Jump to content
Server time: 2017-08-19, 07:33

PubScrub

Members
  • Content count

    6
  • Joined

  • Last visited

Community Reputation

1 Noobie

About PubScrub

Personal Information

  • Sex
    Male
  1. Upon recieving the second transmission, Bull Clanton decides it well to make good on the fruits of his broadcast. He sits himself at the base of a fallen tree; Lighting another cigarette he presses down on the PTT button of his radio: "Well hello there. To the man on about the cunts; 'would love to. To the cunt himself: If you mention another word like that about my fallen brothers it'll be yourself crawling down the road with a hole in the guts. We used to run the lands we came from; Decided not to be among that nauseous number of monsters still attaining their wits once this whole thing blew around. Gang rivalries are a moot fucking point in a world like this, I'd hope men like us would have learned some humility and a little bit of a point on the fragility of their mortality, but I guess you're right. People don't fucking learn judging by your little forlorn speech of pride." "Clanton out." Bull releases the PTT button, fitting his radio into his jacket once more, continuing to track the deer he has been hunting.
  2. Felix's Journeys (Pro psychopath RP videos)

    Well hey, pleasure to be there.
  3. Bull Clanton takes a seat at his camp, grimacing at the sores on his feet. He thinks of his old gang, the sight of each brother being gunned down in cold blood. He sighs for a moment, somberly gazing into the fire for hours. After some time of recollecting himself, he thinks to himself, "Here goes nothing." He fumbles through his riding jacket, a blood-stained tear still at the shoulder, and a tattered Black Pipes MC Road Captain patch still proudly sewn to the back. Lighting a crumpled cigarette, he presses the PTT button on his radio and clears his throat, grumbling something unintelligible to himself. A faint static begins with a gruff cough; a West Texan accent begins on the signal. "Is this damn thing on? Better be. This is Bull Clanton of the Black Pipes MC... Or what's left of it." He pauses for a moment, breaking a grim stare into the fire. "I'm the last of my brothers. The rest of my friends gunned down like dogs near the border of this country by some band I had no time to identify. They only wanted to help the folk here." "Of all my time roaming these lands, rising myself anew from the primal frenzy that was the evolution from that old life to the new, I have had yet to encounter another who shared a similar coming. You know what I mean. Brothers, Rockers, Café Racers, Riders; Leather clad men, and women of honor who lived for the ride and the freedom of not taking it from the world around them; rather having what they had and being their own. Besides a few bands of men I've traveled with, I have yet to encounter one that isn't completely psycho almost to the point of stupid silly, petty thieves and robbers, military sorts, or just strange fuckin' creeps. I've decided its about time I find some of my own. Anyone who knew the outlaw brotherhood way of life, still lives it, or simply loved the ride; well to put it short I would love to meet you. All that being said, I ain't much of a public speaker, so I'm cutting it here. If you see me, I'll be wearing the jacket. If you want to meet me, or be lookin' to have a meeting of like minded souls, let's have us a congregation. Least I can do to keep my brothers' memory alive. Bull Clanton, out." Bull lets go of the PTT button and releases a grim sigh to himself. Tossing his cigarette in the fire, he climbs into his tent, opening up a volume of old poetry.
  4. Felix's Journeys (Pro psychopath RP videos)

    You sneaky bugger. Great RP, that.
  5. I wish. Would love to join some more biker characters if there are still any on the server, or really just some rugged sorts.
  6. Bull collapses into the first room of the little flat, panting in a manner almost feral; His leather jacket torn to a ribbon, the Black Pipes MC Road Captain patch still intact. He sits for a moment, reviewing his wounds and the condition of his riding equipment, bloodied and tattered. After catching his breath, he spots a journal and pen on a desk across the little room. He spends a moment trying to establish in his mind what had just happened. His entire existence torn from him in a matter of moments. He thinks of his old friend Clint, and stands, grimacing at his wounds; An oddly soft and solemn demeanor about him. He sits down at the desk, reminiscing all he has experienced, from the beginning of the infection, and all that came before. After several minutes of calming the beast he had turned into in such short of a notice, he began to write. "A memoire for the dead, The Black Pipes Motorcycle Club was in Madrid, Spain when the outbreak reached this side of Europe. We were attending a meetup, MC's and other associations across the continent banding together to fight and protect once the dead reached us. The somber part of it was, we believed we still had time. We had congregated for only one week before the masses of them somehow reached the city, drawn by the sounds of fighting as it was pushed back every mile across the continent. Once it reached Madrid, and the cannibals and their slaughter got underway, our being the loudest point in the city with our motors and machines did not work to our favor. One brother in the pipes didn't make it out. Some dumb bastard closed the gate of the meetup area on him just as he managed to get his machine running. His kick pedal was buggered. Vampire freaks were all over him before he could even hit 20mph. Without a way out of the lot, he couldn't have done a thing. One of the cannibals tackled him from the side, and within seconds he had a hole in the guts. He was just a prospect. Poor kid had signed up when he heard of our endeavor and wanted to help all he could. I'll never forget the sight of that poor young man, torn from the brim of life like an animal in a slaughterhouse. Riding in a flurry of motors in madness we sped through the city like nothing I've ever seen. Pale figures lumbering every which way; some of them still with their wits and screaming for their senses and their life, foaming at the mouth and choking on bodily fluids, lashing out at friends and loved ones, some fatally frightened human words still seeping through the cracks of their disease like a final panicked curdle for life. Folks still with their sanity were hurrying through the streets with their loved and lone, hurried about in a matter that almost seemed animal. The sight of it was enough to cause even me to cry something somewhat in the chaos of it all. When we reached a safe and clear area outside of the city, we decided to ride as far away from population rich areas as we could. The planes in Germany, the mountains in the south country; Anything. Clint, the MC President made the call that we go to Chernarus. Not many folks left there, and we figured perhaps it would have the least concentration of cannibals after all this time, and with the open ranges of Takistan to the east, and the Russian army just on the border to the west like an iron wall, we figured it our best option. We rode from Spain to the southwestern border of Chernarus through the better part of a month. The journey was surprisingly incident-free. We survived off of one another and the mutual trust we had as brothers. In the end, the respect we had for each other Prospect to President was the only thing that got us out of that journey together, alive and with our wits. Among the dead and in the countryside, we observed groups of wanderers turning on comrades a good deal, even trying to kill one another on the sides of roads for scraps of food and water, or just out of sheer panic or quarrels of what to do, where to go, who to kill.. Who to kill? An interesting prospect I thought, the delicate nature of humanity. All it took was one string to snap to render some of the soundest of people in the life we knew to become the most vehement of beasts. We managed to take as many country roads as possible. Food and water were no issue. Due to our appearance, every place we stopped at incidentally insisted on sharing with us. We've never been ones to pick trouble with others who deserved none of it. It was a crooked man's way, and always will be. Clint swore to us he would never to allow us to come to using our former law bending ways to make due in this storm. We all agreed. We had it just as bad as everyone else; no use in making this world worse for anyone than did the monsters. Despite our efforts to calm these poor folks down, I figure their denial was centered in the paranoia we would give them trouble if otherwise. Gangs like ours never had the best of reputations even before the virus, and at times we would refuse the saddening bribery entirely and move on. They needed it more than we did. When we approached one woman on the side of the road, she broke into a fit of frenzied tears with a look of something more terrible than death in her eyes, begging us not to kill her, or something even more unspeakable, before we even had a chance to say a word. Poor lass had already seen the worst of what one human can do to another. The tears on her dress, the bruises and scars on her face, but most of all the broken stare in her eyes.. The look of death. It was all enough for me to know this was true. I saw the very core of this new world of madness in her eyes; And that was the only way I could ever see it since then. I almost felt a sense of empathy for her, coming from the dregs of where I did. A chapter I'd rather not mention, now, in a life just bleak as any other. We gave her a ride to her place of destination and continued forth. I wanted to bring her with us. After some time, we made it to the first CDF border checkpoint in the southwestern corner of the country, and not a soul was to be seen. Cars shot to hell, blood and flies in the road, we even found a broken Kalashnikov rifle inside the checkpoint, a disembodied hand still holding onto it for dear life, before it was ultimately lost. But no bodies. In all my years doing less than honest work for this MC, I've never seen something of that sort. Or anything less of this mess. We continued down the road, further and further down the coast until we reached a military base. From the scene at the border, I was convinced running into the army here was the last thing we wanted to do. Clint on the contrary thought otherwise; A band of experienced and hardy men such as ourselves willing to help out their cause, what could have gone wrong? He proposed we would be welcome, and so we did. We had small arms, nothing impressive, and certainly not anything suitable for what lay ahead. We barely even made it to the gates. Before we even got a chance to park near the gates and hail the men, a shot rang out from an air traffic control tower on the airfield and hit our furthermost man's bike dead in the gas tank. He was set ablaze and his machine destroyed. Gone. Crack, another man to our rear now sharing the same fate. I froze, and Squint motioned to us and screamed, "Gun it!", and we followed suit. We made it a good 100 meters down the road and passed a sandbag entrenchment near the trees. More shots rang out. Automatic rifles, short controlled bursts, military training; They barely missed a man. A brother just in front of me took one to the back of the neck, another right to the shoulder, his arm jerked upon the bullet's impact and he lost control, sliding down the road in a heap, to a still and hopeless halt. I saw Squint still riding behind me, brothers dropping like flies. After another 200 meters he was the only one left. His arm motioned to ride faster, but before I could even respond to the order, a burst of rounds went straight through his back, another volley to me, hitting my rear tire and rending my machine off course. The pop of the tire nearly split my eardrum, and the incident sent me airborne. When I hit the ground, everything went black for about 20 seconds, and I was blindly crawling to a scramble, the pain already bit. After shortly coming to, all I could hear were moans and pained grunting of Squint 50 yards down the road; The man who rescued me off the streets of west Texas and gave me a home and a way of life, strewn across the road, bleeding and torn to all hell from the wreck. I wasn't sure what to do, but I was in a half-conscious frenzy. Then I heard the voices, Russian of sorts, shouts, and chatter coming from the position that laid my crew down, coming this way. It was like hearing ghosts. My right shoulder was torn to a shred, my jacket in tatters and my entire body felt like it just walked through a fire. Adrenaline still coursing through me like a wave of impossibility, I bolted for the treeline. It was primal, frantic, inhuman. My brother was down there awaiting the worst, yet all my body would do was run, moreso limp hopelessly as if a family of hungry animals were on my trail. After a while, I found an end to the trees: Buildings. Shelter. I've crawled into this apartment building now, and here I am. Writing this as some sort of dog tag for whichever sorry bastard puts a bullet into me and finishes the job, if the cannibals or the military don't get to me first. Till then, it seems I'm looking for some new friends, if there are even any to be found. If you are reading this, make the best of this jacket. I would hope someone remembers our brotherhood. Signed, -Michael "Bull" Clanton
  7. Pleasure to make your acquaintance!

    Cheers man.
  8. Just wanted to say cheers for the accept! I've been looking for a fulfilling DayZ experience for sometime now and ever since the old Mod servers started shoving spawngear down your throat and vanilla servers became extinct, things never quite had the same magic for me. This has changed everything since the past week I've been playing. Fine work on the community and staff alike. c: Just wanted to make this post to share the excerpt I wrote of my backstory out of a desire to share a little bit of creative writing. Passion of mine and this one took a few days of revising. Figure some may find it a good read. All I wanted in sharing it. The Black Pipes Motorcycle Club was in Madrid, Spain when the outbreak reached this side of Europe. We were attending a meetup, MC's and other associations across the continent banding together to fight and protect once the dead reached us. The somber part of it was, we believed we still had time. We had congregated for only one week before the masses of them somehow reached the city, drawn by the sounds of fighting as it was pushed back every mile across the continent. Once it reached Madrid, and the cannibals and their slaughter got underway, our being the loudest point in the city with our motors and machines did not work to our favor. One brother in the pipes didn't make it out. Some dumb bastard closed the gate of the meetup area on him just as he managed to get his machine running. His kick pedal was buggered. Vampire freaks were all over him before he could even hit 20mph. Without a way out of the lot, he couldn't have done a thing. One of the cannibals tackled him from the side, and within seconds he had a hole in the guts. He was just a prospect. Poor kid had signed up when he heard of our endeavor and wanted to help all he could. I'll never forget the sight of that poor young man, torn from the brim of life like an animal in a slaughterhouse. Riding in a flurry of motors in madness we sped through the city like nothing I've ever seen. Pale figures lumbering every which way; some of them still with their wits and screaming for their senses and their life, foaming at the mouth and choking on bodily fluids, lashing out at friends and loved ones, some fatally frightened human words still seeping through the cracks of their disease like a final panicked curdle for life. Folks still with their sanity were hurrying through the streets with their loved and lone, hurried about in a matter that almost seemed animal. The sight of it was enough to cause even me to cry something somewhat in the chaos of it all. When we reached a safe and clear area outside of the city, we decided to ride as far away from population rich areas as we could. The planes in Germany, the mountains in the south country; Anything. Clint, the MC President made the call that we go to Chernarus. Not many folks left there, and we figured perhaps it would have the least concentration of cannibals after all this time, and with the open ranges of Takistan to the east, and the Russian army just on the border to the west like an iron wall, we figured it our best option. We rode from Spain to the southwestern border of Chernarus through the better part of a month. The journey was surprisingly incident-free. We survived off of one another and the mutual trust we had as brothers. In the end, the respect we had for each other Prospect to President was the only thing that got us out of that journey together, alive and with our wits. Among the dead and in the countryside, we observed groups of wanderers turning on comrades a good deal, even trying to kill one another on the sides of roads for scraps of food and water, or just out of sheer panic or quarrels of what to do, where to go, who to kill.. Who to kill? An interesting prospect I thought, the delicate nature of humanity. All it took was one string to snap to render some of the soundest of people in the life we knew to become the most vehement of beasts. We managed to take as many country roads as possible. Food and water were no issue. Due to our appearance, every place we stopped at incidentally insisted on sharing with us. We've never been ones to pick trouble with others who deserved none of it. It was a crooked man's way, and always will be. Clint swore to us he would never to allow us to come to using our former law bending ways to make due in this storm. We all agreed. We had it just as bad as everyone else; no use in making this world worse for anyone than did the monsters. Despite our efforts to calm these poor folks down, I figure their denial was centered in the paranoia we would give them trouble if otherwise. Gangs like ours never had the best of reputations even before the virus, and at times we would refuse the saddening bribery entirely and move on. They needed it more than we did. When we approached one woman on the side of the road, she broke into a fit of frenzied tears with a look of something more terrible than death in her eyes, begging us not to kill her, or something even more unspeakable, before we even had a chance to say a word. Poor lass had already seen the worst of what one human can do to another. The tears on her dress, the bruises and scars on her face, but most of all the broken stare in her eyes.. The look of death. It was all enough for me to know this was true. I saw the very core of this new world of madness in her eyes; And that was the only way I could ever see it since then. I almost felt a sense of empathy for her, coming from the dregs of where I did. A chapter I'd rather not mention, now, in a life just bleak as any other. We gave her a ride to her place of destination and continued forth. I wanted to bring her with us. After some time, we made it to the first CDF border checkpoint in the southwestern corner of the country, and not a soul was to be seen. Cars shot to hell, blood and flies in the road, we even found a broken Kalashnikov rifle inside the checkpoint, a disembodied hand still holding onto it for dear life, before it was ultimately lost. But no bodies. In all my years doing less than honest work for this MC, I've never seen something of that sort. Or anything less of this mess. We continued down the road, further and further down the coast until we reached a military base. From the scene at the border, I was convinced running into the army here was the last thing we wanted to do. Clint on the contrary thought otherwise; A band of experienced and hardy men such as ourselves willing to help out their cause, what could have gone wrong? He proposed we would be welcome, and so we did. We had small arms, nothing impressive, and certainly not anything suitable for what lay ahead. We barely even made it to the gates. Before we even got a chance to park near the gates and hail the men, a shot rang out from an air traffic control tower on the airfield and hit our furthermost man's bike dead in the gas tank. He was set ablaze and his machine destroyed. Gone. Crack, another man to our rear now sharing the same fate. I froze, and Squint motioned to us and screamed, "Gun it!", and we followed suit. We made it a good 100 meters down the road and passed a sandbag entrenchment near the trees. More shots rang out. Automatic rifles, short controlled bursts, military training; They barely missed a man. A brother just in front of me took one to the back of the neck, another right to the shoulder, his arm jerked upon the bullet's impact and he lost control, sliding down the road in a heap, to a still and hopeless halt. I saw Squint still riding behind me, brothers dropping like flies. After another 200 meters he was the only one left. His arm motioned to ride faster, but before I could even respond to the order, a burst of rounds went straight through his back, another volley to me, hitting my rear tire and rending my machine off course. The pop of the tire nearly split my eardrum, and the incident sent me airborne. When I hit the ground, everything went black for about 20 seconds, and I was blindly crawling to a scramble, the pain already bit. After shortly coming to, all I could hear were moans and pained grunting of Squint 50 yards down the road; The man who rescued me off the streets of west Texas and gave me a home and a way of life, strewn across the road, bleeding and torn to all hell from the wreck. I wasn't sure what to do, but I was in a half-conscious frenzy. Then I heard the voices, Russian of sorts, shouts, and chatter coming from the position that laid my crew down, coming this way. It was like hearing ghosts. My right shoulder was torn to a shred, my jacket in tatters and my entire body felt like it just walked through a fire. Adrenaline still coursing through me like a wave of impossibility, I bolted for the treeline. It was primal, frantic, inhuman. My brother was down there awaiting the worst, yet all my body would do was run, moreso limp hopelessly as if a family of hungry animals were on my trail. After a while, I found an end to the trees: Buildings. Shelter. I've crawled into this apartment building now, and here I am. Writing this as some sort of dog tag for whichever sorry bastard puts a bullet into me and finishes the job, if the cannibals or the military don't get to me first. Till then, it seems I'm looking for some new friends, if there are even any to be found. If you are reading this, make the best of this jacket. I would hope someone remembers our brotherhood. Signed, -Michael "Bull" Clanton
×