[CHAR] ̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅𝙴𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝚃⌖ 𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴̸/̸̅̅ ̆̅ ̅̅ ̅̅ — Roleplayer Guild

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Zeroth

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𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗


Title
☞Character creation begins with the title of your PM (or, if you intend to petition publicly in the OOC, an analogous header). You have the span of a single sentence in which to summarize your character's personal plotline—pressure-testing your ability to hook readers, roadmap story, and build interactive/collab anticipation all while operating within a stringent word economy.

There's no room for fluff here: an adjective, maybe two about your main character, but the rest should be pure plot. This synopsis must despite the rigorous word count contain inciting incident, overt character trajectory and momentum, and yet just enough ambiguity or open-endedness that other players can meddle with the dials and levers.
Name
☞Self-explanatory.
Age
☞Self-explanatory.
Sex
☞Gender too, if not apparent.
Business
☞Maybe you're a normal Joe, with a normal job, just swept up in a shitty circumstance. Maybe between the nine-to-five and all the shady side hustles you barely get to sleep anymore. Maybe you're all-in on The Life; have been since your first street brawl as a troubled kid in a dirt-poor family on the bad side of town. Choice and coercion, desperation and drive. In this section, clarify your character's relationship with work: legal, extralegal, over the table and under it, public and moonlit. Both what your W4 says you do and what your fellow dirtbags actually use you for.
Savvy
☞You're assumed to be baseline-competent in most the skills you need to function within your criminal niche. (No need to expound that your mafia soldato is, in fact, talented with a handgun.) In this section outline your more surprising proficiencies: rare, high-demand specializations like hotwiring, gunsmithing, cracksmanship; or simply more unexpected ones, such as Michelin-grade cooking, car chopping, cobbling, poetry. In the case of the former, justify. Where and how and whom-from did you procure this valuable knowledge?—what did it cost you?
Ruin
☞A brief word on upbringing if you wish, segueing succinctly and summarily into the far more pertinent context of how and why a once-decent kid, mommy's little angel, degenerated into the lowlife we see today. Then, a typical day in the life in the now-and-present. May be written as a biopic, a confessional, even an epistolary. Any person, any tense. Far more interesting than an objective sequence of events is a personal romance colored by hearsay and contradiction; bias and prejudice and ulterior motive. Unreliable narration welcome. Misinformation encouraged.
Cred
☞The word on the street; others' estimation of you; your last defense against the fate which catches up to every snitch and every candy-ass and every flake eventually. How competent are you? How reliable? Do jobs go well when you're on the crew, does everyone get away in time when you're behind the wheel of the getaway car? Is someone serving time on account of something you've said to somebody? Do others in town have an accurate measure of you, or has something (someone) botched your reputation? Are you the Sun Tzu of the streets—underestimated at every turn—or do you puff and posture and throw your weight around?

In this section, describe how people talk about you when you're not around to hear. What they know and what they hunger to know. The more varied and complicated the better. A flat character has never made mistakes [that anyone else knows of], has never screwed anyone over, has never backed off when they should've gone down swinging. A richer character has a Cred as complicated and colorful as she is.
Ilk
☞Choose one. If you want the GM to really, really like you, you may optionally choose a second. Overlap with one or two other players is fine but I will veto if any one Ilk is becoming too popular. Do not choose two Ilks which directly controvert each other (e.g. Real Clean, Like My Conscience and This is Business, Not Personal).

Custom Ilks, if you wish to submit one, must contain concrete, unambiguous trigger conditions; must beget indelible IC consequences when triggered; must foment conflict and drama.
THE ACTION IS THE JUICE
What the capos call "caution" you call spinelessness. What's the point in becoming a gangster if people still get to tell you what to do, if you still got to follow the rules, if you can't let loose once in a while? You don't need the money; you're here for the power, the good time, and nothing gets your dick hard like stomping the gas pedal to the floor, squeezing off shots, and watching it all burn, and bleed, and die. Agitator that you are, you can't help but lay waste to your crew's best-laid plans. And you will personally see to it that when all this is over, you and all your accomplices are looking at twenty to life for murder-two. ("But only if we get caught," right?)
THE BAD BLOOD
When your employer described the job it sounded too good to be true, too opportune of a coincidence to ignore: your last big chance to settle the score against someone who burned you in the recent past. Choose a character who will feature prominently in your story: preferably a PC, but the GM can sign off on a prominent NPC also. If you see the opportunity to hurt this character as they once hurt you, you'll take it—in the process sabotaging the job, endangering people you'd sooner not, and/or giving your boss(es) the inclination that you've gone AWOL.
BELIEVE ME, RICH IS BETTER
All in all it was a pretty good take—well, before the getaway driver got his cut. And the extra gunman on the roof. And the fences...Could be that someone on the team's not picking up slack, could be that you plain and simply need the money more than they do, either way, you're dissatisfied with the present arrangement. So while the bosses are counting up the loot and divvying it into envelopes and mapping out the dead drops, you'll be cooking up another one of your schemes. To poison the others against the "dead weight." To cut him out and have his slice of the pie to yourself.
COULD'A HAD CLASS (or, YOU THINK I'M FUNNY?)
You've been a loser for as long as you can remember. You know it, your old man knows it, the local parishioner knows it, but you'll suck a barrel before you let any random schmuck on the street know it, too. Extremely sensitive to being dismissed, underestimated, condescended, ball-busted, you've got something to prove, and stashed in your waistline or your ankle holster or your coat pocket is just the right tool for the task. In your perpetual quest to prove you're tough (valuable, respected, &c.), someone always, eventually, either puts you up to a challenge from which you cannot back down, or levels an insult you don't have it in you to ignore. You will escalate; you will go too far; and what could have been solved with some slick words and a few greased palms you will instead solve through disproportionate violence. You're the closer of doors, the burner of bridges, and the kicker-off of monstrous, deadly vendettas.
GONE FAGGOT
Push comes to shove there's only two people a man can trust; and his mother ain't around to save him every time the troubles come knocking. Not a coward per sē—you prefer self-preservationist, or maybe good-old not a fucking idiot—sooner or later you will intuit when the ship has started to take water. You will jettison to save your own skin. And while some people take umbrage with that easily enough as it is, others will wonder what else you're willing to do to keep yourself outta the clink and off the mortuary table. Who you been talkin to. What kinda backroom deals you've made to keep being so lucky, always out the front door a few minutes before disaster hits...
A HARMLESS VICE
Whether it's a pill, a powder, or a needle, you're hopelessly and viciously hooked on one or another chemical. A chemical which doesn't sharpen you up anymore the way it used to. A chemical which makes you paranoid and antsy and irritable at the best of times. You're off the job for sure if the bosses find out. Maybe you'll O.D. before it gets to that, but likelier there will be others counting on you to hold steady, and instead you'll crack like a dinnerplate, sweating shaking panicking all the while.
I STILL LOVE THE LIFE
Death by a thousand cuts. Gambling debts, drug habits, a need to impress, or plain-and-simple expensive tastes—something, or a combination of things, puts a continual drain on your resources, ever threatening your precious high-roller lifestyle. You don't simply want the plan to succeed; it has to, or you can kiss the fast cars the slim girls the fat diamond rings goodbye (those and whatever else matters). This addiction will noseblind you to risks the others can smell from three miles off. And where they've hedged and folded and tactically retreated, you'll always—always—gather up your dice to triple down.
MAYBE IT'S A MANNERISM
You might have an unfortunate and incorrigible sense of style, a reason for leaving a deliberate calling card at every crime scene, maybe an unforgettable face; or you might simply refuse to part with your favorite heater. Sentimental reasons. (You know, that nickel-and-ivory beaut with the polished trigger and the engraved housing—the one that takes a proprietary caliber used by fourteen people in the whole damn state.) Every peanut-counting bookie schnook knows to take a twenty-dollar snubbie and wipe it for prints afterward and throw it in Lake Michigan before the barrel's even stopped spitting steam, but not you. Not you, autographing every alley, every dead-drop, every body with your trademark. When the fuzz (and anyone else wise enough to care) investigates a crime scene of your making, evidence will line up faster. Methods, motives, cases will come together cleaner, knotting seemingly unrelated crimes into an inexorable web of pathology: yours. You made yourself legible, and you—out of everyone else in the family, they'll read you like a bodice ripper.
PERMANENT GODDAMN FINK
Maybe the cops got to you first, laying down the squeeze until you "volunteered" to turn informant. Maybe the competition wants your crew off the streets and has deemed you the weakest link; the shortest and straightest throughline right to all your boss's blind spots. Hell. Maybe they'd rather pinch you for their own operations. One way or the next, the others don't know—yet—that you have a second motive. Someone will find out, of course (as someone always does). You will plead that you were just going along with it, just waiting for an opportunity to get out; that you "had no choice." Whatever makes them hesitate. It might even be true. Unfortunately, not all of your friends will buy it.
REAL CLEAN, LIKE MY CONSCIENCE
There's a voice. Might sound like your mother's, your old drill sergeant's, a certain schoolteacher's. Somebody who once believed in you whatever the case. Used to be louder but now it's just a ghost—a pathetic, mewling thing stowed in the back of your skull—shy, real shy; and small, only really audible in that razor-space between the three clicks of the hammer and the one of the trigger. But the voice still enjoys rationalizing. It humanizes the enemy and offers excuses for the guilty. It explains how causality is complicated and how context matters. It gives pretty names and pitiable faces to the wives, the daughters whose lives would never be the same. It mounts a nobler defense than any dirty lawyer cold, hard cash can retain...and its closing arguments always, without fail, cause you to hesitate when you shouldn't.
SHE WAS MINE, TOO
You're fecklessly in love with another PC, or with (pending approval) a prominent, oft-appearing NPC accomplice. This overwhelming affection need not be reciprocated. When this person is put in danger—which they will be—the plan be damned, great big melting puddle that you are, you will cast anything and everything aside to keep them safe.
THIS IS BUSINESS, NOT PERSONAL
No hesitation. No more chances. No regrets. You didn't come this far and commit all these three-point felonies to get caught now, just like you didn't strike all these deals just to get stabbed in the back, so here you are, clearing the denominators, eliminating variables in your sick little street-math. Allies might appreciate your decisiveness in the moment—your ability to keep calm and execute amidst the chaos—but back at the safehouse they'll start to wonder what little mistake will put them in your crosshairs...and whether that girl back there really was as guilty and as treasonous as you said.
THOUGHT I WAS OUT
Someone from your criminal past—a former crime boss, a parole officer, an old associate—still has you on the books. They say you owe them big, and you're in no position to dissent. (Work with the GM to determine who this person is and your exact relationship therewith: do you help grudgingly or eagerly? Because they're levering rock-solid blackmail or because they once pulled your ass off the fire big-time? Is this—on paper, at least—a mutually beneficial business arrangement, a debt not yet conciliated, or more akin to good old-fashioned coercion?) This person has a habit of asking for a costly favor at the most inconvenient possible time. You always tell them this is the last time. But you already know they'll keep calling. And god damn you, you'll keep picking up.
When a hitman murders his best friend and sends their crew scattering for safety, a career bank robber must stick around and chance becoming the next victim if he wants a shot at answers, justice—or vengeance.
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𝙲𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜 𝚃. 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚠


███████𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚜. 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍'𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚢𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝙸𝙱𝙼 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚑——𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚐𝚞𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜——𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚍. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚛, 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛, 𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕.

███████𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍.

███████𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚑-𝚊𝚗𝚍-𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 "𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢" 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝙺𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚠 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜: 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚊𝚝 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚜, 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚟𝚢 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚜. 𝙾𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚜 𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚙𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚢 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚜, 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜. 𝙼𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕, 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚡𝚎𝚜, 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚕 𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚢𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜.

███████𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚘𝚞𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗-𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚙𝚊𝚠𝚗𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚗: 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚊-𝚏𝚒𝚍𝚎, 𝚋𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚐𝚜. 𝚂𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚓𝚘𝚋, 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚕, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚐𝚞𝚗. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢'𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚡-𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝙷𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝙲𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚜.

𝟹𝟺
𝙼𝚊𝚕𝚎
𝙰 𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚛, 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚏, 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎.
𝙰 𝚖𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚢.
𝙰 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚒𝚐 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛.
When your employer described the job it sounded too good to be true, too opportune of a coincidence to ignore: your last big chance to settle the score against someone who burned you in the recent past. Choose a character who will feature prominently in your story: preferably a PC, but the GM can sign off on a prominent NPC also. If you see the opportunity to hurt this character as they once hurt you, you will take it—in the process sabotaging the job, endangering people you'd sooner not, and/or giving your boss(es) the inclination that you've gone AWOL.
You might have an unfortunate and incorrigible sense of style, a reason for leaving a deliberate calling card at every crime scene, maybe an unforgettable face; or you might simply refuse to part with your favorite heater. Sentimental reasons. (You know, that nickel-and-ivory beaut with the polished trigger and the engraved housing—the one that takes a proprietary caliber used by fourteen people in the whole damn state.) Every peanut-counting bookie schnook knows to take a twenty-dollar snubbie and wipe it for prints afterward and throw it in Lake Michigan before the barrel's even stopped spitting steam, but not you. Not you, autographing every alley, every dead-drop, every body with your trademark. When the fuzz (and anyone else wise enough to care) investigates a crime scene of your making, evidence will line up faster. Methods, motives, cases will come together cleaner, knotting seemingly unrelated crimes into an inexorable web of pathology: yours. You made yourself legible, and you—out of everyone else in the family, they'll read you like a bodice ripper.
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"𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑, 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝙳𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚎 𝚅𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚎𝚔. 𝙼𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝-𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝙳𝚞𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚖, 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝? 𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚕𝚎, 𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝, 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚍𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚘, 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚜. 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚗𝚘 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙽𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚎𝚖. 𝙼𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚜, 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝. 𝙻𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚊 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚙𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝. 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑. 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜. 𝙷𝚎'𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚊𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚛."

"𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢? 𝙷𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝. 𝙷𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍, 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎. 𝙳𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝙾𝚑——𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝙸 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝙸 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚜, 𝚠𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍-𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚎𝚖 𝚞𝚙, 𝚘𝚗𝚎-𝚊𝚝-𝚊-𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎-𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎. 𝙾𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚠𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚘𝚋 𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚝. 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝙹𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝙱𝚘𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏. 𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚝, 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜——𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚜𝚎𝚎——𝚜𝚘 𝙺𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛, 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚊 𝚋𝚞𝚖 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚔 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎, 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚛'𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚞𝚙..."

"𝙸 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚊, 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚓𝚘𝚋𝚜 𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎. 𝙼𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚟𝚊𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚗, 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚖, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚛, 𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎, 𝚜𝚒𝚡 𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚖? 𝙵𝚞𝚐𝚎𝚍𝚍𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚝. 𝚂'𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝙸 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚘 𝚒𝚏 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝙺𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠. 𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝. 𝙴𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚐𝚒𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗——𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚢, 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗. 𝚂𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗, 𝚏𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚠'𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚒𝚐-𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗? 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚖'𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕."

"𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚞𝚟𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚞𝚝. 𝚂𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚝𝚑? 𝙽𝚘, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎——𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚋𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚝——𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑. 𝙽𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍. 𝙸 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝. 𝙼𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚗𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝙸'𝚖 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚍 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝙸 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝙰𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔? 𝙰𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜, 𝚗𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚜."

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𝙳𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝙽𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚔

𝙰 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚗'𝚜 "𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝" 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐—𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚞𝚗𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚝, 𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚕, 𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕—𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚞𝚜𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚑 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚙 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝.

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𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎

𝙰𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚐𝚒𝚛𝚕 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚜, 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚜𝚜, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚏 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚢 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗—𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍.

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"𝚂𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢" 𝙷𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚊

𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚋𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚒𝚗'𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚔𝚜, 𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗—𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 "𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢" 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛.
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𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝙽𝚊𝚔𝚊𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚊

𝙰 𝚐𝚒𝚐 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚐 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚌𝚢 𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚕.
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𝙿𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙾'𝙼𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚢

𝙰𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚛-𝚒𝚗-𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚎—𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛—𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘'𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎.

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𝙹𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚙𝚑 𝙼𝚌𝙶𝚊𝚋𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚗

𝚃𝚠𝚘 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚙 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚕, 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚍-𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜.
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𝙼𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚎𝚕 𝙳𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚔𝚊𝚜

𝙰 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚙 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚓𝚘𝚋—𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚝, 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚑𝚎'𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙, 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍.

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Title
☞A politician's aide's wife, known in the parish for her potato salad and her reliability, has done something that would end her marriage, her reputation, and possibly her freedom, and will do whatever it takes to make sure no one finds out.
Name
☞Dolores Nowak
Age
☞30
Sex
☞Female
Business
☞Housewife. Her husband works as an aide to one of the city's most connected politicians, so her days are split between keeping the home in order and showing face at fundraisers, parish functions, and ward picnics.

The other business came through the people she buys from. They figured out whose wife she is and realized she sees and hears plenty worth trading. So she trades it.

It also helps that nobody looks twice at a respectable woman running errands. She can carry things across town that someone else couldn't.
Savvy
☞Dolores can sew, cook, and play piano, same as any girl of her generation. She has a head for numbers, something the household budget has put to good use. Years of hosting political dinners and parish functions means she can keep twenty guests fed, seated, and talking without breaking a sweat. And her memory borders on unnerving: names, faces, conversations from months ago, things people said once and forgot they said.
Ruin
☞Dolores Nowak, who had not been raised to complain, did not complain.

Married at twenty, she had moved into a life that fit the way a good coat fits: correctly, completely, with no particular room to move. The Nowak name meant the parish and the auxiliary and the dinners where her mother-in-law sat at the head and watched, not unkindly, just watched, and Dolores sat where she was put and said what was wanted and kept her mouth closed when a closed mouth was called for, and wore her hair the way that was wanted and over time she got good at it, very good, good enough that people said so, good enough that the compliments started to feel like a life sentence. This is not a thing she said to anyone. In the mornings she made her husband's coffee and in the evenings she made dinner and on the weekends there were obligations and on Sunday nights she set out what she needed for the week ahead and stood in the kitchen after, just stood there, and this was the only moment that was hers and she could not have said what she did with it.

Something got bad in the third year, and worse in the fourth, though she couldn't have named it exactly if asked. She went to Dr. Heany. He asked two or three questions and wrote her a prescription. She filled it, took the pills in the morning; they helped, which was almost worse, and she didn't think about it again. When they stopped helping she went back, he adjusted the dosage, and that helped for a time, and then it didn't. Dolores understood she had reached the end of what he could offer her, thanked him, and drove away.

Someone at an auxiliary meeting had let a name drop. She called the number that week.

Gerry operated out of the dry cleaner's on Clement Street and he was a small polite man who conducted business with the brisk good humor of someone who understood that everyone who came to him arrived embarrassed and that the kindest thing he could do was pretend otherwise. They reached an understanding and that was that.

The errand came three weeks later. An envelope. An address on the north side. A man she'd never seen took the envelope and closed the door, and Dolores walked back to her car in the gray November afternoon and sat with her hands in her lap.

Degraded was what she had expected to feel. Instead she sat in the car and felt, for the first time in longer than she could account for, entirely herself.

Gerry called again. Yes came out before he finished asking. It turned out carrying envelopes was only part of it. An aide's wife hears things. What she heard she remembered, and what she remembered she passed on, and what she passed on was apparently worth something. On the drive home with the heat on and the radio off, she thought about when Gerry would call again.
Cred
☞"Don't know her from Adam. Wife of somebody, I think."

"Dolores? Oh, she's lovely. Very quiet. Always the first to offer a hand."

"A respectable woman with somewhere to be. Nobody stops her, nobody asks questions. Honestly she's more appreciated here than she ever was at home."

"She runs a beautiful home, she really does. I just think... well, Walter would make a wonderful father."

"You ask me, she thinks she's too good for the room. Sanctimonious bitch, always has."
Ilk
☞Real Clean, Like My Conscience

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Bio

“𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚕’𝚜 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗, 𝚊 𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚙𝚒𝚗’𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚗, 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚜𝚙𝚑𝚢𝚡𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚛, 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚢.”

𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 “𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢” 𝚂𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎 

𝟹𝟻 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚕𝚍 (𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 “𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎, 𝟹𝟶?” 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝟻 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜)

𝙵𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎

☞ 𝙱𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜

 Pearly first felt a wedge of dollar bills between her barely-there breasts when she was just 14 years old. Mother Dearest made sure her one and only child, her “Precious Pearly”, knew the value of the dollar sign as soon as she was old enough to grip a bill in her podgy, dimpled hands. Daddy didn’t stick around. So it was just Pearly and her Mama for as long as she could remember. Formative years were spent watching her Madam Mama run a tight ship whilst vacuuming white lines from both sides of her pocket mirror and roughing up the edges of her “Girls” from darkened doorways. 

It was a “Family Business.” The Brothel operated out of the top 3 floors of 69 Greet Street, a collection of around 12 sparse bedrooms occupied by lost souls looking to bury themselves in the vacuous bodies of those desperate for an escape. An hour? 4 hours? 3 minutes? Patrons of the Brothel paid upfront for the pleasure of a lumpy mattress surrounded by nicotine-stained walls. The Basement got transformed into a “speakeasy bar” back in the 1920s. “Soirée” nowadays was a glorified dive bar cosplaying as something with more sophistication than it was able to claim - A breeding ground for debauchery, dodgy deals and Dolls secretly for sale. Soirée turns a blind eye to the deals under the table, signet ringed fists thrown in the alleyway and married men with their arms around anyone but their wife. The Bar is the only legit leg of the business; An outlet to “clean” the whore’s earnings and a perfect marketing opportunity for a Madam’s working girls. Burlesque shows, Jazz singers and a mean Manhattan lure in those Johns looking for a good time not a long time. There’s rarely been an empty seat in the house for the last 10 years. Despite its desperate attempt at glitz and glamour, Soirée was the definition of mutton dressed as lamb. The Bar just couldn’t shake its grimy reputation that both helped and hindered the activities that took place wrapped in peeling wallpaper and atop liquor-soaked carpets. 

When 25 year old Pearly found her Mother face-down at her bureau desk, blood drying all crispy in her bleached blonde hair, she inherited it all. The Brothel, the Babydolls, the Bar, the Books, the debts… The good, the bad and the ugly. Pearly runs a tight ship and keeps the wolves at bay by plying them with intel extracted from the minds of her Girls: Confessionals from creepy Johns, the gloating of criminals, the whisper of every word on the street… Anything worth something to those useless pigs, Pearly hands over. Keeps them from sniffing at Madam’s back door. Let a select few run drugs through the gaff, let the mob bosses talk business over the best Old Fashioneds in the city… Dirty makes more money when it ain’t just in a martini.

☞ 𝚂𝚊𝚟𝚟𝚢

 A Madam ain’t for sale but if she were, Pearly’d still be a damned good ride. She may be on the bench, but that doesn’t mean she’s forgotten how to play. Manipulative, she’s a slippery spirit, always shimmying her way out of sticky situations with her smart mouth and fluttering eyelashes. 

Not that Pearly would ever be naive enough to disclose her earnings, bragging is what gets you killed in this game, but she’s got goods stashed in mattresses, loose floorboards and the banks. Her businesses are booming and there’s nothing she wouldn’t do to keep it that way. A puppeteer of a bookkeeper, she’s smarter than anyone gives her credit for. Thanks to those lessons from Mama’s old snake of an accountant, she knows just where to fiddle the books and payday’s always sweet. 

When you’re as deep in the game as she is, balancing the Brothel, the Bar and the Books, it’s a good job Pearly knows who’s worth their buck for brawn. She’s got guns-for-hire on speed dial, muscle ready to weigh in when she needs and a nose for the best powder in the city. There ain’t a gram of white that passes hands in Soirée she don’t know about. And if someone’s dumb enough to cross her? Well, she’s seen enough skeletons in closets to know just the spot to apply pressure. Pearly’s been around enough violence to know a thing or two about torture, bribery and a quick snuff. When you’ve got everything to lose, you sure learn quick how to make sure you stay winning.

A Madam bears the responsibility of her Babydoll’s wellbeing. She must protect, exploit, control, nurture and stifle simultaneously. That level of duplicitousness mixed with unlimited liquor and a silver spoon piled with a powder that catalyses uncapped confidence? Pearly is a ticking time bomb. Inherently paranoid, she sees the ghosts of problems that may or may not be there. Betrayal is a compulsive fear the Madam continually checks over her shoulder for. Late nights, substance abuse and a childhood ripped from her starfish hands make for a woman riddled with insecurities. 

“What you looking at, girl? Does my blush need a top up?”

“She’s overcharging and keeping the spare change. I know it.”

“Pull up the CCTV, Biggie. I wanna watch every fucking frame, yeah? I know I saw her stuffing that wrap down her bra.”

“She’s been my biggest earner for the past 6 months! And she wants to turn her back on me? ME? After all I’ve done for that ungrateful lil hussy? I’m her goddamn mother!”

“Pour me another, Daria. I’m sharper when I’ve thrown back some good bourbon. Don’t look at me like that, alright? I’ll be over that bar before you take ya next breath.”

A powerhouse like Pearly has many downfalls: That “last” line, “just another” drink, trusting a whore who flattered her way into Pearly’s good books… But her achilles heel? Her blinkered view of herself. It’s always everyone else’s problem. Always someone else’s fault. When everyone’s too scared to fracture Pearly’s selective memories, no one to challenge her paranoid ramblings, she’s left with no one to ground her when she’s flying high. Which is always, if you were wondering. 

More trivially, Pearly can tell a decent Burgundian Chardonnay with a good vintage by the bouquet alone. Ever more impressive considering her nose has been worn away from her love of good powder. Plus, she got an ear for the next big voice. The artists that grace the Soirée stage occasionally go on to become the next big thing… And promptly delete their stint at the underground bar from their history books. 

☞ 𝚁𝚞𝚒𝚗

 “You seen this? Cuba’s finest. These taste like Italian leather, a damn good coffee and… What is that flavour catching the back of my throat, there?… Oh. Cedar. Come closer. Smell it. Beautiful, huh? God, I love ‘em but I sure wish they smoked as easy as cigarettes. Damn thing just goes on for too long, don’t it? 

Anyways. I suppose a formal introduction ain’t really necessary. You’re from round here. You’re in my house. You know your way around, don’t cha? Ain’t many asscheeks in the city that haven’t found their way into one of Madam Pearly’s chairs. And I love that. You know why? Boy, do I love a party. And you know what makes a good party? People. But it’s not just the music, the martini glasses, the magic… I love it all. Think that’s my favourite part of this life, though, the people. Growing up just me and Mama started out real lonely. No other kids. No family. No Daddy. Could’ve been real lonely if this house weren’t always full of visitors. Always coming and going. Might as well have had a revolving door installed, the rate those hinges were squeakin’. All kindsa people come round here. We had em all. Daddies, Doctors, Lawyers, Dealers, Gunrunners… You name it! We got it. And I learned quick how to chat with anyone and everyone. Helped me turn this tongue silver, it really did. Girls say I’ve got the gift of the gab.

But, well, I didn’t get the education most of these Johns got, that’s for certain sure. Could’ve wound out dumb as a post if I hadn’t begged some of the old Dolls to teach me to read and write. And well, I never did enjoy my own company too much. Never really had to learn how to, neither. Mama’s Dolls was always around, braiding my hair and painting my toes. Guess they felt sorry for me, in a way. I always heard them whisperin’ bout how Mama shouldn’t be making me trick so young. But look at me now! Wouldn’t think it, would ya? Folks livin’ straight would probably drop dead if they knew what little Pearly had to do to get through! But here I am in a silk gown, Chanel red on my lips and 9 carats in my lobes. Got my friends Smith & Wesson in my garter and a duster in my drawer so I don’t need your sympathy, okay? That shit tastes cheap as Carignan. I want respect on my name and Washington’s in my pretty lil hands. You got that?

A good Madam is kinda like a headmistress, an overbearing mother and a husband. In my position, you gotta know how to stroke an ego like a lil’ kitty. Make em purr. It’s real easy. The hard part is keeping these Dolls in line. Some of em know the score good and proper… Others? Like herding sheep, I tell ya. And I don’t like marking my prized mules. You wouldn’t buy a bruised peach, would ya? So you gotta get real creative with them. Packets of good white, jewellery, designer clothes… Some of these Girls ain’t got two brain cells to rub together so I just dangle a pretty carat for em and they soon do as they’re told. Couple of them though? Tough as old boots. And they take a lil longer to break in… They all break in the end, though. Shit’s inevitable. And Pearly’s Girls are the John’s favourites for reason. It’s cos I’ve trained em good, honey. They know how to do just about anything, for anyone. One stop shop. Then those Johns go crawlin’ back to their boring lives and their boring wives for some missionary and apple pies. I know where I’d rather be fuckin’ sittin’.

Some Madams? They just ain’t got the balls, you know? Too busy squeezin’ em for shit scratch. No, I’ve got a big ol’ set of my own right here in my lacies. So yeah, I handle myself pretty good… And I let the Boys do the rest. Don’t like getting dirt under my fingernails unless I fancy it, see. But sometimes I do fancy it. Depends on which side of the bed I’m waking up on.”

☞ 𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚍

 • “You better not be keepin’ nothin’ back for yourself, baby. Madam finds out and she’ll take a toe. Know why she takes toes? So we still got ten fingers to grab dicks with.”

• “She’s got those Dogs wrapped round her pinky finger. God knows how much she’s paying em! Or maybe she’s blowin’ em good.” 

• “Madam in a good mood today? Or are we staying out of her way until she’s had a couple of lines to loosen up?”

• “Count it again. It can’t be short. We’ll be wrapped in tarpaulin if there’s a dime missin’”

• “No, not her. Can’t be her. She’s one of Pearly’s girls.”

• “I’m not going nowhere but Siorée. Everytime I try somewhere else the liquor and the pussy just don’t taste the same. I know, I know. Place is a shit heap. But it’s our shit heap, right? Just keep your head on a swivel and don’t make direct eye contact with the Madam. Medusa bitch’ll turn ya to stone.”

• “There’s gotta be a break in this investigation. Get Pearly Sackville on the phone. Now.”

• “I heard every girl who’s flown P’s nest winds up dead or disappeared. We’re here for life, baby. Guess it’s better than a cell, right? Least there’s good blow here.”

• “How much do you reckon it’ll take to get Pearly off the bench? I know her titties are saggin but I bet she’s a goer.” “Doubt you could afford her, pal.”

• “You know when Madams got a meeting with a snitch. She puts her ash trays away. Says a snitches skin puts out her cigars just fine.”

☞ 𝙸𝚕𝚔

𝙸 𝚂𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎

𝙸 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝙸 𝚆𝚊𝚜 𝙾𝚞𝚝

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Hidden 3 mos ago → 3 mos ago Post by enmuni

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enmuni

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Seen 23 hrs ago

Title
☞When her manager finally decides she isn’t worth the trouble, a disturbed child trafficker must grasp at every straw she finds to try to save herself and stay with her “kids.”
Face
☞
Name
☞Sunshine “Sunny”, aka Johannes “Jonni” Hautala
Age
☞27
Sex
☞Woman(***), *AMAB, **feminine-presenting, ***self-identified “Fairy Prince”  
Business
☞The only honest work Sunny’s ever had was her tour in Viet Nam. Before and since, she’s put in the hours in the only world she’s truly known. She was trafficked as a kid for sex, and while, make no mistake, she still “works for a living” as she’s called to, helps pick up stock as she happens upon it, and even dabbles in thuggery if an extra hand on a gun is what’s needed, most of her work is as the world’s best matron of the world’s worst combination orphanage-brothel. She keeps “her” kids fed, presentable, well-behaved, safe within reason, and ready to do their best for the lovely folks who pay the bills.
Savvy
☞Not just a talented love-bomber, Sunny also has an underappreciated ability to play bad cop with a smile. She’s no torture artist, but she knows a thing or two about waterboarding a POW into submission. War crimes aren’t the only thing she picked up in Viet Nam, though. She’s no gun nut, but she’s an impressively quick draw, and a respectable shot. She’s got the training for a real man who went to a real war, and even if she’s just a little thing in the end, it still counts for something if push comes to shove. If she ends up in the mud, she has a clue of how to get out. With her experience and admirable stamina from a lifetime of taking a beating from anyone who felt like giving her one, Sunny may be a doll, but she can handle more rough-and-tumble than first may seem. 
Ruin
☞Born the third of four to an unassuming Finnish-American family in Minnesota, Sunny never did fulfill expectations. So the nancy boy became a runaway, and ended up running right into the arms of the Nadolny crime family. With her handlers’ keen interest, her miserably low bars, and then a whole lot of drugs to ease things along, Sunny dove harder and deeper into the life than anyone expected, in search of less than many even consider. All things must change, though, and Sunny thought she could get away and take the life she left behind for a spin. Desperate for any taste of approval from her long-abandoned family, Sunny followed her older brothers to war, recklessly jumping into the unknown with both feet, just as she always had. Sunny learned a valuable lesson during her tour—that even she still had limits. And so, as soon as she was discharged, Sunny came running back with her tail between her legs. No longer a little girl, Sunny had to actually grow up this time. And grownups share their knowledge and their lessons with the next generation. She can’t imagine anything more fulfilling than caring for, nurturing, and teaching the next generation how to squeeze sugar out of lemons.
“Oh you’re serious, are ya? Yeah no for sure, I got time to chat. Awful sweet of you to ask. Just tell me to hush if you get bored. I dun mind, not at all.

So, guess I oughta start at the beginning, yeah? So I was born over in Esko. It’s a little town, bit outside-a Dulut’. Mama and Daddy got married when he came back from the War. They had my older brothers, then me, then my little brother, all that stuff. You know, nothin’ crazy or nothin’. Couldn’t say when the trouble with me started, really. I think I was just born wrong’r somethin’ like that. My older brothers used to beat me up for embarrassin’ them at school, ‘cause I just couldn’t stop “prancin’ around like a gosh darn fool,” they’d say. And then, Mama had locked up her closet by the time, oh, must’ve been when I was maybe five’r six? Anywho, you get the picture, dontcha? I was this little old disappointment back home, and I eventually got the message loud and clear. Shoot, Daddy stopped even spankin’ me about it. He’d say, “Well, what’s it gonna change?” to my Mama, and they’d just sigh and shake their heads. ‘Bout the only time they ever did smile at me was when I was up there in the church choir. I always had a pretty voice, you know. That for sure was the best time, singing in the church choir, wearing those pretty robes, lightin’ the candles, and all of that stuff. I remember hearing Mama and Daddy prayin’ one night, prayin’ I’d grow up and become a pastor. 

Never did work out for them, sad to say. Instead, when I was, oh—must’ve been nine?—I up and left. I still remember those couple-a days pretty well. That’s when I met my fairy godparents, so to speak. Anywho, that Sunday I’d gotten the idea that I’d steal a cassock. I hid it in my backpack and waited ‘till my brothers had gone out to play, thinkin’ I’d have some time to play dressup by myself. I fooled with it some, cut the collar, put on a belt to make the waist nice, and I tell you, for a nine year old, I think I made a pretty little dress out of it. I was havin’ a nice little time until Mama walked in on me and screamed to high heavens seein’ those pieces of the cassock on the ground and me in my little getup. I dunno what got into me, but I just ran. I slipped past her, kept on runnin’ into the woods, and followed the road into Dulut’. I slept alone, cold, and hungry in a ditch somewhere outside-a Dulut’ that night. The next day, I tried my best to clean myself up, but I was just a little mess, dontcha know. I thought about goin’ back, but what was I gonna do? Tell the pastor I’d stolen and messed up one of his nice cassocks? Face Daddy and my brothers after running around like I was, a little cryin’ mess? Yeah no I wasn’t up for that. 

But I guess I got lucky that day, because a nice man spotted me, asked if I needed help, and when he asked if I needed help getting home and I told him I couldn’t go home, he invited me to come with him, get me cleaned up, fed, and all that stuff. Mister Machij—he said his name was—was all smiles when he saw me, like he actually liked what he was lookin’ at. Of course, he thought I was a little girl, with the way he talked to me. Boy was he surprised when he got me stripped down to take my bath! I remember, he looked at me, asked me questions, and scratched his chin like I was sayin’ some interestin’ things. But he never got mad. 

Well, anywho, at some point, he was finished lookin’ me up and down, and just said “Okay then.” Then, while I was gettin’ dry and puttin’ on my towel, I heard him on the phone with someone. I dun remember all of it, but I remember he kept talkin’ about a “pretty boy,” speakin’a me, of course. And I dunno, I was just all smiles and blushes when I heard that! Me! Pretty! And he told the person on the other end of the line, “You’re gonna wanna see this one,” still speakin’ of me. So later that night, I had these two standing around me, arms crossed, nodding like they’d discovered something. I was a discovery! Mister Machij introduced me to his cousin, Missus Orta Nadolny. 

Really, they just had one big question for me. Did I like feeling pretty? Did I want to feel pretty—and be pretty—all-a the time? Of course I did! I still do! I was so enthusiastic, they made arrangements that night. Missus Orta got me all made up, put me in a pretty little getup, and then we got in Missus Orta’s car, and we drove down to Minnenoona that night. And there, I got to meet the man who made me: Missus Orta’s husband, Mister Juro Nadolny.

Now, don’t you get me wrong, as excited as I was at first, the first year was hard. I’ve always been so little, you know, and earnin’ my keep took a whole lot of gettin’ used to, for sure. I still wasn’t supposed to cry, except when a visitor wanted it, and it’s hard not to cry when something hurts. But some of them, boy, they looked at me like they wanted me to be there. They wanted me there, bein’ pretty for them, and some of them would even tell me so. I started gettin’ little gifts sometimes—stuff I actually wanted, too! Y’know, I got in trouble one time for cryin’ and huggin’ a guy who brought me a little necklace! 

But, I did get spooked by a couple of things, though. There were other boys there; it wasn’t just me. My bunkie was a guy named, oh gee, it’s been so long. Cripes. Eh, his name was…well they called him Cookie, but his name was…Carl! I’m so sorry; it’s been over ten years since I seen him! Hope he’s doin’ okay. Anywho, where was I? Right, so Carl—Carl, he was a couple years older’n me, and he started growin’ up, y’know, as boys do. Golly, I was never so upset in my life than when I asked him why his voice was soundin’ so funny, and he explained that whole business about boys and girls to me. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind men one bit; I just couldn’t wrap my head around becomin’ one. It felt like I was lookin’ at my death when he started showin’ off his whosit to me.

So of course, I went and got myself in trouble again. This time, it was for wakin’ Missus Orta up. But I s’ppose I was cryin’ my eyes out so hard that she needed to get the gist of what was goin’ on before she decided who was in trouble. It must’ve took…oh geez…it must’ve took ten minutes at least before she could get a real word outta me. But when I finally got it out, all that business about how I dint wanna grow up and become some awful hairy old man, how I wanted to stay a pretty little boy, how I wanted to be pretty forever, she finally stopped me and asked me, “Do you want to be a pretty boy? Boys have to turn into men.” Boy was that a thinker. I s’ppose I took too long to say something, ‘cause she stood up, put her hands on my shoulders, and asked me different. “How bad do you want to be pretty?” she said.

And as for me? It’s all I’ve ever wanted. I was snotty and puffy in my face and she wiped me up, pointed me to the mirror, and told me to tell myself how much I wanted it. What can I say? I’d give the world and somethin’ more to be frozen even longer as a little pretty flower, just like Sleeping Beauty. So you betcha I begged her to let me stay pretty. Oh, I begged and begged. And then when I started gettin’ hysterical about it, she just put her finger on my mouth, and told me if I wanted to be pretty, I’d need to act the part too. If I wanted to be the prettiest little doll in the house, I’d need to act like the prettiest little doll. If I could do it, she could talk with Mister Juro and see about keeping me pretty. I dunno if my eyes have ever gone wider. I had to blink so hard to stop crying when she held my face and told me to keep the smile and hold the tears. She was so right. She said I could keep my little giggle though, within reason!

It wasn’t easy, though. Beauty hurts, no doubt about it. Missus Orta was clear about that. We’d already done all that business with plucking eyebrows and waxing peach fuzz off of every bit of me to make me smooth like a little dolly, sometimes even a bit of skin bleach in there to keep me perfect and porcelain. But anywho, we eventually had a talk about what else staying a little-bitty pretty thing involved. Now, I for sure missed getting as many sweets as Carl and the other boys, but as they got bigger and I stayed so little, I had to thank Missus Orta for telling the other boys they could take my desserts and dinners! I wonder sometimes if I could’ve done even better if I was real good and never gave Carl a hand with his whosit so he’d let me have a taste of his sweets. And lucky for me, the hunger pangs also helped distract me from the hard part of the next big step. 

I just kept on bein’ good, doin’ as I was told, givin’ everybody who walked in whatever they wanted with a big old smile on my face, and soon enough, they got a vet in to fix me for good. While he was givin’ me a look over before the surgery, he told me it wasn’t any different than what he’d do for a cat or a dog, or a little lamb. And cripes, those poor critters! It for sure did hurt like the dickens. But golly, wouldn’t ya know it, but I still dint just have the dumbest little grin even while my eyes teared up. They even took my pictures! I got to keep a copy of them, for keepsakes. Oh! I still have them in my purse! Lookie here! There’s me all prettied up in my little surgical gown. And, eh, ope! I’ll skip these; I dun think you wanna see the bloody part, do you? But then, isn’t that cute? We got one of me kissing the boys goodbye, and another of me thanking the doctor with a little kiss after he stitched me up! Wasn’t I just the cutest little thing back then?

Anywho, after that, since we dint wanna risk any infection or make a big old mess cauterizing it, I had to take a little longer of a break than we would’ve liked, and so instead of my normal stuff, Missus Orta put me to work counting money in Mister Juro’s office and other little odd jobs I could do while laying on the couch with a pack of frozen greens. I think that’s when he took a liking to me. He’d give me “homework” while he was out. I learned all sorts of songs to sing for him. He started calling me his pretty little jukebox! And then, by the time I got walking again, I guess Mister Juro really had taken a shine to me, so he kept me working for him during the day even when I went back to doing my normal nighttime stuff. Gosh, I guess it was around then that they had me start calling them Tata and Mamusha, yeah. 

So then, after that, Mamusha gave me another gift. We call them my pretty pills. There’s some proper fancy names for them, for sure, but, shoot, I can never remember them off the top of my head. Ope! Ah, eh. Geez Louise! I’ve went and gone red in the face, haven't I? Sorry, I’m just blushin’ like a gosh-darn schoolgirl thinkin’ about this part. Excuse me. I, uh, I always forget how it still gets me all giddy when I think about all those days. So I—I guess—Well, you know, I just ended up this hot little mess for years! So, back then, I got bonus pretty pills as treats when I volunteered to put in the extra hours, and boy, were they just a bucket of fun! I was totally freakin’ gone, for sure, but I had a blast. I got to feel all warm and fuzzy inside and full of butterflies whenever I got the extra ones, and all I had to do was be my wonderful self for whoever Mamusha and Tata introduced me to. Golly, it was like the best dream ever. Everyone was so groovy when I had all that stuff in me. I was showerin’ in sunshine, I tell you what! Golly, I never did understand why the others were always fussin’ for extra scratch for themselves when our people were so much happier to just pretty us up extra instead. The only thing that ever did get a bee in my bonnet was when the others were being downers like that. I always told them, if they’d just relax and enjoy being decked out and adored, they couldn’t help but to smile! Shoot, my bonus pretty pills had me feeling so pretty on the inside that nothing even hurt until the next day! What’s not to love?

Those were the good years, for sure. I still miss them every day! But it’s my fault, really. I got spooked and did something stupid and spoiled the good days for myself. You see, by the time I was gettin’ to be seventeen, we had to start talking about my future. For sure, I was fine for now, but who could say how long I’d stay in my prime? Once you’re grown, the clock is ticking, and you have to have that conversation about how nothing stays fresh forever, not even you. So for sure, there was a future for me somewhere, but Mamusha and Tata were moving on, hoping to move up on outta the childcare business. They were clear with me; they said nothing lasted forever, they sure did. And, well gosh darn it, but Mister Klimant and I just never have had that same special bond. I mean, dun get me wrong, I did my best for him, gave him a smile, rocked my hips how he told me—all that business. But everyone has their favorites, I guess. And it just broke my little heart knowing my days as the favorite were over. I just got that sinkin’ feelin’ I hadn’t felt since I was just a little thing, you know? And I dunno. I guess I was sobering up for real then, and havin’ a real bad time of it, and I got it in my head that I needed to go home, say I was sorry for causin’ that trouble, and to tell them that I found my place and not to worry about me. Close up all that sad kiddie business before movin’ on up to grown-up stuff, you know?

So like the dummy I was, I snuck out a bit after I turned eighteen. I hitchhiked back to Esko, found the family home, and who opens the door but one of my big brothers. He decked me when I went in to hug him, of course. Took less convincing than I thought for the family to believe it was me. Gosh, Daddy jumped out of his chair and swore like I’d never heard before when he saw me. Mama just couldn’t even make eye contact. Daddy told me he had three sons. That I was as good as dead. I begged him, you know, to give me a shot to prove I loved him. And he looked like he’d seen a ghost. He gave me an earful about how his oldest boy was a CO stuck in the jungles, about how his second boy had just gotten drafted, and asked me what the hell kinda man I thought I was. So I told him I’d do my best to do him proud for once, go out on a high note this time. He was so surprised he laughed. Said he’d never in a million years believe a fairy freak like me could even make it through the basic training. And dontcha know, we shook on it. He, eh, washed his hands afterwards, but he had this funny smile on his face like he couldn’t believe a bit of it. That I even felt a little bit bad for makin’ all that trouble and shame for him and everybody.

So then, Mama fished out my birth certificate and my documents, and then Daddy brought me to the enlistment office the very next day. My brother was fit to burst when the enlistment officer commented that I was enlisting and he was drafting. For sure, Daddy made it clear that this was “the last shot to straighten me out,” but the boys there thought the entire thing was so hilarious that I don’t imagine he ever heard the end of it from his platoon.

Shoot, I dunno how I managed it, but I did. Good golly, it was bad for my everything, but wouldn’t you know it, the only places I fell actual dead last in were the categories-a height, and weight. The couple of guys who did worse than me, boy, it must’ve been awful bad for them. But anywho, as long as we were on U.S. soil, things were rough, for sure, but I like to think I put on a brave face. The hardest part by far was being bare-faced and in those frumpy old uniforms. I could handle the yelling and hurtin’ all over after a hard day, even if the day was hard for different reasons than I was used to. But good golly, sometimes I looked in the mirror and just saw that same sad little boy I’d run away as. It always hurt my heart somethin’ terrible. And I really shouldn’t have run off without my pretty pills, let me tell you what. I had hot flashes like an old lady the whole darn time!

Well, eventually, deployment came. And…look. Here’s what I can say. I did my best. I did what I was told. I put on a smile every day, made sure not to cry—did all that same stuff I did back home to make everyone’s day a little better. And, well, I guess somewhere along the way I screwed up and some of the men figured me out. Well, enough so, anyway. I guess that’s when I realized I missed all the attention I used to get something terrible. I gotta hand it to the guys there—they ran a tight ship. Usually it’s tough for groups to keep a secret, but I guess they were so thrilled at not having to slum it in the Saigon brothels and having me right there whenever they felt like it that they kept their best behavior. Shoot, Glenn even got attached enough to treat me like a person. He gave me a real “date” and a gift now and again—something more than just jerking me around and dragging me into some quiet corner to get one out of their system. So, I mean, I guess it wasn’t all entirely unfamiliar. I mean, I won’t lie. It was awful. Everything hurt before the boys got onto me, and then it was everything inside and outside that hurt. But sometimes they’d mumble things while they were doing what they wanted, and maybe some of those words were more them pretending I was something I couldn’t be than anything genuine from their hearts. But sometimes, after a long day of that awful jungle, hearing I was seriously for-realsies good for something, hearing I sounded pretty, any-a that—cripes, sometimes even the less gentlemanly stuff felt like it was keepin’ my heart in one piece some days.

So I guess Viet Nam did set me straight, just maybe not in the same sorta way it was probably meant to. I’m no good anywhere else. I know that now. The one time I really tried to do my real blood family proud, I ended up back in the same shoes, but prancin’ around with that name they wanted to keep clean. So I just left them a letter sayin’ I was awful sorry for bein’ a whole bunch-a trouble, and came back to Minnenoona as fast as I could. And gosh, I must’ve spent the next couple of years apologizing to everybody. But for old time’s sake, Mister Juro and Missus Orta did end up askin’ Mister Klimant to give me a second chance. I dunno how many times I’ve kissed them all to thank them. I mean, yeah, I was too old to work as a kid. I still had people who’d been missin’ me, don’t get me wrong, but this just wasn’t my woods anymore. So I had to pull my weight in other ways too. I never imagined I’d have a maternal bone in my body—how could I, right? But wouldn’t you know it, I found myself looking at all those little scared darlings and thinkin’, by golly, I could put some smiles on these little faces. Teach them how to be happy like I was, you know? I just can’t help it! I looked at those blank canvases and I knew I could help get some pretty smiles pasted all around. So that’s what I’ve been doing. We take in poor little rejects and make little angels of them, ready to be plucked out of the sky and loved. We grew up ignored. We grew up despised. But here? We can be the belles of the ball—the centres of attention. We can be adored! We can be desired! And every little darling I can teach to embrace these perfect years is an angel I’ve given wings.

Sure yeah, there have been bumps in the road. Mister Klimant says I’m too generous, that I spend too much “gussying up these little whores,” he says. So I have to compromise, really, a whole lot more than I’d like. I can only make real angels out of the very best of my kids. The rest, we just can’t afford to make them as perfect as I know they could be. It’s just plain hard times these days, you know? It hurts my heart to say, but we’ve had to cut back on who we can take in and how much we can do. Sometimes I just can’t help but to open my own purse and my boudoir when I catch a promising find. And you know, sometimes we pick wrong—we do; nobody’s perfect. I’ve had my share of tough little cookies. And when they won’t budge, what can you do? Sometimes you’ve just gotta break them down to build them back up. I’d rather not do it, for sure, but sometimes a wet rag is what you need to melt that hard shell they’ve made around their poor little hearts. 

I want this thing we’re doing to be growing. I want to make as many angels out of raggamuffins as I can. I’m sure we can do it. We just need to try harder.”
Cred
☞“Say what you will, but that thing’s been raising some damn good whores.”
“It’s the blind leading the blind over there. The little sluts want silk dresses? In this economy?”
“There’s a whole lot of things about that Sunny that’re hard to believe. It’s hard to believe someone who looks like that is a dude, and it’s hard to believe a chick that acts like a disney princess runs a fucking chomo ring.”
“Something ain’t right in that head of hers. I’ll bet they fried her back in the sixties and we’re just now seeing it.”
“No, seriously. She was in the military.”
“You gotta wonder how an airhead like that keeps that operation running.”
“Fuck, I thought she was one of the kids!”
“I don’t care what the brats want. Tell that stupid blonde not to waste the good perfume on them unless the clients ask for it.”
“Seeing her with those kids, it’s like seeing fuckin’ Mary Poppins run a goddamned child brothel.” 
Ilk
☞I STILL LOVE THE LIFE
Death by a thousand cuts. Gambling debts, drug habits, a need to impress, or plain-and-simple expensive tastes—something, or a combination of things, puts a continual drain on your resources, ever threatening your precious high-roller lifestyle. You don't simply want the plan to succeed; it has to, or you can kiss the fast cars the slim girls the fat diamond rings goodbye (those and whatever else matters). This addiction will noseblind you to risks the others can smell from three miles off. And where they've hedged and folded and tactically retreated, you'll always—always—gather up your dice to triple down.

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Hidden 3 mos ago Post by Mole

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𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝙽𝚊𝚔𝚊𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚊

Title
☞A half-Japanese rocker and drug dealer spirals through addiction while trying to solve a legacy that refuses to add up.
Age
☞37
Sex
☞Male
Business
☞He’s the broken-hearted-can’t-land-a-gig-musician to some; the can’t-get-a-job-to-help-support-the-children-bum-of-an-ex-husband to others; the didn’t-make-it-to-my-birthday-party-again-this-year-deadbeat-dad to his children. And to most, the-chink-eyed-guy-with-the-decent-hookups-but-rarely-answers-his-door-drug-dealer
Savvy
☞“Hey, chink-eyes! I’ve got five fingers.” The big, red haired boy folded several of his fingers. “I takin’ away four, now how many d’yah see?” 
       The math was a no brainer. It always would be. His mind had the answer before the boy even finished his question.
       The same amounts the private part hiding in his pants. 
       The same amount of guns his father used to shoot his brains out on that day before school let out for the semester.
      The same amount of parents he still had alive.  
      If there were that many things he was good at in school — things that pushed him through the grades — it was math. He had to know his digits. Somebody in that house had to.
      And if his white mom knew anything, at least that same amount of it wasn’t math. 
      For people who ran the place, white people sure came up with the dumbest questions.
Ruin
☞His father was a No-No boy. Enough. No more needs to be said. It was a mess from the beginning. When Johnny came on scene, his father was like a dog with his tail between his legs. 
      And his low-on-the-totem-pole Greek wife might have had the same sense if she’d answered the way he did, when he got on one knee after knowing her for three days.
     Their marriage wasn’t even allowed in all of the states, and the slurs were never-ending. His height didn’t show until the bullying had taken its toll, and his father finally left without any last kiss or goodbye but a bag of regrets.
      All they had was some lady who was married to the man who was son of the woman his grandmother’s brother married. So, in other words, she worked in a Greek diner. And he wasn’t fucking Greek. 
      Chink eyed. Four eyed. Razor-straight haired. Ink-dark eyebrowed. Low-bridged nosed.
      Except his mom wasn’t aging like other Asians’ moms did. She didn’t talk like other Asians’ moms did. To matters worse, she took him to that God-awful Greek Church where everything was in some language no one spoke anymore.
      And the other Asians said he smelled like something from the Mediterranean. 
     The other Asians said his math didn’t add up. He wasn’t the same amount as them.
     But he could play the guitar. And damn, if Elvis Presley and Woody Guthrie didn’t send him in the right direction when he was in a funk. He met some other people who also liked rock n’roll. They liked playing instruments. They also liked taking drugs. And better, they didn’t give a slick about what amount of anything Johnny was, ‘cept that when he spoke numbers he was talkin’ marijuana cigarette's. 
      And well, you can do the math from here.
      Or maybe you can’t. It don’t matter. I’ll do it for you.
      There’s something about a man seeking stardom that makes a young and stupid white girl’s heart swoon. Yah know the kind. The one with blonde hair and blue eyes. She’ll probably stop at a nuclear family amount of children. And then do the man dirty when he can’t support her lifestyle. Her friends tell her she can do better.
      And now she does.
      Did you guess right? He’s got two additions that require a bill he pays to his ex-wife every month.
      Don’t help that he never sees them anymore.
      Nothing ever amounts to much. 
      But sometimes the deals do.
Cred
☞Word on the street he’s got a new girl. Looks young enough to be his kid. With those Orientals, though, it’s hard to tell. Doesn’t matter. His stuff is clean. Guy can eye the weight without a scale. Just looks at it. Calls it. Dead on.
      Except when he doesn’t. He impresses you with his amount and then slowly starts chipping away. Got to watch him like a hawk. Who do you think turned him in last time? Might have been because of his anger. Gets it real bad sometimes.
     And then, there’s guitar.
     Those riffs get heavy.
Ilk
☞COULD'A HAD CLASS (or, YOU THINK I'M FUNNY?)
You've been a loser for as long as you can remember. You know it, your old man knows it, the local parishioner knows it, but you'll suck a barrel before you let any random schmuck on the street know it, too. Extremely sensitive to being dismissed, underestimated, condescended, ball-busted, you've got something to prove, and stashed in your waistline or your ankle holster or your coat pocket is just the right tool for the task. In your perpetual quest to prove you're tough (valuable, respected, &c.), someone always, eventually, either puts you up to a challenge from which you cannot back down, or levels an insult you don't have it in you to ignore. You will escalate; you will go too far; and what could have been solved with some slick words and a few greased palms you will instead solve through disproportionate violence. You're the closer of doors, the burner of bridges, and the kicker-off of monstrous, deadly vendettas.
A HARMLESS VICE
Whether it's a pill, a powder, or a needle, you're hopelessly and viciously hooked on one or another chemical. A chemical which doesn't sharpen you up anymore the way it used to. A chemical which makes you paranoid and antsy and irritable at the best of times. You're off the job for sure if the bosses find out. Maybe you'll O.D. before it gets to that, but likelier there will be others counting on you to hold steady, and instead you'll crack like a dinnerplate, sweating shaking panicking all the while.

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Hidden 3 mos ago → 3 mos ago Post by Bork

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Bork Struggle On

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 With the shadow of fratricide of fratricide on his shoulders, a lone gun runner tangles with his newfound reputation while being hounded by a detective out for his blood.
 
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Peter 'Pike' O'Malley

⁍ name: Peter 'Pike' O'Malley 

⁍ age: 31

⁍ sex: Male

⁍ business

No, I am not fucking with you. I don't mean the butcher on 44th. You know, the fishmonger on North Street. The one with the big signboard and the - How have you schmucks not heard of Mack and Peters before?  Didn't Larry give you the deets? Look, you want your M14s, you get them from a guy called Pike. Knock on the door. Say it's a special order for 20 pounds of steelhead and sockeye. He'll handle the rest.

How can you trust them? Buddy, you trust me to hook you up with the job and you don't trust my partners? What do you mean vetted- for fuck's -  alright, alright. Let's start at the beginning. Book of Genesis. Mack and Peters is something of a train stop in Mininoona ever since it opened 15 years ago. Place was a former oyster bar before the two of them bought it. Everyone stops by there at least once, both regular people and ,uh, people of your unique persuasion. Owners are two brothers - well, used to be owned. Goes by the name of Peter O'Malley. Regular irish guy. No prison record. Just your average neighborhood fishmonger to the cops and feds. 

Now, the guy we're talking about here, Pike, only deals in high quality hardware, no cheap Saturday Night Specials or cheap backalley knockoffs here. Strict procedure, strict rules which is why you really need to ask for the damn special order, get me? He operates by the book for a good reason. Never been caught over 15 years. Not once. You only get to know the guy through connects. No open street deals, nothing. It's a fucking bother but it's the price of doing business.

Any more questions? 

Oh, what happened with the other brother?

Eh, Pike killed him. 

Nah, I'm not gonna elaborate. He got wasted. Yeah, kind of fucked up. Now, you guys gonna give me my cash? 

Mack and Peter's sells cod and mussels to law abiding citizens by day and bullets and rifles to scoundrels and thugs by night. It's a carefully manufactured illusion that Pike and his now deceased brother, Mackenzie 'Muskie' O'Malley, have been maintaining for 15 years, using it to launder the money acquired from their black market arms dealership. Pike primarily uses the store as his primary base of operations and rarely conducts any business outside of it, preferring in-person meetings to using intermediaries or runners. Ever since Muskie died, Pike has had to hire a small trusted crew of staff composed of delivery men, butchers and store assistants to take care of logistical as well as 'assist' with his black market dealings every now and then. With his brother's death, Pike also now carries the responsibility of directly negotiating and philandering with representatives from various criminal organisations in Mininoona.

⁍ savvy

Caution, care and craft are the three underlying principles that Pike operates by. Salesmanship and a encyclopediac knowledge of firearms were both things Muskie and Pike knew but Pike distinguished himself in his ability as an professional gunsmith, thanks to his time handling gun runs for the Irish Mob. Automatic conversions, handloading, rekitting, custom modifications, you name it, Pike probably has done it at a premium price. Pike isn't some expert house painter but he can handle himself confidently in a firefight if push comes to shove. 

⁍ ruin

First time I saw a gun? Don't get many clients that ask that question everyday. Normally, I'd say fuck off but well, I guess I don't have the energy for that. Well, since we're closing down now and I'm almost done oiling your Beretta, I think I'll start from the beginning. The relevant beginning. Don't feel as though you'll get every detail. Even I struggle to remember that sometimes.

You probably know my dad and my mom owned that little oyster bar out by Milwaukee. The one where the Chicagoans went to. You wouldn't have remembered it but they called it the - The Little Pearl, that's right, the one by the lake harbor. Noisy. That's how I remembered it but most bars in town were like that, full of piss drunk blue collars, divorcees and anyone who wanted oyster shots. The basement though was a different story altogether. Yeah, that's how the Chicago Outfit was trafficking all their goods, some little quaint northeast oyster bar. Mom and Dad managed to put me and my brother through school with all that 'tax' they were raking in. My mother didn't want no life of crime for me or Muskie but Dad thought it would give us a taste of the real world. My brother took to it like fish to a water but I was the more reluctant one. Still, it didn't help that my brother came back home with a couple of hundreds every week, bragging on the dinner table about stories of the day. Those days were peaceful. Sure, I had to see my dad get beat up every so often by the odd drunk mobster who thought he could have his way but I was young and dumb. My brother gave me toys afterschool that he bought from the cornershop, my dad brought me fishing and my mom made me good chowder. The bar was shit but my family wasn't shit compared to all the other stories you hear of guys with deadbeat drunks for dads.

I gotta confess, I was afraid Muskie would leave me behind, go off on his own, but he wasn't one to leave me behind. It was a Saturday that I saw my first gun. I was twelve, then. Walking home after 5. Detention or late choir practice, I can't remember correctly. All that I was thinking around that time was homework and doing crappy 5 dollar bets on Brewers games. My brother dragged me off to some little crackhouse den to see some open trunk deal going on. Some Italian mafioso was bragging about a couple of new european guns they got in through Long Island. They were Walthers, if I remember correctly. Couple of P-38's, a PPK, hell, I even remember a Luger. Muskie started talking about how this was the next big thing, about how the feds were ostriches in the sand and that this was a business opportunity. The question was whether I would take it or wait for another one to arrive. You can guess which one I took.

Those years, man. Those damn three years. We rolled with the Irish from Chicago first given we knew most of them back from Mom and Dad's joint. The Italians came after and we learnt the finer points of subtlety from them and I picked up a few tricks of the trade from this underground gunsmith, Old Smitty. Rumour had it he worked for Remington during WW2 before he joined the Sicilian Mafia. Times were good, we were rolling in the cash and then, the music stopped. The fucking ATF, I forgot whether it was some dumbass dealer mouthing off or a fink, but the IRS and the ATF busted down the doors to my Mom and Dad's operation. I was 15 and Muskie just turned 18. He took custody of me while my parents got 30 years in jail each. I still visit them from time to time. Mom managed to get out for a brief period for Muskie's service. Dad died of prostate cancer in jail. 

There was nothing in Milwaukee for us anymore so we packed all our belongings and took a trip down to Mininoona. Bought us a place up in cash at the northwest, little abandoned lot that used to be a department store. It was a tough couple of months, wading through all the scalpers who gave us crates full of ice instead of fish and learning our way around the neighborhood but we settled our feet in around '65. Muskie did most of the legwork. He had contacts I didn't know of from Milwaukee all the way to Atlanta, guys who gun runned heat all the way from Mexico, Europe and China. I did the repairs, the assembly, the sales when Muskie couldn't do them. Pretty soon, we felt fucking invincible. We had guys coming to us, the cops never suspected a thing and everything ran like clockwork. 

Until Muskie started gambling and playing the lots. Yeah, that dumbfuck started buying sweepstakes and taking bets that no one else would. Yeah, the same Muskie, I know. He hid it well but eventually, he couldn't hide it from me. He started getting into these debts, big ones, and then, I had to.....

Goddammit, I've said too much.

You know what happens next. There's nothing else.  Would you even believe anything I said? 

Here's the facts. Muskie's six feet under right now. And I'm  still here.

Ah, almost forgot to give this back to you. It'll be eighty.  Have a good evening.

⁍ cred

" Dude, that business with Muskie. Horrible. Horrible. Even I - and you know who I am - wouldn't do that. "

" Please, I get better hardware from my grandma next door! One of the pieces he sold to me, a friggin' Colt, jammed in the middle of a robbery! 

" Hah, what a friggin' pushover! I don't trust this guy to push my product. He's a wimp, a loser, he drove my friggin cousin's ford for nickles and pennies!" 

" Used to be a better sweet-talker when he was doing runs back up north. We had a fun night together that Halloween but I don't kiss and tell." 

" I don't care what anyone says. That fucker killed Muskie and I'm gonna prove it one way or the other, mark my words. "

" Drove with him once when we were making a gun run to Michigan. Wasn't much of a talker but did always went on and on about going down south, where it's warmer. Guess we all had dreams at one point. "

" Something's off about Muskie's murder, man. The two of them always got along. Guess it goes to show that even family can rat on you."

⁍ ilk

THOUGHT I WAS OUT

Someone from your criminal past—a former crime boss, a parole officer, an old associate—still has you on the books. They say you owe them big, and you're in no position to dissent. (Work with the GM to determine who this person is and your exact relationship therewith: do you help grudgingly or eagerly? Because they're levering rock-solid blackmail or because they once pulled your ass off the fire big-time? Is this—on paper, at least—a mutually beneficial business arrangement, a debt not yet conciliated, or more akin to good old-fashioned coercion?) This person has a habit of asking for a costly favor at the most inconvenient possible time. You always tell them this is the last time. But you already know they'll keep calling. And god damn you, you'll keep picking up.

" Hey, Pike. Just a regular  reminder that you still owe me for what happened that night, you know, the night with Muskie. You're on the straight and level with that last payment but just so we're clear: don't even think of going near her house, understand? 

AIN'T NOTHING LIKE A HOUND DOG

You always gotta be watching over your back in this line of work. Sometimes, a certain someone stares back at you, someone with an itch or a vendetta. It could be the widow of the husband you murdered in a wind-swept alleyway, a Pinkerton who suspects your innocent looking facade to be a front for criminal activity or a rival gang member looking to off you. They won't act against you out in the open but they'll take the opportunity to surprise you in any moment of calm. 

" Good morning. I'm  Agent Fisher of the ATF Bureau. Ma'am, I'd just like to ask you a few questions if you have the time. Oh, no worries, if you were in any real trouble, I doubt a small cig shop like this could hide much. Now, do you happen to know any one by the name of Mackenzie O'Malley? Died recently, you say? When? Mhm. Does he have any relatives? A brother....Peter O'Malley. Wife and children, you say? No, that'll be all. I have more than enough. You have a good day too."

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Hidden 3 mos ago Post by JFK

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Two punks thought they could skip without paying for treatment. Now Joe needs to go out and uphold his reputation, lest the street thugs start thinking they can use him as a doormat.


Joseph 'Joe' McGabhann | 58 | 5'9 | Male
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Business: Joe McGabhann is the owner and head physician at the Waggy Tails Emergency Veterinary clinic. He has multiple employees that manage the legal side of the business. He makes plenty of money off of the vet business. On paper, he's doing most of the managerial work. In reality, his assistant manager Becca runs the business. Joe is present to operate the illicit side of the emergency clinic. Any criminal worth their salt knows that Joe is the guy to go to in order to get a bullet hole stitched up without any questions asked. He's been doing this for a decade now. He is required to prioritise the criminals working for big bosses. The Irish come first, and then the Italians, and then the rabble. He refuses to treat blacks, Hispanics, or known jews unless they can pull the right strings with Joe's higher ups. There are plenty of nights when he'll have five grown men waiting about the back alley with bullet holes, and no animals in the waiting room. Despite their shady dealings, the clinic is still popular among various well-to-do pet owners of Minninoona.
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Savvy: Aside from his obvious medical skill, Joe knows his way around a handgun. On the rare occasion he meets up with his buddies, they usually go to the range and shoot the shit. He has a couple pieces he prizes, and a couple pieces he wields. He can legally concealed carry. He also bakes a mean pineapple upside down cake. He drives.
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Ruin: Joe grew up in a happy family. He was lucky enough that his dad didn't hit him or his mother; despite the fact that Joe's dad was a Union Teamster. The man was involved in a lot of shady dealings that Joe was never privy to. He excelled in school, mostly because of his mother's encouragement and the relatively positive environment he was raised in. He loved animals, so he decided to become a vet. 
Any robber worth their salt knows to visit a vet if they want a bullet hole patched up without questions asked. During his first year of practice some thug named Curt paid him a visit. After pressuring him with his iron, Joe reluctantly agreed to patch her up. He learnt to carry a strap after that. Pretty quickly, word got out within the underworld that the city had a new fixer vet that wouldn't snitch. Joe was unsure about getting involved in the life, but he appreciated the money so he didn't protest too much. After a few years he had enough money to buy out the clinic. He moved himself up and out of regular treatment and began too focus on his new specialisation. By the time he was ready to wrap up the operation he was informed that he was too useful to the syndicates for him too retire from the life. He was locked in now. 
Sometime after he bought the place out, the war broke out. He would've been a bad fit for the draft. But Joe's particular skills made him desirable to some bigheads in the army. They fast-tracked him through bootcamp by calling him a PQO or something (he wouldn't have survived bootcamp otherwise, he was already into his 40s). After that, they flew him out to the jungle where he spent nearly half a decade operating on the few thousand attack dogs they had there. It was a pretty cushy position compared to most of the fellas that got stuck in the jungle. But he still saw some nasty shit. Mostly mangled dog remains, but that still sticks with a man.
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Cred: 
"The doc patches up a bullet hole real good."
"He ain't talkin', we know where he lives. He's got two cute kids."
"I heard he keeps a .38 in his desk. Just pay him dawg, it's not worth it. Especially if you're already beat up."
"No Reg, he can't retire. Who else will fix our boys up after they take a slug? His mouth is sealed shut. Go and have a chat with him. Make sure we're on the same page."
"Don't go in the front door bleeding, the bitch at reception will just tell you to go to hospital. You gotta knock on the back door and know the magic words."
"I swear I saw the doc hanging out with that fairy faggot. You think he's a sick fuck or too dense to know that the chick has a dick?"
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Ilk: 
Family Man: He realised too late how easy it was to track down his loved ones. Two kids, the oldest is in college. And his wife. It's rare to find someone with the expertise that is willing to turn a blind eye to whatever underhanded wounds they might have. If Joe tries to leave, him and his family are in mortal danger. On occasion, he's had some close calls with his clever wife looking into some of his underhanded dealings. But so far, she doesn't really know what he gets up to.
A Harmless Vice: Over the years Joe has sampled the medication. He's gotten a taste for escaping from reality with substances when he has the chance. He'll do ketamine if he doesn't have anything else, but Cocaine is his favourite. He also has a soft spot for whores of all varieties.

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Hidden 1 mo ago Post by Fiber

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Title
☞He was a bully hiding behind a police badge, stacking up illicit cash and enemies he knew wouldn't dare touch him, but now that he's off the force, he has no friends, no steady income, no restraints, and plenty of foes. 
Name
☞Michael “Mikey” Dambrauskas
Age
☞43
Sex
☞Male
Business
☞At this moment, Mikey has no full time employment. He still has some part time work as a security guard at the rougher bars around town, but that isn’t enough to pay his mortgage. When he was a cop, he had some good sources of extra dollars, seizing cash from people that looked like they were up to no good, making drugs go missing from the evidence locker, collecting a “good will donation” from local businesses that either wanted more or less attention from the cops. If you knew him well, then for the right price he’d give you a tip off when police action was on the way or let you peek at some files, for real pals he’d have a conversation with someone who needed a bit of a reminder (no actual violence unless they were dumb enough to take a swing at a cop). A few times, when he spotted something real juicy in a store window, he’d come by at night and do a nice smash and grab followed by fencing the goods. Not much of that money was saved up, because whenever it was good, it was time for sports bets, rounds of beer for the boys, and some gifts to make him look like a bigshot with the ladies. 
Savvy
☞Mikey knows how to fight and how to shoot, those were the only police skills he actually liked to practice. He certainly isn’t beating anyone in a footrace or wowing people with his deductive skills. He also likes to drive his car fast; it’s one of the pleasures of being able to talk his way out of a ticket. He’s gotten good enough at it that if he didn’t know how to handle it he’d probably be dead. He’s also got some skill at making fake paperwork because he has had to make a lot of BS look right over the years, he’s not a master forger that could copy difficult things, but if you need a backdated report, Mikey is your guy. Mikey’s not a skilled analyst, and his eye for when someone is lying is far worse than he thinks it is, but the one talent he does have in the psychological department is knowing how to make a threat in a way that causes people to take it seriously. Lastly, he likes to fish, hasn’t come in handy yet but he wouldn’t give it up for anything.
Ruin
☞If you ask Michael if there were any positives to growing up with eight siblings, he’d tell you one thing: you learned to protect your stuff. That came in handy on his street on the Southside of Chicago, where business was settled with fistfights, and if you could fight, then there would always been plenty of business that needed settling. Right and wrong were relative things, what Mikey learned quick was to sense an opportunity, whose bike you could steal, which stores you could shoplift from, and who was better off not being messed with. Life was about walking the fine line between being a bitch and being a big enough problem that someone decided to deal with you. On a whim one day after high school, when he was getting tired of waiting for a job with the pipefitters union that his friend swore was coming, Mikey put his application in with the Chicago Police Department.
Could he do well on the written test? No. But what they thought about him was that he had the mind of a cop. He had a way of just looking at someone and deciding if they were up to no good. How often was he right? That’s the best part, it didn’t matter for the Chicago PD. Those years taught him skills he’d rely on for the rest of his life, he knew when to beat someone within an inch of his life and when to almost burst into tears about how it was all just self-defense, when to decide someone was the kind of person that belonged on this street and when it’d best to give em a forceful reminder that they didn’t. Some would call him a bully, but that’s what made him so natural at it: in Mikey’s mind, he wasn’t a bully, he just had an eye for who needed fixin’ and the power to do it, and the world would be in shambles without guys like him.
In normal times, it would all be smooth sailing, he just had to suck up to the right people and avoid any foul-up that would make the papers, but this was Chicago in the 60s. Even when social unrest had them short-staffed, they were always wary of putting Mikey on a riot detail because deescalation wasn’t a word in his vocabulary. Then came the day when he had to explain why he thought it was a good idea to put a bullet through the back of the head of an unarmed activist. Mikey walked into that meeting all confident, he had spent all night concocting a story, but Mikey’s last 45 minutes as a Chicago Police Officer would be spent having the lieutenant scream at him before ripping the badge straight off his uniform. 
The next day Mikey took a road trip to hit up every town between Minneapolis and Chicago large enough to have its own force. He gave them all the same pitch: he was a tough Chicago cop, so tough he could just breathe and see the crime rate drop as small-town punks went pale, and he was looking for a place with a slower pace of life and people with their head on straight. It took him hundreds of miles on his Dodge Polara before he hit 𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚊 and they bought into what he was selling. He quickly learned the rules: Don’t touch anything related to the steel mill, keep the punks out of the nice part of town, and always make be able to make a few quick arrests if people got feeling uneasy.
Mikey had a good thing going, he learned which hoes were worth asking for freebies, which hustlers were dumb enough to keep cash on them that he could skim whenever he picked them up, which business owners would be willing to give a few extra dollars to a hardworking officer,  and which people were the ones he could arrest whenever they needed someone to stick on a crime and needed someone plausible to arrest. The worst thing about life in Wisconsin was that people would sometimes hassle him for being a Bears fan. When the economy got tough and the layoffs began to mount, Mikey didn’t worry, he noticed that the extra cash he took in was a little lighter, but his gun and badge were just as heavy as ever, and all of the people he ticked off just accepted him as a fact of life. 
One day the chief called the whole department into one room, and the ones who read the paper already knew what it was about. Mikey didn’t and did his best to hide his bewilderment when they told them how many officers would have to be cut from the force for budgetary reasons. The atmosphere changed that day, because everyone knew whose name was going to be top of the chopping block. No matter how much he intimated that he had dirt on others, it was an empty threat; maybe some others  weren’t on the up and up, but there was no doubt who had the most to lose if someone started looking into police affairs. So, Mikey had to start thinking about what he's going to do when he is no longer an officer. Is he gonna actually worry about how he’s gonna pay the bills, keep himself out of jail, and deal with the years of blowback that’s gonna be coming once the crooks realize he can’t back up any of his threats anymore, or is he just gonna go fishing and ignore the storm brewing in his life?
Cred
☞"What good things can I say about Mikey? He's never gonna rat on me the chief cuz I know he's done worse, he's good for picking up tabs after work when he's in the mood, and I can bet he'll be ready to kick down a door and check my six if I tell him there's police action needed. What bad things can I say about him? Don't get me started."
"Mikey's the kind of cop we need. I show him some money as a sign of respect and he makes sure any shoplifters know they'll be on crutches for weeks if they try my store. Only questions he asks is if I got the cash and who needs a lesson."
"First lesson for crime reporters around here is to never believe a word Mike Dambrauskas says. If you want be a pulp novelist then go ahead, ask him about Chicago and he'll give you so much bullshit you could make a whole series out of it, but I'm printing the news not some 25 cent paperback. The moment you fact check his stuff you'll see everything he says comes straight from his head where he's some kinda hero who can do no wrong. Don't confront him about nothin' neither, that won't go well for anyone."
"There is no such thing as a one time transaction with Mikey, if he figures out someone is good for money once, he’s gonna keep coming back again and again. Best you can do if you've got a racket and need his help is never let him know how good the money actually is, because he'll want more."
"Fuck Mikey. Don't matter how much you pay, don't matter what he did in the past, if he's feeling the heat or mad about something he'll lock you up or beat the tar out of you in an instant. Flipping on him won't scare him either, he's lyingest sonuvabitch north of the state line, but when it comes to court they all act like that uniform means something and he'll get damn creative with his story on the stand."
"Why ain't nobody ever laid a hand on Mikey? Because no matter how many times he backstabs someone, people know how the pigs are. Go after one of their own while he's still with 'em and they'll bring down hell on you. Nobody wants to throw their life away to because they got wronged by Mikey Fuckin' Drambrauskas, it's like setting your house on fire because you can't get that mouse infestation out."
Ilk
☞

THE ACTION IS THE JUICE, COULD'A HAD CLASS 

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