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TITLE: The Greatest Bastard
Joined: 27-May 15
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Jun 30 2015, 11:59 PM
Luke keeps posting that gif. You know the one, you've seen it. I can't stand it anymore.

I eat and I can't keep the food down, I sleep and I can't dream peacefully. I see a world on fire, shimmying and jiggling in front of me for the sake of Luke's amusement.

I started talking to a therapist. He told me that the only thing I can do is shimmy away... far, far away... from Lie with Your Bones.

So this is goodbye.

Fuck you, Luke.
Jun 22 2015, 05:36 PM
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cerp cerp
<P> tags: EVER</div></div> </div>
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I've watched you change. It's like you never had wings.
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<P> A month had passed since their relationship... mutated. After Boulder City, he was despondent, as if changed by what had happened somehow. He'd barely made it back and when she finally caught him at the courier station, he was barely able to walk. Whether it stopped them from doing anything, Jack couldn't remember. Somehow he doubted it. Garnet was insatiable when it came to the things she liked and the things she claimed to be good at. Had to show him up, how much she could introduce to him that would make his head spin.

<P> Jack healed, slowly but surely and Garnet was there for the better part of it. It's not like she was a wet nurse, he didn't expect her to be by his side endlessly. She'd taken a gamble, brought him a fog light for his car and they laughed about it for the better part of an hour. She originally had absolutely no clue what it did, just thought of him when she found it. Fog in the Mojave? That'd be a sight. Though she brought him a new gear shift, a novelty that he didn't exactly expect from her. On the top of the handle it said, "Eat My Dust!" and the slick shine of it made him stare. He'd installed it the very next day, despite being in a lot of pain.

<P> Garnet's moments of clarity made him obsess over the thought of her, as if there was something deep down to love. He could feel it, strongly, that proximity to whatever it was that lurked in her heart to make her somewhat passionate. But it would fade if he said something she didn't like or look at her the wrong way and he'd be reminded of her temper. That lack of a cycle that he could expect, or behavior from her he could read. She was a firecracker and as much as that alarmed him, he still liked it about her. When he was able to move about without spraining something further, he began delivering packages again and it was business as usual. For a time, he didn't see Garnet but she was back to visiting semi-frequently and that's when he'd decided he'd ask her to join him on a trip to Sloan.

<P> She was inclined to say yes and they were off in his car, non-stop straight to the small town. The citizens regarded them with slight hostility, the trader in town refusing to give Jack a good rate on a turbocharged engine he wasn't even sure his car would utilize. Eventually, with Garnet's help the guy let it go for almost nothing as it was pretty well worthless. Car parts were impossible to keep consistent and Jack wasn't what you'd call an expert.

<P> He needed help carrying the thing and Garnet refused to help him. She adamantly insisted he could carry it himself and besides, she just wanted to watch either way. Turns out he couldn't, so he enlisted the help of a local who gladly helped him carry it for a bit of scavenge he could trade at the junkyard. They were ready to leave when Jack noticed people clambering into buildings and clearing the streets of Sloan. A low engine noise drew Jack's attention to the end of town, a matte black truck driving up the cracked street.

<P> Jack peeked in the window at Garnet in the passenger seat, leaning over the driver side door to grab his sawed-off. He trusted that she'd found his pistol in the glove compartment and that she wouldn't hesitate to use it. He didn't think to tell her to stay in the car but knowing her she probably wouldn't. Garnet loved to fight and fuck and tear shit up.

<P> The truck stopped ten feet away from Jack's car, the cracked windows limo tinted to block the sun. Jack was jealous for a minute, until the driver evacuated his car, gun in hand and realized he had big trouble heading his way. He couldn't appear weak or afraid, so he walked towards the man slowly, sawed-off resting on his shoulder. The driver of the black truck aimed his gun, prompting Jack to stop in place. The rest of the vehicle doors open and four more armed men scooted out of the cab, all smirks and glares.

<P> Raiders.

<P> "I recognize that car. Belongs to the Boulder City Butcher," one of the raiders said, trying to flank Jack inconspicuously. Jack cocked his eyebrow and looked between the toothless raider and his car. The courier just smiled and shook his head, which didn't do him any favors. He liked the nickname, but he knew it didn't do him justice. He killed a lot of people that day, more than he'd ever killed before in his whole life. It also almost took his life from him in return, not one of his fondest memories.

<P> The driver closed in on Jack, the entire group encircling him. "Where's the raven-haired bitch on the motorcycle?" He was almost nose to nose with Jack, who flinched when he smelled the raider's breath. He was a bit taller than Jack, but he was sinewy and looked like he needed a hamburger as soon as humanly possible. Jack nodded to the shotgun resting on his shoulder. "She was dead weight. We parted ways." He spoke as if he was suggesting that he killed her.

<P> The group's attention was drawn to Garnet, who wasn't too far away from Jack. "Who's your pretty little friend?" They didn't recognize her, which kind of sucked. Would've been good to take advantage of a friend in a high place. Jack looked back at Garnet, suddenly a lot more serious and a lot less bum-fucky-sarcastic. "Nobody you need to be concerned about. You tailed my car, looking for me. So what's it going to be?" Jack took a few cautious steps back, the likely chance of violence reaching a fever pitch. They raised their guns, keeping him stuck where he was. "We're going to squeeze your guts out of you like you're a bloody tube of toothpaste," the driver said, aiming at Jack's head through his iron-sights. So he did know what oral hygiene was.

<P> He looked back at Garnet again, while he still had a face to scrunch up. Nothing about this situation seemed favorable. But he wanted a nice view if he was going to lose his head. Though his macho attitude made him think he had an ace up his sleeve, as he always did.

<P> That ace was the pistol in the glove compartment.


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Jun 19 2015, 01:02 AM
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PAENUS</div></div> </div>
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"Where has he gone!? What have you done!?" A voice commands from high above the earth. From the soil his blood cries out to me.
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<P> (tl;dr please don't bother reading this it's long, tedious and pointless but I wrote it and I'm not letting it be for nothing damn it.)

<P>Boulder City wasn't part of plan. Unless you have some to-do list of crazy bullshit you can't undo. Jack had been hired to rescue someone special from the clutches of some unsavory raiders. She was the daughter of some important pressed suit who hired him anonymously from The Strip. Jack had the balls to turn him down though he didn't, he couldn't resist a damsel-in-distress, western cliches taught him as much. Besides, he expected the worst and Jack had a penchant for foolish errands. Freaks don't take prisoners, but who's to say she wasn't pretty enough to play with while she was still breathing? The thought made him shudder with nauseating distress.

<P>He wasn't alone, as the man paying the reward had directed his personal protective staff to help in the endeavor. They only needed Jack to secure the precious cargo and drive her straight back to her rich father's grubby arms. At least he cared, Jack supposed. Would be less forgivable if he could sleep comfortably knowing his daughter was rotting on a pike out in the desert. The roar of Jack's rebuilt engine woke him up from pondering and helped him collect his attention towards the task at hand, Boulder City was less than ten minutes away. Jack had a feeling he'd have to brace himself for what would happen next. It was going to be a scorched earth type of fight, that much was clear.

<P>Jack checked his rearview mirror, noticing that the heavily armed men accompanying him were... slowing down? He snatched his sawed-off from the dashboard and drove one-handed, looking nervously over the hot desert sands. The heatwaves hid a thick line of interceptors, the engine cries revealing them to be the welcome party. Raiders with wheels to carry them after their prey was like giving a Bengal tiger rocket-skates.

<P>One of the client's bodyguards sped up beside Jack in an attempt to warn him. The word "AMBUSH" rang in his ears after a close proximity explosion right beside his vehicle, shaking him up enough to lose a few loose parts. The bodyguard broke off in an attempt to dodge the high explosive mortar round that pelted him and blew him into bite-sized giblets. Warm blood showered the side of the car, staining the passenger seat and the right side of his face, leaving Jack with a copper taste in his mouth. His eyes spotted a pick-up truck with a mortar launcher welded in the bed. A brief glance was all he needed to shit his pants.

<P>Don't. Stop. Driving.

<P>The speedometer gave up on trying to tick after Jack, leaving him free reign to imagine he was breaking the sound barrier. It was a mad dash, the last-ditch effort of a deer to avoid a pair of headlights. He wasn't about to end up in the back of some raider's truck, cut open to keep his soft flesh suple and fun to rub against. Luckily they were no doubt short on ammunition and Jack assumed they were out of mortars, so the heavy gunfire didn't start until he could see the junkie tint of their eyes. Beside him, vehicles tore through the sand ahead of and behind him, it was a vehicular skirmish of fearless killers clashing on the battlefield. Twisted metal, death cries and gunshot beats meeting in the middle to create some edgy punk ballad.

<P> A flaming buggy hurtled past Jack, barely missing the front end of his car. It bowled into three other savages, creating a medium-scale explosion. Flames stuck to Jack's leather roof, flapping in the wind before blowing out of existence. He was sweating grease, his body worn down from the shock and fear of the chaotic tornado threatining to suck him down to rock bottom and snap his skull in half upon impact. A second was all it would take to make him a busted open can of meat and he didn't forget it. Boldness was all he had, so he drove through the thick of it, constantly switching gears and drifting around wrecks and incoming savages.

<P> Before he could reach the surface and take a breath of air not poisoned by fumes, a car crashed into his bumper and weaved ahead of him to cut him off. It was a heavily armored raider attack vehicle, which Jack didn't even know existed, that desperately wanted to total him. The raider spun around and the two cars met front bumper to front bumper. Bullets pierced the hood and the interior of the car, missing Jack by a tuft of his hair. He lifted his head up and tried to shake free of the bumper lock, the car denying him his stretch of freedom by weighing him down. Suddenly, the attack vehicle braked and Jack spun out, almost vomiting in his lap.

<P>When he reclaimed his equilibrium, Jack watched the attack car smash into him again, stopping him entirely. Jack searched for the shotgun beside him as he grit his teeth. When he felt the familiar handle, he cradled the shotgun in both arms and tried his best to slow his heartbeat and focus. The shotgun jolted with a thuderous crash, the spread ripping the driver apart and the lethal impact emitting a gorey pink mist that dissipated in the still desert air. Once free, he drove as fast as he could and didn't turn back.

<P> By the time he regained full speed, he realized he was quite possibly the sole survivor. It reminded him to stay humble and count his blessings, maybe cash in all of the good things he'd ever done so a favor might be granted by some heavenly power or some dogshit like that. Not that that train of thought was purely the humble route, but Jack was grasping at straws. His hand wrapped around the gear shifter, as if for effect, and his eyes locked on the fortress that was Boulder City.

<P> For the most part, Boulder City was unoccupied. Save the more feeble of the raiders and perhaps a small garrison left to hold the fort while the rest formed scavenging parties and attack groups. Jack had abandoned his car after coasting through a weak section of wall, rubble rolling off of the car as he swung around a beat-up rig to shield his car from prying eyes. Jack loaded his shotgun, secured a few clips for his pistol and stuffed his pockets full of extra shells. Striding across Boulder City, he realized that even the feeble had enough lunacy plaguing their minds to attack a man while unarmed.

<P> It was a massacre. Some of the raiders fought back with the occasional bullet, but Jack was persistent when taking cover and revealing himself long enough to line up his own perfect shot. Corpses followed him until he reached a building with the last working gas-powered generator. For some reason, he knew she had to be there if anywhere. The raiding party was not far from returning, though the battle was still raging with stragglers or a whole new combatant. They were fighting for control of Hoover Dam, so anything was possible. Politics weren't always necessary to wage war, it only took similar interests and slothful temperments.

<P> The building interior looked like a small clinic. Cool green tiles lined the floor and walls with multiple drains on the floor. Bloodstains were absolutely everywhere, as if the place had been the site of a mass slaughter. Jack hurried for the door at the sight, his eyes instinctually averting when he spotted a nude woman. He looked up, remembering the situation at hand long enough to examine her. She was battered quite viciously, the dried blood sticking to her thighs suggesting something entirely sinister. Approaching, Jack set his hand down on her forehead in an attempt to wake her from her trauma induced sleep.

<P> Her eyes fluttered open, a look of instant fear hogging her features. "Please..." she began repeating, trying her best to wriggle away to no avail. She was mounted and tied up, her legs caught in stirrups. Jack tried to find words, but she became instantly aware that he was there to help her, despite her state. "My baby." She breathed in deeply and looked off to the side, out of Jack's field-of-vision. "Look at what they did," her eyes swelled with tears, her voice quaking before she could finish speaking. Jack paused, stepping away from her for a moment. Blood stuck to his feet as he found his place several steps away from her. His heart was caught in the moment of truth, the absolute horror at what his mind rapidly processed once his eyes focused.

<P> A mound of squished flesh and matter, something mutilated... and a small severed arm- Jack was jolted, all of the air in his body evacuating him immediately. His eyes were filled with grief when he accepted the reality of what he was looking at.

<P> *Ellen had fought so hard, the immense pain finally over. She looked at Jack, who was holding a bundle in his arms. There were no cries, absolutely no comfirmations of life. She let out a brief sob, tilting her head to get a better look at Jack, whose eyes were locked on the bundle. No breath, no life whatsoever but he was... transfixed. She was afraid of what was about to happen. "Jack," she whispered, choking as she fought through the anguish to say his name. "Jack?" He would not look at her.*

<P> No, no... not this. I can't face this. Don't make me do this again.

<P> *"What do you want to name him?" Jack looked up and smiled, his eyes alive with pride and love. Ellen sighed tearfully, disturbed. She put her hands over her face and shook her head adamantly. "I-I... what are you saying? Why are you doing this?" She couldn't express herself, couldn't contain or release the despair ripping her heart in half. "He needs a name," Jack continued, despite her obvious discomfort... despite the tragedy that he held in his arms. "Jack, no!" she cried out to him, turning her head to look away from the stillborn in his arms.*

<P>Go away. Goddamn it, go away!

<P> Muscles tightening and untightening, body heaving from erratic breathing... Jack was coming undone. He was in absolute disarray. The captive woman fell in and out of consciousness, catching glimpses of him pacing the room as if he forgot the world around him. As if she was entirely non-existant. Unwelcomed memories split him in half, leaving his remains on the wrong side of sanity. Jack took a deep breath, overtaken by the past.

<P> *"Nathan, that's a good name for such a handsome guy." He held Nathan closer, his hands wrapping gently around the small body. Jack couldn't escape his delusion, caught up in a lie that he wouldn't be able to strike true no matter how badly he wanted to. "We made this..." he leaned over, almost down to his knees. "I made this." Jack looked up at Ellen finally, who returned his stare with an empty and broken glance of her own. "I love him so much." Jack lowered the bundle into his lap, away from view.*

<P> *Not once looking away from him, Ellen watched Jack and regarded him with an almost apathetic expression, despite being tied up in her own interpretation of mourning. When he'd looked down at their deceased child, his eyes were full of unadulterated love and fatherly triumph. The type of thing a man expressed when he holds his firstborn and every child born to him afterwards. When he looked up, his eyes were red and his face was drained of all color. Jack let out a chain of unintelligible sobs and sounds that sounded more beast than man. The cold hard truth rendered him helplessly petrified.*

<P> *Jack died there beside his son that night.*

<P> When he came to, Jack was pressed against the wall, fists clenched atop the tiles above his head. His hands were purple and bloody, sore and tender... almost felt broken. He looked over at the unconscious woman and made his way over to free her. When he pulled her from her bindings, she put both of her hands on his chest and shook her head. She was easy enough to carry, but something made him put her down. Her eyes opened slowly, devoid of any signs of willpower, though smoldering with strength. "There is only one way I want to picture this ending." She motioned to Jack's sidearm, her hand falling at her side. He understood, better than he ever would've wanted to.

<P> He wanted to say something, to give her peace of mind, but he couldn't. Jack just squeezed the trigger and let his hand fall, his eyes downcast and withdrawn. Placing her decently on the floor, he contemplated bringing her child to her, but the mere thought hurt more than he wanted it to.

<P> They would burn for what they did to her. That much he promised.

<P> The shit-storm had caught up to him while he had been licking nutjob flavored ice-cream. He readied his pistol only to realize he had three bullets left. Escaping Boulder City was a pipe-dream by now, but Jack had plenty of those. They were trashing his car when he found them, making very slow progress. He'd learned from his mistakes, armoring his car with the most unconventional pieces of metal. They wouldn't stop a bullet, but they could absorb a lot of punishment otherwise. He hadn't made a noise as he approached, snatching a lead pipe from one of the raiders only to lodge it deep into the unsuspecting man's skull. Just like clockwork, the raiders scattered in surprise and surrounded him when they figured out that they outnumbered him. Jack dove through the driver-side window and turned the key into the ignition upon landing. Pushing his hand against the gas pedal, he drove blind into various miscellaneous trash piles and a few raiders.

<P> Banking downhill, the car drove straight through a rusted security gate and directly to freedom. Which happened to be behind the raiding party he'd had the displeasure of meeting earlier. When Jack found himself back at the helm of his vessel, he hoped that half a tank of gas would carry him far enough away from Boulder City. Honor kept him bound to his contract and despite his failure, he would return to Vegas and deliver the bad news, though it might get him killed.

<P> As he passed the confused raiders, he noticed they'd taken a few prisoners. Rescuing them was a tempting prospect, but his main objective was to cause mass devastation before bolting across the desert into empty space again. If he could save them, he would, but he highly doubted their fates would meet happy ends. The raiders spun in unison to pursue Jack, the mounted prisoners reeling on top of a mail delivery truck. Yeah, it was jacked up impossibly but that little sucker could move. The driver was on Jack's tail in a minute flat. The prisoners were tied to long spikes welded to the truck, the rough riding causing them to sink on the spikes which dug into their skin and bled them like pigs. If Jack led the truck on too merry of a chase, they'd be dead in no time at all. By some coincidence, he always ended up being achy-heart-liberal-minded fool, destined to feel empathy against his will.

<P> But he had to leave them behind, as much as he didn't feel right doing so. Jack mouthed an apology and sighed, leaving the fucked up blood-soaked mail truck behind. It seemed like the losses were piling up and that surviving another day wouldn't be good enough, but if Jack had one thing to show for his efforts, it was his beating hearts. None of the raiders had what it took to intercept him, their engines overheating if they pushed themselves even harder. Soon he was alone, driving on the road and rapidly running out of fuel. It was just about empty when he stopped at an abandoned gas station which had been fashioned into some sort of fort. Either way, it had been torn apart long ago from the looks of it. He stretched his legs out for a bit and relaxed until he noticed an anomaly.

<P> A motorcycle sat around the corner alongside the station, but it wasn't the bones of a rusted left behind bike. It was somebody's possession, cared for and maintained. Footsteps approached from behind Jack after he'd stupidly lumbered towards the bike, dumbfounded. It was a nice piece of machinery. He drew the sawed-off and raised it, brandishing his weapon to assert his dominance in case he appeared to be easy prey. The figure he was pointing his gun at struck him, his gun hand lowering slowly but not entirely. The distant hum of engines was growing closer. The raiders had no earthly idea of when to quit and bugger off.

<P> Jack let his weapon fall to his side. "That's a good chunk of Boulder City you hear. Doubt you'll want to be here when they arrive." The exhausted courier nodded to the motorcycle, inviting the figure to make like a tree and leaf. Or leave or something like that, who the hell cares.


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Jun 9 2015, 11:56 PM
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<center><div style="width:450px;height:450px; background-image: url(;"><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><br><div class="title"><div style="font-family: oswald; color: #8B795E; opacity: 1; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 400; font-size: 25px; text-align:center;">Jack Brandt</div><br><div style="line-height: 60%; text-align: center; font-weight: normal; font-family: arial; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 0px; color: #6E6E6E;">HAWKES, 20, HIS/HIM/IT, EASTERN (GMT -5), PM</div></div></div></center></div></div>

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Gunshots rattling, glass shards twinkling in the hot desert sun; the engine of the car turned over and the worn tires launched the jury-rigged piece of shit back into the wasteland. Jack's mouth tasted like gasoline after a near half hour of siphoning from a crippled raider convoy. It made him careful not to burp as he reciprocated aggression back at his pursuers in the form of revolver fire, who didn't stand a chance against the pure horsepower underneath his hood. The car belched black clouds as deep as obsidian, flames coiling over the roof from the rusted bug catcher, damaged by previous assaults and riddled with bulletholes.

<br><br>The convoy had been completely abandoned, but not for long -- a party of armored tow trucks came rolling down the hill, engines growling like angry attack dogs. Cars were useless without fuel and incidentally Jack had left them with less than a quarter of a tank collectively. Seeing as they were stuck to him like flies, they knew what'd happened and they weren't very happy about it. Not one goddamned bit.

<br><br> His knuckles were white from clutching the leather steering wheel, faded from excessive sharp turns and evasive maneuvers. Sweat inched across his brow irritatingly enough for a hurried wipe. He looked out the back window to see one of the armored trucks gaining on him. Jack switched gears and stomped on the gas pedal, tires smoking and screeching as his car lunged powerfully off-road. Sand flung through the air in his wake, dust creating a blinding screen before the truck. Still, the tow truck insisted on ramming him, persisting swiftly enough to almost throw Jack out of control.

<br><br> Jack engaged the barely-fucking-works cruise control, which was installed by Jack himself albeit terribly and not as functional as he meant for it to be. It took him longer than it should've to scuttle through the interior of the car and sift through the useless junk on the floor in the caboose of the vehicle to find his pump shotgun. Once he had it in his hand, Jack climbed through the hole in the back windshield and steadied the shotgun on the rear spoiler. The driver of the truck took the barrel of his shotgun as an invitation to throttle the car again.

<br><br> Clutching the weapon, Jack tumbled into the backseat causing the car to sway ever so slightly. He was surprised it hadn't bounced off course during the collision, but the woe of his circumstances quickly ebbed away from his mind when the front end of the truck smacked his car around three more times.

<br><br> For the last time, Jack steadied his aim and leaned halfway out the back window again. Staring down the ironsights, he took in a deep breath and held it until the shotgun blew out the frontal left tire. With the front axel thrown out of whack, the truck spun sideways and rolled over. With the loud beast silenced, Jack became direly aware of the trap being spun around him. Six more cars joined the derby, weaving to and fro, stomping on their brakes ahead of him and jolting erratically.

<br><br> Climbing back into the driving seat, Jack reclaimed manual control of the car. He was sent over a ditch, the car rebounding back onto the highway. A few hundred meters ahead, he could see a bone-dry ravine. There was absolutely no way he'd make it across, no matter how hard he pushed his car. The raiders would torture him if they caught him, yet he was unafraid.

<br><br> The car struggled to keep up with Jack's enthusiasm, bee-lining straight for the ravine. The cars around him began to slow down, unsure of whether they wanted to follow him off the edge or not. Jack composed himself, his heartbeat rip-cording away and his body temperature hitting fever pitch.

<br><br> Out of nowhere, a challenger matched his boldness and slammed into the right side of the car fatally. The weak frame of the car caved in and the engine gave out finally, screaming itself to an eternal sleep. Jack was ejected from the car, hitting the sand alongside miscellaneous pieces from his car. The raiders all halted in a circle around him, exiting their cars to get a close look at the man they probably presumed dead. He tried to hold still, make it seem as if he were dead, but his ragged breathing gave him away. He was in shock and too far gone to compose himself.

<br><br> They searched his car after they restrained him and found a punctured fuel can, destroyed in the crash. It didn't take long for them to realize their frustration and their punishment came soon after. Jack struggled and fought, but they beat him senseless until his vision was nearly blackened entirely and his body was aflame with pain. They broke dozens of bones, tore his flesh with their teeth bruised every inch of his face. By the end of it, he appeared to be on the doorstep of death. They stepped away and made room for a mountain of meat, who was no doubt the leader of the pack of runts. He was about to step forward and torment Jack beyond comprehension when one of the raiders spoke up. "Where's my gun?" The group looked at Jack, their glassy eyes lit up with a startling revelation.

<br><br>A quivering bloody hand produced a long-barreled .22 pistol. Before they could scatter and try for the gun, Jack had let off three shots. Blood glimmered in the sun before splashing against the barren canvas, three crooked bodies folding onto the ground. The rest of the raiders stood frozen long enough to bite the bullet, Jack's aim faltering before he could kill the leader, who lifted him off of the ground and made his headache a lot worse. His teeth held on by a thread, each punch causing drops of blood to sprinkle the ground surrounding them.

<br><br>The giant wrapped both hands around Jack's throat and squeezed like vice. Dangling from his hands, Jack convulsed powerlessly, running out of options as each second ticked away. Opening his arms widely, he brought his palms into his attacker's temple, stunning him long enough to crawl away. He threw himself on top of a dead raider, searching for the dead man's gun while footsteps approached from behind.

<br><br> Jack was seized by his hair, his back cracking from the sheer strength of the man yanking him backwards. There was a pause in the fight, long enough for Jack to position the snub-nosed revolver. Four shots directly into the groin dropped the beast onto his knees, causing him to squeal and bellow like a stuck boar. He looked up in time to see the muzzle flash from the pistol in Jack's hand, his skull imploding and exploding backwards onto the sand. Blood filled his mouth, his dead gaze going cockeyed before he rolled onto his back and assumed the pretty-absolutely-superbly dead pose.

<br><br> Rolling onto his stomach, Jack tried to crawl forward but ended up with his face in the sand. His car was totaled and he was crippled in the desert.

<br><br> Just another day in the Mojave.

“If a man gives to his neighbor money or goods to keep safe, and it is stolen from the man's house, then, if the thief is found, he shall pay double." EXODUS 22:7



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<center><div style="margin-left: 0px;"><table cellspacing="0" cellpadding="1"><tr><td><div class="biotag">Survivor</div></td><td><div class="biotag">None</div></td></tr><tr><td><div class="biotag">Courier</div></td><td><div class="biotag">Sept. 24 (27)</div></td></tr><tr><td><div class="biotag">Heterosexual</div></td><td><div class="biotag">Garrett Hedlund</div></td></tr></table></div></center><br><br><div style="width:352px; height:262px; overflow:auto;"><div style="width:326px; font-size: 10px; text-align:justify; padding-right: 7px;">

No current lovers or desires beyond day-to-day survival. It's been a long time since he's seen a woman, not that he doesn't have an active imagination -- he just doesn't have moments to spare for distraction. The world is unbelievably harsh as of late, so his relationships are stagnant meaning he has none thus far, aside from a man who rescued him from a raider attack. You'd think that this would obligate them to become friends, but it truly isn't that earnest. Maybe in time, but in return for his life, Jack is bound by honor to work as a courier until his debt is covered. Once he recovers completely and his car is repaired, he'll be transporting legitimate and totally not illicit cargo to hubs across the Mojave.

<br><br>Jack is predominantly reclusive and prefers not to speak to others as a rule. He's a man of few words and his actions are arguably unreasonably messy, but he's not an easy book to read. Most people will tell you what they're thinking, unwittingly or not. Jack just keeps his thoughts for himself to mull over, makes a decision without talking it over and, well... the consequences are damned indeed. In addition to his quiet nature, he's hot-headed and his temper reaches its apex rather quickly. You might have no warning before he does something drastic that pisses you off. Like a llama that just spit in your face.

<br><br>I'm just telling you what I know about the guy. His past is off-limits and getting answers out of him is near impossible, as mentioned. He has very few wants in this life. Guy knows a bit about cars, enough relevant information to keep him on the move in the Mojave, but he's no miracle-worker, his handiwork is short and sweet. Although, the guy is a fucking crack shot and happens to be really good with a pistol.

<br><br>Who am I exactly? Mind your own business and fuck off. Next question.

<br><br> He's not an enigma, I honestly think he's just dumber than dirt. You know... simple and whatnot, like some of the freaks. But he has a flair for violence and that's evident by his lack of remorse when dropping those limp dicks raping and maiming people in the desert. It's kept him alive this long, that's for sure. Not that I'm saying he has absolutely no moral compass, I just find it unlikely that you'll end up on his good side. He's not interested in people, don't know why... oh, heh. You didn't see it, but I rolled my eyes... you know, ironically.

<br><br> Jesus Christ, no sense of humor. You know what? Find the guy and figure it out yourself... I'm drawing at straws here. What, you want to figure out what color his piss is? You writing a book or something? Guy has heartache, he's just a run-of-the-mill survivor trying to you know... do his thing. Maybe he's good with a gun, won't terrorize people for no good reason but that doesn't make him worth this interview. I'm not David Frost.


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