority of people in here make it, sell it, consume it, man. There's no way out of it. CAPE CATFISH Small fishing pier going east of Grapeseed and southeast of the El Gordo Lighthouse. Cool little place for fellow travelers to hang around in. It's a common place for Toxic Waltzers to show up, almost as if they're living there. Despite their name, they mean no harm. WHAT YOU SHOULDN'T DO Now that I laid down everything you should keep in mind about keeping to your hippie lifestyle, it's time for you to know some of the stuff that you should DEFINITELY NOT do as a hippie, man. 1. Don't just stand around smoking weed or taking psychedelics all day, man. Live your life, you got so much stuff you can express yourself through. Make art, play guitar, practice yoga, you can do ANYTHING, man. 2. Not all hippies are crazed-out conspiracy theorists, dude. As a matter of fact, no hippie is a crazed-out conspiracy theorist, they're truth-seekers. 3. The word "HATE" should never be in your vocabulary, man. You don't ever "hate" something, you just don't like it, and that's all. 4. You DON'T have to be dressed so stereo-typically, man. You can wear whatever makes you comfortable, man. After all, that's what it's all about. 5. Hippies aren't dumb, dude. We've even had our own philosophers and writers. We have our smarties, and our dumbies, you know? Right on, man, if you've done everything right, you can finally get along with the subculture, dude. And now, remember: Tune In, Turn On, Drop Out, Screw the system.