Dion

Post Your Pikcha

if it weren't for my massive fucking ego i'd probably diss my own haircut

but i got white people hair so i can let the image diss my haircut

fuck hairdressers, yo

⌠𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 ╼ 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐏𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋⌡

@BilboTheGreat Since my character is a 20-odd year old dock worker, I find it hard to believe my character would know yours (or anyone else for that matter) so I'll leave this offer to someone else.

The Palace of Pimpitude (A Hangout Thread)

@Mr Allen J if you're American that's pretty damn impressive considering most American dudes are below 6'0 lol

I've noticed that those that are taller than 6'0 are never 6'1 or 6'2 but often much larger too.

weird

⌠𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 ╼ 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐏𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋⌡

@Apokalipse this might be my fondness of Asian women but I like her. 👍🏻

⌠𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄 ╼ 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐏𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋⌡

Artyom Dimitri Ekaterina Petrovka

_{Артем Димитрий Екатерина Петрова}



∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵ ∴ ∵

Artyom had woken up early - five AM - as his shift started early today. Something about loading a large freighter that was sailing to Amsterdam to deliver goods. Apparently it was for a local company, the T.C. Trading Company. Not that Artyom had ever heard of the place, but it was always different to work for locals. Sometimes they'd pay a visit to see how it was going. On more than one occasion they would offer needless comments that were not required at all. But a lowly dock worker would hardly be in a position to tell them to shut up. That'd be biting the hand that feeds you. And Artyom knew he needed every penny he could get right now.

His morning routine was simple - from five to six he'd eat, wash up, brush his teeth and dress for work. Most dock companies had some loose policies on work, but not that of Artyom. He wore a black beanie to shelter him from the cold of working near the sea, with a grey sweater under it. Underneath his sweater he'd sport some light working jeans, with the bottom of his pants tucked into his heavy brown-leather working boots. But that was not all. For work purposes he also had to wear a cloth overall which was a light grey color. Some reflective patches on the shoulder meant that they could even work at night-times.

It was ugly for sure, but it was policy and that meant he had to wear it if he wanted to work and earn money today. Once he was finished with his morning routine, he'd step outside and lock the door behind him. A single glance around him in the street showed him that he was indeed living in Washington D.C. The place looked good and it was reflected in the rents - it'd been a few months since he'd been able to send money home. And rents kept rising, and his paycheck stayed the same. It was becoming a problem.

With a sigh he walked up to his car - a downtrodden pickup truck of indistinguishable brand, though from the model most likely a Ford. He stepped into the drivers seat and smashed the door closed, shaking the car a bit under his weight. He started the car and changed the radio station to another channel. Without realizing it he tuned into 91.3. Something called 'The Mesh'. Not really listening to the woman on the radio, he put his foot down on the gas and drove off.

He seemed to have tuned in in the middle of a damn commercial break, but whatever. The background noise was welcome, because traffic was driving him nuts already. From his apartment to the bridge was always a mess, but after that it generally cleared up, since nobody really drove to the dock areas at these times. It was just those damn corporate assholes in their fancy cars that were mucking up the traffic.

When he pulled up into the parking lot outside the docks, he could already see most of his colleagues standing around at the big truck that delivered the goods. At least today was a small shipment - meaning, small packages and general items you could carry easily - compared to the regular large crates that required forklifts, cranes and other tools. He parked his car, pulled the keys out of the ignition, and got out, slamming the door shut behind him.

As he walked towards the truck to mingle with his colleagues, he pulled out a cigarette pack and stuck one in his mouth, putting the pack away again and retrieving a lighter from his pocket. He wasn't a heavy smoker - just wanted one to start the day. He lit the cigarette and put the lighter away in the pockets of his overalls. “Privet,” he greeted one of his Russian coworkers, who merely nodded at him. “Kak dela?”

The two conversed in Russian for a bit before the American foreman showed up. For a crowd filled with Russians, Poles, Bulgarians and even some Romanians, it was only fitting for an American to lead their shift. “Alright, lissen' up!” the man bellowed as he stood on the open end of the truck. There were about eight dockworkers right now, since it was just the morning shift. “We have a shipment here right now, from T.C. Trading Company, which is a local company here. That means you work carefully. We want to keep them as our customers. Then, in two hours, we have a second shipment coming in which is going on the same boat. Boat is going to Europe, so mark the crates properly, understood?” The crowd nodded, since nobody wanted to answer the fat foreman. In general, answering foremen was a bad idea regardless, because they were usually American hard-asses that thought they knew all the answers because they had worked as a dockworker themselves.

“Alright, get to work! Andrzej, where's your overalls?”

Artyom inhaled from the cigarette once more, deeply, before he threw the cigarette away. Pulling his beanie closer over his ears he stepped into warehouse where the truck was parked and got one of the carts that they used to roll the small shipments to the ships with. He rolled it all the way to the truck, then he and a colleague (which he thought was a Polak) filled the cart with smaller packages first. While they filled it, Artyom tried to start some conversation using the best Polish he knew. Unluckily he did not know much more Polish than you'd expect from someone who only heard it in passing during work. “Siema.. co.. co u ciebie?” The Polak looked at Artyom through his eyebrows while he was bent over, but didn't answer.

Nice way to start the day, Artyom thought.

As the day progressed and the end of his shift drew closer, Artyom rolled the last cart to the docks. As he passed through the warehouse, he took note of the radio, which was saying something about the new.

“...folks, there has been a shooting on Bainbridge Island. The only information we have is that three men were involved one of them being an officer. It seems as though one man was attacking the other and the officer stepped in and used...”

Just another day in the USA, right? He listened for a minute before continuing on his way to the docks. The sooner they got this shipment loaded, the sooner they could start on the second, larger shipment.

The Palace of Pimpitude (A Hangout Thread)

@Wade Wilson i was jk fck u

The Palace of Pimpitude (A Hangout Thread)

@Wade Wilson i feel bad for you

The Palace of Pimpitude (A Hangout Thread)

@Wade Wilson you're shorter than some of the 10 year olds in my karate class

kek

The Palace of Pimpitude (A Hangout Thread)

@Wade Wilson
breaking news

5'0 13 year old got ass kicked by 20 year old 6'2 black belt because of internet argument

yeah. lets fight

The Palace of Pimpitude (A Hangout Thread)

<Snipped quote by Mr Allen J>

idk

probs buddha

@Wade Wilson

@ me bitch