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Saints Come Marching In

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You are The Boss. You know your name, and what you look like, hell, you probably spent a couple hours designing yourself every three or so years. You will follow the same general storyline, regardless of your actions, but know that your choices could be the difference between life and death, for both you and The Saints.


Your eyes flutter in the sunlight as your hands fly to your face. You groan.

“What fucking time is it?” The people around you stir. You're buck-ass naked on the top of Mount Rushmore. How the hell did you get here? Why the hell are you here? You've had some pretty weird hallucinations and dreams when you were high, especially when you mixed meth with shrooms and ghost peppers, but…

What the actual fuck ?

Space aliens? President of the United States? Working with authorities? Jesus Christ, now you've really done it. Maybe you should hit the church instead of the bong next time you party. Huh. You might actually be getting too old for this shit. Either that, or you partied too fucking hard.

You chuckle to yourself; there's no such thing.

“Boss.” Kinzie growled, lightly slapping your face. You grab her hand as your eyes erupt open and pierce through her face. Oh great, she’s wearing a leather bdsm suit. Lovely. That doesn't make things a little weird.

“The fuck are you wearing?” You demand in both horror and amusement. Kinzie pauses to stare at you, taken back.

“The fuck aren't you wearing?” She blurts. “Look around you!” Kinzie shakes her head, furrowing her brows before whipping out her laptop. You do. And… uh… she isn't the only one dressed like that… but she is one of the few that's still dressed.

“Well fuck.” You state blankly. “That's actually pretty accurate, as that did happen.” Kinzie chided, typing furiously.


Your voice falters as your face beginnings to fall. “Did we…?” You start, too dumbfuck to finish. “I'm surprised you don't have more scuff marks.” Kinzie commented, not even glancing at you. You look at your wrists.


Well shit. Well fuck. You fucked Kinzie. Good job. Very good. You had a bdsm orgy on the top of Mount Rushmore. Congratu-mafuck-ulations. Your stomach begins to turn, making you bolt for the edge and hurl upon Lincoln's forehead. Kinzie snickers at you from afar.

“Fuck you.” You blurt defensively as you return to the stirring gimpies and collapse at Kinzie’s feet. Minutes pass.

“Boss,” She starts cautiously. Immediately you straighten up. Kinzie isn’t the type of person to be cautious around you without reason. She teases you and jokes with you, all in good fun of course, but with the tone of her voice she brings you from hungover idiot to hungover boss, intently listening.

“I… found something…” her voice falls as her eyes widen, staring blankly into her laptop. You stare at her with anticipation. “...And?”

She shakes her head and begins another short burst of typing. Her mouth begins to tremble.

“Kinzie,” You start, lowering your voice. “What’s wrong?”

Kinzie freezes, her eyes slowly turning to you, meeting your gaze. She blinks, looks down, and shows you her laptop screen.

“The Syndicate… they had some prisoners hidden in Death Valley and I never thought anything of it but I took a closer look and…” You stare into the screen at the list of numbers that identify the captives. One of them seems oddly familiar…

“They… look- Johnny’s social security number is in their system, and the date he was entered matches up with the plane crash. I don’t know if he’s still alive, I mean we destroyed them years ago-”

“Gat survived.” You breathe. Kinzie stares at you, unable to determine her own emotions. Your jaw falls as it begins to sink in. He’s alive… a tsunami of emotion hits you.

He’s alive.

“Get Shaundi and Pierce on the phone.” You demand, bolting upright. You can feel your face going red with anger. “Get every-fucking-one you can to get their bitch ass to Nevada. I want a detailed floor plan of whatever fucked up sex dungeon prison he’s being held in, a bottle of vodka, some advil, and a good fucking explanation on why the fuck you didn’t figure this out earlier.” Your breath begins to shake as your pupils dilate. Fuck. Fuck? FUCK.

Kinzie stares at you in terror. She doesn’t argue, doesnt make some snippy comeback like usual, she begins to type furiously on her computer once again, picking up her cell to her ear. It's been so long since your anger was as hot as this, so long since your blood has been this boiled. All you can see is Carlos, Lin and Aisha... people you were too late to save, and the memories of their deaths and corpses. It’s all too much...

Was it too late? No he had to be alive, he had to… You can’t give up, you won’t. You refuse to.  

“Kinzie.” You start, your voice low and filled with fury. She stops to look at you, eyes still wide with fear. “Yeah boss?”

“Find Killbane and Miller, and everyone close to them.” You spit. Normally, you’d be cold on the top of a mountain, naked and in the middle of October, but it doesn’t matter; you can feel yourself emptying, all the barriers you put up for the sake of publicity, falling. You thought you had moved on since Johnny died, but the notion that Loren had kept him alive and tortured him for his own amusement was too much.

There was no fucking way you were going to let this stand, no fucking way that he would get away with this. Loren might be dead, but it didn’t matter, you’d make him fucking pay.

You thought that Johnny may have died painlessly, and with dignity, that his death might have meant something, that with his self-sacrifice he would find peace. Your breath begins to shake.

There was no fucking peace. No fucking dignity. It was Lin, it was her drowning in a river in the trunk of a car. It was Aisha, it was an act out of cruelty and bloodlust. It was Carlos, it was supposed to be a fucking statement, but this time… this time you couldn’t end the suffering. It had been going on for years… and you had no idea.


You are the boss, and through the choices you make, The 3rd Street Saints will change, for better, or worse.