Trench Town Borretorz

Chapter I
In 1951, a ruthless hurricane swept Jamaica into an abyss poverty and disaster. The hurricane was branded the name ‘Hurricane Charlie’, but whoever witnessed this storm would know that such a gentle name cannot live up to its ferociousness. One man, whose name is Lionel Watson, had once been a wealthy politician, but like many, the storm had destroyed their lives, careers and dreams. Lionel was forced to take refuge in one of downtown Kingston’s most dangerous government projects, the Trench Town garrison. Violence was a usual occurrence in Trench Town, with disaster came instability, with instability came hunger for stability, and hunger for stability meant hunger for power which created war. Each garrison (turf) had its own political party it’d support in an election, and if someone supported what the other garrison didn’t, it meant war. Violence was so congested in downtown Kingston, that often single road-ways would be the no-man’s-land of Downtown Kingston’s unforgiving battlefield. At night there’d be watchers equipped with AK47s and M16s, some in which not even Jamaican’s army had, for possible ambushes from the rival garrison. This was the life of a typical Downtown Kingston life.



After sinking to bottom of the social ladder and of his career, Lionel decided to give up. He remained unemployed for the next 10 years, living of the charity of the local Methodist church. In 1971, he married Rose Roaper, a maid of an MP. The couple then spent the next year together planning a family, but sticking to their strict Christian background, they decided to wait for marriage. In 1975 they finally married and then Rose conceived in 1977 at the age of 22 and Lionel 56. Their child was to be called Leroy, and by God what a terror he’d cause.

Leroy never went to school as due to his family’s lack of money, he forced himself into a life of drugs and gang culture. By the 1980’s when he was in his childhood, an economic crash plummeted Jamaican into violence and poverty. At this time, the only thing that was selling was drugs imported from Columbia and picture of a gunshot in your enemies head. Leroy caught onto this and by the time he was 17, he’d become the youngest ‘Gully man’ in the history of the Trench Town Borretorz. His job was to traffic the drug-money from the soldiers dealing, and delivering it to the Don, ‘Bunja’, Leroy's best friend. ‘Bunja’ was the most respected guy in the garrison. He protected the residents, and he delivered the gold of the community, cocaine. But then one day, everything changed..



Bunja : Ay’mon, a’when mi dead’did, mi’wan fi get cra’mated. Leory : *Laughs* Don’be chupid Bunja, you is immar’tal. Only you can be da’don fah’twenti’ud years an’nuh die. Bunja : Tha’tip is pickney, fi’always love ya’- Bunja stares at Leroy extremely frightened, but not afraid. Leroy looks back at Bunja, and then creeps out of the hideout. Leroy then spots a man equipped with an M-16 rifle from within a bush. Leroy : Bunja Ru!-
 * Bob Marley – I shot the sheriff* Plays on the antique radio in Bunja’s hideout
 * BOOM BOOM* From outside the house.
 * Boom* Leroy falls to the floor.



Two weeks later, Leroy wakes up in the hospital, with his mother, father, grand-father and grand-mother around him. “Mummuh’, whar’um? Why am’a ear?” Leroy questions. Rose then begins to place his soft hand upon his forehead, and smiles. “God bless Selassie! Your a’right!” his mother replies. “Mummuh’, tell me whar’um”, Leroy looks around the room, beginning to understand his surroundings. “You was shot, shu’in’a’ya chest, it miss ya’eart by own-ly a whiska’.” Says his mother, but Leroy can see in her face, she is holding something from him. Then he realises what. “Mummuh, wha’appen to Bunja, he gaht’ away right?”, Leroy looks around at his family, expecting a smile, but he is returned by bowed heads. “No! Bunja nuh’dead! No no no!”, Leroy then begins to twist and turn frantically. Water tubes are ripped from his arms. Legs fly. Tears pour. Still no answer.

Two hours later, when Leroy had calmed to just minor tears. ‘Mous’ a shotter and also a close friend of Leroy walks into the room. Both do their traditional hand greeting and then Mous hands Leroy a note, and then he leaves. All this without a word. All eyes watch Leroy, and as Leroy opens the letter, he can’t help to think whom it may be from.

'''Dear Young Leroy.

Since the time you were born, to the time you are now, I’ve watched you. In no other youte I’ve seen what you’ve got. That’s why I’ve written this, so I know things will keep in check if I ever pass, and I suppose now your reading it, I’ve passed. I don’t want you to run the garrison, I want you to go to Los Santos, and there you will start some business connections. This is a much bigger task, you’ll traffic people in, to do the work on the streets, and keep a good supply.

Good luck.

Brother love for ever.'''



During the 20 years between the 1970s to the 1990s, power of area East Los Santos (ELS) had shifted between the biggest street gangs ever seen in Los Santos, from Los Santos Vagos, Grove Street and most recently The Ballas. For many years, this area had been the criminal capital, heart and heaven; where mafias such as San Fierro Rifas and the Russian Mafia joined in on the fun. Possibly the most successful was The Ballas, who flooded the area with narcotics and were making serious money. They also used this ‘hood’ to launch attacks on Grove Street with sometimes dyer destruction. But as they say, all good things come to an end.

Two weeks after Leroy’s arrival in Los Santos, and after many nights sleeping rough in the underground car-park of East Los Santos, Leroy finally received his money via Western Union. Before he’d left, he had made his mother promise to send him his money his mum had saved for his University fees. It was just about enough to buy himself a room at Jefferson Motel, permanently. But like a stray cub, he felt dragged from his den. Somewhere, even in the god-forsaken times of sleeping rough in the car-park of East Los Santos, he’d made a connection with the area of East Los Santos, where something was there which reminded him of home.

 3 Years later, September 1992.

Since his arrival, Leroy had built his reputation up slowly but securely. He’d trafficked people into the country on illegal documents in order to join him in the quest to take in some money. For many months, he’d worked closely with ‘The Ballas’, working in their factory and commanding pushers into different legions. Leroy had been clever, instead of joining ‘The Ballas’ and have to take orders, he’d shadowed their winnings, and took his shares. He’d watched the underworld closely, he watched the rise of Grove Street and the Aztecas and he had chosen his cards wisely. After the big-raid of The Ballas’ factory, and ultimately the collapse of the gang, Police interest in the area had increased, and therefore it’d been wise to hold back his illegal activities, which others did. But soon, the police began to draw back, as crime decreased. By 2009, Police impression on the area was a stranger, no-one knew it. The area had returned to its 1990s ghetto but crime stayed low as no-one pushed it. By 2010 Leroy knew it was time, he called home for some more people to be trafficked to work as pushers. He brought his old friends to Los Santos. Then the party started.

Chapter III - Father Bryan Marley
Not much is known about Father Bryan Marley, it is almost like he was born from the emptiness of air. No-one knew him, no-one acknowledged him. The motivational speaker we know today who preaches the goodness of God was a much different man than what we know now, here is his story.

Leroy Jerome’s account

Bryan Marley was never the intimate one, more the one who managed to avoid everything, the good and the bad. To some he was lucky to avoid the influence the gangs, but I felt sorry for him, he always reminded me of an unseen dear in a world of lions. He was much older than me, wiser too. Some say he was a sugar cane farmer and some say he was a carpenter, but no-one knew for sure but because no-one was too interested and the pickneys (children) of the community weren’t brave enough to even tempt him. He was tall, well-built with a slight beer-belly. He’d always sit in Grandma’s bar-shack sipping away a bottle of Red-stripe, always wearing an ill-looking black T-shirt with an unusual hood attached to the neck. I hardly ever saw his face, the hood stayed as fastened to his head as his own hair. He was very peculiar, and I think that’s what interested everyone about him; his absence. He’d sit motionless for hours, and the only sign of a flicker you’d ever see was from his lips, they’d speak only ‘Another Red-stripe’, and that would be it. The elders in the bar used to call him ‘Ghost’, and they’d joke and laugh saying ‘He’s closer to death than the dead’, I never understood the logic. They knew he wasn’t weak, but yet they pushed him, they really did. They’d do some of the most inhuman things to him that you could never imagine, but what was a sure thing was it always ended up with Bryan being humiliated.

When I’d finally decided to bring a few brejins to Los Santos, I’d called home but all the ones I needed weren’t there, they were either dead or in prison. I called Grandma for a quick ‘hello call’ and she’d said she had some devastating news to tell me. She’d told me that the usual people who’d used to hang at her shack had all been found dead in their homes. She went on to say that they all had been met with incredibly ugly deaths, all the same incredibly ugly deaths. They’d all been suffocated first until they were unconscious. Perhaps on reawakening, the murder then used a combination of a chainsaw and carving knife to cut off both of their arms, and then they all were beaten to death or bled to death. The chainsaw belonged to Bryan, and immediately the police were on his case, but due to it being reported stolen a few days before he was cleared of any involvement. Grandma said the whole area all believed that Bryan did it and so did I, no-one else had any reason to do it. Through many links and words passed on, I had Ghost come to Los Santos to join the empire. He insisted in the first words he’d ever said to me that ‘Whatever you’ve known of me, I am changed. I am a Rastafarian who answers only to God’ and that was it. That is your man, Father Bryan Marley.

The Backstory - Bunja, The Man Behind the Man

Bunja was different from the start, different from the usual hood rats of downtown Kingston. He was not poor at the start, nor sinister nor mentally broken. In fact for the early parts of his life he was ‘The A* student’ in a St.Mary(Jamaican Parish) independent school system. After leaving high school with the highest grades in the district, he attended the St. Mary University studying computer engineering. After leaving university, Bunja took a gap-year and travelled to Los Santos for a long vacation, but soon this vacation turned into damnation. Here the story goes.

Bunja approached the front door of his apartment, with his usual routine of looking around for any spectators. Something in him had felt uneasy for the 3 months, and this was the cause for his suspicion in everything and everyone. Maybe he was being watched, or maybe he was overreacting but somehow he knew he wasn’t. Ever since he’d undertaken the assistance from Jularnie, a Grove Street underboss, Bunja couldn’t help but to feel suspicious. After all, he’d never flirted with the lower-class in any society he’d been apart of. What could he expect?

Bunja’s door was damned with an ankle-high pile of red letters, mostly printed ‘Urgent Notice’. Loan companies. It was obvious; he didn’t have to open the letters to find out what the contents behold, he knew all too well. ‘Bailiffs, Court summoning, fines’ and so on were frequent reminders of his financial position. Cycling debt had plunged Bunja into desperation, stress and mental instability. He’d begun smoking tobacco, gunja and used many other drugs he’d been shielded from since he’d first laid eyes on the bigger picture of life. Jularnie had supplied them; promising Bunja he’d take care of him. Bunja had initially agreed, he was desperate for support which Jularnie gave him, financial support too. But Jularnie had directed Bunja into a path avoided by most people of Bunja’s class. He’d been forced into armed robberies and to beat people as young as 15 to the edge of their life. But he knew things were catching up, soon the hunter would be hunted and Bunja knew he needed out.

Bunja lay sprawled upon his brown leathered couch, watching the ‘Jefferson All Saints’ play the ‘Idlewood 49’ers’ on the TV. The telephone began to ring. ‘Elloh?’ Bunja breathed. ‘Bunja, bruh’ a’garhdah job fo’you.’ Jularnie announced, with a serious tone which was met by a moment’s silence. ‘-A’right Jularnie, a’weh ya’deh?’ ‘Meet me by’duh Jefferson courts, bring your piece yo’gonna need it.’

Then the phone was hung up. Bunja couldn’t help but to feel it was the right time to end this. He knew he had to talk to Jularnie.

Jularnie’s red Esperanto crawled to a stop next to where Bunja stood. Bunja quickly glanced around and then got into the car. There was a thumping and squealing sound coming from the back trunk. Bunja looked at Jularnie questioning, but was met with no answers, no returned glances.

‘A’who dat’?’ Bunja asked after some while. ‘A’Ballas negro, we caught him tagging tha’hood’ Jularnie said, his eyes fixed unnaturally ahead. ‘You’re going to kill him’. Jularnie spoke, Bunja gazed into his own lap. ‘Whats tha’matter?’ Jularnie spoke. ‘This is ma’last job, a’had enough’ Bunja stuttered. Then after a long period of silence Jularnie replied ‘OK’.

Jularnie took the back roads from northern Jefferson into south Bone County, to a abandoned farmers hut in the middle of the country-side. Both Jularnie and Bunja got out of the vehicle, and strolled to the back of the trunk. Bunja had felt relieved Jularnie hadn’t got mad or opposed his leaving of this business.

As they opened the trunk, Bunja saw the Negro man. He was wearing a white tank top, with purple three-quarter length pants and a purple bandanna wrapped around his forehead. Bunja and Jularnie then grabbed the man who resisted a great amount. Finally they got him to the floor and restrained him.

‘Beat him, I’ll go fetch the petrol, stay here no matter what.’ Jularnie demanded, which was replied by Bunja with a single nod.



Jularnie then entered his car, turned on the engine and drove into the distance. For the next 10 minutes Bunja beat his victim until he could beat no more, until the victim could move no more. Bunja then felt a vibration his pocket. His phone. It was a text from Jularnie.

Jularnie (10:03PM:21/9/83)

Once you desert me, I desert you. Good luck in prison.

Bunja stood motionless. What did Jularnie mean? But then something slapped Bunja back into sanity. Over the hills came bellowing sirens. Bunja turned and ran.

Los Santos Daily – 5/10/83 - MAN SENTENCED TO 25 YEARS FOR MURDER OF RIVAL GANGMEMBER



Jamal O’Shane also known as ‘Bunja’ aged 22 was found guilty yesterday of beating Olah Adubokalo to death on the 21/9/83 at the approximate time of 10 PM. Jamal a Jamaican student who’d migrated to Los Santos 4 years prior is believed to be a member of the notorious Grove Street and it is also believed that he committed this crime unaided upon a rival gang’s gang-member Olah Adubokalo of ‘The Ballas’. Los Santos Supreme Court sentenced Jamal to a minimum of 25 years in prison with immediate deportation back to Jamaica.



The Mob Structure
The Don - Leroy Jerome

The Don is the kingpin who dictates what happens, and who is worthy.


 * Gully Men - Jomo Jackson

The Gully men are the visible front of the mob, they recommend who joins the mob and also deliver the money to ‘The Dons’ from the ‘Brejins’ and ‘Hustlers’ and keep him up to date with the news.


 * Soldiers’ – ‘Hustlers’ – ‘Foreigners - [Blank]

. The ‘soldiers’ are the ones who fight, the guards and enforcers of the mob. They traffic the money to the ‘Gully Men’ and protect the ‘Brejins’ and the ‘Hustlers’, and also guard the hood. . ‘Hustlers’ deal, they sell the narcotics handed to them by the ‘Gully Men’ and return a cut to the ‘gully men’. They are the eyes and ears of the street, and they inform the ‘soldiers’ of who needs taken care of. But do not be fooled, ‘Hustlers’ are as dangerous as the ‘Soldiers’. . Foreigners do not hang with the mob, but they do associate themselves. They are a key asset to the gang, as they need to be able to alert the gang of any possible attacks, so basically they’re snitches to the mob.


 * Brejins - [Blank]

‘Brejins’ are the pushers of narcotics or people willing to do the bidding of the gang. They are not official members, but they are trailing to be one.

Deceased Members

 * Ex-Foreigner - Patrick Corrigan

Out of Character Information
Please note; metagaming, much like in any situation will not be tolerated. If players are caught abusing their positions or breaking the rules of conduct, permanent banning or a heavy amercement will be issued onto the character.