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Welcome


Moderately Useful Hokum Knowledge


A little about myself
I'm the type of person that thinks they're funnier than other people think they are. Laugh at my own jokes and wonders why no one else is laughing. Though I do enjoy chatting with people online, I'm not big on RL socializing and spend most of my time being a hermit. I also like cookies.

A little about my Role Playing
Most things I enjoy, but unlike what seems to be with most of the RP world atm, I'm not really a fan of Fandom or Anime RPing. When it comes to characters, I always create my own OC's, as that is a lot of the fun for me right there. Other than genre taste, I have been known to GM role plays of various sizes, though I will join as a player in other groups as well. As mentioned in my preference hider below, I also play 1X1's as long as I feel like a potential partner and I hit it off well.


Here are some more of my role play preferences.



So hey, feel obligated to PM me! Ask about my day, tell me off, throw me an undeserved compliment, or maybe by some wild chance you'd even like to RP with me! I'm not really fussed which of these you choose.



I hope you have learnt a great deal from reading this Bio. Oof.

Most Recent Posts

𝕯𝖆𝖗𝖗𝖊𝖑


As the musical piece came to a close, Darrel snapped from his swaying trance and tapped the power button. Swift and precise, his movement could have been considered robotic. He couldn’t chance the next piece starting up, for if it did, he would need to listen to it in full as well. With a faint smile still imposing its presence upon his typical stone face, he exited the house.

On the front porch he stood for a moment to analyse the morning. The air was a little more crisp and fresh than usual. A good thing. He closed his eyes for a time to enjoy the fragrance. It was something like a cross between the scent of fresh snow and a distant forest fire. He savoured the moment. But then, opening his eyes once more, his good feelings were gone –

The smile ran away from his face, replaced with his usual stone chisel.

There she was. Across the street and two doors down. That filth. Dustynn Knight was her name. Though he had never actually spoken with her, he was well aware of who she was by way of the many letters he had stolen from her mailbox since she moved into the neighbourhood. Not that he was stalking her, he did the same for every resident on the street, because this, like many of his incessant behaviours, was a product of his obsessive need to know the people who resided around him.

Dustynn was basically harmless, or so it would seem. But she was revolting. Just looking at her sitting there amid the overgrown lawn of her yard made him sick to the stomach. How hard was it to simply cut your grass? If only she would, at the very least, dress like a decent lady and stop punching holes in her flesh, she might pass as an actual human.

His morning was ruined.

He gave her the dirtiest look he could while swallowing back the urge to vomit. Just the thought of how repugnant her woman parts would taste…

He looked away sharply. Clearing his mind of the image of her. It was time for his scheduled cup of Earl Grey tea at Emily's Family Diner. Had the staff there had so much as an ounce of intelligence his usual table in the quiet corner would be reserved and waiting for him.

As he moved down the path between the oak trees to the street, yet another abomination caught his eye. A young man with a guitar and duffle bag making his way up the sidewalk. How loathsome. No dignity at all. No wonder he appeared lost and bemused. How did the youth these days even manage to live with themselves? Could he not even keep his attire straightened? God knows he would likely not even be capable of playing a decent tune with that hammer of his.

Darrel paused by the gate to his yard, chin up and eyes rolled down to the side as the young man passed by, admiring his perfectly kept lawn to avoid making eye contact. It was fortunate the young man passed by without a peep. Perhaps this day wouldn’t turn out so bad after all.

Once he exited the gate, Darrel paused a moment to take in another breath of the mildly fresh air, and then started walking up the sidewalk in the direction of the diner. Unfortunately, like all mornings, this walk to the diner would involve having to pass Dustynn's house, not to mention the rundown shithole that the guitar man was now self-loathing in front of.

‘Please…. Cry me a river.’




𝒮𝒽𝒶𝓇𝑜𝓃 𝒞𝓇𝑜𝓌𝓃


Despite her rank in law enforcement, Sharon wasn’t one for dressing the part. Uniforms and prestigious attire just made her feel downright uncomfortable. Still, she did have her badge exposed on the belt of her well-worn black cotton pants, slightly covered by the partial overhang of her brown leather jacket. Her eyes were green, hair a deep auburn and tied back in a loose ponytail. She was a good-looking woman, cute button nose type and in her mid-thirties – but at a glance there weren’t many people who would take her as a day over 25, seemingly far too young to make detective. But she was just that. She was the lead detective in the case surrounding the many young women that had gone missing in Blacktown and surrounding areas. The case had recently been named The Rapture, since it was the best anyone could think of as reference to so many women going missing without a trace… or at least that was the way things were until today.

Early morning was spent at the local morgue getting a rundown by the head coroner on all the reasons why the recent recovered body of a young woman, a pretty blonde by the name of Alice, could have actually been the first of the missing victims to actually turn up. But was Alice one of them? Sharon wasn’t convinced. She, however, had to admit that the report the pathologist gave had its convincing elements. But why now? Why after all this time did the abductor become sloppy enough to leave evidence behind?

The first order of business was visiting Alice’s parents with the morbid news of their daughter’s death - always one of the hardest parts of the job - but Sharon didn’t have the mindset for that shit at the moment. That would have to wait for an hour or two. Right now she had to think and organise her thoughts, and the best way to do that was with a much needed coffee and possibly a pancake or two. She arrived at Emily's Family Diner a little after opening time and parked herself neighbouring the table that seated a pretty young lady with hair dyed pink. Possibly a call girl or worker at one of the local clubs dropping by after her shift for a bite to eat. Sharon knew the type but wasn't one to judge. As she nestled uneasily in her seat, she couldn’t help but wonder if maybe this particular young lady was to be the next victim in The Rapture case. A feeling of dread sunk into Sharon’s stomach as she took out her field notes and started to assess them while waiting for service.
@Witryso

Ah yes, the sense of indirection. Well, you obviously feel the setting enough to work with. The direction of your character, of course, is up to you. But there will be an underlying GM plot at work along the way. Looking forward to meeting your character!
@AtomicNut

Ah yes, Smokes is good boi.

By all means feel free to drop him in the CS tab.
@AtomicNut

Oof! Apologies for the late reply. Yes, you and your washouts are welcome to join! :)
heh, thanks for that.

Looks great. But yeah, feel free to slip her into the CS tab. All good!


Present Day


It’s not so unheard of for people to go missing in Blacktown. The suburb is host to a variety of sordid misfits from junkies, drug dealers and prostitutes, to street gangs and vagrants - but let’s not forget those struggling working-class folk. One could say that a variety of crime is to be expected around these parts. A person or two going missing is hardly something most folks would even bat an eyelid to, but the recent tally of disappearances, young ladies in particular, is starting to provoke a little concern.

Kind of hard to know when it started. Six months? A year? Chief of police for the City of Davis, Lukas Rise, released a statement to the press three days ago, stating that the rapid rise in young women going missing in Blacktown and surrounding suburbs, is believed to be the work of a single individual, although no solid leads have yet been established. What the press doesn’t know, however, is that the perpetrator is now believed to be residing in the suburb of Blacktown itself.



‘You’re hurting me.’

‘Just hold still.’

‘I can’t. You’re really hurting me – there’s something wrong.’

‘Hold still. There’s nothing wrong. Just relax and let it happen.’

‘Please, it really hurts, can you stop?’

I can’t stop now. I’m almost done!’

‘No. Stop, please. Please just sto–’

‘I told you to fucking. Hold. STILL! …Now look what you’ve done, you stupid whore.’





𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧


Reservoir Lane was near the heart of Blacktown, comprised of several rundown houses and apartment blocks. No less than typical for the region. But there was a house on the street, number 7, that stood out among the rest of the residential properties. It was renowned as the well-kept house for miles and therefore hard not to notice. This house was owned by a single man that most in the neighbourhood were aware of, but no one actually knew. By what was mostly snide remarks and snickering mockery, this man was referred to by most as Mr Perfect. Nobody knew his real name, how long he had lived there, or even what he did for work.

The yard of his property was immaculate, the trimmed lawn was soft, even fluffy looking, with no variance in the lush shade of green. Two oak trees stood in the yard, the trunk of each one girded perfectly, as if a ruler had been used to ensure the trunk was perfectly centred in their allocated patch of dirt. The bleach white concrete path was stainless and lead up to the front porch of the house between the Oak trees directly from the footpath off the street.

The house itself was a single story. Again, in immaculate condition with what appeared to be a fresh coat of beige paint. The tiles of the roof were a rich clay colour. The frames of the windows and doors were a deeper shade of brown. The windows were tinted very dark, allowing no one to see inside.




This morning, inside the house, was Darrel. A lean yet strong man of very upright posture, standing a little over six feet tall with square shoulders, a straight neck, and a chin held that little too high.

In public, or even so much as exiting the front door of his quaint little house to do a little gardening, Darrel wore a suit and tie. Nothing expensive, of course, any high roller would know at a glance he certainly didn’t shop at Dolce & Gabbana. But that didn’t matter to Darrel. He wore the suit like a man of unequalled integrity – and that is all he would ever wear; a black suite, black polished boots, white shirt and black tie. Seven of the same attire hung in the second-hand redwood wardrobe of his bedroom. One for each day of the week. One extra for good measure. On his wrist, Darrel wore an imitation silver Rolex analogue watch, a plain silver ring on the middle finger of his left hand. Combined, they were the sum of accessories he would ever be willing to wear.

Inside was another matter. He rarely wore clothing at home, not so much as underwear. With the exception of when he was entertaining the occasional guest, during which times he would dress in a plain grey T-shirt, grey cotton tracksuit pants cut off at the knees, and plain grey socks. Nothing more. This outfit too was also duplicated seven-fold, immaculately folded in his dresser drawers. One for each day of the week, and one extra for good measure.

This morning, alike many a morning of late, Darrel was cleaning. Naked, with dustpan and brush in hand, he finished sweeping away the last remaining traces of dust from his bleach-white bedsheets. After which, he removed said sheets, dropped them in the washing machine along with detergent – the amount of which he had perfected – and set the wash to Full Cycle. He would likely need to repeat the wash several times for good measure throughout the day and possibly into tomorrow. But that was okay, he did have seven more sets of the same bedsheets immaculately folded in the hallway closet.

Once the sheets were in the wash he shit, shaved and showered. Then the first cycle was done. Setting the wash to another full cycle he cooked one perfectly poached egg, one perfectly browned toast, and one glass of orange juice. No salt and no pepper. No butter. No added sugar. After breakfast, he started the second washing cycle, dressed in his suit and attended the bathroom where he carefully and meticulously combed his short black hair, then commenced removing even so much as a shadow of lint from his suit coat with a lint roller.

After several minutes of antagonising over his appearance, he came to accept everything was perfect. His tie, perfectly straight. His suit, void of marks. His clean shaven face and strong jawline, clear of blemish. His intense translucent blue eyes, as always without flaw. Black boots could have been used as a mirror. His hair… remarkable.

‘You are the perfect man,’ He told himself, ‘She is out there, somewhere.’

Once another cycle of bedsheets was complete and the fourth cycle started, he was ready to exit the house and start his day - but first, there was one other thing to do:

He arrived in the lounge room, furnished only with a stereo system. The low budget stereo was centred in the otherwise empty room. He touched the play button as if touching a priceless gemstone. The music began to play. And there he stood swaying to the music, eyes closed, a faint smile riding his face.
@Pyxis

Ah, yes, hello newcomer. Welcome to the Guild! As for this RP, consider yourself had XD
@Zaxter996

Indeed it does, consider me pleased to have you aboard!
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