Alfred Jessco Luntzer

Name: Alfred Jessco Luntzer
DOB: September 3rd 1973
Residence: Richmond Virginia
Occupation: Painter (non artistic)

In 1979 little AJ Luntzer popped out of the baby factory known as Angel Holiday nee' Luntzer. His conception was not for lack of prophylactics, but rather it was because his parents didn't care, that is just how they roll. His parents were country folk, and not the idyllic country folk portrayed in Hollywood films, but the brain dead country folk who really live in the country. I am not saying all hillbillies are retarded, some of them have no mental retardation, but what I am saying is that they are stupid people. Without getting too far off topic, consider this, you have the option to live in a remote area of the country with little industry or chance for employment and exponentially more likely to be hit hardest by natural disaster, or you can move 50 miles to a place where people don't freeze to death because its cold.
AJ had eight brothers and sisters, but by the time he was 14 he had 6 brothers and sisters. His oldest brother died while trying to light a raccoon on fire that was hiding in a drainage tube that ran under the road. Randy, may he rest in peace, turned that drainage ditch into a high powered cannon. He poured about two gallons of gas into the tube, to 'smoke the raccoon out', but little did he know that the raccoon had made a nest out of the cramped tunnel. At the far end the industrious little creature packed in a year or more worth of debris to create a comfy nest. I don't want to get off topic here, but it is necessary for me to explain a simple fact of physics because it relates heavily to this story. The reason bullets come out of guns in a common direction is because one end of the barrel is blocked off, while the other end has a convenient opening, this is known as taking the path of least resistance.
When Randy Luntzer, RIP, lit the fumes of the two gallons of gas on fire, he had his big hillbilly head lined up with the open end of the tube. There was a quick sucking noise that didn't last but a second, and it was immediately eclipsed by a loud woomf. Although his head was only in the opening for a brief moment, the rocket engine blow torch blew fire straight into Randy's face, up his nose, down his throat and all around his big dumb head, effectively killing him.
Alfred's sister Lwanda died via far less spectacular circumstances. She was riding passenger in her boyfriends 72 Nova when it was hit by a drunk driver. The only thing of note about the accident is that the drunk driver was Alfred's uncle, Jimco Holiday. It was a tragedy, and it took Alfred's parents weeks to forgive Jimco.
Given his meager beginnings, it is not surprising that Alfred has not done much with his life. It is surprising though that he is still alive given all the dangers hillbillies face when they come to big cities like Richmond Virginia. When he first arrived in 84, AJ was 11 years old, which in country folk years and much like dog years, is actually 24. His first job was picking up nails off city streets. It was a contract job and paid poorly. It wasn't until the early 90's when Richmond University began experiencing a growth spurt, that AJ finally came into his stride.
While out hunting for nails one day, he met another hillbilly who had made his way to the big city from his small hometown of Wise Virginia. AJ recognized him immediately as Kemper Lee Colby, and the two couldn't believe their good fortune. After hearing what a shit job AJ had, Kemper offered him work on a paint crew that was doing work for the University.
AJ never looked back. Sure he coughs a lot now, has pain in his neck, and back and can't really feel his fingers or toes all that well, but he has a sweet job. It sure beats picking up nails.

Anita

Name: Anita Ford Baker
DOB: February 18th 1983
Residence: Hollywood California
Occupation: 'Actress'

Anita Baker is one of the rare exceptions in Park City Utah, she is not a Mormon. Her parents are not Mormons, but they live in the Mormon capital of the world, or right next to it (Salt Lake City). Anita's dad, Jim Baker, works for a land leasing company that specializes in leasing land for energy. His job required him to move to Utah to be at the company headquarters in Park City. Not long after moving to Utah, Anita was born.
She is an only child, and thankfully so. Her father was so busy with work and her mother with socializing, they had very little time to devote to a developing child. Instead Anita was raised primarily by strangers, strangers in the form of baby sitters, care takers, teachers, coaches, and most significantly, television. Anita loved the television. She would sit quietly in front of the tv, quickly becoming a baby sitters favorite kid to watch.
Anita went to school in a division that had not produced one well known actor. That is not to say that the school division produced a bunch of nobodies, just that it didn't produce any stars of the caliber that Anita believed she would become. In her microscope mind, she was a snowflake of grand design and beautiful intricacy, something that would wow the world if only they looked at it.
Her parents raised very little protest when Anita announced that she would be going to California to follow her dream. They went about their business, her mother socializing the top tier of society and her father hard at work. Anita packed her bags and took off for the coast.
Hollywood was a harder nut to crack than Anita had thought. There was stiff competition flowing in from every vein, bus stations, airplanes and trains all carried precious cargo that was going to make its mark. She had looks, she was by no means ugly, but she had the innocent looks of the girl next door, not the movie poster vixen. Her big break came from an unlikely place. While waiting tables, as many aspiring actresses do, she crossed paths with a Mr. Sam Carter.
Sam Carter was in the film business, but not the film business Anita grew up enthralled by, he was in adult entertainment. Sam told Anita that she had the perfect girl next door look, that his customers loved, he gave her his card and asked her to come by the studio.
Anita was a naïve girl, but she was not stupid. She knew that Sam was in Porn, and that it would require her to do things she imagined doing artfully with Brad Pitt or Leonardo DeCaprio. Her reticence was no match for her hunger to succeed, and she looked at is as sneaking in the back door to Hollywood since she was unable to even get her foot in the front door.
Things started small for Anita. She did solo work, photography, short videos. After a while and some paychecks, things got more hardcore. To chronicle the progression here would do very little for Anita's bio, and for this author's image, suffice it to say she ran the gamut of adult film. You can still see her, she is doing pretty extreme stuff now for a paycheck as she is older and not as fresh looking as she used to be. Try googling grandma's golden shower one day if you are really bored, perverted, or both.

Sam

Name: Samuel Emanuel Carter
DOB: March 22nd 1941
Residence: Redondo Beach California
Occupation: Pornographer

Samuel Carter was born into a well established California clan. His father, Henry Carter, is a direct descendant of Emanuel Carter of railroad fame. His mother came from good stock that established strong roots that grew from gold veins in the hills of Eastern California. Old money.
Leisure is a hobby among the rich and the Carters were world class hobbyists. Henry Carter was a renaissance man with epicurean tastes that spanned the globe. He had a private collection of art that was museum quality in worth and scope. His mother dabbled in the occult, holding popular séances at their Redondo estate. They were attended by the upper crust of local society and were the talk of the town for weeks after.
Somewhere in his childhood spent among yachting excursions, cocktail parties, and private schools, Samuel picked up a penchant for the human form. Not just the manly preoccupation with the feminine body, but something far more consuming. He would spend hours amid his fathers priceless collection of art, focusing intensely on the naked forms and cultivating an appetite for what would become known as adult entertainment.
Samuel attended prestigious conservatories, and universities around the world, all in the pursuit of a career in art. Nowhere did he enjoy himself more than in the artists chair, taking in naked subjects for hours on end, meticulously transcribing their appearance to canvas. His wealth allowed him to take his passions home, and he would put out open casting calls for nude models to come to his home.
Although Samuel had immersed himself in art, and had all the time in the world to perfect his craft, his paintings and sculpture lacked any real merit and at best they were not horrible. Samuel came to this realization when even faced with his families influence, art galleries declined to continue displaying his work. For a man who had literally wanted for nothing, this was a harsh blow. For the first time in his life his will had been denied.
It was around this time that the proliferation of technology made it possible for nearly anyone to engage in the art of film making. Looking for an avenue to sate his desire for the human form, and to escape the failure of his legitimate art career, Samuel threw himself into film making. No longer did he have to transcribe the naked beauty he had before him, the camera did the artists job, all he had to do was supply the bodies and a steady hand.
His films were wildly popular among the well to do. He started out small, with short reel to reel films of aspiring starlets, and consumers gobbled it up. Soon requests came in for more risqué films, and Samuel was happy to oblige because at this point in his life, the nerve in him that was stimulated so powerfully by seeing a naked woman had been dulled. Like the dopamine receptor in the brain of a junkie, he required larger more powerful doses to stimulate the nerve.
Sam was soon emulating the violent pulp comics of his youth, depicting scenes of rough sex and women in distress. As society pushed forward, new requests came in. He filmed interracial sex acts and caught a bit of heat for it, but ultimately suffered no lasting consequences. Oddly enough he is moderately hailed as a visionary in his field for having filmed a black women having sex with a white man, as if it helped the civil rights movement. In all probability, its just the adult entertainment industry jerking itself off.
No longer a spring chicken and full of youthful vitality, Sam has scaled back in his directing. He still enjoys an ownership in one of the largest distributors of pornography in the northern hemisphere, but he rarely rolls up his sleeves and yells 'action'.

Bill

William Wayne Cherry
D.O.B April 12th 1972
Residence: Waycross Georgia
Occupation: Grease monkey

William Wayne Cherry was born in Waycross Georgia to a very young mother who could not resist the wooing of a worldly carney who swept into her tiny town. Bill, as his mother and friends call him, does not know his fathers name. He does know his nickname though, Geech, and that he was barking for the yak lady when he crossed paths with Bills mom.
Not entirely surprising, Bill did not go far in life. When he was born his head was even more cone shaped than it is today. His mother filled his tiny cone head with dreams of finding a good freak show and touring as a pin head, earning a respectable living from curious onlookers who would pay just to gaze upon his unique appearance. As a child Bill resembled a road cone, the sort you would see marking off a pothole or reserving a parking space. His orange hair didn't help matters much, and just made him look like a fuzzy orange cone. Hats wouldn't fit right on him, but that was the least of his worries.
The odd shape of Bill's head belied a more serious condition. His brain sat like jello in that awkward mold, and because of that he suffered significant brain damage. Simple tasks like tying shoes, stringing words together, and wiping ones own ass, were difficult hurdles that Bill stutter stepped past on his way through life. To make matters worse, a good freak show never passed through Waycross. Unbeknown to them, freak shows were a quickly dwindling, politically incorrect vestigial appendage of Americas shameful past.
Fortune did smile upon Bill's pointed dome, but not until long after he lost the unsettling orange coat of fur. When Bill finally lost most of his hair, a touring fair passed through Waycross enroute to the much larger and metropolitan town of Valdosta. Bill's mother, who by this time was a bent little lady, dragged her dim witted and comically proportioned son out to the road side. She waved her arthritic and knobby little hands, trying to grab the attention of one of the drivers.
After much discussion, all of which Bill sat quietly and stupidly through, the touring fair took Bill with them on a trial run. Bill was set to be a grease monkey on the Ferris Wheel. His job was simple enough, but to Bill it proved challenging and exciting. He succeeded in the trial run for no other reason than he is an idiot, and could be paid in funnel cake. He was not averse to cleaning up vomit, or hiding mangled bodies of patrons who had been chewed up by the mechanical wheel.
You might be able to find him today. The fair is still touring as far as I know. I don't think they go north of the Mason Dixon line, and usually stick to the rural south, but if you see Bill, don't ride that wheel.

Frans

Name: Frans Bartul Haswell
DOB: August 18th, 1974
Residence: Bainbridge Island, WA
Occupation: Barista

Frans Haswell has not always lived in Washington state, but just recently transplanted there from his native Denmark. Born in Coppenhagen, the child of wealthy coffee heir Bas Haswell and his wife Beatrix nee’ Svensdotter, Frans displayed a knack for the family business from an early age. Much to the joy of his parents, before he could walk Frans could differentiate between good and bad Espresso beans. By the time Frans hit puberty he was already influential in selecting blends for the Haswell Coffe Co.
Although Frans life has been one of wealth and privilege he has not been content to sit idly by waiting for his inheritance (estimated at 328m). Instead he has been a fierce competitor in the World Barista Championship since its inception in 2000. In the last four years Frans has made the semifinals, but was defeated. Haswell believes judges are not being unbiased in their scoring because of his name and family history. In an attempt to cancel out any preconceived notions judges have of him Frans very publicly separated himself from his family and moved to the Americas.
This got the Coffee world buzzing with speculation that it was just a ruse, but reporters have discovered that Frans is no longer heir to the Haswell coffee fortune. Many have lauded his recent move as the most noble act in the history of Coffee and it has helped add to the legend of his brewing prowess. Once in Bainbridge Frans opened a small coffee shop and began amassing a cult like following. People from all over the state of Washington have flocked to the small and rainy island to get a sniff of his roasting beans and stand in line for hours just to have a sip.
Many believe Haswell will sweep the World Barista Championships this year when they are held for the first time outside of Europe or the US in Japan. It is exciting to note that having the WBC hosted in an Asian country marks the significant increase in Asian consumption of coffee (historically tea drinkers). Frans is very confident that he will be a good ambassador of coffee to Japan and will give his Asian brothers in coffee a treat they will not soon forget.
Frans has not encountered much in the way of obstacles in his life aside from perceived biases of judges, but he does possess a great deal of character and self confidence. His father, Bas, known for being hard nosed and emotionless was very proud that his son struck out on his own and said this, “My son has made me so very proud. It is the ultimate honor to a parent to know that their child has exceeded their expectations.”

George Borland

Name: George Thomas Borland

DOB: January 7^th, 1956

Residence: Manhattan New York

Occupation: Unemployed

If George Borland appears on the surface to be a deeply sad and troubled man it is because he is a very sad and extremely troubled man. From an early age George was subjected to life’s inexcusable cruelties. Whether he was being taunted by fellow school children for being a bastard (his father left his mother when George was a toddler) or suffering the embarrassment and pain of redeeming bright red coupons for free lunch at school; George was constantly ground beneath the wheel of misfortune.

There was a brief ray of light that penetrated the gloom of Borland’s youth and it came in the form of his elderly grandmother who upon seeing the squalor George was being raised in by her alcoholic daughter (His mother took to drink when his father left) spirited him away to live with her. For a moment it seemed like George would be saved from a life of torment and hardship, but then the expected happened and his grandmother died in front of him when she tumbled violently down a flight of stairs audibly breaking many of her brittle bones in the process. She managed to live just long enough to say in a weakened, near death, and quivering voice, “Georgie you can change your life, just hang in there (*cough cough) things will get better.”

George stayed in the house for almost 24 hours before reporting his grandmother dead. I’d be lying if I said George did not think about burying her in the backyard and staying in the house. So great was his fear of returning to his mother that he contemplated desperate measures, but being only eight years old he knew that it would be impossible.

So George went back to living with his broken and alcoholic mother where he was the caretaker rather than the son. The years heaped onto the compost pile that George considered his life and the torrents of silent tears he cried at night wore deep grooves into his face. Frown lines formed irreversible tracks of sorrow in his young face and turned what could have been a handsome visage into a mask of pain.

All the while George maintained good grades in the face of such opposition. He would tuck his mother in and clean up her messes around the house, then retire to his room and study diligently. Work was the only escape George had from the sad reality of his life. When George finished high school he graduated at the top of his class and although he had scholarship opportunities at more prestigious schools further from his home, he had to attend a college closer to home so that he could still mind his mother.

It didn’t take long for George’s brown hair to turn grey and with each emergency trip home to check on his mother more and more hair lost its color. George spent equal time in school and at home. He would be grading papers as a teachers assistant while putting out lit cigarettes his drunk mother would drop between couch cushions. He could never be comfortable in class because the thought that his mother was burning down the house or drowning in the bathtub were always in the back of his mind.

When George came home on a particularly cold December afternoon to find his mother dead on the living room floor he did not cry. To this day he hates himself for not crying, but no matter how long he stood there his eyes would not produce a drop for the woman he knew as his mother.

Things actually did get better for George after the death of his mother. He could focus on school and excelled like never before. Upon graduation George was snatched up by Bank of America to manage portfolios and immediately went to work at the World Trade Center. I should say here that yes, he worked at that World Trade Center, in the North tower, and that yes what happened on 911 affected him deeply.

He worked for many years, developing friendships while building an impressive career. Like all moments of joy in George’s life, they seem to just be precursors to eminent suffering. On 911 George was not at work. He was taking a sick day because he had not taken one yet this year and would invariably lose them if he did not use them. Instead he watched on television while two planes destroyed the buildings that housed everyone in this world that George was even remotely attached to. He looked on in horror unknown to common men as flames erupted from the side of the building causing it to crash down on into a cloud of smoke.

For the first time in 24 years George cried. Hot tears ran down familiar grooves and frown lines and his sad eyes looked on as reports came in. George did not leave his apartment for 3 days. Many thought he was among the victims, and in his mind he wished he was. How George gets out of bed is even a mystery to me, but he does.

George has no desire to work. He is afraid of work. Afraid he will become friends with more people and open his heart to even more hurt. Instead he walks the streets of Manhattan, wearing the suits he accumulated over his many years of working at Bank of America. People don’t like to look into George’s eyes, it makes them uncomfortable. Homeless people don’t bother George for money as if they can sense his sorrow. He slips silently in and out of the moving mass that commutes daily in the big city. From above he is just a spec, a small moving dot among a multitude, but inside George is more complex than a mere dot. He is a mystery.