• Last Seen: 7 yrs ago
  • Old Guild Username: Mr. Odin & Sage Ironfang
  • Joined: 8 yrs ago
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Recent Statuses

7 yrs ago
Current Returning after a 5 month break. I don't know why... just needed time.


I powerlift...

I love my wife...

I am a Marine...

and my dog is a ham.

Most Recent Posts

I'm back from a short holiday. I'll have one up within 24 hours. Still interested on my part.
Wow, postponing the wedding? That's not ideal at all, sorry to hear that. I am sure things will turn around with some perseverance though, I am sure you have heard that before but it is true, putting yourself out there is the only way to get some kind of employment in this kind of market.
Scribbles said
...Jam cigarettes into my eyes until I do. sssssss

Don't threaten me with a good time.
So how did it turn out Scout?

Also on a side note if anyone is interested in a new RP to work with while this one generates check out this link...

Between the Cracks

We need a few more people and I think it is an interesting concept.
I'll send a few messages and see what I can do. I am on board with whatever you want/need to do.
Provided one opportunity for a mad dash, hope it wasn't too overreaching or meta-ish. I really didn't see any other way for a fat bastard like Vincent to make it through the campus.
Haggard breaths pounded in Vincent’s head as he pushed himself around, over, and through the few abandoned cars that littered Broadway, the road he franticly ran down in order to escape the growing mass of cannibalistic whack jobs that were now free of the overpass congestion and gaining on him. He was far too old, far too fat, and far too sick for this shit but something primal drove him onward, something about the way the infected he ran by were chewing on a corpse and how they stopped and rose to give chase when he passed by, something about being a buffet choice did not sit well with him. So Vincent ran, heart slamming against his ribcage, good arm pumping wildly as he mindlessly turned onto Weaver Boulevard, came to a small traffic circle and without a second thought broke left and crashed into a copse of trees and brush that was the edge of Mullen Park. He stumbled through the woods and brush at his breakneck pace for only a moment before a root caught his boot and for the second time in twenty minutes he slammed face first into soil and grass.

This was it, he thought as he lay there just twenty feet into the wood covered lot, the pain in his face and left arm a background pulse overpowered by the stomping feet of thirty or forty of those things that were about to fall upon him as soon as they broke into the tree line. The gnashing, guttural growl grew louder, the awkwardly heavy footfalls rang in his ears, and in the span of a heartbeat he expected teeth and nails to be tearing at his clothing, at his flesh… but the noise receded, the mob had not entered the wood. Instead they had continued up the road, failing to see Vincent make the sudden angular course correction shortly after he turned. Slowly Vincent rolled onto his back, squinting and grimacing with a mental curse as the pain that had been background noise moments earlier came forward to assert itself. Sweat ran from his pores and soaked his clothing as he desperately tried to quietly catch his breath, dirt and loam stuck to him like flies to paper coating his street clothing in the pungent scent of moss, dirt, and with his luck dog shit but with each passing moment Vincent’s constitution, what little remained, returned to him. After a half-hour had passed Vincent managed to gather his feet under him and with the aid of a sturdy pine trunk, lift the bulk of his body up to a standing position. Ever so slowly and carefully he began to make his way through the park away from the road, using every bush, hill, tree, and shrub as cover as he crept along out of sight of any of the infected he could spot.

It took him nearly an hour and a half to haltingly cross the little campus park toward University Heights and nearly another half hour to cross the road and post up on a corner of Robinson Hall. He had come this way for two reason, the first was that it was the exact opposite direction that the herd chasing him earlier had gone, in fact he had only come across one body… that of a young girl, bleeding from the back of the head and Vincent soundly believed there was little he could do for her so he moved on. The second reason was that the majority of the sturdy defensible building that would have any form of phone or internet communication or power all looked to be in this direction. When he slinked forward against the corner of Robinson Hall it suddenly didn’t seem like the best place to be after all. Infected crowded against the front of the library and around a few of the other building, there was even a small group battering their fists bloody trying to beat in some maintenance doors on the back of Robinson Hall. Other whack jobs roamed the open ground, moving towards differing groups of infected that had already collected as if drawn by some kind of magnetism or hive mind. Looking around the Campus from his vantage point Vincent wondered how the hell he was going to get anywhere near the library, a building he had decided to go to because it seemed the most solid and probably had a good many offices with phones and computers that he could try to use to figure out what in the holy hell was happening. As he sat there on his haunches a memory of some his prior dirty deeds came to mind and it was an idea that seemed ideally suited to this situation.

In a handful of minutes Vincent had weaseled his way back down towards the heights, never noticing that one of the bodies around Zeis Hall moved a little differently, more deliberately, than the whack jobs. He made it to the road he had crossed where he found three abandoned cars that he had used as cover earlier when he had crossed from the other direction. Before too long he was behind one of the cars, sitting, and pressed up against it like it would be able to stop anything in the world… security in contact he guessed. Stifling a cough he reached into his tank bag, opened the box of handgun shells used his multi-tool to separate the bullet from one of the casings, and pulled the bandana from his rear pocket. He created a neat little pocket with one of the bandana corners, dumped the gun powder into the pocket and tied it up into a tiny little ball resembling a fishing weight. Vincent went to his front left pocket and pulled out a dented flask, half full by the feel of it which made him unreasonably upset because of what he had to do. Without pause he gulped down half the grain style hooch in three searing pulls and then dumped the rest all over the bandana avoiding the powder. Laying the flask on the ground under the car Vincent crouched and faced the car, popped the gas cap cover open, slowly twisted the gas cap off, and with moderate care fed the bandana with the gunpowder into the gas tank like a sinker and fishing line. After the bandana was affixed as good as it would be Vincent took out his lighter and with an outstretched arm lit the exposed corner. Before the zippo had time to shut in his hands Vincent was again running at a dead sprint back towards Robinson Hall. Just as Vincent was tumbling behind a dumpster, pressing himself between the Hall’s wall and the metal of the dumpster the gunpowder ignited, flames caught what gasoline was left in that cars tank and with a gut pounding thump followed by a gust of hot air the car’s gas tank exploded in a ball of flame and scorched metal.

It only took the whack jobs the span of one breath to turn away from all the bashing and crashing they were doing against the buildings and take off running towards the sound and light of the briefly lived but uproarious explosion. Vincent huddled between the wall and the dumpster watched their ragged feet pass by as they all ran towards the sudden change in the environment. First a few feet, then groups of feet, so many feet and legs as to be indistinguishable passed by but soon the passing of shadowy limbs tapered off, and Vincent slowly counted a full minute without one passing by before he again peaked out from his hiding place. The campus grounds were, as far as he could tell, clear and he couldn’t see any more whack jobs around the library. Looking over his shoulder he could see the flames and the flickering play of light caused by the accumulating bodies around the fire but he couldn’t see over the hill to the actual wreak in order to gauge if it was keeping their attention. He determined that now was as good a time as any though and made his way, at an easy jog, across the open campus to the library.

In less than a minute he was inching his way around the library, gun drawn as he tested each door and window for an opening. Moving along the back side Vincent came to an office window that had been closed but not latched and locked. With a little forceful prying and a good bit of awkward climbing Vincent managed to open the window, press the screen in, essentially tearing it from the screwed in frame, and worm his way into what appeared to be some sort of backroom secretarial office. Closing the window behind him and engaging the throw lever locks, Vincent sank down against the wall, ass to the ground, gun on his knees pointed at the door as a hacking fit overtook him and all the pain and injuries he had gathered in his trip to the library fell upon him at once, the adrenaline seeping out of his system. As Vincent coughed he used the back of his forearm to wipe away the blood from his mouth and beard, looking at the scab colored mess and telling himself, lying to himself, that it was caused by his earlier falls.
Summary: Vincent avoids the highway horde, creeps through Mullen Park coming across Card's ill fated encounter with a young woman, and finally spots the library. Requiring a distraction Vincent sacrifices some gear and most importantly his last alcohol stash in order to detonate the gas tank of a car. With all the whack jobs gathering for a kumbaya moment around the car fire Vincent makes it to the library, sneaks in through a window, and is overcome by is illness, injuries, and general lack of health.
Yes, how goes the job hunt?
Posting is easy, keeping reckless characters alive...that may be harder than imagined.
A look of disgust stretched across Vincent’s worn face as he walked away from the window he had just tumbled from and over to the only motorcycle in sight. Standing over the bike in the employee’s parking lot of Craggy Correctional Institute he thought for a moment that he would rather be dead than ride this thing. Today’s events seemed willing to make good on that thought if he was willing to test it. He stood next to the bright yellow Ducati and considered for a brief moment just walking out of Asheville instead of riding away on a Ducati but common sense took over and before long he was rummaging through the tank bag where he found the rider's personal weapon, a map, and two bottles of water. Vincent growled to himself as he rolled under the adjacent sedan and stripped a wire out from underneath it, “Over one hundred and forty staff...” he grumbled “…and only one C.O. was decent enough to ride and he had to ride this piece of shit.”

When Vincent crawled out from under the car next to the bike his moment of reflection and disgust was interrupted by the manic shouting just inside the prison's fences. Every ten feet or so a dozen or more of the infected crashed through the tangle of razor wire at the foot of the fence as if it were nothing, unaffected. Their collective weight and frantic beating against the fence was beginning to force the aged chain link to bow outward towards the parking lot. Vincent’s disgust at riding anything other than a Harley Davidson was soon overpowered by the realization that that fence would not hold that crowd for more than another hour he guessed. With practiced ease Vincent followed the wires from the motorcycles ignition down to the connector that fed into the starter, he disconnected the plastic ends, bridged the wire across the two open ports on the starter motor side, and started the bike just as if had possessed the keys. After one final look back at old Craggy, which thankfully had not been his home for too long, Vincent directed the bike out of the employee’s lot and onto Riverside Drive along the French Broad River towards interstate 26 and what he hoped would be some distance from what he thought was a local outbreak of high grade insanity.

On a normal day it would have taken ten minutes to make the interstate from Craggy, right at exit 25, but today was anything but normal. Vincent spent the better part of twenty minutes in first or second gear weaving between the abandoned cars along Riverside Drive and trying to avoid the infected that were like so many mice worming their way through the gridlock. His luck ended right at the 25 on-ramp at UNC Asheville. He had just managed to avoid an oil slick from a pile up wreck under the highway overpass when a pair of infected bolted into his path. The front wheel and forks of the bike took the lead infected straight on crushing its pelvis, ribs, and then skull while the sudden stop in motion sent Vincent’s considerable bulk high end over the handle bars. He came down hard in the on-ramp median, the force of the fall driving the wind from his lungs and twisting his left arm under his body at an awkward angle.

After a moment he lifted his head from the grass and dirt and brushed the debris from his beard with his right hand. Shakily he stood, gaining his feet slowly and testing his torqued left arm, it wasn't broken but it wasn't right either something was pulled or out of place. Haltingly he hobbled back over to the bike and observed that the first infected person’s skull had been cracked by the impact, the other was now pinned between the mangled bike and the overpass abutment. As he reached for his tank bag the pinned person gnashed its broken face at him, trying to make use of a jaw that was a dislocated mess. Without getting more than a bloody tongue lashing on his right leather glove Vincent managed to pull the tank bag away and throw it over his good shoulder. He patted the pocket of his T-shirt and looked to the heavens thankfully, withdrawing a lucky strike and lighting it as he moved away from the highway and toward the UNC Asheville Campus. “Hell if I am lucky…” He coughed after taking a deep inhalation “…maybe there’s some whiz kid here that knows what the hell is going on.” He thought for a moment, looking over his shoulder and picking up his pace as best he could after noticing the gathering group of infected scrambling over the cars, drawn by the racket of his wreck. “Better yet, some ROTC nut jobs with guns protecting a sorority.” Vincent tossed the cigarette and broke out in a dead run onto the campus not knowing what was motivating him more, the sorority idea or the growing mob of fast moving infected that was gaining on his old ass.
Summary: Free from prison our favorite outlaw biker gets a bike and then wrecks it, buggering up his left arm but disabling two infected in the process. His small triumph and dirty old man thoughts about campus life are soon interrupted by the growing horde of infected that now chase him as he runs onto the campus.
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