jinty

The Ballad of Cillian Broderick (manspreading to assert dominance) Cillian Liam Broderick was born in West Belfast, Northern Ireland in 1996. His family being a mix of both practicing protestant and catholic, Cillian's childhood was always going to be divided, with his father not wanting him to fall into the same religious violence he did as a young man, he moved them back over to his birth country of Scotland when he was only 5 years old. His formative years were spent in the cold and cobbled streets of Motherwell, one of Glasgow's most impoverished and crime ridden areas. He'd like to tell you that he managed to keep his head down and stay out of trouble - and, to be fair, that is almost true, if you include staying out of trouble with the law. No more than 12 years old and he found himself slinging a scorebag here and there with his mates, seeming harmless at the time but that soon evolved. By 16, he had gone from an innocent ounce of green to selling off washed up handguns to insecure two bit thugs. Most people would have been bothered by the fact they lived in a shitehole, but not Cillian, it taught him a great deal, he knew what trouble looked like and how to avoid it. Trying to look "gansgta" and not "cringe" One thing Cillian realised early on, was that he was good at blending in, not just another young teen cutting about in a north face jacket with the skin fade looking for a fight or an easy score, he appeared a sensible young man, carried himself well and spoke, for the most part, kindly to others. Eventually however, everybody makes a mistake. Out on the town one night with his mates and armed with his fake ID. He stumbled into a middle aged gentleman in an east end pub, the two got chatting and he seemed friendly enough, until the man asked if Cillian was dealing, many drinks in, Cillian forgot to remain cautious and feeling a bit cocky with his friends watching, he told the guy he could sort him out. As soon as the deal was over, the man's tone completely changed and before Cillian could comprehend what was happening he was in cuffs and in the back of an unmarked cruiser. The bastard was an undercover copper... Reformation. (Kind of...) After just under a year in a juvenile detention centre, Cillian was a free lad again. Now on the constant radar of Glasgow City Police, he gave up his short lived stint in crime. He was able to get an apprenticeship through a work scheme in a local garage where he worked as a mechanic for a few years, but he always found himself wanting more. Sitting down in the pub after a long hard day of grafting, he decided he needed a holiday. He had always wanted to visit Los Santos after hearing good things from one of his cousins that moved there, so he called him up and asked to borrow his digs (living space) for a week if he came and visited. Within a week he touched down at Los Santos Airport and found himself in the weirdest suburban safari he had ever seen, he could find drama on every street corner, there was never a dull moment in this city. If ever there was a place where you could live fast and die young, Los Santos was one of them. This was his chance for a fresh start, one he intended to take. All he had to do now was make friends and get a job, shouldn't be too hard... right? To be continued...

A New Chapter - Part 1 It had been almost two long months, with no sign of Charlie, the club president, returning. On top of that, the Club's Vice President and Sergeant at Arms had all gone MIA too. Diablos MC had certainly seen better days. Many had written them off but John kept hope throughout those days, until he took the bias out from his views. He looked around, realising the club he loved so dearly was on the verge of total collapse. He and the other patched members had tried their best to continue the weekly rides and meetups, but with not much success. With the entire leadership gone, they seemed a shadow of their former selves. John couldn't handle this, if Diablos was going to fade away, it wasn't going to be in this manner, with nothing but a faint whimper. (Diablos MC, only a month prior. Thriving.) Call after call and voicemail after voicemail, John had finally had enough, it was time for change. It had to come before it was too late, the city moves fast and soon Diablos would be forgotten completely. He reasoned with his hasty decision making, Charlie would want someone to step up for the good of the club. If he truly was gone, John would make damn sure his legacy of the Diablos didn't go with him. The last fourteen months could not have been for nothing. He called a club meeting with the help of Tom Solar, club secretary. John and the others had a very simple proposal, new leadership until we knew for certain what happened to Charlie and the others. It hurt to think about but in the end, they all knew this was the best decision for the club. John was straight to the point, choosing not to shy away from the bluntness of the decision. He put his name forward as stand in president and made his case, the club desperately needed leadership and someone had to put themselves out there. The room fell silent as everybody began to think over the proposal carefully. After a minute of discussion and a little understandable doubt, the vote began and it put a smile on John's face to realise he had not heard a single Nay. He gripped the gavel tight and realised the next vote he was about to pass, very well would be the most important one to ring out within the walls of the clubhouse. He slammed it down with confidence and it rung out for what felt like hours in John's mind. The few members that had time to stay decided to ride out together to celebrate and John would be lying if he said it had not felt strange as they cruised down the Great Ocean highway, he looked over his shoulder and couldn't help but grin the entire ride. He knew the path ahead was hard, but he also knew this club was worth it. He would have a lot to decide on and a lot to think about in the coming days. To be continued... John McArthur DFFD Diablos Forever, Forever Diablos

Gid luck boys.

A Scotsman, A Motorcycle & A Dream. From a young age, John McArthur always had a fascination for motorcycles. When he was a wee lad back in the streets of Glasgow, he remembers zooming about on his BMX with an empty water bottle taped above the back tyre which would add to his imagination that he was riding along the cobbled streets on a vintage Harley as it emitted a somewhat familiar sound to an engine. When he left secondary school as a teenager, he worked in a pub which was frequented by the infamous Blue Angels. Scotland's biggest 1%'er motorcycle club. He had gotten quite close with a few members, taking a liking to his eagerness on bikes and his ecstatic youth. However, before getting in too deep with the club, John saw the way they operated. They were violent, short-tempered and not the brightest bunch. Typical Scottish men really, nothing new there. John realised this was not the path he wanted to go down, a few wrong decisions could impact the rest of his life. Fast forward to present day, John now resides in sunny Los Santos, but his experience in the city has not always been as cheerful as the weather. He joined the Sheriff's Department, where he served a couple months before news of his parents being struck by illness, he resigned and returned home for a while. John McArthur in an advanced 10-66 training. John returned to Los Santos a few months later and felt like a tourist again, all of his friends had moved either back home or across the states. He was conflicted about his decision to move back and needed to clear his head, so he took his motorcycle out of city parking, dusted it off and and went for a ride. He got around the first corner before realising he was low on gas and whilst refuelling, he heard an unfamiliar voice from behind him: "Nice bike, man!" It was none other than the Diablos MC president, Charlie Rellet. He took down Charlie's number and over the course of a few weeks, he was introduced to the club gradually. However, John didn't take to the Diablos MC right away. He had started riding with an old law enforcement buddy of his called Felix Morrow, who also shared John's passion of motorcycles. John McArthur and Felix Morrow The two had plans to open up their own bar which they were hoping could've led to their own MC itself but it would soon come clear the two had very different visions. John had the same feeling he did with the Blue Angels back home and he realised he couldn't go any further, so at the weekly Diablos meeting he took Charlie aside and asked him to put the vote in for him to prospect. Nobody had an issue with it and he began his prospect period. John however, quickly began to doubt himself. He felt like he betrayed his brother too easily and as much as he loved riding with the Diablos, he missed his best mate. He gave up on the city in the same way he felt he gave up on his friend, leaving his prospect kutte at the door of the clubhouse before flying back to Glasgow. But a new year dawned and John felt like a new man. He returned to Los Santos and out of sheer luck bumped into the Diablos at Legion Square, within an hour of stepping off of the plane. He recalled a lot of familiar faces and saw a lot of new ones. "Give me one more chance and I'm in this for good." Since those words were spoken, John has dedicated the past 2 months of his time in the city to the Diablos, cementing his love and loyalty for the club. The only time he takes his kutte off is for work and to shower, but that patch stays glued to his back at all times, as it will continue to do so. He's even been entrusted with an Enforcer patch, something he never saw coming but the only thing he cares about is repaying the trust that comes with it and ensuring he keeps giving his all to the club that made him have purpose again. John McArthur DFFD Diablos Forever, Forever Diablos

Hi, not sure where exactly to post this, assuming it must be here. from the others I've seen. Lemme know if you need anything else.

A Mournful Wednesday John had started his day off like any other, he headed to work and clocked on for a couple of hours before checking the time on his watch, 6:30 PM. He headed back to the locker rooms, got changed back into his kutte and rode down to the clubhouse. He stepped inside and greeted his brothers, exchanging the usual pleasantries and tanning a couple drinks in the process, life was good. John had only been a patched member of Diablos for about a week, but his love and loyalty for the club had been cemented over the course of a few months. (John back in August of 2021, his first prospect spell with the club.) He was living the dream, he had finally been patched in and had a family now in Los Santos. Brothers who he would happily die for. But like all dreams do, it would come to an end and eventually you have to wake up... Him and his brothers mounted up and began riding towards the bank when unfortunately one of the prospects lost control of their bike and rammed it into the side of a lamppost. Whilst waiting for EMS to do their treatment, the bank alarm behind them suddenly began to go off. They decided the smart move was to clear the area and let the police do their job. Suddenly, gunshots began to erupt on the same street where the bank was located. "Don't go near the bank, let the police deal with it." - John heard on his radio from one of his brothers. He followed the advice but was a bit sceptical when he realised three brothers were missing. They were unresponsive on the radio too and once the gunfire ceased, he joined the others and rode up to the bank to see what had happened. His heart sank deep into the ground as he arrived on the scene, gripping his handlebars in rage. Three lifeless brothers lay sprawled out on the road, bullet holes in each of them. He said a prayer quietly to himself, closing their eyelids before police showed up to move them all from the scene. John was gutted, he held his face in his hands and asked himself: "How could we have let this happen?" When finished being questioned by police, the Diablos rode back to the clubhouse together, it was a mournful night. They exchanged stories of their fallen brothers in the clubhouse and drank to their memory. One thing was certain for John however, for as long as he was breathing, he would do everything in his power to make sure that nobody would harm this club he loved so much ever again and get away with it. John McArthur DFFD Diablos forever, Forever Diablos