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5 yrs ago
Current "I'm an actor. I will say anything for money." -- Also Charlton Heston
7 likes
6 yrs ago
Starting up a preimum service of content from actors like Radcliffe, Day-Lewis, Bruhl, and Craig. Calling it OnlyDans.
3 likes
6 yrs ago
Please, guys. The status bar is for more important things... like cringe status updates.
4 likes
6 yrs ago
Gotta love people suddenly becoming apolitical when someone is doing something they approve of.
4 likes
6 yrs ago
Deleting statuses? That's a triple cringe from me, dog.
4 likes

Bio

None of your damn business.

Most Recent Posts

Name: Moff Vigor "Vig" Vespellian

Age: 48

Species: Human

Gender: Male

Homeworld: Ank Kit'aar

Appearance: Vig is skinny and tall -- gaunt and gangly are two words that could be used to describe his physique -- he has black hair that is receding, forming a widow's peak on the top of his forehead, and he has a prominent chin and long roman nose, and he has warm brown eyes.

Major Skills: Intelligence, surveillance, diplomacy, charisma.

Force Sensitive: No

Biography:

Born on Ank Kit'aar, Vigor Vespellian was the bastard child of a very prominent merchant. While Vig was born into poverty and hardship, his father and siblings thrived. The old man used his power and influence to become a high-ranking diplomat and statesman. He would gain the title of premiere, head of the planet's government. Vig, meanwhile, provided for his mother and himself by becoming a thief. When he was sixteen, Vig was arrested for robbery. On Ank Kit'aar, the punishment for theft was either death or exile. He chose exile and said goodbye to his homeworld, and his mother. The day his shuttle left was the first and only time he met his father, who only watched from afar as he disappeared into the sky.

The youngster found work in asteroid mines, grueling labor that went on for 14 to 16 hours a day. It was on the asteroid that he heard about the new war between the Republic and the CIS. Although not a clone, Vig applied for service as an engineer and was given a test. His test showed him to be a poor candidate for engineering, but he excelled in far more subtler arts. Vig received an officer's commission with the Republic Intelligence Service covertly, and overtly he was placed on the staff of a Courscant diplomat.

Throughout the clone wars, Vig helped establish intelligence networks through the mid-rim and outer-rim territories. These networks proved to be intelligence goldmines and help the Republic in the struggle. For his hard work, Vig swiftly rose through the ranks of the service achieving the rank of Colonel in the waning days of the war.

As the war ended and the Republic gave way to the Empire, Vig's role changed. He was now head of investigations for the Imperial Security Bureau, a job that required him to deal with the nastiest secrets of the Empire's greatest people. He gained a reputation throughout the galaxy as a man who knew where the bodies were buried. Even Emperor Palpatine relied on Vig's dossiers and files for political leverage against both allies and enemies. For his loyalty and service to the Empire, Vig was granted the title of Moff and became governor Druess Sector, a piece of space that includes his old homeworld. Vig's first act as Moff was to evict his father's family from the house they grew up in and demolish it, a brand new and opulent moff's manor built atop of the ruins of the old home.

Palpatine is now dead and Vig serves on Imperial Ruling Council. Through his connections with the ISB, his secret files, and his own personal intelligence operatives through the galaxy, Vig wields considerable influence and seeks to take the place of the fallen Emperor.
Gotham City
Diamond District
11:20 PM


A lock is like a woman.

It's expensive?

No, that's not it.

A lock is like a woman.

It's what stands between you and money?

No, still not it.

A lock is like a woman.

It requires just the right touch.

--CLICK!--

There it is. And there it goes. The deadbolt lock was free, leaving the single lock on the doorknob that I could have opened with a strong look. I popped it free quicker than a high school boy pops off his girl's bra. And just like the proverbial teen necking in the backseat of a car, I was in the promise land.

Through the door and down a dark corridor was Zinkman & Sons Diamond Exchange, one of the top diamond emporiums in Gotham and by extension the entire east coast. I am Ahab and this is my white whale, I am Javert and this is my Jean Valjean, I am the Trix Rabbit and these are my Trix. I'm at the finish line after sixteen months of prep, recon, and manipulation. I bribed bureaucrats at City Hall for copies of the building's blueprints. A hacker I know who owes me more than a few favors broke into the security company's mainframe to pull out their security schematics on the place. I dated Issac Zinkman's youngest daughter for six months just to get a feel for the family and learn any trade secrets. We had just broken up two weeks ago. Oh, Cinnamon. You had the face of a horse, but the body... of a horse. And now that I think about it, was Cinnamon your real name? I thought it was your nickname... and there was that strange way you laughed at my jokes, like a neigh or something...

....

Did... did I date a horse for six months?

Before any more thoughts of my potential bestiality could fill my head, something hard and firm found itself resting on the back of my neck.

"Don't move," a voice said from beside my ear. "You're coming with me."

"Or what?" I whispered back.

"Or--"

Something sharp and painful coursed through my body. My feet fell out from under me and I slammed to the floor writhing in pain. The electricity was still working its way through me when a black sack was pulled over my head. Just for good measure, a sharp kick to the face bloomed more pain through my body and knocked me unconscious.

----

Gotham Heights
1:12 AM


When the bag came off my face, I was relieved to see that I was not in a police station. That relief quickly vanished when I saw where I was. It was a large, open-ended room with high ceilings and ivory furniture that matched the ivory carpet, that matched the ivory walls. Pretty much, me in my black burglar outfit now stained with my own blood stuck out in the room like a sore thumb. Even the two muscular thugs flanking both my sides were dressed in ivory shirts, slacks, and shoes.

"Did I die and wake up in the 70's?" I mumbled to myself.

"If only kid."

In the middle of the room, in a big chintz chair the color of -- What other color but Ivory -- was Rupert Roth. I didn't know Roth personally, I wasn't big time enough to, but I knew him based on the stories I'd heard about his infamous fashion sense. He looked like an extra from a bad disco movie. He wore an ivory shirt with half of it unbuttoned, a large gold necklace and medallion caught in the steely gray fur on his chest. He had on a pair of ivory pants that would have looked embarrassing on a man half his age, but made Roth look clownish.

Rupert Roth was the last great Jewish gangster in America. Now days most people associate the mob with the Italians, and it is a fair association to make given the sheer numbers involved. But back in the day Jews were the top dogs in the underworld. Guys like Arnold Rothstein, Bugsy Siegel and Meyer Lanksy handled their business like CEOs and quietly made millions. Murder and violence were involved, sure, but not like it was with the Italians. More importantly, they got out of crime and went legit. Roth had followed that model very well. A gambling empire amassed in the 50's and 60's went major league in the 70's and he removed himself from crime altogether by the time the FBI had started hitting the Gotham mobs hard. Now, the only organizations Roth belong to were the Chamber of Commerce and the Rotary Club. But there was still that edge. He still had the juice that made him very dangerous, and had me scared shitless to be dragged into his living room in the middle of the night.

"Johnny Lamonica," he said after a moment of silence. "I've heard of you."

"Good things, I hope."

Roth waved his hand in a so-so manner.

"I hear that you're smart, I hear that you're a good thief, I hear that outside of some trouble as a kid, you ain't never been pinched."

"And that I like long walks in the moonlight and a good '62 Bordeaux?"

"I'm questioning your smarts, Johnny," Roth said, ignoring my joke. "First off, I've had a tail on you for a solid week and you didn't see him, and then your here with me making stupid jokes."

"Sorry," I said with a shrug. "It's a defense mechanism, I guess. Why have you been following me?"

"Issac Zinkman is a close and personal friend of mine. We go to the same temple, we sit on the same charity boards. He knows who I am and about my past. So, he comes to me asking about this guy dating his little girl Cindy--"

"Cindy," I said with a sigh of relief. "That's right, Cinnamon was her nickname... thank god."

Roth looked at me with contempt and a half second later, the muscled gorillas on my right slapped me across the face. My face, which was already operating at a dull painful throb, exploded in pain. My ears rang and I had to bite my tongue to keep from crying out. Roth stared at me long enough to make sure he'd gotten his point across before starting back.

"So Issac has this funny feeling about the guy his little girl is dating, especially after they broke up two weeks ago. So he comes to me and says 'Rothy, this putz made my little girl cry. Find out what he's got to hide and then fucking burn him.' And what do I find out, but the fact that this son of a bitch is an ace burglar, a burglar with a rep across town as reliable and smart, two things that are almost impossible to find when it comes to crooks. Not only is this guy a burglar, but he's planning on robbing my dear friend blind. You, my friend, are in for a world of hurt."

"Unless," I said cautiously, mindful of the two looming thugs on either side of me. "If you were going to hurt me, you would have done it right away with no spiel, or you would have turned me in to the cops. You did neither, so I'm waiting for the part where you give me options."

Something passed across Roth's face. It could have been a smile. It may have been a snarl, or it may have been gas. It was something of a mix between the three.

"Smart," he said. "Just like they said. Option 1. I inform Issac that you not only broke his little girl's heart, but also that you were in the middle of stealing his entire life's work when I caught you. Knowing my friend like I do, he will kindly ask me to feed your own balls."

"A cannibalistic eunuch. Not the way I wanna go out."

"Option 2. You're a thief. Steal something for me and we will call it quits."

"Steal what, and from where?"

That look again. I was now certain that pained grimace had to be Roth's version of a smile.

"The where is easy. GCPD headquarters. The what? Now, that's gonna take some explaining..."


Name: Johnny Lamoncia

Age: 37

Alias: Black Spider

Skills/Abilities: No powers, but Lamonica is an expert burglar and thief. He can handle himself in a fight and knows enough about weapons to aim and hit something.

Biography:

From the time he was a kid, Johnny lived to steal. Growing up in the East End, the single child of a single mother, Lamonica learned at a young age to provide for himself when he wanted something. He would shoplift starting at the age of six. By the time he was eleven, Johnny was boosting cars for joyriding around Gotham. When he was fourteen he started turning the cars in to chop shops and getting paid.

When he was sixteen, Johnny was arrested for grand theft auto and went to juvie. His time there made him a better thief, a more cautious one who never wanted to see the inside of a cell again. At the age of eighteen he was released out into the world, that night he preformed his first burglary.

Almost twenty years later, Lamonica makes a steady and quiet living as one of the best burglars in Gotham. Outside of a few dogged cops, he is not on anyone's radar and he has a reputation as smart and effective. Now, in the aftermath of the Joker's death, Johnny decides to forge a new path: Supervillain.


Chinatown
2004


Slam Bradley rode shotgun in the unmarked car. Captain Grogan sped through the city at "Fuck-Traffic-Laws-I'm-a-Cop" speed. Slam smoked and saw the sights. Open-air drug markets. Fiends scuttling across streets like cockroaches. Hookers peddled their stuff by the curb. Corner boys trading blowjobs for blow. Slam cracked the window and blew smoke.

Slam smiled. He felt alive. He felt jazzed. Grogan's squad worked the streets. They ran the streets. They were the landlords out here, and everybody paid their rent or they got hit. Two-Gun Jack was a hick from somewhere out west, Oklahoma or Texas or something, and he had that southern twang prairie accent. The hump wore two six-shooters on both hips, the hump wore shit-kicker boots and a white stetson with a goddamn bolo tie. He chewed tobacco and thought he was Jonah Hex reincarnated. He looked like a clown on the surface. Beneath it, he was all killer.

Grogan spat tobacco juice in a coffee cup. He wiped his mouth and said, "Samuel, how you been liking these past six months?"

Slam beamed. "Fantastic. Anything to get me out of Gotham Central and Vice."

Vice straight bored him. It was either hooker rousts or gambling busts. He was too well known around Gotham to work undercover. Vice required him to roust prosties and break bookies. It was straight shit-work. His brain was wired for the street. He needed to be out here in the thick of it. This was his element. Grogan picked him because he was big and intimidating. The captain promised muscle work and he made good on the promise. Anybody he wanted worked over Slam worked. Fist work, brass knucks work, rubber hose work, followed by dental and surgical work for the poor sap.

Slam flicked his cigarette out a window. The butt hit a passing wino in the forehead. The wino flipped it away and shook his fist at the car. Slam laughed. Gorgan roared.

The GCPD car rolled through Chinatown. They met up with Detectives Tommy Burke and Mal Harris. They piled back into the car. Slam drove and Grogan rode shotgun. Burke and Harris sat in the back. They were headed to a Tong summit to act as muscle. One Tong family swore vengeance on another Tong family. A Chinatown war loomed on the horizon. It defied Grogan's mandate for the mobster squad. They kept the peace at all costs.

The convoy pulled up to a fish factory. They got out with pump-action shotguns and automatic pistols. Slam had his big .45 in his hand. Grogan wore two six-shooters on his belt. Grogan stuck a plug of tobacco in his mouth and strutted into the factory with a bullhorn in his hands. The factory floor: Wall to wall to Chinese men yelling in their heathen language. Six Nation Tong on one side in red, the Yellow Dragon Tong on one side in yellow. They jabbered at each other, flashed knives and guns and threatened to go to war right then and there.

Two-Gun Jack held the bullhorn to his mouth. His voice amplified across the din. The bullhorn made it screech weird. Grogan's voice sounded inhuman. Slam realized he was speaking Chinese. The Okie fuck gave the Tongs the spiel in fluent Mandarin. The gist: Calm down right now or we will send in the riot squad and bash all your heathen brains in.

The panic subsided. Grogan grinned. He motioned the rest of the squad to flank out. Burke and Harris covered exits and corners with their guns. Grogan and Slam walked towards a card table in the middle of the mob. Fat Ricky Fat of the Six Nation sat on an opposite side from Hau Song and the Yellow Dragons. A third chair for Grogan sat between them. Two-Gun Jack sprawled into the chair. Slam stood behind him as muscle. Hundreds of eyes fell on Slam. He winked en masse to the crowd.

The negotiations began. The two old men spoke through Grogan. They talked to him and he talked to the other. All eyes fell on the negotiations. No noise from the crowd. You could hear a pin drop. Ricky Fat said something in his gobbledygook. He pounded the card table. A buzz filtered through the crowd. Ricky Fat made the throat slash sign.

Hau Song shook his head and rattled off gibberish. Grogan held both hands up. He talked, talked, talked in their tongue. He pointed to both men. He expounded on some theory that made both men's heads nod. He finished. They both agreed. The crowd clapped. Wolf-whistles broke out.

Grogan got up smiling. He pulled Slam close. Slam could smell his tobacco breath as he whispered in his ear. "I give you peace. Peace for our time, son. Go find Burke. We've got some more work to do."

--

Burke drove and Slam rode shotgun. Grogan and the head of Six Nation Tong sat in the back. Fat Ricky Fat spoke in Chinese to Grogan, Grogan gave it right back. They laughed. Slam looked in the rearview mirror. He saw a pistol and hatchet in Ricky Fat's lap.

Grogan switched to English. He said, "GCPD caught a dead body two days ago. A Chinese girl stabbed to death in a Chinatown motel room. The victim was Ricky Fat's niece. Her murderer is Yellow Dragon. Some punk she was fucking is the fiend. He saw her with some Six Nation boys and got jealous and stabbed her sixteen times. A real Romeo and Juliet story. I learned all this at our summit just a few moments earlier. Knowing Homicide like I do, they'll give the killing a cursory investigation and drop it. If it's not white, they don't care. This degenerate who killed Ricky Fat's niece has tarnished his family honor. Old world customs dictate that he must regain that honor with vigorous bloodletting."

Slam saw the hatchet blade glint in the sparse light. Ricky Fat held it up swung it around the backseat gracefully. Grogan laughed. Grogan said, "To advert full on war, Yellow Dragon has agreed that this heinous crime must be avenged. Up here on the left, Thomas."

Burke pulled up to an apartment. They got out. Slam and Burke walked point, Grogan and Ricky Fat behind them. They hit the fourth floor. Apartment six. Slam had his .45 out, Burke gripped his nine mil. Grogan pulled his six-shooters. Ricky Fat had a hatchet in one hand, his pistol in the other.

Grogan said, "Go!"

Burke kicked the door. Once, twice, three times. It snapped on the third kick. It swung back on its hinges. They pushed through it. They walked in on five Chinese junkies geezing up on Big H. Slam and Burke aimed at the same man. They blew holes through his chest. Two-Gun Jack opened fire with both six-shooters. He turned two men into swiss cheese. Six shots a piece center mass. Ricky Fat charged the one man left alive. He screeched something in Chinese and hacked at the man with his hatchet. The man screamed and fell to the floor. Ricky Fat kept hacking. Grogan nodded, he spun his guns like a cowboy and holstered them. Burke went green. Slam holstered his piece. Grogan put a hand on his shoulder and lead him and Burke out.

"Let Ricky Fat have his fun. We need to talk since we have a moment."

Grogan spat tobacco on the floor and shook his head. He talked over Ricky Fat's screams/the killer's moans.

"Tonight's your last night working with me for some time, boys. I did what I could, but you both gotta pay something for that mess with the drug dealer from last month. Thomas, you're going to the Eastern District flexsquad to work drugs. Samuel, they're packing you to Homicide. It's supposed to be temporary. How long it'll last, we'll see."

More screaming inside. Choked and phlegm filled death rattle. Blood ran out the door and pooled at their shoes. Burke dry-heaved. Slam saw a severed eyeball float by.

Gotham Gardens
Now


Smoke filtered across the casino floor. Old ladies chain-smoked unfiltered cigarettes and worked slot machines with dead eyes. Dolled up ex-strippers wobbled across the floor on too tall heels, dishing out chips and cigarettes. The heavy make-up couldn't hide the miles and the years. They were in that downward spiral that would end with them picking up tricks on street corners. Drunk businessmen played blackjack and eyeballed the girls, none of them too drunk or too bold to touch them. Geeks in Hawaiian shirts and Shriner fez hats played roulette. Slam sat at the casino bar on his lunch break. "Lunch": Six shots of rye and three beers. A straight up liquid lunch.

He moonlighted as a security goon for the cut-rate casino. It was shit work, but it paid. He worked over drunks who got too handsy with the girls. Card cheats lost teeth, card counters got to count the fractures in their arms. He got paid more than the rest of the goons because of notoriety. People still recognized him from time to time. Geeks wanted photos with Slam, geeks wanted to pose with their fist on his chin in a faux knockout punch. One card counter asked for his autograph after he fractured the fuck's arm. He spat blood and smiled. He said he had something in common with Goodnight Garcia; both got their asses handed to them by Slammin' Sam Bradley.

Slam watched the beer swirl in his glass. He was in debt up to his eyeballs. Gambling was his vice. Gambling along with booze... and cigarettes. Gambling, booze, and smokes were his only vices. He owed the Russian Mob four grand. He'd get a few hundred working tonight and tomorrow at the Gardens, but there was no PI work to be had. The law firms wouldn't call him back or give him the time, civilian walk-ins were rare in the business. Dames in distress coming into a PI's office was straight out of the movies and books. Slam didn't even have an office. He worked out of his flop over on the East End. The only steady clientele happened to be the underworld. He had a reputation among the city's crooks. And it was because of the bank job in '05 and all the shit that came afterwards. He gulped the rest of his beer down and looked at the dregs in the glass.

Chinatown.

That's where he always went when he had enough booze in his system. The night they got street justice for Fat Ricky Fat's niece fucked Slam up in more ways than he would ever admit to even himself. He crossed a line that night. Beating shitbirds was one thing, but he had killed them. He'd taken a life; a life of a scumbag, but still a life. The transfer to homicide saved what little bit of his soul that he had left. He got teamed up with Gordon and the rest was history. But those days were over. As dead as the junkie rapist he gunned down in Chinatown all those years ago.

Slam pushed himself away from the bar and started back to his security post. He already had his eyes on a needle-nose prick that was getting too loud at the craps table when his phone went off.

Nobody called him. He had no family, no friends, and sure as shit no clients.

"Hello?"

"Slam Bradley?"

He ducked into an alcove and put a finger into his right ear to try and block out the sad sounds of the casino.

"Yeah, who is this?"

"Barbara Gordon, Jim's daughter, I need your help."
<Snipped quote by MyCatGinger>

Kinda my point about coming up with a vote mechanism to prevent having someone select Mein Kampf, or something that most everyone has already read. In the case of Atlas Shrugged and Mein Kampf, I was given one in HS and one during undergrad. I'm good.


Don't worry, you'll love my mash-up fan fiction, Hitler Shrugged.

Also, I recommend Mother Night by Kurt Vonnegut.
<Snipped quote by Inkarnate>

I suggest the following: if people nominate a book, we can create a google form and let people vote. The person nominating has to be willing to host the discussion with questions for discussion and moderate the process if they win.

I'm trying to decide which Hunter S. Thompson book I want to put in here. ;)


I like that idea. Give the people what they want!
I've always wanted to do a book club, but I don't have a lot of friends who are big readers. My tastes when it comes to books are pretty varied in both fiction and non-fiction so I'm up for it.
Name: Samuel Bradley

Age: 44

Alias: Slam Bradley

Appearance:



Skills/Abilities: No powers. Slam is an adept fighter with boxing and police firearm training. He is also a skilled detective with over twenty years experience as cop.

Weaknesses: Bullets, booze, and broads.

History:

Samuel "Slam" Bradley grew up in Gotham's East End. A tough neighborhood, Slam was a scrapper and boxed Golden Gloves as a teen. After a knee injury ended his boxing career, Slam went into the only profession that would take a lug like himself: a cop.

Starting out as a beat cop, Slam eventually made detective and worked his way through assignments until he became a sergeant with the GCPD's Homicide Bureau. Partnered with Detective James Gordon, Slam and Jim were among the few non-corrupt officers in the GCPD. Fighting against the corrupt department and the everyday bleakness of the job had Slam on the verge of burnout until the case that killed his career came along.

It started out simple enough, a dead hooker found in a back alley. The case began to spin out of control, implicating a state senator, a high-end call girl service, and half of Gotham's politicians. The brass tried to bump Slam off of the case, but he refused to leave. In the end, he was dismissed from the GCPD on trumped up charges, accused of fraud because of a mislabeled time sheet. Out of a job, Slam took his connections and investigation skills and branched out on his own as a private investigator. When he's not tipping a bottle, he works as a PI for hire in and around the city.

Currently still putting this together, but I wanted to ensure my interest was expressed. Need to go through the backstory, trim the fat and amend it to fit the parameters of this game still as I'm sure Dick would have something to say about Joker being dead and Batman 'retired'.




Name: Samuel Bradley

Age: 44

Alias: Slam Bradley

Appearance:



Skills/Abilities: No powers. Slam is an adept fighter with boxing and police firearm training. He is also a skilled detective with over twenty years experience as cop.

Weaknesses: Bullets, booze, and broads.

History:

Samuel "Slam" Bradley grew up in Gotham's East End. A tough neighborhood, Slam was a scrapper and boxed Golden Gloves as a teen. After a knee injury ended his boxing career, Slam went into the only profession that would take a lug like himself: a cop.

Starting out as a beat cop, Slam eventually made detective and worked his way through assignments until he became a sergeant with the GCPD's Homicide Bureau. Partnered with Detective James Gordon, Slam and Jim were among the few non-corrupt officers in the GCPD. Fighting against the corrupt department and the everyday bleakness of the job had Slam on the verge of burnout until the case that killed his career came along.

It started out simple enough, a dead hooker found in a back alley. The case began to spin out of control, implicating a state senator, a high-end call girl service, and half of Gotham's politicians. The brass tried to bump Slam off of the case, but he refused to leave. In the end, he was dismissed from the GCPD on trumped up charges, accused of fraud because of a mislabeled time sheet. Out of a job, Slam took his connections and investigation skills and branched out on his own as a private investigator. When he's not tipping a bottle, he works as a PI for hire in and around the city.
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