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Duncan Hunt
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Michael_420
Gregory Sherman
Duncan Hunt
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Duncan Hunt
by Duncan Hunt Wed Jun 27, 2012 5:42 pm
Kapitel Ett – Black Fog
Duncan was born on August the fifteenth, 1991. Birmingham, England, the United Kingdom. His mother was a native Brit that taught mathematics at the local high school, and his father, Niklas, later Nicholas, was a worker at the local metal sheet factory, and an immigrant from Sweden. He had two older brothers, Shane and Darren.
It was not a bad life – there was always food on the table, fresh clothing, and books for school. Duncan was not a good student, especially at math. His mother used to go berserk whenever Duncan brought home bad grades in math, because she was, after all, a math teacher. She could not believe her own son is a failure in her own subject. His father was quite apathetic, at least in the math part. He focused more on trying to teach his sons his native tongue – Swedish. He believed that knowing two languages is always better than one.
Growing near the industrial area of Birmingham was not very easy. Nor was the social life in school. The weak-minded sheep has always flocked together, shepherded by the rich and popular. Most of these groups ostracized Duncan and branded him a pariah. All but a single group of “freaks” and “punks” that wore mohawks and leather clothing. They were a group of “social exiles” that resided outside the current social dogma of the school, and shared the same ideas and ideals, even though they were pretty much watered-down concepts and views from well-known writers, corrupted by their young mind, they still had some common ground other than the shirt Jenny Starz bought at the mall last week.
Kapitel Två – Toxic Waste
The troop of social misfits Duncan soon became part of frequented metal and punk concerts, and thus Duncan became a metalhead. He formed a band with three other “misfits” as a bassist called “Kärnvapen” and began playing in small local pubs in Birmingham. They made up nicknames for each other, in vain of many metal bands: Despair, the vocalist; Sorrow, the guitarist; Hatred, the drummer; and Misery, the bassist. His concerts with Kärnvapen were what made him interested in motorcycles. Not once had he seen members of the Outlaws Motorcycle Club frequent the watering holes in which Kärnvapen played. Tough looking, grimy, and big bad-asses on roaring beasts that made the earth weep. He knew he wanted to be like that. Or at least have a behemoth on two wheels of his own.
He began working as a waiter in a small fast food joint near his house and actually saving his gig money instead of wasting it all on cheap booze and weed. He wanted to buy himself a motorcycle. He started researching hogs, engines, wheels, and even patches and colors of various motorcycle clubs around the world, especially in the United Kingdom.
One day, he was returning home from school, with another math failure in his hand, when he saw a garage sale. The saleswoman was a widow whose husband shot himself and she was selling his possessions, among which was a leather jacket. At normal stores, it would cost about two-hundred pounds, but she was selling it for twenty. Without hesitating, Duncan bought it. The jacket was without colors or patches, so he decided to add a couple of his own – some band patches he got at all the gigs he have been to. Anaal Nathrakh, Napalm Death, Fukpig, Burzum, Mayhem, Darkthrone… the list goes on.
Kapitel Tre – Gnawed Tongues
He never did buy a bike. After a drunken night with his drummer’s sister, he found himself in her bed. His back teeth were floating in cheap booze, his entire bloodstream addled with drugs. Used condoms on the floor and the naked sister sleeping next to him… he knew he was in trouble. He quickly got up, but before he could go, the parents saw him. They didn’t see the face, but they have seen the jacket. That jacket had become his trademark. He was soon kicked out of the band, not only for sleeping with Hatred’s sister, but for stealing the band’s money cache on drugs and booze to fuel that night.
Not only that, but his GCSE was mostly godawful. All he had left was a shitty bass, some Swedish on his tongue, small cash, enough for a bottle of Jack Daniels and a pack of cheap cigarettes, and his leather jacket.
It was in the seventh of September, 2009, when Duncan was nineteen and his brother, Shane, thirty one, that Shane got married. Shane decided to move into Liberty City, to try and help his new father-in-law with his garage business. Duncan decided to join, to start afresh, much like Shane. That’s the least he could do for Hatred, after what he had done with his sister.
Kapitel Fyra – Rotten Flesh
Alderney. If only he had gotten here sooner. Two years ago, a motorcycle club ran this borough, until an unpleasant shoot-out in the local correctional facility. Duncan could have joined them; he would have bought a bike eventually. The garage was somewhere between Fulcrum Avenue and Odhner Avenue. “Axel’s Garage” was its name, and Axel Jahtinen was its owner, Shane’s father-in-law. At first he was quite skeptical of Duncan, but then he let him stay. He noticed Duncan has an interest in bikes, so he gave him a book on motorcycles and all the technical details you need to know about them, such as engines, exhausts, and etcetera.
He worked in the garage by day, sometimes by night, tinkering with old engines and exhaust pipes. Sometimes he caught a glimpse of a biker or two. Overall, it was quite a boring life. Garage by day, urban exploration by night. Duncan just sat by the industrial plants and looked into the horizon, bored by life, every day. Sometimes he brought that motorcycle book, sometimes he didn’t.
One day, he was walking back from Mr. Fuk’s Rice Box in Lydon Avenue. On his way, a man clad entirely in black with a black mask over his face stopped him. He held a gun to his face, a Ruger P91DC. He told Duncan to give him everything of value he has. The only thing Duncan had had been his wallet, with his ID card, driver’s license, and fifty-nine dollars. Duncan threw the wallet before the man, and the man left with it. On the next day, he could hear someone knocking on his doors. It was the police, an officer called Roger Wells. He came to give Duncan back his wallet, with the ID card, license, and fifty-nine dollars. Duncan went to a small watering hole, bought himself a bottle of Barton Irish Whiskey for forty dollars, a hot-dog for two, and drank himself to sleep on his piss-soaked sofa. He woke to the stench of vomit, piss, and blood, and called in sick.
For the seventh time this fortnight.
Kapitel Fem – This Shit Is Cursed
That was not the only case of robbery Duncan experienced in Alderney. He often travelled across Liberty City into Dukes, Algonquin, Bohan, and Broker, usually at night, and sometimes got mugged. He was hurt twice, once in Bohan, the other time in Broker. Once, a robber in Broker with an East-European accent dressed in camouflage mugged Duncan with an Arminius HW-357 in the nose, breaking it, and stole his cash in the process, thirty-seven dollars. Duncan’s ID was in his shoes, so no robber could steal it. The second time Duncan was hurt in the robbery was when he was mugged by a “rastaman” in Bohan. He wore long dreadlocks, a nice and long bushy beard, a typical, cliché rasta-hat, but he also had a Colt M1911, unlike other Rastafarians. He called Duncan to a small, dark alley with a typical Jamaican accent, and then pulled out his handgun, and started speaking in a typical “gangsta” accent, kicked Duncan in the ribs with his boots, broke his nose for the second time, and stole his money. This time, it was one hundred and eleven dollars, money Duncan was planning to spend on a decent bottle of Jack Daniels, a decent lunch from Burger Shot, and to give the rest to his favorite stripper, Cona Peitos.
It’s been two years since Duncan moved into Liberty City with Shane. He still worked in the garage, still drank his money away, sometimes smoked it away, or “stripped” it away. But passion was still seething within him. A passion for motorcycles. He still had that leather jacket he bought from that widow. All the robberies, though, left him annoyed. He wanted to leave Liberty City. He was afraid to go outside, afraid of getting robbed again. Not after his landlord has been breathing down his neck after Duncan was late with a three months rent. He decided to go back to Birmingham. He sold his bass for three hundred dollars, saved up five hundred dollars from his job by managing not to spend it all on alcohol and strippers, and flew back home. His other brother, Darren, now thirty, came to pick from the Birmingham Airport at Bickenhill. “Why are you back?” Were his second words, right after a sarcastic “Good to see you again…” “What’s wrong with me?” “Everything.”
It was a quiet and awkward ride back home. Duncan stayed with his parents and worked two part-time jobs: one in another small and local garage at day, and a bartender at evening and night. He started seeing the bikers from Outlaws MC again, but he never did catch his old band. “They split up. Heard the vocalist shot the guitarist and then himself over crack or whatever.” Was the only thing Duncan heard about them, from the mouth of an Outlaw, after he asked for a Heineken. “Misery.” He heard one time while he was oiling a motorcycle’s chains. He turned around. “Hatred.” “What are you doing here?” “Working, got sick of Liberty.” “Not enough sisters for you to fuck?” It culminated into a small fight, a third broken nose, and finally, a beer in a bar.
May of 2012. A year passed. Duncan started seeing Birmingham in black and white. It wasn’t smoggy, or polluted. His mind was. He was working in the garage that day when he heard about Los Santos in the radio. “A city of opportunity! Like Liberty City, only better!” Duncan did like Liberty City, sans the constant robberies. He went to a Fukpig concert that day, saw Hatred’s sister, Laura, again, downing her sorrows in the small bar at the venue. They shared a drink, and to the bathroom stalls they went. Laura was the biggest slut Duncan has ever met. He didn’t even think she recognized him, she was grateful that someone was actually paying attention to her. She paid him back with a blowjob and then a full-on. She even swallowed. Duncan didn’t see her that evening, afterwards. She was probably was fucking another guy.
He grew sick of the routine he was stuck in. He got about one thousand pounds or so, so he exchanged them into dollars, and bought himself a ticket into the second land of opportunity – Los Santos. He thought of New York, Dallas, Miami, Vice City, but Los Santos stuck in his head. The other cities didn’t have commercials, but Los Santos did. So that’s where he flew.
Los Santos.
Duncan was born on August the fifteenth, 1991. Birmingham, England, the United Kingdom. His mother was a native Brit that taught mathematics at the local high school, and his father, Niklas, later Nicholas, was a worker at the local metal sheet factory, and an immigrant from Sweden. He had two older brothers, Shane and Darren.
It was not a bad life – there was always food on the table, fresh clothing, and books for school. Duncan was not a good student, especially at math. His mother used to go berserk whenever Duncan brought home bad grades in math, because she was, after all, a math teacher. She could not believe her own son is a failure in her own subject. His father was quite apathetic, at least in the math part. He focused more on trying to teach his sons his native tongue – Swedish. He believed that knowing two languages is always better than one.
Growing near the industrial area of Birmingham was not very easy. Nor was the social life in school. The weak-minded sheep has always flocked together, shepherded by the rich and popular. Most of these groups ostracized Duncan and branded him a pariah. All but a single group of “freaks” and “punks” that wore mohawks and leather clothing. They were a group of “social exiles” that resided outside the current social dogma of the school, and shared the same ideas and ideals, even though they were pretty much watered-down concepts and views from well-known writers, corrupted by their young mind, they still had some common ground other than the shirt Jenny Starz bought at the mall last week.
Kapitel Två – Toxic Waste
The troop of social misfits Duncan soon became part of frequented metal and punk concerts, and thus Duncan became a metalhead. He formed a band with three other “misfits” as a bassist called “Kärnvapen” and began playing in small local pubs in Birmingham. They made up nicknames for each other, in vain of many metal bands: Despair, the vocalist; Sorrow, the guitarist; Hatred, the drummer; and Misery, the bassist. His concerts with Kärnvapen were what made him interested in motorcycles. Not once had he seen members of the Outlaws Motorcycle Club frequent the watering holes in which Kärnvapen played. Tough looking, grimy, and big bad-asses on roaring beasts that made the earth weep. He knew he wanted to be like that. Or at least have a behemoth on two wheels of his own.
He began working as a waiter in a small fast food joint near his house and actually saving his gig money instead of wasting it all on cheap booze and weed. He wanted to buy himself a motorcycle. He started researching hogs, engines, wheels, and even patches and colors of various motorcycle clubs around the world, especially in the United Kingdom.
One day, he was returning home from school, with another math failure in his hand, when he saw a garage sale. The saleswoman was a widow whose husband shot himself and she was selling his possessions, among which was a leather jacket. At normal stores, it would cost about two-hundred pounds, but she was selling it for twenty. Without hesitating, Duncan bought it. The jacket was without colors or patches, so he decided to add a couple of his own – some band patches he got at all the gigs he have been to. Anaal Nathrakh, Napalm Death, Fukpig, Burzum, Mayhem, Darkthrone… the list goes on.
Kapitel Tre – Gnawed Tongues
He never did buy a bike. After a drunken night with his drummer’s sister, he found himself in her bed. His back teeth were floating in cheap booze, his entire bloodstream addled with drugs. Used condoms on the floor and the naked sister sleeping next to him… he knew he was in trouble. He quickly got up, but before he could go, the parents saw him. They didn’t see the face, but they have seen the jacket. That jacket had become his trademark. He was soon kicked out of the band, not only for sleeping with Hatred’s sister, but for stealing the band’s money cache on drugs and booze to fuel that night.
Not only that, but his GCSE was mostly godawful. All he had left was a shitty bass, some Swedish on his tongue, small cash, enough for a bottle of Jack Daniels and a pack of cheap cigarettes, and his leather jacket.
It was in the seventh of September, 2009, when Duncan was nineteen and his brother, Shane, thirty one, that Shane got married. Shane decided to move into Liberty City, to try and help his new father-in-law with his garage business. Duncan decided to join, to start afresh, much like Shane. That’s the least he could do for Hatred, after what he had done with his sister.
Kapitel Fyra – Rotten Flesh
Alderney. If only he had gotten here sooner. Two years ago, a motorcycle club ran this borough, until an unpleasant shoot-out in the local correctional facility. Duncan could have joined them; he would have bought a bike eventually. The garage was somewhere between Fulcrum Avenue and Odhner Avenue. “Axel’s Garage” was its name, and Axel Jahtinen was its owner, Shane’s father-in-law. At first he was quite skeptical of Duncan, but then he let him stay. He noticed Duncan has an interest in bikes, so he gave him a book on motorcycles and all the technical details you need to know about them, such as engines, exhausts, and etcetera.
He worked in the garage by day, sometimes by night, tinkering with old engines and exhaust pipes. Sometimes he caught a glimpse of a biker or two. Overall, it was quite a boring life. Garage by day, urban exploration by night. Duncan just sat by the industrial plants and looked into the horizon, bored by life, every day. Sometimes he brought that motorcycle book, sometimes he didn’t.
One day, he was walking back from Mr. Fuk’s Rice Box in Lydon Avenue. On his way, a man clad entirely in black with a black mask over his face stopped him. He held a gun to his face, a Ruger P91DC. He told Duncan to give him everything of value he has. The only thing Duncan had had been his wallet, with his ID card, driver’s license, and fifty-nine dollars. Duncan threw the wallet before the man, and the man left with it. On the next day, he could hear someone knocking on his doors. It was the police, an officer called Roger Wells. He came to give Duncan back his wallet, with the ID card, license, and fifty-nine dollars. Duncan went to a small watering hole, bought himself a bottle of Barton Irish Whiskey for forty dollars, a hot-dog for two, and drank himself to sleep on his piss-soaked sofa. He woke to the stench of vomit, piss, and blood, and called in sick.
For the seventh time this fortnight.
Kapitel Fem – This Shit Is Cursed
That was not the only case of robbery Duncan experienced in Alderney. He often travelled across Liberty City into Dukes, Algonquin, Bohan, and Broker, usually at night, and sometimes got mugged. He was hurt twice, once in Bohan, the other time in Broker. Once, a robber in Broker with an East-European accent dressed in camouflage mugged Duncan with an Arminius HW-357 in the nose, breaking it, and stole his cash in the process, thirty-seven dollars. Duncan’s ID was in his shoes, so no robber could steal it. The second time Duncan was hurt in the robbery was when he was mugged by a “rastaman” in Bohan. He wore long dreadlocks, a nice and long bushy beard, a typical, cliché rasta-hat, but he also had a Colt M1911, unlike other Rastafarians. He called Duncan to a small, dark alley with a typical Jamaican accent, and then pulled out his handgun, and started speaking in a typical “gangsta” accent, kicked Duncan in the ribs with his boots, broke his nose for the second time, and stole his money. This time, it was one hundred and eleven dollars, money Duncan was planning to spend on a decent bottle of Jack Daniels, a decent lunch from Burger Shot, and to give the rest to his favorite stripper, Cona Peitos.
It’s been two years since Duncan moved into Liberty City with Shane. He still worked in the garage, still drank his money away, sometimes smoked it away, or “stripped” it away. But passion was still seething within him. A passion for motorcycles. He still had that leather jacket he bought from that widow. All the robberies, though, left him annoyed. He wanted to leave Liberty City. He was afraid to go outside, afraid of getting robbed again. Not after his landlord has been breathing down his neck after Duncan was late with a three months rent. He decided to go back to Birmingham. He sold his bass for three hundred dollars, saved up five hundred dollars from his job by managing not to spend it all on alcohol and strippers, and flew back home. His other brother, Darren, now thirty, came to pick from the Birmingham Airport at Bickenhill. “Why are you back?” Were his second words, right after a sarcastic “Good to see you again…” “What’s wrong with me?” “Everything.”
It was a quiet and awkward ride back home. Duncan stayed with his parents and worked two part-time jobs: one in another small and local garage at day, and a bartender at evening and night. He started seeing the bikers from Outlaws MC again, but he never did catch his old band. “They split up. Heard the vocalist shot the guitarist and then himself over crack or whatever.” Was the only thing Duncan heard about them, from the mouth of an Outlaw, after he asked for a Heineken. “Misery.” He heard one time while he was oiling a motorcycle’s chains. He turned around. “Hatred.” “What are you doing here?” “Working, got sick of Liberty.” “Not enough sisters for you to fuck?” It culminated into a small fight, a third broken nose, and finally, a beer in a bar.
May of 2012. A year passed. Duncan started seeing Birmingham in black and white. It wasn’t smoggy, or polluted. His mind was. He was working in the garage that day when he heard about Los Santos in the radio. “A city of opportunity! Like Liberty City, only better!” Duncan did like Liberty City, sans the constant robberies. He went to a Fukpig concert that day, saw Hatred’s sister, Laura, again, downing her sorrows in the small bar at the venue. They shared a drink, and to the bathroom stalls they went. Laura was the biggest slut Duncan has ever met. He didn’t even think she recognized him, she was grateful that someone was actually paying attention to her. She paid him back with a blowjob and then a full-on. She even swallowed. Duncan didn’t see her that evening, afterwards. She was probably was fucking another guy.
He grew sick of the routine he was stuck in. He got about one thousand pounds or so, so he exchanged them into dollars, and bought himself a ticket into the second land of opportunity – Los Santos. He thought of New York, Dallas, Miami, Vice City, but Los Santos stuck in his head. The other cities didn’t have commercials, but Los Santos did. So that’s where he flew.
Los Santos.
Now, this is more or less just a rough draft, and a general "skeleton." I'm thinking of writing up certain dates and days to feed the void, and obviously continuing the story itself. I also think I have a shitload of grammatical mistakes in there, so feel free to... correct me or some other shit like that. Or in general, if it makes sense, i.e. from Birmingham to Liberty City, having sex (in general), all that shit.
Also, about the Swedish part: I'm still not sure if I should actually make it a part of my character (that he knows Swedish). It sounds kinda unrealistic that a Brit would just know Swedish. So uhh, tell me guys what you think (if it's okay and whatnot) and I'll holla back at ya, nigguz.
Last edited by Duncan Hunt on Thu Jun 28, 2012 10:59 am; edited 5 times in total
Duncan Hunt- Posts : 12
Join date : 2012-06-24
Re: Duncan Hunt
by Gregory Sherman Wed Jun 27, 2012 9:53 pm
Increase the fucking font! I'm not going to strain my eyes just to read your shit and I'm sure others would not either, c'mon man.
Gregory Sherman- Posts : 47
Join date : 2012-02-11
Duncan Hunt- Posts : 12
Join date : 2012-06-24
Re: Duncan Hunt
by Michael_420 Wed Jun 27, 2012 10:22 pm
Gregory Sherman wrote:Increase the fucking font! I'm not going to strain my eyes just to read your shit and I'm sure others would not either, c'mon man.
Shut up, dick kisser.
Michael_420- Posts : 108
Join date : 2011-10-26
Re: Duncan Hunt
by Jeffrey R Wed Jun 27, 2012 10:38 pm
ctrl +Gregory Sherman wrote:Increase the fucking font! I'm not going to strain my eyes just to read your shit and I'm sure others would not either, c'mon man.
Jeffrey R- Posts : 48
Join date : 2012-02-04
Location : Belgium
Re: Duncan Hunt
by Gregory Sherman Wed Jun 27, 2012 10:39 pm
HOT WHEELS! I'ma keel you.
And much better, Slave Duncan.
And much better, Slave Duncan.
Gregory Sherman- Posts : 47
Join date : 2012-02-11
Re: Duncan Hunt
by Jeffrey R Wed Jun 27, 2012 10:57 pm
Gregory Sherman wrote:HOT WHEELS! I'ma keel you.
You'll always be good ol' Dick Kisser for me.
Jeffrey R- Posts : 48
Join date : 2012-02-04
Location : Belgium
Re: Duncan Hunt
by Ruskie Thu Jun 28, 2012 7:42 am
Nice!love the small details you paid attention to, i.e. the guns and such.
Stick to being the classy tea brit, it's a bit weird to know swedish as a brit, word on that.
Stick to being the classy tea brit, it's a bit weird to know swedish as a brit, word on that.
Ruskie- Posts : 80
Join date : 2012-04-03
Re: Duncan Hunt
by Stealtheer Thu Jun 28, 2012 8:06 am
SWEDISH IS THE SHIT!
JÄVLIGT GRYM STORY! VILL HÖRA MER! ^^
TRY TO FIGURE OUT THAT SHIT U OLD RUSSIAN PUNK!
NJET NO TITTIES FOR YOU!
JÄVLIGT GRYM STORY! VILL HÖRA MER! ^^
TRY TO FIGURE OUT THAT SHIT U OLD RUSSIAN PUNK!
NJET NO TITTIES FOR YOU!
Stealtheer- Posts : 6
Join date : 2012-05-29
Re: Duncan Hunt
by Ruskie Thu Jun 28, 2012 9:07 am
Nu sunt punkist, si stalin o sa te futa in cur.
TAKE THAT, NIGGA!
TAKE THAT, NIGGA!
Ruskie- Posts : 80
Join date : 2012-04-03
Re: Duncan Hunt
by Duncan Hunt Thu Jun 28, 2012 9:18 am
Ребята, ребята, давайте не будем трахать друг друга как долбоёбы. Мы же (я нет, но неважно) Каны!
Jag är glad att du gillar det och jag kommer att skriva mer, neger. (min svenska är inte bra, eftersom jag är en homosexuell kuksugare)
In general, thanks guys ( or Ruskie and Stealtheer since they're the only ones that said something nice to me
)
Wut. Okay sir.
JÄVLIGT GRYM STORY! VILL HÖRA MER! ^^
Jag är glad att du gillar det och jag kommer att skriva mer, neger. (min svenska är inte bra, eftersom jag är en homosexuell kuksugare)
In general, thanks guys ( or Ruskie and Stealtheer since they're the only ones that said something nice to me
)Stick to being the classy tea brit
Wut. Okay sir.
Duncan Hunt- Posts : 12
Join date : 2012-06-24
Re: Duncan Hunt
by DryDude Thu Jun 28, 2012 9:45 am
If i'mma Hispanic-Irish then a Swedish Brit is alright.
DryDude- Posts : 34
Join date : 2012-05-23
Age : 27
Location : Israel.
Ruskie- Posts : 80
Join date : 2012-04-03
Re: Duncan Hunt
by Gregory Sherman Thu Jun 28, 2012 2:29 pm
Jeffrey R wrote:Gregory Sherman wrote:HOT WHEELS! I'ma keel you.
You'll always be good ol' Dick Kisser for me.
Shut up prospect.
Gregory Sherman- Posts : 47
Join date : 2012-02-11
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