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4 yrs ago
Current "I'm an actor. I will say anything for money." -- Also Charlton Heston
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4 yrs ago
Starting up a preimum service of content from actors like Radcliffe, Day-Lewis, Bruhl, and Craig. Calling it OnlyDans.
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4 yrs ago
Please, guys. The status bar is for more important things... like cringe status updates.
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4 yrs ago
Gotta love people suddenly becoming apolitical when someone is doing something they approve of.
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4 yrs ago
Deleting statuses? That's a triple cringe from me, dog.
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None of your damn business.

Most Recent Posts

Didn't flake out, bitches.


B L A C K P A N T H E R
B L A C K P A N T H E R


Six Months Ago
Sterling, VA


“No running in the house, please,” Everett Ross shouted. His two kids ran past him in a blur of motion and ignored his command. Ross sighed and took a long sip from his coffee cup. They were never like this with their mother. He needed a shot or sixteen of caffeine more than ever today. He'd finally gotten home around three this morning after a long night at Langley writing a report. Now he was due back in at nine to go over that report with the Deputy Director of Intelligence.

Ross was mid sip when he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. The caller ID showed it as a blocked number. Not unusual in the spook business. He tried his best to hush his children before giving up and walking into the next room.

“This is Ross.”

“Hello, Agent Ross.”

Ross knew the voice right away. Deep baritone with the accent. It had been a long time since they'd spoken. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“I would ask how you got this number,” Ross said softly. “But I know you. I lost a lot of sleep over you last night, by the way. I had to write a sixteen page report on the updated political situation in Wakanda and neighboring nations.”

“I wish I’d known, but I suppose that comes with the territory as the United States' foremost expert in Wakandan affairs. You know I did what I did for my people and my family, but if I had been told beforehand it would have cost Everett K. Ross to lose a good night’s sleep, maybe I would have reconsidered.”

A silence lingered between the two men, Ross was about to speak before he had his own question answered.

“I’m calling because I need help. Your help.”

“What can I do for you?”

There was no hesitation on Ross' part. Time and time again he had helped and saved Ross when his back was against the wall. He wouldn't be alive today if not for this man.

“I will be arriving in New York City tonight. I need, what is it your people call it? A cover story? New papers and a new name.”

“A legend,” said Ross. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “You need a new identity.”

“Yes… I left Wakanda with people tracking me. Very dangerous people. I have lost them for the time being. But it is a temporary solution. In order to settle into America and hide I need to become someone else.”

Ross began to feel paranoid all of a sudden. He was worried about the security of the phone line. He knew better than most how easy phone calls were tracked, traced, and recorded.

“I’m on Wakandan technology.” He seemed to be reading Ross’ mind. “Not even the best spy equipment your country has can decrypt the signal.”

“Okay,” Ross said slowly. “When you get to New York go to the NYPD 26th Precinct. We have an asset who works there. He’ll have everything you need. Ask for Sergeant Tork.”

“I thought it was illegal for the CIA to operate on American soil?”

“Your– do I still call you ‘Your Highness’?”

“Call me what you’d like.”

“Then buddy, you are in no position to lecture me on illegal intelligence ops.”

“I will see Sergeant Tork,” he said, ignoring Ross’ comment. “Thank you, Everett.”

“What do you want your new name to be?”

“I didn't realize I had a choice. I do not care about the last name, but Isaiah for the first. It means… salvation.”

“You got it,” said Ross. “... Be safe out there, Isaiah.”

The call ended and Ross tucked the phone back into his pocket.

“Okay kids,” he yelled through the house. “Get your shoes on and get to the car. We gotta go now now now!”




Now
Little Mogadishu
Brooklyn


Isaiah booted up the Kimoyo card and placed it on his kitchen counter. It took about twenty seconds for it to kick on and be ready to use. It was old tech, but at the end of the day it was still Wakandan and lightyears ahead of anything else its age.

He pulled out his flip phone and searched through the few contacts he had until he found Charlie Chinwe’s number. Using the card was able to trace the phone halfway across Brooklyn to Red Hook. Most tracing programs could only triangulate to the closest phone towers, but his program got it down to the exact block. According to a map of the area Charlie was moving fast in a car, heading east towards what looked like a group of housing projects. He pocketed the Kimyo card and checked his watch. A little after three in the morning. He had to move fast.




Red Hook, Brooklyn


Charlie pushed the junky car as fast as it could possibly go. It felt like the car was about to fall apart as he raced down the Brooklyn streets past eight miles per hour. TT sat in the passenger seat beside him with a Glock in his hands. In the backseat Roc had an honest to god AK-47 and O cradled a sawed-off shotgun in his hands. Black ski-masks disguised all their faces.

An SUV dawdled along at a slow pace. Inside that car were three armed men and over fifty thousand dollars in drug money. Their plan – O’s plan, really – was to separate those armed men from that money. Charlie held the gas pedal to the floor and took a deep breath as the car rammed in the back of the SUV. Both cars skidded sideways. Charlie steered into the skid and pulled on the car’s emergency brake, whipping the wheel so that they spun a 180 before stopping. Meanwhile the SUV spun off the street and smashed into a parked car before it pinballed to the other side of the street where it smashed against another parked car and came to a stop.

“Fuckin’ A,” TT said with a laugh. “The boy can drive.”

“Let’s go,” O barked.

The four started out the car when gunfire erupted from the SUV. Roc fell to the ground screaming while the other three would-be robbers hid behind the car. Charlie held on to the pistol O had given him while bullets peppered the car. A heavy stream of blood ran underneath the car towards a swear grate. Roc continued to moan on the other side of the car.

“We gotta move,” O commanded the two other boys. “We fucking stay here and we’re dead.”

O fired off a shotgun round over his head and began to move sideways along the car. TT followed his lead, but Charlie stayed frozen in place. He didn’t want to move anywhere, he didn’t want to fire his gun, he didn’t even want any of the money. He just wanted to be home, safe and secure with his mom. He prayed to god or whoever was above that he could get out of this safely and without going to jail.

Unbeknownst to Charlie...



He had someone up above looking out for him.
Long time no see.

Wrote most of this up in a daze last night, slept on whether I wanted to join, and after deciding I did, cleaned it up and now am posting it here.





What? Nooo... wow. Out of left field.
By the way, who is the director of S.H.I.E.L.D.?


No one person directed all the show's episodes. They had a diverse group of directors, among them Lou Diamond Phillips and Clark Gregg himself.

...

Wait-
B L A C K P A N T H E R
B L A C K P A N T H E R


Six Months Ago


“Welcome back to BBC World News. Our stop story tonight comes out of Africa, as the nation of Wakanda is now without a king. King T’Challa announced in a statement earlier today that he would step down from his duties as head of state. This comes amid weeks of protests that have rocked the tiny country. With more on this, we go live to Samira Chakrabarti reporting from neighboring Sudan.”




Now
Little Mogadishu
Brooklyn


“Mr. Wolde, my hot water heater isn't working again.”

Isaiah Wolde peered through the opening in the door at Mrs. Leul. The elderly Ethiopian woman stared up at him with a mixture of sadness and hopefulness in her eyes. Unable to do things like she once could, and with Mr. Leul long dead, the building superintendent was her own personal superhero. This was the third time in the past month that her pilot light had gone out. It was always a quick fix. If it were anyone else Isaiah would have just shown them how to reset it so he would no longer be bothered with a minor inconvenience. But he knew there was no way she could do it on her own. Besides that, he didn't mind too much. She reminded him of his own umakhulu, now long dead.

“Let me get my toolbox,” he said in Oromo. It was just one of many languages Isaiah knew fluently. That was a must to do his job. Almost any job in this neighborhood required everyone to know almost as many dialects and languages as a UN diplomat.

On any sort of map or realtor directory the Brooklyn neighborhood was called Mapleton. But the people of Brooklyn called the six square block area “Little Mogadishu.” African immigrants from all over the massive continent settled the neighborhood starting in the mid 20th century. Back then it was one of a small number of places on the American eastern seaboard Africans could find refuge among those with a similar background. And while it was truly a pan-African mix of nationalities, the higher than average concentration of Somalians gave it the nickname of Little Mogadishu.

Ten minutes later Isaiah walked out of 4C with Mrs. Leul singing his praises. She'd tried to pay for his services with Ethiopian sweetbread known as himbasha, but Isaiah politely declined. He patted his mid-section and said he was watching his waistline.

“Just let me know if you have any other problems, Mrs. Leul,” he said.

“You know I will,” she said as she closed the door behind her.

Isaiah’s smile disappeared when he saw the NYPD officer trudging up the stairs to the fourth floor landing.

“Can I help you, officer?” he asked.

The cop hiked his utility belt up a little higher on his stomach and eyed Isaiah. It was the same look of mild annoyance any police officer developed with enough time on the job. The look put Isaiah’s mind at ease. He wasn’t there for him. He knew that was mostly paranoia on his part. If they came for him they would need more than just some middle-aged constable to take him down. A whole SWAT team would have to bust down his door, and even then it would be a close run thing.

“I’m looking for 6C,” he said, his eyes flashing down to Isaiah’s toolbox. “You the super here?”

“Yes,” Isaiah said with a slight nod. “4E is around the stairwell corner. The Chinwe family.”

“That’s the one,” said the cop. He pulled out a notebook and pen as he got closer. Isaiah saw the nameplate just below his badge had MARTINEZ engraved on it. Martinez scribbled something in the notebook while he talked.

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Isaiah Wolde.”

“How long have you been superintendent here?”

“Five months.”

“Where were you before that?”

“I was the superintendent for an apartment on 63rd St,” he lied. “Does this have something to do with the Chinwes?”

“Just collecting details, sir,” Martinez replied in a border tone while he wrote.

Isaiah wasn’t worried about his lies catching up to him. If Martinez ran his name through a computer he would find a detailed paper trail on Isaiah Wolde dating back to the early 2000’s when he supposedly arrived from Ethiopia. Immigration documents, tax returns, employment history, even a marriage and divorce certificate somewhere along the way. It was all a complete fabrication from start to finish. Every now and then it paid to be close with a CIA agent.

“What can you tell me about the Chinwes?”

“Quiet,” Isaiah said with a shrug. “They keep to themselves for the most part. Grace is very nice, and Charlie is a good boy. Very bright.”

“When was the last time you saw Charlie?”

A slow realization dawned. That was the reason for Martinez’s visit.

“I don’t remember,” Isaiah said with a head shake. “Maybe last week."

“Okay, that’s all I got for you for now. I may have some follow ups if necessary.”

“You know how to find me,” Isaiah nodded.

Martinez thanked him for his time and headed towards 4E. Isaiah dawdled on the fourth floor and pretended to examine a light fixture while Martinez knocked on 4E and was let in by Grace Chinwe. When the door closed he slowly walked back towards 4E. Even through the thick walls he could easily hear the conversation between Grace and Officer Martinez.

“How long has it been since you last saw your son?”

“Early last week,” Grace said in an accent tinged with her Nigerian roots. “He stormed out the house and never came back. I filed a police report two days later and it’s taken this long–”

“Yes,” said Martinez. “I know. I’m sorry for the delay, we’re just backlogged with so many cases. I wish I could say your son is the only missing child in New York, but he's far from it. Why did Charlie storm out that day last week?”

“The last time we spoke,” she said. “We had a fight. I had received a phone call from his school. He hadn’t shown up in weeks. I asked him where was he going, what was he doing, and who with. We had a fight and he left. I said some terrible things as he walked out the door, things I am not proud of. And he hasn’t answered his phone.”

“Okay, I just need a description of the boy and I’ll put together an official BOLO–”

Isaiah stepped away from the door and started downstairs. Charlie Chinwe was fifteen, a seemingly bright young man. A few months ago Isaiah had paid him good money -- at least for a teenager -- to help him install new security motion lights around the building. He seemed to take to electrical work quickly and efficiently. In the two days he’d helped Isaiah had gotten to know the boy. He loved cars and working with his hands. He seemed to intuitively just know how things worked. He had almost gotten into a nice magnet school for science in Mid-Town, but his mother couldn't afford the tuition even after scholarship help.

His mother had fled Nigeria while pregnant with him. He was born and raised in this country, never knowing his father or family back home. He’d grown up on stories of Nigeria and raised on traditional values, but to him it may as well have been the moon. Why should he care about that country at all when it caused his mother to flee and birth him on foreign soil? It reminded Isaiah so much of himself at that age: Fearless, headstrong, and unsure if what he wanted in life.

And now he was somewhere out there all alone.

Isaiah entered the ground level apartment that served as his home. He put his toolbox down and walked towards the closet. He pushed the clothes on the rack aside and felt for the false bottom floor. If he was going to find Charlie, he’d need a more… durable set of clothes.




Red Hook, Brooklyn


Charlie Chinwe sat behind the wheel of the junky stolen car. It took him all of two minutes to break into the shitbox with a slim jim and hotwire it up. After that he cruised to the spot to pick up O and the other two. Charlie cruised to the entrance of the Terrace and put the car in park. That had been almost twelve hours ago. The four of them kept their eyes peeled on the comings and going of the high rise housing project. Charlie looked up into the rearview mirror. O sat in the back with an unlit cigarette in his mouth. O’s eyes never stopped watching and observing. TT in the front passenger seat stretched and yawned.

“Yo, O, can we get some food or something? I’m about to bug the fuck out out.”

“Go ahead,” said O. “But you gotta walk. I’m staying here.”

TT and Roc got out the car and started down the street. Charlie looked back up into the rearview mirror saw O looking at him. It wasn’t so much looking at him as it was looking into him. It unnerved Charlie slightly and how aged O’s eyes seemed to be. It was crazy how street life seemed to pass at a different speed. O was only two years older than him, but the boy seemed to be middle aged in the way he approached things. Wisdom, thought Charlie, earned after years of ripping and robbing on these streets.

“Why you staying, youngin'?” O asked.

Charlie shrugged. “It ain’t a stakeout if we go get something to eat in the middle of it, now is it?.”

O grinned, the cigarette still between his lips. When he spoke the tip of it bounced up and down.

“Well, what you seeing since you acting like some hardcore Semper Fi motherfucker?”

Charlie ran his hands along the steering wheel and exhaled slowly. He did his best to not let his voice crack as he spoke. “KT Crew works around the clock. Product comes in twice a day. When they bring the reup they also move the money out. The slingers look like punks, but the guys who are the couriers look like soldiers. Not the fuck-with-me types.”

“So, you being a ambitious stick-up boy like you is, how you gonna separate them fools from their product?”

“Fuck the drugs,” said Charlie. “Let the courier go in with the dope. We follow him as he leaves with the cash and hit him up then. Money splits easier and spends a whole lot quicker. They can always buy more dope and coke.”

“Okay, okay,” said O. “I see you. You out here watching and thinking. More than the other two knuckleheads. And when would you try to stick up the courier?”

“The late shift. Less police presence around when it gets to be about three or four AM and less people out in the Terrace. The courier won’t have much backup if shit goes bad.”

O chuckled and clapped his hands slowly in praise. Charlie lowered his head so O couldn’t see the smile on his face. For the first time in a long time he felt like he was being seen and valued. It felt like he had an honest to god father in his life for the first time. And Charlie was smart enough to realize how fucked up that sounded, but in this moment he was ready to go to war with O and his stickup crew.

“My nigga,’” O said proudly. “We gonna make a soldier out of you yet.”
roleplayerguild.com/posts/5357407

Sample post is now complete.


Does Mera shit in Arthur's bed?

Read and find out!
B L A C K P A N T H E R
B L A C K P A N T H E R

“Born alone, die alone, no crew to keep my crown or throne.”
C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T
C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T
_________________________________________________________
_________________________________________________________
C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y
C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y
_________________________________________________________
T'Challa
_________________________________________________________
Wakandan | King in Exile | Justice League (Formerly)
_________________________________________________________
New York City | New York | United States of America

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S
C H A R A C T E R N O T E S
_________________________________________________________
P O S T C A T A L O G
P O S T C A T A L O G
_________________________________________________________
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T
________________________________________________________________________________________
This version of Black Panther retains almost all of the lore of Wakanda and the origin of T'Challa. The only difference is this version of Black Panther is New York City based, in exile and living under an assumed named in Brooklyn after giving up the Black Panther mantle. But slowly he is pulled back into the costume to protect his neighborhood and eventually reclaim his throne.

P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S )
P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S )


________________________________________________________________________________________
A R C # 1
GOT

"Now I like to have nice things just like you, but I'm from Brooklyn, certain shit you just don't do."

"Isiah Wolde" keeps a low profile as a building superintendent in Brooklyn's Little Mogadishu neighborhood. When one of the tenants in his building begins to worry about her missing teenage son, he investigates and discovers the boy is in over his head with a local gang and about to do something drastic. Isiah is forced to reclaim his past and show there's more to the quiet handyman than meets the eye.

A R C # 2
C.R.E.A.M.

"Cash rules everything around me, C.R.E.A.M., get the money
Dollar dollar bill, y'all."


T'Challa, back in Black Panther form, begins to follow the trail of money from the last outing and discovers rampant crime and corruption throughout Little Mogadishu, a trail that leads back to Wakanda.

A R C #3
A NATION OF MILLIONS

"And for real it's the deal and the actual fact, takes a nation of millions to hold me back."

Sgt. Kevin "Kasper" Cole crosses paths with the Black Panther when he begins to investigate a police involved shooting that took place in Little Mogadishu. The two join forces to track down the mysterious crime lord Black Jack.

B L A C K P A N T H E R
B L A C K P A N T H E R

“Born alone, die alone, no crew to keep my crown or throne.”
C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T
C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T
_________________________________________________________
_________________________________________________________
C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y
C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y
_________________________________________________________
T'Challa
_________________________________________________________
Wakandan | King in Exile | Justice League (Formerly)
_________________________________________________________
New York City | New York | United States of America

C H A R A C T E R N O T E S
C H A R A C T E R N O T E S
_________________________________________________________
P O S T C A T A L O G
P O S T C A T A L O G
_________________________________________________________
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T
C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T
________________________________________________________________________________________
This version of Black Panther retrains almost all of the lore of Wakanda and the origin of T'Challa. The only difference is this version of Black Panther is New York City based, in exile and living under an assumed named in Brooklyn after giving up the Black Panther mantle. But slowly he is pulled back into the costume to protect his neighborhood and eventually reclaim his throne.

P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S )
P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S )


________________________________________________________________________________________
A R C # 1
GOT

"Now I like to have nice things just like you, but I'm from Brooklyn, certain shit you just don't do."

"Isiah Wolde" keeps a low profile as a building superintendent in Brooklyn's Little Mogadishu neighborhood. When one of the tenants in his building begins to worry about her missing teenage son, he investigates and discovers the boy is in over his head with a local gang and about to do something drastic. Isiah is forced to reclaim his past and show there's more to the quiet handyman than meets the eye.

A R C # 2
C.R.E.A.M.

"Cash rules everything around me, C.R.E.A.M., get the money
Dollar dollar bill, y'all."


T'Challa, back in Black Panther form, begins to follow the trail of money from the last outing and discovers rampant crime and corruption throughout Little Mogadishu, a trail that leads back to Wakanda.

A R C #3
A NATION OF MILLIONS

"And for real it's the deal and the actual fact, takes a nation of millions to hold me back."

Sgt. Kevin "Kasper" Cole crosses paths with the Black Panther when he begins to investigate a police involved shooting that took place in Little Mogadishu. The two join forces to track down the mysterious crime lord Black Jack.




I know very little about 40k, but I love crime fiction and hard-boiled stories so I'm down
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