Richard Shannon King

King - "The name's Richard King, but most just call me King."

Shannon - The rare few who find out King's middle name often turn to it when they wish to inflict some kind of meager social wounds. He doesn't hate the name per say, it's just a bit embarrassing to respond to such a girly title.

Dick - Only his family calls him Dick. He doesn't take kindly to hearing the nickname from anyone else.

July 23, 1997 (19)

Male || Bisexual

Student by day, jazz-playing, guitar-toting, open-mic hopping hooligan by night. King's parents (well, mother) send him a small allowance at the end of every month, but that doesn't stop him from going out nightly to play on street corners or in venues offering him a bit of loose change for a three song set. It's enough to keep his pockets and stomach full, plus, he gets to meet so many hot interesting people after he preforms.

Pretty boys are always trouble. Always. Never trust their sly smirks and bright eyes and freckled skin. Ignore their tousled hair and slack stance and oh-so-stupid fashion sense. Pretty boys are always trouble. King is no exception to this rule. He holds an endearment for his own face because it is quite pretty. European influences blessed him with bright eyes, bright hair, and bright (thought easily burned, blemished, and bruised) skin. In reality, King has quite the baby face, with wide eyes and thin lips and just the cutest nose around, but he hides this fact with crucially grown stubble and a jaw gained from his father's side of the family. Days spent working out and a strictly vegetarian diet keeps him trim and healthy, especially in the face area.

King is tall, standing about 6'1" when straight backed and confident. He likes to think he's just the right height, being able to both tower over people as well as meet the eyes of those higher than him with a mere crook of the neck. There is a confidence that comes with loving the way you stand or sit, with loving what you can see while walking through crowds. King experiences that feel more often than not, though there are times where his back can bend in worry and his eyes can only meet the ground. Anxious times, when the world is so small that he can't bare to look above and passed it. And when he experiences these bouts of depression and self-hate, King's normally loud and musical voice is nothing more than a dull whimper.

Graphic tees, flannel, and ripped jeans are the norm for Richard King. He dresses comfortably, but often takes time to plan outfits and see which fit him the best. Narcissism runs through his veins like blood, and as such he takes care in his appearance, even for the most minimalist of occasions. Out on the town with friends? Ripped jeans, work boots, and his favorite flannels are strewn about until a decision is made (usually, three minutes before he is supposed to meet said friends). Formal party? Dude, King has suits for days. Rich kids wear rich things, after all. Fashion is a mere minuscule dot in the things King really focuses on, but when he over thinks and realizes just how hot he could be that day it's the whole world to him. Don't be alarmed if he takes more than half an hour in the bathroom, then. Because that's just how Richard King rolls.

Below all those layers, however, lies King's first secret. Bruises and scars, now old and almost forgotten, run up and down his back like a galaxy. Dead colors, muted purples and greens and blues, stand out against the pale skin. The remnants of abuse. King is said to only fuck around with people at least half-clothed, and all those old scars are the reason why. He hates them, despises them more than anything else in the world, and when he catches a glimpse of his bare back in the mirror he can't help but shiver with rage and distaste and fear. The only past influence he really shows off would be the hideous scar of his left bicep. It has since faded to a white line over the years, but he still gets a bit anxious when people notice and ask about it.

What You See:
King is boisterous and asshole-ish. A true blue douche bag to those who don't really, really know him.He brushes new people off with a bat of the eyelash and isn't afraid to talk shit to their face if he doesn't like said person from the start. His flirtatious nature is far from infectious, bordering more on annoying and endless especially when he is drunk. And, oh boy, is he often drunk. He loves a good, awful beer and despite being underage he isn't afraid to let everyone know his enjoyment of drinking. The carnivorous-looking Richard King seems to hold all the confidence an asshole frat boy should, and the only good thing people may see about him at first glance would be his unadulterated love for all things musical.

What I Know:
King is broken. He isn't... right, really. There's something off about him that many of his closer pals seem to notice. He keeps secrets hidden deep within his heart and hides the pain of them all with tiny smiles and glittering, cruel eyes. When around his closest friends he is truly cheery and honest, a generous soul with a harsh tongue and a hideously pessimistic look on the world. He tries to hide the emotions he considers weak, like kindness or sorrow, but really if you catch him in a quiet moment of vulnerability he is soft spoken and emotional.

The rage King feels doesn't seem to come on during stressful situations, instead it's like he's always prepared to scream or fight. His fists clench randomly, full of hidden vigor and venom, and his eyes often sport a dark look of disgust when he thinks no one is looking closely. This stowed rage is just a symptom of his home life, along with slight anxiety and on-off depression. He takes Prozac for all these issues and doesn't let a single soul know, because he is ashamed.

King dreams of making it big as a Jazz musician and songwriter. To hear his songs played to an adoring crowd, to live a happy life with someone else, and to ignore his past, these are all the things he wishes from the rest of his life and then some. King wants to play music forever and ever, no matter the money or fame. He just wants to do something he loves until he dies.

Richard Shannon King was born in a quaint California town on a sunny, sunny day. His mother, Victoria King, though annoyed she had to give up precious work time to give birth, fell in love with her child the moment he opened his tiny mouth to cry, and stayed as close to him as possible throughout their time in the hospital. His father, Henry King, however, was well aware the child was not and would never be his. Because he wasn't the real father.

Because his wife cheated on him.

Tensions were high in the house as Richard grew into a spoiled young boy. His mother worked often, as mayors usually did, but whenever given a moment to breath she offered him toys and food and thoughts beyond his wildest dreams. Henry didn't take much time to admire the child. Though he was often the man in charge of the house he merely left Richard by himself, opting to instead work on his next novel that may or may not be scraped half way through development. Stress from the book led Henry to booze, and being alone with his bastard son let him shout profanities half way across the large, empty house to infect the poor child.

The first time Henry hit Richard was when he was in seventh grade, and he was caught sneaking alcohol to a friend's house on his bike. His father gave him a massive welt across his left thigh and left him sobbing in his room with only a meager feeling of guilt. Mother remained out of the loop of this abuse, that had suddenly began to continue on, because Henry threatened Richard every time he had a chance to. And Richard, fearful of his own life and his mother's life, stayed dead quiet. Focused on his music (played quietly, so his father had no reason to rush up and smack him about again), focused on his friends, ignored the pain. Ignored it, ignored it, ignored it for five whole years.

When his acceptance letter to The Mortimer School of the Arts came in, Richard was offered a way out and up. The music that so saved him from quiet nights locked away in is room could now lead him to a better, more fulfilling life. A life without his small town teen angst and his stubborn father. So, King ran far, far away from the the west coast. Because music was calling him into an unexplored world and King was ready to leave behind that small town in favor of freedom, smoggy air, and a life without Henry King.

Jazz (Major) / Songwriting (Minor)

King walked into the room feeling quite dreamy from his pills and quite smiley despite the anxiety that plagued his heart. He settled down on the offered chair with his trusty ol' guitar, offered a wild smile, and then went into a trance as he picked through a set consisting of the songs Autumn Leaves, Cocaine Princess, and an original song he wrote called Small Town Rhythm. He left quickly and spent a good hour calming himself down in a bathroom stall.

First

(tbd with pals)