I was press-ganged into this, I swear [hider=oh god here we go] [hr] [center][img] [/img] [img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/190129/1cdeafe6aa548fe89ae15f95ed040166.png[/img] [/center] [indent][indent][indent][color=gray][quote] [i]From even the greatest of horrors irony is seldom absent.[/i] H.P. Lovecraft. The Whisper From the Dark. The Sudden Drop. Bloodcurled. You’d be hard-pressed not to find some of these kitschy horror novels in every bookstore in the northwest for good reason: David Marlowe [i]was[/i] a hot commodity. Whilst ever-combatting the local art critics on what is “literature” and what is “trash”, David Marlowe was simply quite happy to exist as a relatively popular horror novelist; never hitting the high heights like Stephen King or Dean Koontz, but also never fading into obscurity. He lived a comfortable, albeit lonely life. Growing up in suburban Seattle, David settled into writing during college, being published in magazines and in short story collections until his first breakthrough novel, The Screamchasers, hit the bestseller lists. He found himself doing book tours, working on C-Movie Hollywood hack deals and making enough money to live comfortably without working a “real” job. Shortly after his third novel, The Whisper From the Dark was published, David found himself in the middle of both a scandal involving a local politician's wife and death threats from overzealous fans. The stress nearly led to him having a complete nervous breakdown, and he sold his house, his car and most of his belongings making his way to a small apartment complex near the Sweet Bay Hotel. There, amidst heavy medications for his newly developed night terrors, David began an existence of quiet obscurity, still writing, but now keeping hidden from the public view. Several locals claim that they know that [i]THE[/i] David Marlowe lives in town, but most would be hard-pressed to even find the man. Now only leaving home at night, and keeping a few local contacts, David is more of a hermit with a typewriter than your average citizen. Even now every few years another book is published to moderate acclaim; even to keep paying rent and to keep himself fed, but never enough to truly be regarded as one of horror’s all-time greats. [/quote][/color][/indent][/indent][/indent] [hr] [u][b]Physical Traits[/b][/u] [indent][color=gray]David is tall enough, standing at around 5’10, but due to his lifestyle change and thanks to the drugs he takes, he’s begun to grow a slight paunch in the stomach region. Still, David is broad-shouldered enough to still be considered “strong”, however the past few years have led to his once youthful strength to become diminished. He can lift and run, but his stamina has greatly been reduced. His hair is cut short, black with grey tinges forming on the edges. His hair has also begun to thin. David’s clothes can be considered “bookish”. Glasses, tweed coats or all-weather jackets, slacks and nice shoes are his usual clothing when he has to leave. His once clean-shaven face is now considerably bearded, and whilst he does trim weekly, it has a habit of becoming wild and stringy, especially if he goes a day or two without washing. [/color][/indent] [b][u]Full Name[/u][/b] [indent][color=gray]David Harrison Marlowe[/color][/indent] [b][u]Gender[/u][/b] [indent][color=gray]Male[/color][/indent] [u][b]Ethnicity[/b][/u] [indent][color=gray]Caucasion[/color][/indent] [b][u]Sexuality[/u][/b] [indent][color=gray]Heterosexual[/color][/indent] [b][u]Age[/u][/b] [indent][color=gray]34[/color][/indent] [b][u]Motives[/u][/b] [indent][color=gray]David is continually chasing that one great story; the one that will cement him into the horror anthologies for the rest of his life. His books sell well enough and he has a fairly sizeable fan community, but beyond two books making the bestseller list, he’s never had “true” success like the industry giants. He constantly tries to find new ways to pull out the horror from his mind, but in recent months, he has constantly hit wall after wall. He’s found various things to blame: and the latest has been his medication. He will occasionally try to come off his medication, only to be plagued with nightmares and anxieties that leave him almost catatonic, until he is forced to take them again to be [i]normal[/i] again. Not that he ever feels normal anymore. [/color][/indent] [b][u]Occupation[/u][/b] [indent][color=gray]Published Author[/color][/indent] [hr] [/hider] [hider=sample post written under the FLU] [i]Outside King’s Apartment Building, 11:22 PM[/i] David Marlowe’s head was throbbing, and the constant buzz of a streetlight was only exacerbating his problems. In the past forty-eight hours he’d slept maybe three hours total. This wasn’t out of the ordinary for him, but this past week he’d had horrendous nightmares. Enough that his attempts at releasing his creative muse were put on hold so he could start medicating himself again. In the dream he could remember, he found himself sitting in a room surrounded by faceless people, all moving towards him slowly. It finally came to a breaking point earlier this evening when he could have [i]sworn[/i] that he saw a figure in his window. [i]His third story window.[/i] So now here he was, on the street, walking to the small convenience store near the apartment. It looked like it had been a 7-11 in the past until some company rebranded the name but kept the ugly green coat of paint. The bright fluorescent lights inside didn’t make David too excited to enter there either, but this was one of the few places he did frequently. He stepped inside, the annoying electronic chime ringing the door slid back to close. The clerk was sitting at the counter, thumbing through a book. The lack of communication was fine for David, and he made his way towards the back of the store. For a moment, he stopped, looking at different types of liquor. The urge swelled up inside of him, but he stepped away. [i]Mixing Klonopin and liquor would be a good way to appear on the rag sheets. David Marlowe finally kills himself after hiding from the public for six years.[/i] Instead, he grabbed a bottle of water and some headache powder, returning to the clerk. “Oh, will this be all?” The clerk couldn’t have been older than twenty. Some messy haired kid who was probably working late nights to help pay for college or something. “Yes,” David answered succinctly, averting his gaze away from the young man. It was then he noticed the book he’d been thumbing through: [i]The Sudden Drop.[/i] Fuck. “It’ll be...four seventeen,” he answered, apparently unaware of the picture of David on the back of his paperback novel was a slightly younger and healthier version of the man standing in front of him. “Sure,” David replied, handing him a few crumpled bills and coins. He grabbed his sundries and made his way from the convenience store quickly, walking with a staccato pace until he reached a lonely part of the sidewalk, his only companion the head-throbbingly loud buzz of the street lamp. David began gasping for breath, holding his free hand close to his chest. How quickly could that have gone south? What kind of shitty internet journalist would take the bait and start asking around for “Whatever Happened To That Creep David Marlowe?” His breathing slowed, and he felt himself regaining control again. “I can’t keep this up forever.” He muttered, wiping rivulets of sweat from his brow. The sound of a car roared in the distance, and David began increasing his pace again, making his way back to the apartment. [/hider]