Byrd Man

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)

Jock Sturgeon
Part I:
The Mark

Lost Haven Financial District
11:19 AM

I want you to picture the most sleaziest stockbroker you can imagine. Have you got an image? Is he a guy with slicked back hair, one of those orange tans, and a suit that costs more than what you make in a year? If that's what's in your head, then you know exactly what Sean Dunmoore looks like. And like that proverbial sleazeball stockbroker, Dunmoore has no conscience and no morals. His company, SD Securities, is one of the top dogs when it comes to trading and investing in Lost Haven. SD Securities has been investigated by the FBI and SEC for everything from wire fraud to ponzi schemes. Every time he's walked away unscathed, the Teflon Trader among one of his many nicknames. He is without a doubt one of the smartest and most corrupt white collar crooks in the country.

Which is why he's the perfect mark.

"This all sounds very risky, Mr... Blomkamp, was it?"

"Yes," I said in my best South African accent. "It is risky, Mr. Dunmoore, but the payout would be exponential."

I didn't raise my voice or even let excitement creep into it. Jackob Blomkamp, Vice President of International Trade and Development for Afrikaans Tool and Mining, was not a man who got excited very often. He was too professional for that. With my crisp suit, bulky glasses, and fake mustache I looked every bit the part of upper corporate management with the personality to match.

Dunmoore rubbed his chin and leaned back in his chair. Behind him was the cityscape of Lost Haven, spread out beneath him like feudal kingdom. "So these diamonds your company has in backstock, why can't they just sell them through legitimate means?"

"Ahh, Mr. Dunmoore," I said with a clucking tongue. Like a parent gently scolding an ignorant child. "You are not very familiar with the international diamond market. A small cabal of companies control import and export laws, only so many diamonds can be shipped out of producing countries every year. They do this to keep the supply down and the costs up. What we would be doing in effect is--"

"Diamond smuggling," Dunmoore said with a smirk.

"That's crass, sir," I said with a hint of annoyance in my voice. "We are simply liquidating our assets and transferring them to another company."

"Illegally moving a product out of a country and into another, that sounds like the textbook definition of smuggling to me."

I threw my hands up. "Call it what you will. As it currently stands, our company is cash poor but asset rich. The diamond market here in the United States is ripe for making profits. It is much more stable here that is in Africa. We are waiting for a coup to overthrow the president. If that were to happen, then trading would come a standstill and all our surplus would be stuck in South Africa. We need to get them out the country as soon as possible. From the comforts of Lost Haven, we could quietly sell our diamonds in peace. But to do that, we need money to arrange the export of our reserves to the United States."

"Why me?" asked Dunmoore. "Why not someone with experience in the precious jewels market?"

"Because, people who know diamonds also know the diamonds laws. And like I said earlier, the market is a very small one. Word would get around fast. You are an outsider, one who has no qualms about... regulations."

"Those are just accusations," he said with a finger pointed at me. "Nothing has ever been proven."

"Regardless, you know opportunity when you see it. For an initial investment of two hundred thousand American dollars, I am prepared to offer you twenty-five percent of proceeds from all diamond sales we conduct after they are safely here in America. Furthermore, you would own five percent Afrikaans Tool and Mining."

Dunmoore looked at me for a long moment. He pressed his fingers together and closed his eyes before answering.

"Thirty percent of proceeds, and I own ten percent of the company."

"I...," I hesitated. It was something Blomkamp would do. "I am not authorized for that deal. Shall I... speak with my board of directors tonight and call on you tomorrow? I feel like they will accept, but I need their final approval."

Dunmoore nodded slowly.

"Very well. Let's have lunch. I'll have my secretary call you tomorrow morning and let you know where and when."

"That is...," I wiped sweat from my brow. The suit was wool, too thick for the weather outside and indoors. But that was part of it. Jacob Blomkamp had a penchant for flop sweat. "I will have an answer by then."

Dunmoore stood and we shook hands.

"Hopefully the one I want to hear."

"Me too, sir," I said as we walked towards the door. "Me too."

----

Little Ulster
4:30 PM

My lip still itched like hell from the fake mustache. I learned the hard way once that you have to shave completely before applying those things. When the need for a quick change is called for, it rips your stubble and half your damn lip off. I scratched it as I walked around the general clutter that was my apartment.

To an outsider, I would look like a transvestite hoarder. Clothing of all bodies sizes, makes, and even genders were strewn across the room on hangers along with makeup, wigs, and false mustaches. Books on every topic from US naval history to home and gardening were crammed on the wall mounted shelves. The books, clothes, and makeup were all part of my job. Tools of the trade if you will. To be a good grifter you have to be able to become the person you're pretending to be.

I walked through the clutter towards my discarded Blomkamp disguise and a book on the history of African diamond mining. To some grifters all these props and research are considered a crutch, but I need it. Today I couldn't have just be Jock Sturgeon pretending to be a South African mining executive. I had to be a South African mining executive Jackob Blomkamp and think and react like him. Grifting is the most intense form of acting you will find. Every time you preform the stakes are so high. Entire fortunes and even your own life is dependent upon your performance, so you have to be the best. I'm like Daniel-Day Lewis.... If, you know, Daniel Day-Lewis stole shit.

A loud pounding on the door snapped me out of my reverie.

"Who is it?" I yelled.

"A guy who is really fucking good and kicking down doors, Sturgeon. Open up."

I walked to the door and looked through the peephole. Shit. The Stafford twins were standing at my door. Short and thin Johnny Stafford, with his shock of gray hair and pale skin, looked nothing like dark skinned and tall Jimmy Stafford. Their boss hired them only because their names matched and he got a kick out of seeing them together. one of my shoes had more intelligence than the Stafford twins put together.

"Mister Sturgeon, he no here," I said in my best Hispanic maid voice.

"Fuck you, Sturgeon," said Jimmy.

Johnny laughed and added. "We know you're in there. So get your cleaning lady to open up."

See what I mean?

"Okay, fellas," I said as I opened the door. "Ya caught me. Now what is this ab--"

Jimmy grabbed me by scruff of my neck and yanked me from the threshold of the apartment.

"The Ambulance Chaser requests your presents," said Johnny.

"I think you mean presence," I said as the two took turns pushing me down the hall towards the stairs.

They led me down the stairs towards the front door. Through the walls I could rock and roll music from Gingy's pub. Gingy was nice enough to let me live above her place. She could have lived in the apartment any time but didn't like to. She said she spent enough time at work that she needed to get the hell out sometimes.

The twins hustled me out into the street and into an idling town car. Sitting in the backseat was the Ambulance Chaser himself in a slick suit with pinstripes and gelled hair that was combed to try to hide the fact that it was rapidly thinning. He winked at me and patted the seat beside him.

"Jock, my boy."

If you live in the Lost Haven area and have a TV then you know exactly who Percy Fitzwaller is. His ads always ran late at night and in the middle of the afternoon. They were goofy as hell, with real life testimonials from people who Fitzwaller had represented in personal injury various lawsuits. The commercials always ended with Fitzwaller holding an umbrella as computer generated dollar bills rained down from above while a logo beneath him had his phone number and the logo of "Fitzwaller $how$ You Dollar$!"

When he wasn't busy suing over hot cups of coffee and cars with bad brakes, Fitzwaller took up his second occupation of criminal fixer. With a vast network of runners and go-betweens, Fitzwaller could arrange things from simple theft to arson to even murder for hire. His nickname of the Ambulance Chaser was a bit on the nose, but Fitzwaller seemed to really enjoy it. And he made enough profit at fixing to afford the Stafford twins. Although, admittedly, they weren't exactly top shelf muscle.

"What's the occasion, Fitzwaller? Trying to find out if me or a love one as been affected by mesothelioma?"

"Funny," Fitzwaller said with a sniffle. "I'm here representing my... other business."

"Well, I'm flattered, but I've got a game running right now and I can't steal--"

"It's not that," he hissed. "And if it were, I wouldn't be approaching you directly. I had my network for that."

My eyebrow raised at the change from present to past tense.

"Had?" I asked.

"Shit," he said with a sigh. "That's what this is about. My network of cut outs and go-betweens. I had a list of them and they were stolen."

"Wait a minute... you're telling me you actually wrote down who you employed to carry out your work for you? I thought you were a lawyer. Since when is it smart to keep notes on a criminal conspiracy."

"You don't understand," he snapped. "I... the last few months I've had trouble remembering everyone. It's... I'm getting old. There, I said it. I got so many people I use to approach people it gets hard to remember. So I had a guide of sorts. I kept it in my office safe. Well last night someone broke into that safe and took all my notes. My list of the networks for every job I contracted out for the last six months."

No witty comment from me. Not at that time. The way Fitzwaller's system worked made it foolproof. If he got contracted to, let's say, burn a business down, then he would approach someone beneath him and hand them a stuffed manila envelope. Inside that envelope was a name of the next person in the chain and a smaller envelope that that person would hand off to said person. It went that way until it got to the arsonist at the bottom. Serious crimes were always six or seven people deep, insulating Fitzwaller and his client as much as humanely possible. If someone had a list of the chains, then it would be the easiest thing in the world to roll it up from the bottom down and haul them all in for felony conspiracy.

"Yeah," said Fitzwaller as he saw the look in my eyes. "That's how serious it is. I need those papers back. I need you to get them back for me. Ten grand up front to do the job, a bonus to follow upon the speedy return of the papers."

"Perce," I said softly. "I wouldn't even know where to begin..."

"You still a burglar?"

"Only if I'm desperate or nostalgic... or desperately nostalgic."

"So you got friends in that world still. Start there."

Fitzwaller reached into his jacket and pulled out a stuffed white envelope he handed to me.

"Ten grand. Find those documents."

"What if I can't find them."

Something close to a smile crept on his face.

"Or I send the twins after you. And what's left after their through I'll feed to my dogs."

"Wait... are you saying their gonna eat me?"

"Get out the car, smartass," growled Fitzwaller. "And get to goddamn work."

----

Lost Haven Financial District
7:14 PM

Sean Dunmoore sat in the darkness of his office lost in thought. He was the only one left in the office. The people who worked for him knew the drill by now. He was always first one in and last one to leave every day. The rest of the financial world had plenty to say about his business practices, but none of them could talk about his work ethic or his devotion to the job.

All day long he had been consumed by his meeting from this morning. He kept thinking about that strange white skinned African man with his proposal. He'd heard of some crazy schemes over the years, but nothing like this It was like something out of a movie. South African diamond smuggling. Any minute now he expected James Bond to burst through the door.

Still, something about the whole thing seemed sketchy. Well, sketchy apart from the acknowledgement that the scheme involved breaking several national and international laws. He know so little about Blomkamp and his company... whatever it was called, he had the man's card somewhere. He looked it up online and found a bare bones web page announcing that Afrikaans Tool and Mining was indeed a company in South Africa, but nothing else existed on them. Sean leaned forward and picked his phone up off the hook. He looked through his rolodex until he found the number he wanted and dialed it.

"Al? Hey it's Sean Dunmoore up in Lost Haven. Yeah, it's been awhile. Are you still in DC working for the Department of Commerce? Right, good to hear it. Look, I need a favor when you get in the office tomorrow morning. I want to know what you guys have on record for this company called Afrikaans Tool and Mining. Yeah. I can spell it for you, you got something to write with? Yeah."

If these guys were as international as Blomkamp claimed to be, the US government would certainly have a file on them. And if they didn't? Well, then he would know for sure that this plan that sounded too good to be true really was.

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)

Create a Hero RPG Application

Character you have created: Jock Sturgeon

Alias: James Stitcher, Jack Scott, Martin Sullivan, etc.

Character Alignment: -Walking the Line-

Identity: Known to some.

Character Personality: Simply put Jock is a hustler. He'll do anything he can to make money. He has the likable and easygoing personality a conman needs in order to survive. Depending on the situation Jock can be very cocky and overbearing. As much as conning is a means of earning money for Jock, it's also a psychological aspect. The years of neglect from his mother left a chip on his shoulder. He just doesn't want to take money from you, he wants to prove that he is the smarter than you. The need to prove his intelligence has led to many cons blowing up prematurely, the mark becoming suspicious due to Jock's attitude. He avoids violence as much as possible, preferring to solve problems with his mind and not his fists.

Uniform/costume: No costume.

Origin Info/Details:

Jock Sturgeon's early life was one of hardship. His mother, Vera, gave birth to him when she was just thirteen years old. Jock's father was a low-level grifter who died a year later when he was hit by a car. Vera soon abandoned Jock and gave him to her parents, running off to Lost Haven. In Lost Haven she fell in with seedy types, men who did bad things for lots of money. She grudgingly came back when Jock was three and her father threatened to abandon the boy as well. Vera then took him to the city and half-raised him, seeing the boy as nothing more than a burden. Men came and went and Jock, as he got older, began to notice the things his mother and her friends did. He watched and quietly learned.

By the age of thirteen Jock and a group of boys from the neighborhood formed their own pickpocket gang. At fifteen he and another man ran a rigged street betting game. A year later Jock was steadily committing burglaries through Lost Haven. He made the mistake of operating too frequently in too small of an area. Soon the cops were on to him and he had to flee town and hide with old friend's of Vera. In exile, Jock's education began properly. He learned from seasoned thieves and grifters about the skill of the con, both short and long. Jock soon began to put the lessons to use.

For ten years now Jock has operated around Lost Haven as a confidence man and burglar. He has run long cons, short cons, heists, scams, and grifts. He's pulled every sort of job from the One-Armed Priest to the Serbian Stewarwd to the Brothers Corletonsia. More often than not the jobs were successful, but Jock had to occasionally pull out of the cons, just one step ahead of the authorities. A decade of running and scamming made him weary of traveling and grifting. Jock settled in as a short-term con man and has developed an interesting side job asthe underworld's version of a private eye. If a crook is in a jam, needs something recovered, or just needs a solution that doesn't involve killing then Jock is your man.

Hero Type:
Normal


Power Level:
Street Level

Powers:
No powers

Attributes:
Height: 5'11
Weight: 195 pounds.
Strength Level: Normal Human
Speed/Reaction Timing Level: Normal Human
Endurance at MAXIMUM Effort: Normal Human
Agility: Normal Human
Intelligence: Genius
Fighting Skill: Untrained
Resources: Average

Weaknesses:
Normal things that kill humans.

Supporting Characters:

Vesta Sturgeon - Jock's mother. Vesta works as a runner and mule for many underworld figures in Lost Haven and abroad. She only occasionally shows up into Jock's life at the most inconvenient of times.

Stan Pertovick - Local crime lord Jock pays tribute to in order to operate in his part of the city. Stan also acts as Jock's fence, paying for any stolen goods he may have to sell.

Commander Tom Norman - An LHPD who demands tribute from any crooks operating in his sector. His authoritarian nature rubs many members of the underworld, Jock among them, the wrong way.

Wallis - An old conman and thief that mentored Jock when he was younger. Wallis still travels across the world, pulling jobs when and where he can get them.

Gingy - Owner and operator of Gingy's, a pub that Jock lives above. Gingy is Jock's landlord and friend.

Monjoni - A fellow thief, Monjoni is leader of a four-man crew that performs burglaries and robberies all over the city. Jock has a tendency to run afoul with Monjoni and his boys anytime their paths cross.

Do you know how to post pictures on RPG boards?:
Yea

Sample Post:


The Diamond District
12:01 AM

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 just the single lock on the doorknob, a lock that I could have opened with just a strong look. I popped it free quicker than a high school boy pops off his girlfriends'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 Lost Haven 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. Hell, I dated Issac Zinkman's youngest daughter for six months just to get a feel for the family and learn any trade secrets. We just broke 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.

----

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 started hitting the 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.

"Jock Sturgeon," 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. I also hear that you're the guy crooks go to when they need work done."

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

"I'm questioning your smarts, kid," 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 you're 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. Lost Haven PD headquarters. The what? Now, that's gonna take some explaining..."

[Recruiting more] Soviet Amerika - Red Dawn-Inspired Alternate History

Soviet Amerika - Red Dawn-Inspired Alternate History

"You got it, buddy," Joe said with a curt nod. "I'd expect the same thing from you."

The truth was, Joe had no qualms about killing Dan or anybody else in their cell if it had to be done. Joe knew firsthand that it didn't take much to get someone to crack. What he'd preformed over the years would be considered light torture -- beatings, teeth pulling, etc -- but he was bush league compared to the KGB. Like Dan said, they could get you to sing like a goddamn canary. It didn't matter how tough you claimed to be; Everybody cracked eventually.

Joe lit up a cigarette and looked at Dan out the corner of his eye as they walked away from the car. Spooky Dan is what he thought of him internally. He was aloof as hell a lot of times, like the disconnect a commanding officer would have in the military books Joe sometimes read. There was also a weight there that Joe recognized. Joe knew he carried it too, but in a completely different way. They'd both send their fair share of shit over the years. Everyone could guess what Joe had seen and done, but Dan? He was a fucking enigma.

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)

Create a Hero RPG Application

Character you have created: Jock Sturgeon

Alias: James Stitcher, Jack Scott, Martin Sullivan, etc.

Character Alignment: -Walking the Line-

Identity: Known to some.

Character Personality: Simply put Jock is a hustler. He'll do anything he can to make money. He has the likable and easygoing personality a conman needs in order to survive. Depending on the situation Jock can be very cocky and overbearing. As much as conning is a means of earning money for Jock, it's also a psychological aspect. The years of neglect from his mother left a chip on his shoulder. He just doesn't want to take money from you, he wants to prove that he is the smarter than you. The need to prove his intelligence has led to many cons blowing up prematurely, the mark becoming suspicious due to Jock's attitude. He avoids violence as much as possible, preferring to solve problems with his mind and not his fists.

Uniform/costume: No costume.

Origin Info/Details:

Jock Sturgeon's early life was one of hardship. His mother, Vera, gave birth to him when she was just thirteen years old. Jock's father was a low-level grifter who died a year later when he was hit by a car. Vera soon abandoned Jock and gave him to her parents, running off to Lost Haven. In Lost Haven she fell in with seedy types, men who did bad things for lots of money. She grudgingly came back when Jock was three and her father threatened to abandon the boy as well. Vera then took him to the city and half-raised him, seeing the boy as nothing more than a burden. Men came and went and Jock, as he got older, began to notice the things his mother and her friends did. He watched and quietly learned.

By the age of thirteen Jock and a group of boys from the neighborhood formed their own pickpocket gang. At fifteen he and another man ran a rigged street betting game. A year later Jock was steadily committing burglaries through Lost Haven. He made the mistake of operating too frequently in too small of an area. Soon the cops were on to him and he had to flee town and hide with old friend's of Vera. In exile, Jock's education began properly. He learned from seasoned thieves and grifters about the skill of the con, both short and long. Jock soon began to put the lessons to use.

For ten years now Jock has operated around Lost Haven as a confidence man and burglar. He has run long cons, short cons, heists, scams, and grifts. He's pulled every sort of job from the One-Armed Priest to the Serbian Stewarwd to the Brothers Corletonsia. More often than not the jobs were successful, but Jock had to occasionally pull out of the cons, just one step ahead of the authorities. A decade of running and scamming made him weary of traveling and grifting. Jock settled in as a short-term con man and has developed an interesting side job asthe underworld's version of a private eye. If a crook is in a jam, needs something recovered, or just needs a solution that doesn't involve killing then Jock is your man.

Hero Type:
Normal


Power Level:
Street Level

Powers:
No powers

Attributes:
Height: 5'11
Weight: 195 pounds.
Strength Level: Normal Human
Speed/Reaction Timing Level: Normal Human
Endurance at MAXIMUM Effort: Normal Human
Agility: Normal Human
Intelligence: Genius
Fighting Skill: Untrained
Resources: Average

Weaknesses:
Normal things that kill humans.

Supporting Characters:

Vesta Sturgeon - Jock's mother. Vesta works as a runner and mule for many underworld figures in Lost Haven and abroad. She only occasionally shows up into Jock's life at the most inconvenient of times.

Stan Pertovick - Local crime lord Jock pays tribute to in order to operate in his part of the city. Stan also acts as Jock's fence, paying for any stolen goods he may have to sell.

Commander Tom Norman - An LHPD who demands tribute from any crooks operating in his sector. His authoritarian nature rubs many members of the underworld, Jock among them, the wrong way.

Wallis - An old conman and thief that mentored Jock when he was younger. Wallis still travels across the world, pulling jobs when and where he can get them.

Gingy - Owner and operator of Gingy's, a pub that Jock lives above. Gingy is Jock's landlord and friend.

Monjoni - A fellow thief, Monjoni is leader of a four-man crew that performs burglaries and robberies all over the city. Jock has a tendency to run afoul with Monjoni and his boys anytime their paths cross.

Do you know how to post pictures on RPG boards?:
Yea

Sample Post:


The Diamond District
12:01 AM

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 just the single lock on the doorknob, a lock that I could have opened with just a strong look. I popped it free quicker than a high school boy pops off his girlfriends'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 Lost Haven 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. Hell, I dated Issac Zinkman's youngest daughter for six months just to get a feel for the family and learn any trade secrets. We just broke 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.

----

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 started hitting the 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.

"Jock Sturgeon," 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. I also hear that you're the guy crooks go to when they need work done."

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

"I'm questioning your smarts, kid," 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 you're 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. Lost Haven PD headquarters. The what? Now, that's gonna take some explaining..."

Soviet Amerika - Red Dawn-Inspired Alternate History

Joe looked at the two soliders with just a hint of amusement playing on his lips. Plenty of guys he grew up with went into the service. Hell, in Southie it seemed like you either enlisted in Uncle Sam's army or Billy Boyle's. Billy's organization was all paramilitary anyway with crews that kicked up to bigger bosses who kicked up to Billy. Joe always wondered how well he would have done if he had enlisted. He could follow orders and had no qualms about pulling a trigger. Maybe if he'd joined, he'd be on the other side of the table with the soldier boys and their too new clothes laying out a plan of action.

"Are they still doing NFL games?" Joe asked Morse and Park. "Or did the goddamn reds take that away? No TV up here, and what little radio we get they ain't talking about sports."

Joe shrugged when he saw all the curious looks that were aimed his way.

"What? I laid off ten grand to a bookie that the Pats would win it all this year. I wanna be able to check on my investment."

Soviet Amerika - Red Dawn-Inspired Alternate History

Joe chuckled to himself as he heard the brothers bickering. It made him think of his own brothers back in Boston. He had no idea if Connor was still with the BPD. Those that were left in the police force had to be loyal to the Soviets and he would like to think his brother had the stones to tell the Commies where they could stick it.

Danny, on the other hand...

The rest of the group didn't know it but they had heard Joe's brother on the radio two weeks ago. During one of those propaganda segments where they interviewed some of the Quislings in New England. They would always tell the interviewer of the benefits of the new regime and new way of life and how much happier they were in the new America. One of those people interviewed was Daniel Sullivan, now governor of the state of Massachusetts. Joe always knew Danny was the most ambitious of the three brothers, but he had no idea he'd go this far for power. Joe's anger rose and rose with every piece of bullshit Danny dropped in the interview. He did his best to mask his anger and hoped like hell nobody looked his way. There was no way in hell anyone in the group could connect him to Danny. In Boston you could spit and hit some fucker with the last name Sullivan.

Joe took his Beretta out of his waistband and plopped it down on the cot that he called his bed. Dan was calling to break out the M4's and Joe had to grimace at that though. When it came to things like handguns and shotguns Joe could hold his own with the Giguere brothers no problem. But in the area of rifles and automatic weapons he was sorely lacking. The training they'd underwent went a long way to making him more comfortable with an M4, but he still felt awkward with it.

"Wish we could find one of them automatic shotguns," Joe muttered as he lit up a cigarette. "I could wipe the floor with Ivan if I had one of those."

Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi - The Orcish Mercenary Saga

Fuck yo promps!

Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi - The Orcish Mercenary Saga

Boom Boom heard music in his head.

Not the pounding of war drums, or the guttural tribal chants that all Tuskers considered music. No, this was unlike anything anyone else in The Company had ever heard. The music Boom Boom heard was brisk and upbeat and it stirred emotions in him that he never knew he had. It was the music of a distant land and of a distant time. He'd heard it years ago during his gladiator days. A full orchestra of men had preformed as a prelude to their fights.

Even though he was in shackles below the stadium, the orcs could hear the music coming through from above and several had been moved to tears by it. The orchestra was finishing up just as Boom Boom and his brothers were led into the arena. He caught a glimpse of the man they called the conductor, so captivated as he commanded the orchestra like a war chieftain commanded his men in the throes of battle. Later that night, Boom Boom was struck by the thought that Bunnies could make such beautiful music one moment, and then cheer on Tuskers as they slaughtered each other for their enjoyment.

The music played in his head as the battle started. Along with the rest of the sappers and support, he was in the back. He followed the rhythm of the music as he prepared his concoctions. Six large clay bowls rested on the ground with wooden stirrers resting in each one. Boom Boom stirred and added in ingredients as he went down the line. It was a combination of resin and alchemical fluids that would burn twice as hot and twice as fast as ordinary flame and be twice as volatile. Junior members of the sappers took each bowl away as Boom Boom finished it and moved on to the next one. The junior sappers would then shape the resin into balls and place them in catapults with a flame nearby ready to light it up.

Like that conductor so long ago, Boom Boom had the sappers running about on his orders and preparing the catapults and resin. The music in his head was building to a crescendo, the airy uptempo or strings haven gave way to the pounding repercussions and blaring horns as the climax of his piece approached. At Radush's signal, Boom Boom and the sappers would unleash a fiery overture.

Nar Mat Kordh-Ishi - The Orcish Mercenary Saga

Imagine Boom Boom is somewhere in the back with the catapults and artillery.