Byrd Man — Roleplayer Guild

Hollywood
Now

“Listen, I don’t care how fucking burnt out that son of a bitch is, The Shadow IV will start filming next month. Now, he can either report to the set in Atlanta in a timely fashion, or I can sue his ass for breach of contract.”

J.Lewis Wasserman continued to yell insults and threats into his cell phone as he weaved his mid-sized car through the streets of Beverly Hills. This car was a rental, his quarter of a million dollar sports car having recently been stolen. The rental had been designed with a safety feature that would block incoming calls and texts from inside the car once the vehicle got above fifteen miles an hour. Wasserman had paid extra to have that disabled. As a studio head, he lived and died by the calls he made. Punching the numbers in on the touch screen, gripping the phone as he snarled into it, all those things were part of his ritual. If he strayed a little into the adjacent lane, then so fucking be it. They'd just get out of his way.

He swung into the parking area of the hotel and climbed out of the car, making sure that it was locked before heading towards the hotel entrance. He continued talking while waddling towards the lobby. A clerk at the front desk pointed him towards the hotel’s restaurant without another word. He was running late for a lunch meeting with a screenwriter, but he still walked at his own pace. A guy as powerful as Wasserman was never late.

“Yeah? Oh, yeah? Well, fuck you,” he said, hanging up on the agent.

“Excuse me,” a voice said from behind.

Wasserman turned around and fell in love. She was wearing a tight flower dress that ended at the ankles of her sandal-clad feet. Her dirty blonde hair was done in an updo and her green eyes seemed to glow with sensuality. Wasserman had known his share of Hollywood beauties. But nothing like this. Her beauty was… deeper and more powerful than anything he’d ever seen. Heavenly was a cliche and he knew it, but his brain was locked into the word. Heavenly. An angel straight from heaven.

“I have to say,” she said, flashing a perfect smile that made Wasserman's legs go weak. “I am a huge fan.”

---

Eighteen Hours Earlier
Beverly Hills

“We’re in the franchise business,” Wasserman said into his phone as he pulled up to the valet parking of a swanky Beverly Hills restaurant. “The next six movies he’ll be in are already planned out. The train is rolling, fuckface, and nothing stops this train.”

Wasserman ended the call and climbed out of his car. A uniformed valet was already waiting for him with a ticket in one hand, an open hand ready to take his keys.

“You scratch this car you’re fucking done,” said Wasserman.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, squire,” the man said in a thick English accent. 

Wasserman looked up at him and narrowed his eyes.

“Anyone ever tell you that you look like Sting?”

“All the bloody time,” the man said with a smile.

Wasserman watched him climb into his car and speed down the street without stopping at a red light. Angry drivers honked at him as he passed by. Wasserman almost dropped his phone at the sight of the rapidly disappearing car.

“Where the fuck is he going?”

A young man dressed in a red blazer and navy slacks came out the side door of the restaurant with a confused look on his face.

“Where is who going?”

“The other valet,” said Wasserman, pointing in the direction his car had gone. “Guy dressed just like you.”

“I’m the only valet,” said the young man.

“FUCK!”

---

That Night
Silver Lake
Ray’s Occult Bookstore

“When’s the last time you did a charm spell?”

John looked up from the spellbook he was reading and squinted at Ray. The two of them were in the backroom of his store. He’d closed early after John had waltzed in needing help. The book in question was a German medieval text the Catholic Church had declared blasphemous in 1345.

He thought back to the last charm he’d cast. A bit of work on a bouncer at some nightclub a few years ago, a paid job for a paparazzi who wanted some shots of Little Miss Disney Channel doing blow. John kept the paid ape at the door enthralled with magic, both of the close-up and occult varieties, while the little weasel snapped shots of Wisconsin Johnson doing a line of blow before she blew an L.A. Clipper. John got stiffed by the pervert, but he got his revenge when the git’s digital camera suddenly and mysteriously went on the blink, all of his shots wiped clean off the memory card and his big payday was ruined.

“It’s been a year or two,” said John. “But I can do one of those in me sleep."

"So why can't you do one of those?" asked Ray.

"This Wasserman bloke has a reputation for being tough, which is a nice way to say arsehole, but in addition to that he dabbles in the occult. So a regular, run of the mill charm spell may not work."

"So, overkill it is."

"Quite bloody right," John said, reaching for the cigarettes in his coat pocket. "And this is a different beast than a regular charm. Different altogether, Ray. The spell as is would be like shooting someone with a .38 Special. I need to have a gun, and I need to be up close to hit them. This fucking thing I want to cast is like shooting a laser beam from a satellite all the way up in bloody space. Distant and focused, it’s a more intense spell.”

“There’s one I know that involves a potion,” Ray said as he started to search through the shelves of his collection. “We would just need to find a three-eyed frog.”

“I got a better one,” said John. “An Invocation of St. Valentine. Luckily, I have all I need.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out a long and curly dark strand hair. Ray leaned forward to examine it through his thick glasses.

“I hope that’s from a head,” said Ray.

“Back hair,” said John. “Our boy Wasserman is part gorilla, it seems. Thankfully he likes to take the occasional shirtless drive,"

“But the Invocation of St. Valentine is a two way spell,” Ray said. “Something from the target and something--”

“--from the object of desire. A sacrifice of lust, given willingly.”

With a large smile, John pulled out a pair of soiled panties.

“Got that covered as well, Squire. One pair of knickers, covering in nothing but lust.”

---

Hollywood
Now

“You know I do more than produce movies, right?”

Jenny had to keep from laughing at the effect she was having. The short, stocky little man couldn’t take his eyes off her. Constantine had said the charm would be powerful, but she had no idea it would be like this. Wasserman had blown off whatever meeting he was supposed to have and instead treated Jenny to a meal that had to cost almost five hundred dollars in wine alone. If she knew he would be this easy, then she wouldn’t have gotten so dressed up.

“Such as?” Jenny asked with a flirtatious smile.

“I’m a collector,” Wasserman said with a conspiratorial grin. “Hollywood is a deeply fucked up place, sweetheart. So many people get chewed up and spit out and so much debris gets left behind in their wake. I like to collect the debris. It reminds me of all the schmucks I blew past.”

Jenny leaned forward, putting her hand on top of Wasserman’s. 

“What kind of items?” 

He stared down at the hand for a long time, a leering look on his face, before he looked back up.

“All kinds of crazy shit. I paid an LAPD officer to swap out OJ Simpson’s bloody glove for a fake. I got the real thing at my house, under glass.”

“You know,” Jenny said with a soft smile. “I think I’d like to see something like that. Can you show me?”

“Check please,” said Wasserman.

From the far end of the hotel restaurant, John watched as Wasserman and Jenny left the room. He waited until ten seconds had passed before he stood and walked out behind them.

<Snipped quote by Morden Man>

Or, just a thought. And this may be wild and crazy, but bear with me. 
We focus on the short term, don't plot out every single aspect of each post a year in advance like you said, and also just toss a date on there to keep some semblance of continuity moving forward. Especially if, in season two, @Master Bruce gives a hard start and finish dates to go by. Times aren't necessarily needed, but a date, at least, is always nice to make sure things gel together and we don't end up all crossing the streams. 

In open-world sandbox games that have various moving pieces, I find that to be the best way to maintain cohesion without future finagling. 
If this were a structured RP with a handful of players, I wouldn't date my posts, either.

Not suggesting that this should be a mandatory rule by any mean, you all do what you want. But the whole "in the long run it doesn't matter so let's embrace timey-wimey narrative" seems odd to me. There are some things where stating in the long run it won't matter applies well, but I don't think this is one of them.@Retired

Just because I don't date mine doesn't means no one else should. Keep going if that's what works for you. I feel like MB would be in agreement with that philosophy. I just don't personally care to do it.

Byrd Man Member

El Hombre Pájaro

Status

Recent Statuses

Bio

Most Recent Posts