All things Saint. Watch as we serve up some piping hot homieroticism. Gatboss forever. Haters to the left [gestures vaguely @ Johnny Gat] and godspeed.
the best thing abt gatboss in sr1 is that you just KNOW johnny is seriously giving playa the worst advice anyone’s ever heard in their life and playa is just as earnestly taking it all in
damn, wtf is it about emotionally unavailable, crass, muscular men, who are (almost) always wearing sunglasses and are named Johnny, that make me go ‘I want that one’
damn, wtf is it about emotionally unavailable, crass, muscular men, who are (almost) always wearing sunglasses and are named Johnny, that make me go ‘I want that one’
Howdy saints and sinners—ah fuck whom’ I kiddin’, you’re all Saints—and sinners. Ain’t that just the bees knees? How the fuck is everyone doin’ this fine Friday evening?
//Gat mistranslates "FBGM" and understands it as "fuck boss get money" but then he further misinterprets that to mean he should fuck his Homie® as well as acquire currency, possibly together, after packing a car full of C4 to blow something up idk what, spin the roulette wheel with that guy, and then head to Freckle Bitch's
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we're unclear on how much of this he premeditated, save the Freckle Bitch's bit, obviously
Yes, Homie® is a registered trademark of the Third Street Saints Incorporated etc. etc. but the Boss WILL forgive (and even approve) its use if applied in the most homoerotic (Homierotic is pending copyright) manner imaginable.
The second-in-command of the saints threw down a hefty box onto the desk, an outlier from the usual purple present boxes, a bright shade of pink wrapped in ribbons. It was truly the only inoffensive choice- couldn’t let them get the idea that he was dropping his colors, but Gat figured he had to single out V-Day in particular to spice things up. Were the Boss to get impatient and slice the various fixings to the prize, they would find the blooms of roses in the rich royale shade that adorned the walls and floors of their abode. Among the petals were a stylish set of desert eagles and about as many rounds as he could stuff into the box before delivery.
“Well? I got you guns, roses, and plenty of lead to pack the shit with… Now are you ready to fuckin party or what?”
Valentine’s day couldn’t come soon enough. The boss held back as long as they could, but when they could stand it no more, out came a switchblade that was probably a bit longer than necessary and off went the ribbon. Ravenous eyes devoured the roses—they were exquisite, not to put too fine a point on it—and the shining, embossed firearms beneath. The scroll work on the metal was, in a word, perfection; Gat had clearly gone to plenty of trouble to acquire these.
The leader of the Third Street Saints spared one last, long—and longing—look at the guns and vaulted the desk to wrap arms and legs around the one man they knew would always catch them, without fail or question, no matter what.
“Let’s start with a bang, Johnny,” they said as their lips met in a blazing kiss that communicated all the “bang” they had in mind and then some.