The Whacko Member
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Half Pint
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In
|| Original & Fandom Plots - Advanced - 18+ F for M - How to Entice a Lady ||
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10 yrs ago
Forum: 1x1 Interest Checks
.....so I guess you didn't get my PM.
In
|| Original & Fandom Plots - Advanced - 18+ F for M - How to Entice a Lady ||
→
10 yrs ago
Forum: 1x1 Interest Checks
Did you get my PM?
Name: Joe "Hoss" Galtosino
Gender: Male
Occupation: Soldier
Age: 34
Appearance: A towering, broad-shouldered bull of a man that looks every bit the thug he is. Standing at 6'3" and weighing roughly 280 pounds, his face is brutish and ugly with a wide, square jawline and chin, beady green eyes and a broad nose that has been broken several times in the past. His dark brown hair is receeding and thin, though he does sport an impressive horseshoe moustache that clashes with his choice in suits at times. For the most part he favors cheap suits and fedoras, occasionaly sporting a coat as well when the weather calls for it.
Biography: There isn't too much to be said about this piece of work. Like many in Chicago, he is the son of Italian imigrants, although unlike most in the Sapienti family he is of Neopolitan decent rather than Sicilian. Throughout most of his childhood he proved to be a mediocre student, but exceled at all things physical, working manual labor jobs after school until he eventually discovered he could put his physcial prowess to use in less legal, more profitable pursuits as well. At age 17 he began working as an enforcer for a small mixed Irish and Italian gang, slowly making his bones until he earned the attention of the Sapienti Family several years later. Since then he's become known as one of the more reliable attack dogs in the Sapientis' employ, with only a brief stint in the army during the Great War interupting his career in crime. Recently he's gotten some flak for his shacking up with a Black woman, but none have had the balls to say anything to his face yet. For the moment he's content to keep on working, waiting to see if his breaking taboo will see him unemployed or dead.
Personality: Joe is the typical mafia soldato; One part street smarts and two parts muscle with enough cunning to make up for his mediocre education. On the job he comunicates mostly in grunts, threats and quick phrases in Italian, while off the clock he's civil enough with the smaller circle of people he considers friends, if still a bit gruff. While he has no troubles over beating a man senseless over debt owed his employers, he does have a bit of a soft spot for the little guy, especially the unlucky Black citizens of Chicago (Much to his assosiates' chagrin.)
Weapon(s) of Choice: Brass knuckles, .38 Detective Special, 12 gauge double-barrel shotgun with sawed-off stock (When the job doesn't require subtlety or a message needs to be sent.)
Gender: Male
Occupation: Soldier
Age: 34
Appearance: A towering, broad-shouldered bull of a man that looks every bit the thug he is. Standing at 6'3" and weighing roughly 280 pounds, his face is brutish and ugly with a wide, square jawline and chin, beady green eyes and a broad nose that has been broken several times in the past. His dark brown hair is receeding and thin, though he does sport an impressive horseshoe moustache that clashes with his choice in suits at times. For the most part he favors cheap suits and fedoras, occasionaly sporting a coat as well when the weather calls for it.
Biography: There isn't too much to be said about this piece of work. Like many in Chicago, he is the son of Italian imigrants, although unlike most in the Sapienti family he is of Neopolitan decent rather than Sicilian. Throughout most of his childhood he proved to be a mediocre student, but exceled at all things physical, working manual labor jobs after school until he eventually discovered he could put his physcial prowess to use in less legal, more profitable pursuits as well. At age 17 he began working as an enforcer for a small mixed Irish and Italian gang, slowly making his bones until he earned the attention of the Sapienti Family several years later. Since then he's become known as one of the more reliable attack dogs in the Sapientis' employ, with only a brief stint in the army during the Great War interupting his career in crime. Recently he's gotten some flak for his shacking up with a Black woman, but none have had the balls to say anything to his face yet. For the moment he's content to keep on working, waiting to see if his breaking taboo will see him unemployed or dead.
Personality: Joe is the typical mafia soldato; One part street smarts and two parts muscle with enough cunning to make up for his mediocre education. On the job he comunicates mostly in grunts, threats and quick phrases in Italian, while off the clock he's civil enough with the smaller circle of people he considers friends, if still a bit gruff. While he has no troubles over beating a man senseless over debt owed his employers, he does have a bit of a soft spot for the little guy, especially the unlucky Black citizens of Chicago (Much to his assosiates' chagrin.)
Weapon(s) of Choice: Brass knuckles, .38 Detective Special, 12 gauge double-barrel shotgun with sawed-off stock (When the job doesn't require subtlety or a message needs to be sent.)
"Hey, brother, still got those Nitro records in back?" Came the familiar gruff, deep country voice approaching the counter. The first thing most saw when they looked at Eddie Muldoon were shirt buttons (In this case attatched to a cheap white/blue plaid flannel piece, sleeves rolled up the forearms to expose a few Christian tattoos) or the leather vest or jacket covered in biker club and band patches. Then, apon looking upward several inches, would come the friendly, if a bit imposing, moustaced face, usualy set into a polite smile as he addressed his audience. Today was no exception, though now he was holding a rather large stack of records tucked under one arm. Black Sabbath, Lion, Motley Crue, and Motorhead in that order from top to bottom. He'd been looking all over the local stores for these to rebuild his old collection after his last old lady had turned....sour.
Eddie'd known Mat for a few months now. He was a nice enough kid, even if they didn't speak much aside from Eddie's weekly stop into the store or when they bumped into eachother in the hallway. He was pretty sure he didn't even know Mat's last name, which was more than he could say about the Rasta-New-Age-Hippy-looking kid, whom he'd seen once or twice in the building, but never actually spoken to.
"Hard as hell to find the classics now. Guess the Gen Xers got tired of whatever the hell they're callin' metal now, goin' back to the old stuff."
Eddie'd known Mat for a few months now. He was a nice enough kid, even if they didn't speak much aside from Eddie's weekly stop into the store or when they bumped into eachother in the hallway. He was pretty sure he didn't even know Mat's last name, which was more than he could say about the Rasta-New-Age-Hippy-looking kid, whom he'd seen once or twice in the building, but never actually spoken to.
"Hard as hell to find the classics now. Guess the Gen Xers got tired of whatever the hell they're callin' metal now, goin' back to the old stuff."
Still accepting?
Appearance:
Name: Edward 'Chopper Eddie' Muldoon
Age: 36
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Heterosexual (With an interracial fetish, at that.)
Occupation: Mechanic, part-time sculptor.
Apartment Description (If Applicable): A somewhat dirty, but still quite livable space with two bedrooms (He's currently advertising in the papers for a roommate.) He hasn't been living there for long, but he's manages to get a few decent grease stains on the carpet from work, and there's tools scattered about here and there. The fridge is for the most part filled with Sam Adams and fairly cheap but filling food. The TV's nice enough, but nothing special, as is most of the furniture.
Personality: Despite looking like the stereotypical 'Tough guy biker', Eddie is argueably the nicest person in his building. Friendly, accepting of others and generaly always willing to lend a helping hand where he can. His love for motorcyles and the biker lifestyle is deeply rooted in him, taking after his father, and he's just as dedicated to his religion (Roman Catholic). As such's involved with a number of charity and community outreach motorcyle clubs in his free time. He's especially protective of the building's gay residence (A hold-over of when his own little brother was tormented in high school for his sexuality), and he's usualy the first one to take a swing at a bully when his intimidating presence isn't enough. He especially is disgusted by anyone that would use their religion as an excuse to mistreat others.
History (Preferred, not required): There isn't too much to be said about this big fella. Born and raised in Frankfort, Kentucky, Eddie spent most of his childhood simply as "The Big Kid", the one that was good at sports and with machines and not much else. A C and B student, he seemed destined for a medioric rise to mediocrity, with the only negative highlights being a few suspensions for defending his little brother. For the first few years after high school he worked in his father's garage, but at age 23 he felt the need to leave and make it on his own. With only 800 dollars, an El Diablo chopper and the clothes on his back he left for New York, where he settled in The Bronx for the next several years. Recently, however, he's found a nicer appartment in the East Village, and two month he moved into the rather odd, but quaint little community.
Yeah....that bio was crap, but it gets what you need to know out of the way. Hope this is cool.
Appearance:
Name: Edward 'Chopper Eddie' Muldoon
Age: 36
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Heterosexual (With an interracial fetish, at that.)
Occupation: Mechanic, part-time sculptor.
Apartment Description (If Applicable): A somewhat dirty, but still quite livable space with two bedrooms (He's currently advertising in the papers for a roommate.) He hasn't been living there for long, but he's manages to get a few decent grease stains on the carpet from work, and there's tools scattered about here and there. The fridge is for the most part filled with Sam Adams and fairly cheap but filling food. The TV's nice enough, but nothing special, as is most of the furniture.
Personality: Despite looking like the stereotypical 'Tough guy biker', Eddie is argueably the nicest person in his building. Friendly, accepting of others and generaly always willing to lend a helping hand where he can. His love for motorcyles and the biker lifestyle is deeply rooted in him, taking after his father, and he's just as dedicated to his religion (Roman Catholic). As such's involved with a number of charity and community outreach motorcyle clubs in his free time. He's especially protective of the building's gay residence (A hold-over of when his own little brother was tormented in high school for his sexuality), and he's usualy the first one to take a swing at a bully when his intimidating presence isn't enough. He especially is disgusted by anyone that would use their religion as an excuse to mistreat others.
History (Preferred, not required): There isn't too much to be said about this big fella. Born and raised in Frankfort, Kentucky, Eddie spent most of his childhood simply as "The Big Kid", the one that was good at sports and with machines and not much else. A C and B student, he seemed destined for a medioric rise to mediocrity, with the only negative highlights being a few suspensions for defending his little brother. For the first few years after high school he worked in his father's garage, but at age 23 he felt the need to leave and make it on his own. With only 800 dollars, an El Diablo chopper and the clothes on his back he left for New York, where he settled in The Bronx for the next several years. Recently, however, he's found a nicer appartment in the East Village, and two month he moved into the rather odd, but quaint little community.
Yeah....that bio was crap, but it gets what you need to know out of the way. Hope this is cool.
Hmmm, bit interested in the Female turian x human bit.
The Cajun had appreciated the offer of a room at the Lucky 38, but he'd decided not to impose on Mr. House any more than he needed to. Maybe the big man would even find it a bit courteous that he'd not waste the valuable space of his casino. Or maybe he'd been insulted by the rejection of his offer. Either way, what was done was done. He had another room anyway in a casino more to his liking. Del had spent most of this time after their...well, "Meeting", he supposed he could call it, at the poker table in Gamorrah. He was on a winning streak at the moment, with just under a fifteen hundred caps worth of chips sitting pretty in front of him. He had to admit, it sure as hell looked better than the last time he was here. The girls weren't nearly as strung out as they'd been back when Big Sal had been in charge, the guards were more friendly (and noticably packing less heat), and even the tables were running cleaner. He had to give it to Cachino, he'd made good on his word that he'd become a changed man.
"Bon boulot, Cachino." He muttered softly to himself as he looked over his cards, then at the three in the center of the table. Three of a kind so far. Aces. Still on one hell of a roll.
"Huh?" Another man spoke up from his seat beside Del, blinking stupidly. The French had probably confused him all the more.
"Eh, not'in'. Jus' talkin' wit' m'self." Del replied, pushing forward a small stack of blue chips. "Raise fo'hun'ed." There was a collective groan from the rest of the table. There were four sullen grumblings of "Fold" in a row. That left him, the dummy and the Ghoul. The Ghoul was the smart one in this bunch. His stack of chips was even bigger than Del's. He guessed this ol' walking corpse had to have been a Pre-War riverboat gambler to play his cards this well.
"Call." The Ghoul rasped, his face completely emotionless as he pushed his chips in. The dummy did the same. His face told Del of the bluff right away. The next card came down. Ace of Spades. It took all of Del's muscle control not to grin as he read the cards. The Ghoul's face didn't move a bit, but the dummy's did. He tried as best as his little brain would allow to play it cool. Another round of betting went around the table, until the pot was big enough to buy up most of the stock at the Gun Runner's stand. The last card went down. Jack of Spades. Del was sure he had this in the bag....but he wasn't dumb enough to go all in with this Ghoul still at the table. All at the table called. The cards went down.
"Four aces. Gon' need a real big bag fo' that pot." Del said with a rusty guffaw, resisting the urge to reach out and scoop up his winnings...
Then the Ghoul's hand went down.
"Straight flush. Believe those are my winnings, my good man." The Ghoul's raspy voice actually sounded pretty damn happy. Not a tone he usualy heard from those poor schmucks. Del just stared at the cards for a moment while the dummy started to swear and cry. He really, really hated to see all those chips go. He looked down at what was left of his chips. 400 caps. Well...it was better than nothing.
"Think I be callin' it a nigh' fo' now, folks. Good playin' wit'cha." He said with a nod of his head, pushing back his chair and rising to walk over to the hallway and to the staircase, toward his room. Yep. Better than nothing.
The next morning he found himself joining the others in the main lobby with a surprisingly cold bottle of Bohemea style beer (provided by Cachino), nursing the drink as he watched the rest of this motley crew with some concern. Ellie seemed good at her job, but that attitude would probably get her into a whole lot of scraps. Which would mean the rest of them would have to get involved. Which would escalate the scrap into a full on ass-kicking contest. The rest....well.....they probably weren't too much better, not counting the Nightkin and those not accounted for yet. He'd have to keep a close eye on things for this job...
"Bon boulot, Cachino." He muttered softly to himself as he looked over his cards, then at the three in the center of the table. Three of a kind so far. Aces. Still on one hell of a roll.
"Huh?" Another man spoke up from his seat beside Del, blinking stupidly. The French had probably confused him all the more.
"Eh, not'in'. Jus' talkin' wit' m'self." Del replied, pushing forward a small stack of blue chips. "Raise fo'hun'ed." There was a collective groan from the rest of the table. There were four sullen grumblings of "Fold" in a row. That left him, the dummy and the Ghoul. The Ghoul was the smart one in this bunch. His stack of chips was even bigger than Del's. He guessed this ol' walking corpse had to have been a Pre-War riverboat gambler to play his cards this well.
"Call." The Ghoul rasped, his face completely emotionless as he pushed his chips in. The dummy did the same. His face told Del of the bluff right away. The next card came down. Ace of Spades. It took all of Del's muscle control not to grin as he read the cards. The Ghoul's face didn't move a bit, but the dummy's did. He tried as best as his little brain would allow to play it cool. Another round of betting went around the table, until the pot was big enough to buy up most of the stock at the Gun Runner's stand. The last card went down. Jack of Spades. Del was sure he had this in the bag....but he wasn't dumb enough to go all in with this Ghoul still at the table. All at the table called. The cards went down.
"Four aces. Gon' need a real big bag fo' that pot." Del said with a rusty guffaw, resisting the urge to reach out and scoop up his winnings...
Then the Ghoul's hand went down.
"Straight flush. Believe those are my winnings, my good man." The Ghoul's raspy voice actually sounded pretty damn happy. Not a tone he usualy heard from those poor schmucks. Del just stared at the cards for a moment while the dummy started to swear and cry. He really, really hated to see all those chips go. He looked down at what was left of his chips. 400 caps. Well...it was better than nothing.
"Think I be callin' it a nigh' fo' now, folks. Good playin' wit'cha." He said with a nod of his head, pushing back his chair and rising to walk over to the hallway and to the staircase, toward his room. Yep. Better than nothing.
The next morning he found himself joining the others in the main lobby with a surprisingly cold bottle of Bohemea style beer (provided by Cachino), nursing the drink as he watched the rest of this motley crew with some concern. Ellie seemed good at her job, but that attitude would probably get her into a whole lot of scraps. Which would mean the rest of them would have to get involved. Which would escalate the scrap into a full on ass-kicking contest. The rest....well.....they probably weren't too much better, not counting the Nightkin and those not accounted for yet. He'd have to keep a close eye on things for this job...
Bah, sorry for the absence, folks. Been a busy week for me. Trying to get my shit together IRL lately, sort of forgot about this for a bit. Take it I've missed a ton?
Terminal said
Not an exciting prospect. On the assumption that our Lone Wanderer made basically moral choices, Calvert is dead and the Krivbeknih has been destroyed. There are no more dark influences corrupting the minds of the locals.Also Sterk: It's not Winter right now.
Damnit, this is true...well, man can dream.
AtomicItalian said
Not necessarily, there's still a lot of people who haven't voted yet. Besides, even if we take the green line out, who's to say circumstances don't force us to flee down the coast and take another line back...
Sweet. Might even take us through Point Lookout....<Evil laugh>
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