Scribbles

Operation: Dead Man's Hand

Sorry I haven't posted as I intended to; I got called in to work on my days off, and I'm fucking beat. I will either have a post up within the next hour or two or tomorrow, for sure. Jam cigarettes into my eyes until I do. sssssss

Operation: Dead Man's Hand

Oh, I've got just the thing for you, Melonpoo.

Should have a post up tonight.

Operation: Dead Man's Hand

You know the worst part? I just had a super interesting idea for a different character.

Shelving that shit for possible future use. I think you'd like it, in so much as his weaknesses, and he fits into the "served, but isn't a Green Beret" archetype of military characters; enough knowledge to be useful and fulfill a role, but not infallible.

Operation: Dead Man's Hand

Sweat Peas Hostel, 23 Rankin Avenue, Asheville, North Carolina.

It was quaint - or, more apropos, a hole. Not unlike the whole of Asheville, in David's opinion... but then he never was fond of the States, opting instead to ply his trade in Great Britain and mainland Europe. Hunting down Eliza Stetson and her inexplicable fortune was, however, a bit of a championship case; Crown Estates was paying out the arse for its speedy resolution, and - to be frank - the mystery tickled David to no end. It was fascinating.

Without a prod from the Crown and Eliza, however, David Fischer had no immediate plans to visit the United States, but... here he was. Six days into his man hunt, figuratively balls deep in the investigation, he had turned up an impressive load of absolutely fucking naught. The trail on Mrs. Stetson ran cold in Asheville, North Carolina, and no matter how hard the old boy dug, he could turn up nothing that pointed him in any fresh directions. The night before, in fact, he had been indulging in his first cigarette in eighteen years on a bench outside Pritchard Park when he'd come to the conclusion that fuck it.

Now, however, he was rethinking that move; the lovely folks at Crown Estates, after David had expressed his intent to return to London and declare the case "as solved it could ever be, really," had insisted that he find Mrs. Stetson - and offered an extra 15% of his fee as incentive. To be brief, it was a lot of money.

So David found himself forcing down a cup of not-so-wonderful black coffee in the sitting room at Sweet Peas, glancing at his watch with a frown. "A'right, love," he said, offering the woman at the counter a nod before rising from his seat, shrugging into his overcoat, and heading out onto the street. Fischer pound pavement for a few blocks before settling on Carmel's Kitchen & Bar on Page for lunch. He drifted absent minded through a turkey panini and a bowl of the soup du jour - French Onion, as it happened - working out his next step whilst glancing listlessly through the Asheville Citizen-Times. UNCA remodeled Ramsey library opens its doors, the Citizen-Times insisted.

Who bloody cared?

"Anything else, hon?"
"No, love, just the check."

David made his way back to Sweat Peas, taking his time, paying no mind to the increasingly absent streets - where had the traffic gone to? Standing outside of the hostel, the old man grimaced and rubbed his temples with calloused finger-tips, glancing out at the BB&T building on Rankin rearing its ugly forehead out into the skyline of Asheville. What a hideous town.

Waltzing back into the hostel, David halted before reaching the first step leading to the lofts upstairs; his eyes scanned the front counter curiously - where had the attendant gone?

"'lo?" he called out, slowly moving from his perch towards the counter. "Anybody about? It's no time to be sleeping on the job, y'know," he joked, never cracking even a faint grin. Steadily, Fischer made his way around the counter and towards the back of the hostel, where he could hear movement and muffled voices - the hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he hadn't the foggiest why.

"Christ!" he declared upon examining the back room; blood quite literally stained the floor, walls, and ceiling, and in varying states of torn-the-hell-apart, several hostel employees lay sprawled across the hardwood floor and the bits of mismatched furniture dotting the room. "Nggh?" grunted the sole survivor of this massacre, a slight and portly woman a bit older than David, wearing a blood red blouse - wait, sorry, a once white blouse - and a torn blazer.

"What - what's going on - what happened?" he stammered, agape, staring like some damned fool into the room and making no move to flee.

"Rggharrgh!" she declared, pouncing to her feet and heaving herself with alarming swiftness across the room and straight into David, sending the pair sprawling backwards. David yelped in surprise, tumbling so far back that he upended himself and was deposited neatly on the other end of the counter, which provided some separation between himself and the mad woman bent on nibbling his bits.

It didn't stop her for very long, of course, and David found himself scurrying backwards on his rear end to escape the crawling Mrs. Sillycunt.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" he proclaimed, his voice ringing of a youthful falsetto inspired by sheer panic.

Soon David found himself back against the street-side wall of Sweet Peas, all out of room with a loony hostel employee dragging herself towards him with nearly impressive fury. In desperation, Fischer whipped his leg out, a booted heel connecting with the bridge of her nose; the Mrs. was distracted, briefly, as her face crumpled and her shattered nose began to spurt blood. Doing his best to ignore the sight - and quietly muttering "fuck me, fuck me, fuck me" - David leaped to his feet and blasted out of the front room onto the sidewalk.

His car - a rental Prius hybrid - was parked in the Rankin Avenue garage. David decided now was as good a time as any to return the fucking car.

Operation: Dead Man's Hand

Rilla said
THEN WHY ARE YOU NOT IN MY BED

I HAVE MORE IMPORTANT PLACES TO BE.

Oh, and you can use my character later on if need be.

Operation: Dead Man's Hand

I AM PRIMED AND SEXUALLY READY.

Operation: Dead Man's Hand

I made one. I made one - RILLA. RILLA I MADE ONE. I MADE ONE.

so sorry dear

Dead Man's Graveyard!

David Fischer

Name:
David Fischer.

Age:
53 (D.O.B. May 14th, 1962)

Gender:
Male.

Appearance:


Walking a razor’s edge between “lean” and “skinny,” David is of a middling height - and in possession of a respectable degree of musculature tone - with salt-and-pepper hair (leaning more towards grey-silver than anything) and a thick, jaw-encompassing beard. Though David has no tattoos, his left ear - upon close inspection - was pierced, many moons ago, and a handful of shallow scars dot his torso and legs from various brushes with danger.

Personality:
Though a good man, David is - first and foremost - concerned with his own affairs; though intelligent, he is somewhat stoic, and typically reserved, an archetype Brit if ever there was such a man. In spite of his quiet nature, David is both a curious man, and the owner of a keen investigative mind.

Skills:

* Having served in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces - specifically, the British Army - in the 1980s, David can defend himself with small arms and administer basic medical treatment, as well as navigate terrain both urban and countryside, with varying degrees of success. His “training,” of course, must be taken with a grain of salt, as David quickly expressed his written intent to withdraw from the Armed Forces in 1983, leaving service exactly four years and three months after his enlistment, in October of 1984.

* Spending quite a bit of his adult life traveling, David is reasonably well-cultured, and familiar with a handful of languages - Mandarin, German, and Russian - though conversationally at best.

* David is an impressive investigator, given that it was his career for twenty-some years.

Weakness:

* David is farsighted, and as such cannot easily read up close without his glasses.

* Spending four years in the military took its toll on David’s body, and though he’s in decent shape, his age is catching up with him and his joints are prone to agitation and failure after extended use.

* David is a former smoker, and will more than likely resume the habit should the shit hit the fan on a global scale.

Equipment:

* Clothing; a somewhat expensive suit with a lovely knee-length pea-coat overtop.

* A presumably semi-useless cellular phone.

* An expensive Rolex watch!

* An "antique" Zippo and a pack of Marlboros with one cigarette missing.

History:

Though English, David was born in Drogheda, County Louth/Meath, Ireland. His father, a career officer, had been stationed in Ireland during the Troubles, and his mother had accordingly pulled up her roots to follow him. In the late ‘60s, following a series of “favors” to IRA supporting turn-coats, the Fischers snagged a new posting in Brighton & Hove, England.

Sunny and beautiful and coastal, Bright & Hove was something like a paradise resort to grow up in - though not without its own troubles. Crime was low, but not non-existant, and David - more of a rough-and-tumble type - did not fit in well with the posh locality. In his teenage years, David found himself in trouble more than once for some act of minor vandalism or shoplifting, quite a thug with his long hair and rock’n’roll t-shirts and whatnot.

In a bid to keep him from winding up in jail, David’s father convinced him to enlist in the army - at least for the minimum contract specification. Save up some money, see the world - what an opportunity!

No, not in the slightest. Fate, ever a dick, saw David stationed in Ireland during the worst of the Troubles in the 1980s. Though he saw very little combat, he nearly became the victim of multiple bombings and skirmishes. Eager to leave the military behind him, however, David expressed his desire to resign as soon as possible, leaving just over four years after his enlistment.

From there, David wandered, bumming about mainland Europe for months before settling in Brussels, where he became the entry-level aid of a private detective. Initially just wanting to pass the time and make some cash, David was surprised to find that he genuinely enjoyed investigate work, and had a certain knack for it, able to make illogical leaps to tye pieces of a case together.

David spend several years working in Brussels before deciding, apropos to nothing, that he wanted nothing more than to return home; he packed up his things, settled his estates, and moved back to England, this time settling in London, where his now-retired parents lived.

At the recommendation of an active government official - drinking buddies with David’s father - David’s sharp investigative mind was put to work for the Crown Estate, functioning an a hardly-official status as a man hunter for any pending escheatment cases.

Escheatment is, of course, the seizure of private property - bank accounts, homes, et cetera - for the use of national government. Though this might sound somewhat villainous, it is typically only done when no activity has been registered with that property in over half a decade - and, of course, if the government can verify that it has made every effort to locate the original owner of the property.

David functioned as a locater or private citizens whose property had fallen into inactivity for inexplicably long periods of time. This was, without a doubt, a very fascinating job, that frequently took him all across Europe in a wild attempt to locate wayward English citizens. More often than not, the person in question had died overseas and nobody in Britain had been notified - typically due to a lack of relatives or heirs within the country - though, occasionally, very fascinating individuals were discovered in the process of notifying them of their imminent asset forfeiture.

This is, naturally, how David found himself in Ashville, North Carolina, seeking out one Eliza Stetson to notify her that her bank account of nearly approximately £1.9m was in danger of being seized by the crown.

Post Sample:

“Fuck it,” he said.

“Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, absolutely fuck it,” he insisted.

“It’s okay - fuck it.” With that, he placed the cigarette between his lips.

“No,” he insisted loudly, snatching it out and throwing it angrily to the ground.

“Bloody hell, I’m sorry,” he murmured, picking up the cigarette and stroking it fondly. “I didn’t mean to cause a fuss - fuck it, right?” That established, he placed the cigarette between his lips and lit it with a flame produced from a rather old-looking Zippo. One drag was all he needed to remember his first love; sweet, ashy tar, quite bitter and disgusting - and with the smell of a men’s bathroom in a two-star Korean barbecue in a strip mall - but so blissfully enticing.

He immediately felt his muscles slacken, his lips twisting into a satisfied smile - perhaps more satisfied of a smile than anything else could ever place upon him.

“That’s it,” he declared, flicking the cigarette into the river below. Then, he leaned against the guard rail, staring down at the last spot that he had witnessed burning tobacco, wishing he had taken another hit.

“Fuck it, and fuck her,” he surmised aloud. Eliza Stetson was either dead, or beyond talented at covering her tracks. He’d return to Crown Estate and London and insist, on the good Queen’s bossom, that he could not locate Eliza Stetson.

Operation: Dead Man's Hand

I have two ideas for a character, so I'll try out the ex-military first, and if you'd rather I go the civilian route, I can post the other.

Operation: Dead Man's Hand

I'm interested.

Are ex-military characters acceptable? If I were to write one, he wouldn't be a super soldier Spetsnaz Green Beret Delta Force SEAL bro. He'd just be acquainted with firearms and know how to use them, possess some tactical know-how and survival skills, and be in good shape. Not, y'know, Jack Bauer, or anything.