psychopathickids — Roleplayer Guild

Name: What is this, kiddie hour? We’re educated professionals, not street thugs.
Age: Operational for ten months.
Uniform: If we wanted to wear uniforms, we’d have been cops. Crooked cops.
Symbol: Shit, man; anyone else feel like they got drunk the night before the big test and showed up an hour late without a pencil?
Product: Strictly methamphetamine, for the time being.
Starter Muscle: No muscle to speak of at the moment, save for the three founding partners.

History: Modern technology has transformed so many things once thought to be inherent within human civilization the world round. Smart phones that hold more information than any encyclopedia which yet prove small enough to fit in one’s pocket, laptops which can make phone calls half way around the globe while showing one’s face and setting in real time video, and most importantly for this motley crew; Xbox, specifically Xbox Live, connecting disparate souls at random across the planet. This may sound silly, but how else would a militant neo-Marxist physics major from Nevada, a reserved, mild-mannered Bio-Chem student from London, England, and a level headed gambler who never graduated from high school from Northern Georgia have happened to meet and then develop a friendship which would eventually extend to a rather productive business partnership? But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Truth be told, the French-Irish, UK National Damien Hayes, of London, and the French-Lebanese, US National Felix Sadi, of Northern Georgia, had met online through a mutual acquaintance on a rather rudimentary MMO years prior to either meeting their eventual third business partner, the Mexican-French Swiss/Jewish, US National Kenneth Serrano-Eisenberg, and would only eventually be introduced to him because, as circumstance dictated, their mutual acquaintance happened to be the childhood best friend of Ken’s younger brother, and their first meeting was certainly out of the ordinary by society’s standards. While Skyping with Ken’s younger brother and his childhood best friend before starting up on what was to become an extended online raid Ken happened to walk behind the camera and begin dressing before heading out to a party. At the mention of, “who the fuck is that man getting naked behind you,” the situation was clarified, and the five soon began gaming together over Xbox Live.

As time carried on there were four, and then three, and the trio never spent more than a week or so without catching up if they could help it. Years later the Nevadan, Ken, would travel to London and stay with Damien, and then in turn the three would eventually meet in Georgia together over summer holiday. Everything that occurred after was pure happenstance. Felix’ troubled younger half-brother had at baseball practice broken into their high school science supply closet and stolen their entire store of chemistry equipment, sneaking it out in his oversized sports duffel bag. Needing a place to store his ill-gotten prize he asked his brother if he could leave it with him for a few days. It started as a joke, really. Felix had been on a crime tv bender, and had seen several documentaries on methamphetamine over the days before Ken and Damien arrived at the airport in Atlanta and, happening to have a chemist and chemistry supplies on hand, mentioned that they should make some meth to pass the time. Simple joke.

That is, until they decided to try it. Felix' family owned a large property in the wooded mountains and had several ill constructed houses, cottages, and outright shacks littering the property, ample room to innocuously run science experiments, both Ken and Damien were scientists, the later even held a degree in Chemistry, and it was easy enough to buy a few packs of sudo from the local drug store a week, some road flares for the phosphorous, and other assorted odds and ends Ken came up with which might serve as adequate “ingredients,” and after three weeks all was set. After a forty eight hour caffeine binge, a case of eggs, six pounds of cheese, and a carton of Marlboro Reds their little group had a finished product. They couldn’t have known it then, but in the face of quickly tightening sanctions on sales of drugs which might be used to produce methamphetamine, stricter patrols along the Mexican border, and the recent bust of the premier local meth “chef,” the three had just produced crystalline gold.

As it were, it was the most chemically pure meth in Northern Georgia at the time it was produced and Felix, happening to know a guy who knew a guy, moved the product in bulk and split the relatively significant proceeds three ways between each of the co-conspirators. None of them imagined they would ever do this again, and it was with a shock that the following week Felix’ guy came around asking if they could produce ten times the amount they had sold him just the week before for twenty times the profit. Ken, a starving university student, Felix a notoriously bad gambler and Damien, a recent Uni graduate who planned on spending the year after his graduation seeing the world before returning home and starting up on a job, in good (bad?) conscience couldn’t turn that kind of cash down. The problem, of course, was that they had no set structure for procuring the sudo to produce meth en mass, even at the level they had produced it just the week before, let alone in these types of quantities.

Things escalated quickly. Ken, a proven successful commercial burglar and Felix, a residential burglar with a dubious record at best but well acquainted with the neighborhood, quickly saw the only option which would ensure them sufficient quantities of sudo with which to produce the sheer degree of meth their new contact wanted; they would have to take it, and from the only place in the area which carried enough of it to fill their quota, the very drugstore they had purchased their first batch from. The plan was simple, wait until close, scale the building in full black with duffel bags, enter through the roof, make off with as much as they could carry, exit the same way they had entered, and get to Felix’ truck parked in the woods a half mile away. It went off without a hitch, and the trio had entered into a new phase of their lives. Soon they were producing pounds of the stuff, and moving it in bulk every week, only to repeat the process, Damien serving as the cook, Ken his lab assistant, Felix the distributor.

Over the next two months the pair pulled off two additional heists across the state which set them up with enough sudo to last them what they figured would be at least a year, more than the amount of time Damien had planned on spending abroad before returning home and getting a legitimate job, prepping, cooking, moving product. This lasted until a rival gang, fed up with their shit soda can meth being outclassed and outsold by the new, chemically pure arrival in the region got together, found Felix’ contact, beat him within an inch of his life and demanded the name of his guy; Felix Sadi. The gang went after Felix, and soon the three were faced with a choice; go to the cops, fight the larger, stronger gang, or relocate. They chose to leave, and wound up in the Big City. They’ve made contacts, established themselves as the biggest up and coming indy name in methamphetamine, and have come to a crossroad; to retire, or pull their next heist. Supplies are dwindling, and sudo’ll be gone within the week.

Mob Bosses Character Sheets;

Name: Kenneth “Ken,” Serrano-Eisenberg.
Age: Twenty Two.
Appearance: Ken stands at five foot ten, shorter than most though not especially so, and barely weighs one hundred thirty one pounds, though what weight he does have is primarily muscle, and he boasts a body which would be the envy of most, complete with aesthetically pleasing yet practical biceps and six pack abs. Of course, naturally being quite thin it’s far easier to attain such an appearance, but it’s not maintained without considerable effort on his part. Hair somewhere between auburn and strawberry blonde accentuates his crystal blue eyes well, and his complexion is quite fair, though not nearly ginger or translucent, and his features are strikingly attractive, in a boyish sense of the term, more pretty than traditionally handsome. Depending on his mood he typically wears either sleeveless shirts with obscure punk rock band emblems and skinny jeans, or organic bamboo suit jackets and slacks with faux-leather polymer belt and shoes, custom designed by an old friend and tailored to his exact measurements.
Gender: Male.
Basic Personality: Contrary to a fault, conflict seeking and assertive bordering on demanding, Ken has always managed to be a polarizing figure. It’s practically unheard of that someone who knows him well at all could have little feeling toward him, half of the people he knows love the guy, the other half hate him, and that seems to be how he likes it. Few people, however, can manage to stick by him for long without growing tired of his constant rants about obscure subjects most couldn’t care less about, ceaseless need to seek out conflict, and tendencies to fly off the handle for no good reason at all. Often he seems to act purely on impulse, though everything always seems to come together at the end almost as if he had planned it that way. Just as soon as it all comes together, however, it all falls apart and he’s left a step behind where he first started out, forced to once more begin repairing the wreckage he’s made of his life, largely ignorant of what ill his actions bring to those around him.

History: Born to a half Jewish half French-Swiss mother, and half Mexican half German father, neither of whom he happens to particularly look like, and possessed of great intelligence and an overtly self-willed, if not outright defiant attitude and cynical outlook on the world, life seemed destined to be filled with strife and conflict for Ken from the very beginning. As it were, such a prophecy, had it been voiced, would have proven true. His first words were, “triangle,” and, “shampoo,” he taught himself to read by age four simply in order to better understand the penultimate trading card game of the day, Pokémon, and by age five an IQ test qualified him to join Mensa. By the same merit at age two he often escaped from his day care, or hid within the premises causing a general panic amongst the staff because he refused to sit, “on his bottom,” and listen to a book at story time, leading to his being expelled from successive daycare agencies, used whatever curses he pleased, and took a rake to the neighbors car.

By the time he turned fifteen he had run a successful drug enterprise with a girl he happened to be dating at the time, mostly pot but with a healthy dose of prescription pills and ecstasy, wound up on the streets for nearly a year, sleeping in tweaker pad closets and paying his way with whatever drug money he could hustle along the way, got involved with a group of young adults who saw commercial burglary as a legitimate enterprise, and got pretty damn good at it until a guy he was working with, at the time considered a good friend, got caught and fingered Ken for some time off his sentence, and wound up getting picked up a few days later trying to hop a train to Chicago, out of the desert and away from his pursuers. He met a Cuban guy in kiddie prison who introduced him to Marx and the Communist Manifesto, Che Guevara and Guerrilla Warfare, along with several contacts who would serve him well in the coming years. Slapped with nearly twenty thousand dollars in restitution he went back to slinging.

This carried on until it introduced him to a girl as messed up as him, way too young and exquisitely broken. They ran together for years, even wound up an honorary member of her family, until her own personal demons became too much for him to handle. “There’s only so many times you can pull someone you love out of a bathtub with needles sticking out of her arm,” or so he says when asked about what happened to their relationship. She has a daughter who’s either his, or one of his former best friend’s, but she has Ken’s eyes. He thinks about it more often than he’d be like to admit. Whether it was out of revenge or simple animal instinct he started running with one of her now former best friends shortly after things fell through between the two of them, a girl who Ken practically hated. Blonde, stupid, pathetic, white trash – basically everything he disliked in women, and the relationship was based more on cyclical, reciprocal abuse than shared interest and trust, let alone love.

Eventually she got sick of it and moved to California, with her mother whom she hadn’t seen in eight years. Got pregnant at a time where it was debatable whether the kid was Ken’s or the guy she immediately shacked up with after arriving, a fact he thinks about nearly so often as the potential daughter with the previous girl. Sick of it all he quit the drug game as soon as he had repaid his debts and started going to college, majoring in physics. Had scholarships, grants, plenty of money to provide for his wants, even started going to Comic Con once a year, and on an international trip every year, eventually introducing him to Damien with whom he stayed when he visited London. This lasted a couple years. Then everything went to shit, government cutbacks took his scholarships, grants, and just about everything else he had come to rely on, forcing him to begin tutoring his younger peers in mathematics and science to afford his own schooling. Couldn’t pay the rent, or put food on the table.

Once again he was back to slinging, but this time the game was different. He was an adult, hadn’t been active in years, and the people he used to know had been busted, gotten out or moved on down the road. Besides that people still wanted pot, to be sure, but what they really wanted was the stuff that would keep them up long enough to finish their massive work load without taking much of their higher brain functions from them, allowing them to work a full time job and full time school, often in difficult scientific fields, without passing out from sheer exhaustion. Found a guy who had access to seemingly unlimited speed, and it was the name of the game until finally moving to Georgia, and then to the big city, and getting involved with his current, much more profitable enterprise.

Other: Boxed competitively for years, held a perfect thirteen and zero amateur record all by unanimous decision through USA Boxing, and keeps up with his skills. Has been shooting since he was ten, and though liberal enough to question the solidity of American gun laws owns two rifles himself. Militant PETA member, communist party member, and self-proclaimed genius, which is mostly laughed down by his friends and acquaintances, though his acceptance into Mensa gives his claim some credibility. Was offered a role on a Korean teen drama series (as the bad boy American army brat living in Seoul and attending the titular school on which the series was focused) by a well-known Korean casting director, and lost the chance because of his imprisonment. Was offered subsequent roles after getting out, but couldn’t accept due to being unable to legally leave the state of Nevada at the time. Learned passing conversational Japanese and Korean while locked up. Speaks English, French and Spanish fluently.

Name: Damien Hayes.
Age: Twenty Three.
Appearance: Damien stands at six foot one, and weighs one hundred seventy four pounds, a fact he is rather proud of given his having weighed over two twenty only a couple years previously, and is quite muscular at that, boasting an athletic build and overtly healthy demeanor. Not possessed of handsome features otherwise, it’s rather unfortunate for his sake that he tends to dress, though fashionably, in a manner which obscures his only attractive physical features, generally concealing his built arms and well cut torso with relatively loose jackets and long sleeved dress shirts, typically of a dark shade, a testament to his previously advantageous coping mechanisms developed during his overweight years. Eyes a rather unspectacular shade of blue, and hair a darker shade of brown than most of the persuasion but slightly too light to veer into the first stages of what could be considered black, and a smile neither charming nor particularly off-putting only add to his rather plain facial features.
Gender: Male.
Basic Personality: If you asked him, Damien would claim to be a particularly passive guy. In reality, passive is not the same thing as passive aggressive. Though he’d be more likely to mark himself as having low self-esteem on an anonymous questionnaire than not, he’d be the last person to think his solution to any given task or problem was anything but the best, and has a strong tendency to be hyper critical of others through typically transparent sarcasm, or his attempt at sarcasm, despite refusing to share his answer with the rest of the class. What he really has is a hard time expressing himself, and though he’s got a strong willed, confident side buried somewhere deep down inside, what he reflects to the rest of the world is an air of meek uncertainty made worse by his unassuming features and habit of staying out of the center of attention whilst deriding those who do otherwise. When push comes to shove, however, he acts without hesitation and generally in a positive, or at least effective, manner.

History: Born to a French mother and a father of Northern Irish decent in London, England, under rather unspectacular conditions, the peculiarity of his next seven years could only be described in the telling. His father, the youngest of seven boys in his immediate family, grew up in the southern marches learning how to be a soldier, or something of the sort. His father, Damien’s grandfather, was the son of Liam Lynch, Chief of Staff of the Irish Republican Army during the War of Independence, and, a legacy, became an active member of the post-Civil War anti-treaty forces of Oglaigh na hEireann until Goulding came into power, and unwilling to compromise his strongly anti-Marxist beliefs with those of his newly appointed commander largely fell into early retirement. Might have stuck too, but with the Divide of Sixty Nine he recognized like-minded individuals in the newly forming Provisional IRA, and wondering why it had taken so many years to develop in the first place immediately returned to active hostilities.

These hostilities led him to a cell operating up North, where his immediate family would reside for decades to come, and, eventually, to an early grave in the initial phases of the Long War. His sons joined the cause one by one, with sole exception of the youngest. Though he had been born in the North, and was a UK national, he had been raised in the South by his aunt and uncle, and after a routine training exercise left his uncle dead and blown to bits by his own homemade IED was taken into custody by the Irish authorities, and eventually wound up a ward of the state of his birth. At nineteen he moved to London, became a construction worker, settled down, married, had a child, Damien as it were, and seemingly left his past where he felt it belonged. His brothers, however, had not forgotten him, nor his child.

When Damien was three two of his father’s six brothers kidnapped him and, after a couple weeks spent dodging the police, brought him back with them to Ireland, where he would spent his next few years. This might have resulted in his life being very different had an MI5 sting operation not happened to inadvertently come upon him, after a firefight which resulted in the deaths of seven men, one British Special Forces soldier, and six IRA members, four of them his uncles, each killed in front of him. Once he was identified he was returned to his family in London, but the whole experience left him, and understandably so, more than a little traumatized. It didn’t help that he had no memories of his parents, having been three when he was taken to Ireland and seven when he was brought back to the UK, and this resulted in a social awkwardness which never left him, some real attachment issues, and more than a little trepidation with regard to situations which might be considered the least bit, “risky”.

He spent the years after struggling to make friends, fit in, be accepted, largely without success, and eventually resigned to his fate accepted his place among the rejects. Tiptoeing around conflict and generally attempting to stay as far away from the center of attention as humanly possible without drawing the very thing upon himself in the doing, following every rule set before him as if his life were on the line, binge eating and, in his later teenage years abusively closet drinking away the stress which seemed to follow him as if his very shadow, he may well have put himself into an early grave were it not for Ken’s intervention. His strange American friend was, at face value, the very antithesis of his personality, and though by no means a stellar role model, introduced Damien to a way of life which changed him forever. The idea that one didn’t have to worry themselves to death thinking about the consequences of every little action, and that the stress caused by doing so only made things worse.

After a good deal of time spent going out, having fun, snorting blow off strippers, dancing with foreign women in dodgy clubs, occasionally getting into bar fights and, most importantly, getting laid for the first time in his life, and by a girl he was madly in love with at the time, Damien’s overbearing stress, as it so happens, became increasingly less soul crushing, and as he felt better he didn’t feel the need to binge eat so often, even started working towards getting into shape, and as he lost weight and put on muscle he felt better about himself, more open to meeting people who weren’t voices over a pair of Turtle Beaches, going out with real people, and doing fun things which weren’t entirely restricted to a TV. Of course, everything in perspective, it also awoke a desire within him to be a bit… Bad. An urge which he had never been noticeably possessed of before, and one which has clearly led him down a dangerous path. The Damien of three years ago wouldn’t have stolen a piece of gum. Now he cooks meth.

Other: Damien has a serious problem of, “falling in love,” with any girl who will pay him any attention whatsoever, made increasingly worse because of his tendency to play the enamored lap dog, bending over backwards and eating out of the hand of what seems to be a new girl every few months. Turns out most women don’t find geeky, unassuming guys who obsess over them from day one particularly fun to be around, especially when they make their reservations known as to how they would love to get married, have three children and buy a home by the sea on the first date. Doesn’t improve the situation once they realize what he really wants is to control every aspect of their lives, changing them into his contrived notion of the, “ideal woman,” largely based on fundamentalist Catholic virtues with a dab of Victorian sensibility. Of course, instead of simply finding a Catholic girl and marrying her he prefers the concept of “saving,” a, “lost soul,” leading him to chase the very women who will invariably detest him.

Name: Felix Sadi.
Age: Twenty One.
Appearance: Felix stands at six foot two, taller than most, and weighs a lithe one hundred fifty five pounds, far skinnier than most his height, and beyond having the hint of biceps is more thin than muscular. Wavy, nearly jet black hair hangs nearly to his mid back, typically kept combed back and away from his face, and forms a striking contrast to his crystal blue eyes. Though he is of an olive complexion one could be mistaken in identifying it because of the pallor his primarily nocturnal work schedule and habit of staying home smoking pot and playing Xbox when he isn’t actively hustling casts upon his flesh. He has a noticeable scar running diagonally across his left eyebrow from his orbital to his mid forehead from having been smacked into the corner of a kitchen counter by his father in his youth. When he’s not wearing basketball shorts playing Xbox or watching TV, which is what he spends the majority of his waking hours doing, he’s most like to be found wearing simple blue jeans and Walmart pocket shirts.
Gender: Male.
Basic Personality: Despite what one might think of the typical disposition of a drug dealer Felix is a typically cool, calm, relaxed and easy going guy. In another life he could have been any other guy on the street. Were it not for the trauma left to him from his abusive father, a childhood spent around bad people doing bad things virtually all the time, and the anger shown him by his grandparents and extended family when his father was eventually arrested and his mother moved them back home for being the child of the loser who ran off with their teenage daughter he may well have gone to school, graduated, got a real job, a family. Instead, in light of the circumstances, he has a suspicious, pessimistic outlook, some real diagnosable anxiety disorders, and a preference to generally avoid close friendships and attachments. Though he has an easy time talking to people and generally reading the mood in any given setting he’s always had a hard time talking with women in any but the most casual of situations.

History:

Felix was born to a Lebanese, US national father, and a French, US national mother whose family boasted long standing roots in Northern Georgia’s largely agrarian past, originally owning a sprawling plantation, a continental mansion and near a hundred slave workers. At the conclusion of the Civil War Sherman’s March to the Sea had taken all this and more from them, and into the modern day all of their holdings not damaged beyond repair have been sold off save for a plot of land in the mountains near the border with South Carolina which had in earlier times been used exclusively as a summer hunting retreat. The first buildings which occupied the near forty acres have all returned to the earth by now, and little to no physical evidence remains of their family’s legacy in the region, though the bloodline still occupy the land and have built houses, cabins and shacks as need for additional housing for the ever expanding list of cousins, nephews, children, and grandchildren arose over the generations.

His mother, ten years his father’s junior, met the eventual father of her only child at a party, or what passed for a party in Northern Georgia, when she was fifteen. Felix was born within the year. His father made his living breeding, raising and training chickens for employ in cock fighting, netting a good deal of cash on the side from his secondary role as the resident drug dealer of his, “parties,” little more than drunken get-togethers where people could gamble on the victory of chickens with razor blades attached to their ankles. It was at one of these very get-togethers that the man, notoriously temperamental, beat one of his customers within an inch of his life for attempting to weasel out of a, “payment plan,” that had been established between the two regarding the former’s gambling debts. The man later died of his injuries in hospital, brain aneurism from blunt force trauma. Felix was eight at the time, and hasn’t seen his father since. Not that he doesn’t know where the guy is, state pen’s right off the highway after all.

His childhood had been traumatic at best up until that point, he and his mother having lived in constant fear of his father for years, and it wasn’t with much sadness that he watched him carted off to jail in the back of a police car. So the pair, mother and child, moved back with her parents in Northern Georgia, and there they’ve been ever since. Her parents had detested his father, for good reason, and the last time they had spoken some words very much along the line of, “If you walk out that door don’t you ever come back now, yuh hear?” were screamed across the living room, and much of the anger they felt towards their loser daughter was eventually, mostly inadvertently, directed back towards Felix, the constant reminder of memories better left buried. The whole ordeal had left him rather cynical and mistrusting of people, understandably so, and the resultant social issues coupled with his dyslexia and never having been enrolled in school until he was eight made education nearly unbearable.

By the time he was fifteen he’d dropped out of school entirely, hooked up with a rough crowd, and started slinging pot and burglarizing houses. The burglary didn’t go so well, never made enough to make it profitable and got caught on numerous occasions, spending some time in jails until eventually winding up in a teen group home for a period of time, but the pot? That was good. Not only did, or does, he appreciate the effects of the drug on his own system, but as he discovered soon after first starting to sell he was good at the job. Damn good. Has a way of talking to people, getting a feel for ‘em, knowing who needs what, where and when. The bookkeeping end of the business was never his strong suit, but he never had to deal with the numbers side of the job. All he had to do was hustle, and that he could do very well. His father had been possessed of the same skill, as it so happened, but unlike his dad Felix was never one to lose his temper, or even raise his voice, and so easily avoided his parent’s largest pit holes.

This continued into his early adult years, and it wasn’t until meeting up with Ken and Damien in person and suggesting, mostly in jest, a more profitable enterprise that he stopped slinging pot in favor of more crystalline pursuits. His contacts from the group home days served him well, and soon enough a stable network of supplier, dealer, sub-dealer, and the rest of the logistics were in place. The money was good, damn good, more than any of the three had ever been able to make on their own several times over even after being split three ways, and it could have gone on as such had his guy never been caught up to by a rival gang which was far larger, more violent and better established than their fledgling business and pointed to Felix as the supplier. The three moved on, eventually coming to settle in the Big City, a massive culture shock, he’d never been outside Georgia and had only been to Atlanta on rare occasion, but the financial prospects were undeniably awe inspiring, and it’s not as if he could go back home.

Other: An otherwise fairly collected individual, Felix has a notorious habit of losing everything he makes taking risky bets which rarely make sense. Even on the occasion where he does win the proceeds are often staked double or nothing, and it’s a habit that keeps him in a perpetual state of being broke. Even when he’s making hundreds of thousands of dollars a month he never has money for food, rent, gas for the old Chevy he insists on keeping despite its constantly being broken down and the lack of parking in the City or much of anything else, and his expenses are always placed on one of his less extravagant partners. The only time he ever seems to lose his cool is when he’s lost a good deal of money, and once after turning ten thousand dollars into one point one million in one of the many underground gambling dens he frequents, only to then lose it all, it seemed quite likely that he might go home and splatter his brains on the wall. A talented shot, he’s the only one of his partners who habitually carries a firearm.

----- ----- -----

So, a few things;

1) Hello I guess. I happened upon the site like a week ago, and have been lurking about, so... Yeah. I'm not new to text based role playing, just this particular site.
2) I wrote all this in like an hour at the middle of the night after more than a few drinks and two pots of coffee, so if it's garbage bear with me?
3) Obviously this is a WIP. Figured I'd put it up now because there's nothing like fresh involvement in a week old thread to get people interested, this concept is great and I'd love to be a part of it and see it succeed.

4) If anything's wrong with my concept or it's just not what your looking for in your role play let me know and I'll edit accordingly or, I suppose if it's too far gone as is, scrap it and do something more typically black hat and Mafioso.

psychopathickids Member

Status

Bio

Most Recent Posts