I'll do it.
Because I am in fact the loveliest.
Because I am in fact the loveliest.
Byrd Man Member
El Hombre Pájaro
STATUS: "I'm an actor. I will say anything for money." -- Also Charlton Heston 3 yrs ago
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"I'm an actor. I will say anything for money." -- Also Charlton Heston
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3 yrs ago
Starting up a preimum service of content from actors like Radcliffe, Day-Lewis, Bruhl, and Craig. Calling it OnlyDans.
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Please, guys. The status bar is for more important things... like cringe status updates.
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Deleting statuses? That's a triple cringe from me, dog.
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Bio
None of your damn business.
Most Recent Posts
Yeah, sorry. That's too big of an order for us to undertake. Are you sure you can't edit? I was able to go back to a post of mine from six years ago and edit it.
I went ahead and move this to the 1x1 interest checks. You may get more partner offers in this section.
There you go.
So I tried to change it and it looks like "Jessie Targaryen" is just one character over the 15 character limit for a username. I should be able to change it to "JessieTargaryen" though.
It's been yeeted.
Done!
Interested.
In
Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)
→
4 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Character you have created: The Saint
Alias: Jimmy Desantos/Jimmy the Saint
Speech Color: Normal
Theme:
"It takes a whole lotta hurt
Therein lies one of life's biggest lessons
Ain't got nothin' to do with deserve
Just pray to the Saint of Lost Causes"
-- Justin Townes Earle
Character Alignment: Walking the Line... ish.
Identity: Secret
Uniform/costume: No uniform or costume.
Origin Info/Details:
The Saint's true origin is mysterious and unknown. His early life is a mystery. After dropping out of high school, he enlisted in the Army and was soon drafted into special forces where he excelled. He joined special forces just as the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq were started and worked in the Middle East as a solider, eventually becoming a contract employee of the CIA. It was during his time with the CIA did he receive the codename Saint.
After a redacted incident in Northeast Afghanistan, The Saint's employment was terminated and the event was silently covered up by US authorities. Returning back to the US, The Saint didn't have to wait long until he was contacted by the shadowy criminal underworld that was desperate for his services. Now he works as a gun for hire. If it absolutely, positively needs to be killed as soon as possible, accept no substitutes.
Power Level: Street
Powers: No powers.
Attributes (Select one at each category):
Weaknesses: Bullets.
Supporting Characters:
Hyde -- The Saint's go-between with the criminal underworld. For a fee, Hyde sets The Saint up with people in need of his help.
Alex Stone -- FBI agent investigating The Saint.
Mack the Knife -- Current killer for hire and ex-special forces operative.
Percy Fitzwaller -- A criminal lawyer who moonlights as a criminal lawyer. The Saint's legal representative.
Do you know how to post pictures on RPG boards?: Yeah
Sample Post:
Yuba City, California
1:14 AM
The Saint walked through the smoke filled casino floor. Old ladies chain-smoked unfiltered cigarettes while they worked clattering slot machines with dead eyes. A half dozen dolled up ex-strippers wobbled across casino floors on too tall heels while they dished out chips and cigarettes. The heavy make-up did a bad job of hiding the miles and the years. The Saint figured for the right price a man could take one of them home. Drunk businessmen played blackjack while geeks in Hawaiian shirts and Shriners in fez hats played roulette.
The Gold Rush Casino got its name from Califronia's past. The city sprung up in the wake of the old Gold Rush of the 19th century. Someone found a bunch of shiny rocks in a creekbed and it became a boomtown overnight because of it. Like a lot of boomtowns, a primarily male populace needed a place to spend their money. Saloons and brothels popped up across the town to serve the thousands of rough prospectors passing through to find their fortune. The gold rush dried up and the boom years faded like they always do, but Yuba City pushed on. Its origins in human desire explained a lot about the current state of the area. How could the city be asked to clean up when vice was in its DNA?
The Saint found a pit boss walking around the craps table. He had his eye on a pair of hot hands rolling eight the hard way for the third consecutive time. The man seemed mildly annoyed when The Saint got his attention.
"Yes, sir?"
"Here to see Milligan. Hyde sent me."
Annoyance quickly turned to deference. The pit boss pulled out a walkie-talkie and radioed some unseen party. A moment later, a security guard in a red blazer and slacks was escorted The Saint off the casino floor and into the back. They passed a room crammed with monitors. Every inch of the casino seemed to be under surveillance. Another room down from the monitors had its door open. He saw soundproof padding and a single metal chair bolted to the floor. That was where cheaters went, and he was almost sure there would be no cameras in that room. Based on the pit boss' look, the lucky craps shooter would soon find himself in that little room.
"Mr. Milligan? He's the guy."
The security guard led The Saint into a sprawling office. It was decorated in a very gaudy fashion, leopard print wallpaper and a faux fur carpet. Fake Venus De Milo statues flanked a walnut desk big enough to hold an orgy on. A long glass window behind the desk looked down on the casino floor. Behind the desk, his leopard fur slippers up on the hardwood surface, was Joey Milligan. Milligan looked like an extra from a bad disco movie. He wore a bright pink shirt with half of it unbuttoned, a large gold necklace and medallion caught in the steely gray fur on his chest. He also wore a white pair of pants that would have looked embarrassing on a man half his age, but made Milligan look that much more clownish.
"The Saint," said Milligan. "The man, the myth, the legend."
The Saint took a chair, a plush leopard print wingback, and nodded as Milligan took his feet down off the desk.
"So why am I being paid so handsomely to come to this... casino?"
Milligan rooted through his desk. He came up with a remote control and pointed it at a television mounted on a table to his right. The thing clicked on and, after a few button presses, security camera footage rolled on the monitor. Four minutes worth of footage, all of it taken at different parts of the casino at different times over the past month. The Saint noticed the pattern before Milligan even opened his mouth.
"Notice something?"
"It's the same two guys in every shot," said The Saint. "They're always dressed differently and on different nights, but always at the casino and never together. Casing the place?"
"That's what my security guys think," said Milligan. "They've been here a long time, well long for case job. That's got me nervous. Something may be coming very soon. I want you to case the casers. Find them and make them pay for even fucking thinking of trying to rob my joint."
The Saint nodded his head and started to stand.
"I'll be on the floor if you need me."
"Twenty-two. Bust."
The dealer slid the chips across the green felt of the blackjack table with one long, lanky arm. The fat man at the table let out a sigh as he watched a few hundred dollars in chips disappear down a slot to the dealer's right. Two chairs away, The Saint stood firm on eighteen and waited for the dealer to flip his card over. It was already showing a queen of diamonds, so it came as no surprise when the dealer revealed an ace of spades.
"Twenty-one. House wins."
His chips disappeared down the chute. That made a even grand he lost at the tables since he'd hit the floor earlier this morning. That was okay. After all, he was playing with house money. He took the chips he had left in his hand and stood, throwing a small token of appreciation to the dealer as a tip, and walked the casino floor. Despite being there for over nine hours, The Saint still recognized plenty of faces from this morning. He would stake the chips he had left that plenty of people had been here for nearly twenty-four hours.
They all had the same look, as if they were slightly unhinged. Their eyes were too wide, they radiated something he knew was dangerous: Hope. Hope had no place in a joint like this. This was where hope came to die, but still suckers lined up around the block to let the house take their money. That was because they all believed in that dream that this country sold wholesale. They all played games rigged in the house's favor, but as long as that small glint of hope remained they would keep coming to the tables until they had nothing left take. In many ways, this dingy little casino with its clouds of cigarette smoke and people looking to score easy money was America in a nutshell. The games in these walls were just as rigged as the big game outside, but as long as people ate it up the house would always take and it would always win.
The Saint walked the floor, glancing up to the long glass pane above the casino. Joe Milligan's god's eye view of the casino he lorded over like a king with horrible taste. Out the corner of his eye he saw the man he first noticed two hours ago. He was a redhead with a thick ginger beard and a navy blue suit and white shirt, no tie. He was groomed but The Saint saw the tattoos from a mile away. They were on his knuckles, a single letter on each, that spelled out LOVE on his right hand, HATE on his left. He was one of the men in the security footage Milligan showed him. While the security footage helped, he had made him as a caser right off the bat. He wasn't too obvious with the way he watched everything going on around the casino floor, but he wasn't subtle enough to elude The Saint.
He slid up to the roulette table where the man was putting a bet on 28 Black. The Saint laid down a bet on 17 Red just before the little ball went into the spinning roulette. He stared at the table and only discretely glanced at the man out the corner of his eye. His hair was recently cut, the tanlines around the back of his neck made it obvious. They both lost money when the ball clattered into 22 Black. He stayed and played a few more spins while his target took his money to the blackjack table.
After a few more hours of playing, the man left. He spent all his chips, nothing to cash out at the teller's cage. The Saint waited a few minutes before leaving behind him. He was leaving the casino parking lot in a red sedan as The Saint stepped out into the evening. He got in his rental car and caught up with the sedan on the parkway, speeding east away from the coast and towards the interior of the state. The Saint lit up a cigarette and kept a long leash on the car, especially as traffic began to thin and the city disappeared into the distance. The car took an off ramp at a town called Nelson, some thirty miles outside of the city. He followed and kept going as the sedan pulled into a dilapidated gas station.
The Saint doubled back and parked the car down the block, the lights off, and watched the sedan idling at the gas station. A few minutes later, a roar filled the air and six motorcycles raced down the street and pulled into the gas station. Six burly bikers dismounted their bikes and walked over to the sedan as the caser got out. He talked with the bikers about something. In the dim light, The Saint caught a glimpse of the leather cut one of the bikers wore. Horde MC stood out on the top of the jacket.
"Shit."
The Horde was among the baddest biker gangs in America, especially out west. They cooked and sold crystal meth to rednecks, sold guns to Mexican cartels and LA gangbangers, massacred rival MCs, and terrorized the communities were their chapters formed. And now, it appeared to The Saint, casino robbery was about to be added to that list.
Alias: Jimmy Desantos/Jimmy the Saint
Speech Color: Normal
Theme:
"It takes a whole lotta hurt
Therein lies one of life's biggest lessons
Ain't got nothin' to do with deserve
Just pray to the Saint of Lost Causes"
-- Justin Townes Earle
Character Alignment: Walking the Line... ish.
Identity: Secret
Uniform/costume: No uniform or costume.
Origin Info/Details:
The Saint's true origin is mysterious and unknown. His early life is a mystery. After dropping out of high school, he enlisted in the Army and was soon drafted into special forces where he excelled. He joined special forces just as the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq were started and worked in the Middle East as a solider, eventually becoming a contract employee of the CIA. It was during his time with the CIA did he receive the codename Saint.
After a redacted incident in Northeast Afghanistan, The Saint's employment was terminated and the event was silently covered up by US authorities. Returning back to the US, The Saint didn't have to wait long until he was contacted by the shadowy criminal underworld that was desperate for his services. Now he works as a gun for hire. If it absolutely, positively needs to be killed as soon as possible, accept no substitutes.
Power Level: Street
Powers: No powers.
Attributes (Select one at each category):
Height: 6'0
Weight: 190
Strength Level: Normal Human
Speed/Reaction Timing Level: Normal Human
Endurance at MAXIMUM Effort: Normal Human
Agility: Normal Human
Intelligence: Genius
Fighting Skill: Mastered
Resources: Large
Weight: 190
Strength Level: Normal Human
Speed/Reaction Timing Level: Normal Human
Endurance at MAXIMUM Effort: Normal Human
Agility: Normal Human
Intelligence: Genius
Fighting Skill: Mastered
Resources: Large
Weaknesses: Bullets.
Supporting Characters:
Hyde -- The Saint's go-between with the criminal underworld. For a fee, Hyde sets The Saint up with people in need of his help.
Alex Stone -- FBI agent investigating The Saint.
Mack the Knife -- Current killer for hire and ex-special forces operative.
Percy Fitzwaller -- A criminal lawyer who moonlights as a criminal lawyer. The Saint's legal representative.
Do you know how to post pictures on RPG boards?: Yeah
Sample Post:
Yuba City, California
1:14 AM
The Saint walked through the smoke filled casino floor. Old ladies chain-smoked unfiltered cigarettes while they worked clattering slot machines with dead eyes. A half dozen dolled up ex-strippers wobbled across casino floors on too tall heels while they dished out chips and cigarettes. The heavy make-up did a bad job of hiding the miles and the years. The Saint figured for the right price a man could take one of them home. Drunk businessmen played blackjack while geeks in Hawaiian shirts and Shriners in fez hats played roulette.
The Gold Rush Casino got its name from Califronia's past. The city sprung up in the wake of the old Gold Rush of the 19th century. Someone found a bunch of shiny rocks in a creekbed and it became a boomtown overnight because of it. Like a lot of boomtowns, a primarily male populace needed a place to spend their money. Saloons and brothels popped up across the town to serve the thousands of rough prospectors passing through to find their fortune. The gold rush dried up and the boom years faded like they always do, but Yuba City pushed on. Its origins in human desire explained a lot about the current state of the area. How could the city be asked to clean up when vice was in its DNA?
The Saint found a pit boss walking around the craps table. He had his eye on a pair of hot hands rolling eight the hard way for the third consecutive time. The man seemed mildly annoyed when The Saint got his attention.
"Yes, sir?"
"Here to see Milligan. Hyde sent me."
Annoyance quickly turned to deference. The pit boss pulled out a walkie-talkie and radioed some unseen party. A moment later, a security guard in a red blazer and slacks was escorted The Saint off the casino floor and into the back. They passed a room crammed with monitors. Every inch of the casino seemed to be under surveillance. Another room down from the monitors had its door open. He saw soundproof padding and a single metal chair bolted to the floor. That was where cheaters went, and he was almost sure there would be no cameras in that room. Based on the pit boss' look, the lucky craps shooter would soon find himself in that little room.
"Mr. Milligan? He's the guy."
The security guard led The Saint into a sprawling office. It was decorated in a very gaudy fashion, leopard print wallpaper and a faux fur carpet. Fake Venus De Milo statues flanked a walnut desk big enough to hold an orgy on. A long glass window behind the desk looked down on the casino floor. Behind the desk, his leopard fur slippers up on the hardwood surface, was Joey Milligan. Milligan looked like an extra from a bad disco movie. He wore a bright pink shirt with half of it unbuttoned, a large gold necklace and medallion caught in the steely gray fur on his chest. He also wore a white pair of pants that would have looked embarrassing on a man half his age, but made Milligan look that much more clownish.
"The Saint," said Milligan. "The man, the myth, the legend."
The Saint took a chair, a plush leopard print wingback, and nodded as Milligan took his feet down off the desk.
"So why am I being paid so handsomely to come to this... casino?"
Milligan rooted through his desk. He came up with a remote control and pointed it at a television mounted on a table to his right. The thing clicked on and, after a few button presses, security camera footage rolled on the monitor. Four minutes worth of footage, all of it taken at different parts of the casino at different times over the past month. The Saint noticed the pattern before Milligan even opened his mouth.
"Notice something?"
"It's the same two guys in every shot," said The Saint. "They're always dressed differently and on different nights, but always at the casino and never together. Casing the place?"
"That's what my security guys think," said Milligan. "They've been here a long time, well long for case job. That's got me nervous. Something may be coming very soon. I want you to case the casers. Find them and make them pay for even fucking thinking of trying to rob my joint."
The Saint nodded his head and started to stand.
"I'll be on the floor if you need me."
"Twenty-two. Bust."
The dealer slid the chips across the green felt of the blackjack table with one long, lanky arm. The fat man at the table let out a sigh as he watched a few hundred dollars in chips disappear down a slot to the dealer's right. Two chairs away, The Saint stood firm on eighteen and waited for the dealer to flip his card over. It was already showing a queen of diamonds, so it came as no surprise when the dealer revealed an ace of spades.
"Twenty-one. House wins."
His chips disappeared down the chute. That made a even grand he lost at the tables since he'd hit the floor earlier this morning. That was okay. After all, he was playing with house money. He took the chips he had left in his hand and stood, throwing a small token of appreciation to the dealer as a tip, and walked the casino floor. Despite being there for over nine hours, The Saint still recognized plenty of faces from this morning. He would stake the chips he had left that plenty of people had been here for nearly twenty-four hours.
They all had the same look, as if they were slightly unhinged. Their eyes were too wide, they radiated something he knew was dangerous: Hope. Hope had no place in a joint like this. This was where hope came to die, but still suckers lined up around the block to let the house take their money. That was because they all believed in that dream that this country sold wholesale. They all played games rigged in the house's favor, but as long as that small glint of hope remained they would keep coming to the tables until they had nothing left take. In many ways, this dingy little casino with its clouds of cigarette smoke and people looking to score easy money was America in a nutshell. The games in these walls were just as rigged as the big game outside, but as long as people ate it up the house would always take and it would always win.
The Saint walked the floor, glancing up to the long glass pane above the casino. Joe Milligan's god's eye view of the casino he lorded over like a king with horrible taste. Out the corner of his eye he saw the man he first noticed two hours ago. He was a redhead with a thick ginger beard and a navy blue suit and white shirt, no tie. He was groomed but The Saint saw the tattoos from a mile away. They were on his knuckles, a single letter on each, that spelled out LOVE on his right hand, HATE on his left. He was one of the men in the security footage Milligan showed him. While the security footage helped, he had made him as a caser right off the bat. He wasn't too obvious with the way he watched everything going on around the casino floor, but he wasn't subtle enough to elude The Saint.
He slid up to the roulette table where the man was putting a bet on 28 Black. The Saint laid down a bet on 17 Red just before the little ball went into the spinning roulette. He stared at the table and only discretely glanced at the man out the corner of his eye. His hair was recently cut, the tanlines around the back of his neck made it obvious. They both lost money when the ball clattered into 22 Black. He stayed and played a few more spins while his target took his money to the blackjack table.
After a few more hours of playing, the man left. He spent all his chips, nothing to cash out at the teller's cage. The Saint waited a few minutes before leaving behind him. He was leaving the casino parking lot in a red sedan as The Saint stepped out into the evening. He got in his rental car and caught up with the sedan on the parkway, speeding east away from the coast and towards the interior of the state. The Saint lit up a cigarette and kept a long leash on the car, especially as traffic began to thin and the city disappeared into the distance. The car took an off ramp at a town called Nelson, some thirty miles outside of the city. He followed and kept going as the sedan pulled into a dilapidated gas station.
The Saint doubled back and parked the car down the block, the lights off, and watched the sedan idling at the gas station. A few minutes later, a roar filled the air and six motorcycles raced down the street and pulled into the gas station. Six burly bikers dismounted their bikes and walked over to the sedan as the caser got out. He talked with the bikers about something. In the dim light, The Saint caught a glimpse of the leather cut one of the bikers wore. Horde MC stood out on the top of the jacket.
"Shit."
The Horde was among the baddest biker gangs in America, especially out west. They cooked and sold crystal meth to rednecks, sold guns to Mexican cartels and LA gangbangers, massacred rival MCs, and terrorized the communities were their chapters formed. And now, it appeared to The Saint, casino robbery was about to be added to that list.
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