Sumable said
If you're going to have a prison break, it might be smart to have someone who knows how the NYPD works.
. . .except this roleplay isn't set in New York.
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. . .except this roleplay isn't set in New York.
In
Zombie apocalyspe survival rp, taking place on an English countryside farm
→
12 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Interest Checks
I'd be down.
This is bizarre and I love it.
Understandable, real life comes first.
Some nights you just wanted a quiet drink, but some nights that wasn't enough.
Tobe sat alone in the bar, a decent enough place, out in the suburbs. No one approached him, no one engaged him, and that suited him just fine. Whenever he felt unaccountably bitter or angry, he would just find some out-of-the-way place, sit in a corner with a beer or two, and say nothing. It never made him feel any better. At all. He didn't know why he kept doing this.
Tonight was no exception, he wasn't feeling any less sad or angry, even with one lingering mystery of his life recently cleared up. And he kept staring at a woman seated at the bar, chatting with the bartender and drinking brightly colored cocktails.
Tobe finally shook his head, knocked back what remained of his beer at one gulp, then got up and walked over to the woman. "Hey," he said, barely audible over the jukebox.
Surprised. the blonde looked up at the young man in his plaid blazer and outdated haircut, confusion in her face.
". . .hey."
"Sorry to bother you. Jenny Hutchins, right?"
"Yeah. Do I know you?"
"Grove High School, Class of 2010."
". . .Dustin?"
"Tobias Dooley."
"Oh," the young woman said, taking another sip of her cocktail, before her eyes finally lit up in recognition. "Oh! Tobe Dooley! I remember, we went to school together!"
"Yes," Tobe said patiently. "We sat next to each other in homeroom for four years. Mr. Szcepanski. We spoke every day for four years."
Jenny thought for a moment. "Yeah, I guess we did."
"You remember Homecoming 2008? I asked you to it?"
"I don't remember that, no."
"You don't remember saying no? I stayed up nights trying to figure out how to do it, then when it came down to it I could barely even work up the courage to ask you. And you just up and said no. You completely crushed my hopes, Jenny. And you don't even remember it?" Tobe's voice shook with anger.
The woman seemed taken aback, but her attitude softened. "Tobe, I'm sorry if I was cruel. You must have thought I was a huge bitch. How about I buy you a drink and we catch up a bit?"
"No, I don't want your fucking pity," Tobe snarled. The bartender looked over, concerned, to shrink back at Tobe's hate-filled look. It was a quiet, suburban place, they were unused to this sort of thing.
Jenny stared. "Tobe, are you really this damaged over something that happened back in high school? Jesus, dude, move on."
Tobe lunged forwards, faster than anyone watching would have imagined, grabbing the woman around the neck. No one would have ever expected the short skinny guy to lift the woman bodily into the air and fling her into the shelves of bottles behind the bar, a good six feet away. Jenny shrieked from the floor, blood streaming from her face to mix with the rum and vodka and broken glass on the floor. Cell phones started coming out, 911 was being dialed by shaky hands.
Tobe didn't care. He walked out of the bar unopposed. He had enjoyed that. It made him feel much better than a couple of cheap beers had.
Tobe sat alone in the bar, a decent enough place, out in the suburbs. No one approached him, no one engaged him, and that suited him just fine. Whenever he felt unaccountably bitter or angry, he would just find some out-of-the-way place, sit in a corner with a beer or two, and say nothing. It never made him feel any better. At all. He didn't know why he kept doing this.
Tonight was no exception, he wasn't feeling any less sad or angry, even with one lingering mystery of his life recently cleared up. And he kept staring at a woman seated at the bar, chatting with the bartender and drinking brightly colored cocktails.
Tobe finally shook his head, knocked back what remained of his beer at one gulp, then got up and walked over to the woman. "Hey," he said, barely audible over the jukebox.
Surprised. the blonde looked up at the young man in his plaid blazer and outdated haircut, confusion in her face.
". . .hey."
"Sorry to bother you. Jenny Hutchins, right?"
"Yeah. Do I know you?"
"Grove High School, Class of 2010."
". . .Dustin?"
"Tobias Dooley."
"Oh," the young woman said, taking another sip of her cocktail, before her eyes finally lit up in recognition. "Oh! Tobe Dooley! I remember, we went to school together!"
"Yes," Tobe said patiently. "We sat next to each other in homeroom for four years. Mr. Szcepanski. We spoke every day for four years."
Jenny thought for a moment. "Yeah, I guess we did."
"You remember Homecoming 2008? I asked you to it?"
"I don't remember that, no."
"You don't remember saying no? I stayed up nights trying to figure out how to do it, then when it came down to it I could barely even work up the courage to ask you. And you just up and said no. You completely crushed my hopes, Jenny. And you don't even remember it?" Tobe's voice shook with anger.
The woman seemed taken aback, but her attitude softened. "Tobe, I'm sorry if I was cruel. You must have thought I was a huge bitch. How about I buy you a drink and we catch up a bit?"
"No, I don't want your fucking pity," Tobe snarled. The bartender looked over, concerned, to shrink back at Tobe's hate-filled look. It was a quiet, suburban place, they were unused to this sort of thing.
Jenny stared. "Tobe, are you really this damaged over something that happened back in high school? Jesus, dude, move on."
Tobe lunged forwards, faster than anyone watching would have imagined, grabbing the woman around the neck. No one would have ever expected the short skinny guy to lift the woman bodily into the air and fling her into the shelves of bottles behind the bar, a good six feet away. Jenny shrieked from the floor, blood streaming from her face to mix with the rum and vodka and broken glass on the floor. Cell phones started coming out, 911 was being dialed by shaky hands.
Tobe didn't care. He walked out of the bar unopposed. He had enjoyed that. It made him feel much better than a couple of cheap beers had.
Sounds a little like Twin Peaks. I was always a sucker for the seemingly nice town with a horrible secret. Count me in.
Okay, just a couple questions about canonicity. Is Roman still alive? Is Dwayne or Playboy X running the North Holland Hustlers?
Also, which mob is currently dominant? I guess the only ones that didn't get mauled were Petrovic and two or three families on the Commission.
Also, which mob is currently dominant? I guess the only ones that didn't get mauled were Petrovic and two or three families on the Commission.
Maybe? It'd have to be handled tastefully, this is a very serious issue.
Been busy, will try to post soon. Sorry!
"How many goddamn times do we have to knock you people out?" Sonja swore before going to work. It would take a few tricks strung together, which would wear her out. The sheer amount of mojo passing through her body would take a toll. But that was nothing that couldn't be fixed by a shower, a hot meal, and some sleep. An escaped villain wasn't so easily solved.
Sonja flourished again, an ethereal glow seeming to come from behind her designer sunglasses. Every door in Bouncer's stairwell simultaneously slammed shut, followed by a chorus of clicks as the deadbolt on each door locked automatically. They were good steel fire doors with excellent locks, they'd at least slow Bouncer down. That was merely a starter, though. The magician was just getting warmed up, even as sweat started to run down her face.
Inside the stairwell, a thick choking fog seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, reducing visibility to mere inches. Once in a while, at completely unpredictable intervals, a blue spark dancing through the fog, disorienting and frightening.
A little bit of theater goes a long way. Using her mentalist abilities, Sonja spoke directly into the fugitive's mind, hoping now she was at least a little spooked.
Hey. It's Bouncer, right? Like a club. No one can hear me but you. So listen close. You aren't going to win. You don't get to win. That's not an option. We've brought people up from Miami, London, Shanghai, and Saint Louis for the express purpose of kicking your scrawny ass. Not to mention this place is surrounded by Chicago's Finest, who know exactly how to handle people like you. So there are two ways this can go. Option Number One. You can come back to the lobby and give up peacefully, hands up. You get a fair trial, your Constitutional rights, three hots and a cot at Marion. Or, Option Number Two, you can go ahead and escape. In which case you get to deal with me. Be it today, be it tomorrow, be it ten years from now, I will find you. Doesn't matter if you go two blocks down or to Timbuktu, I will find you. And you won't get any of those things. You will just deal with a sorcerer who has all the power of our nation's murder capital and every reason to hear you scream. So, Bouncer, what will it be? Number One or Number Two?
There was another click as the bolt to the stairwell door in the lobby slid back open. Sonja awaited a response.
Sonja flourished again, an ethereal glow seeming to come from behind her designer sunglasses. Every door in Bouncer's stairwell simultaneously slammed shut, followed by a chorus of clicks as the deadbolt on each door locked automatically. They were good steel fire doors with excellent locks, they'd at least slow Bouncer down. That was merely a starter, though. The magician was just getting warmed up, even as sweat started to run down her face.
Inside the stairwell, a thick choking fog seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, reducing visibility to mere inches. Once in a while, at completely unpredictable intervals, a blue spark dancing through the fog, disorienting and frightening.
A little bit of theater goes a long way. Using her mentalist abilities, Sonja spoke directly into the fugitive's mind, hoping now she was at least a little spooked.
Hey. It's Bouncer, right? Like a club. No one can hear me but you. So listen close. You aren't going to win. You don't get to win. That's not an option. We've brought people up from Miami, London, Shanghai, and Saint Louis for the express purpose of kicking your scrawny ass. Not to mention this place is surrounded by Chicago's Finest, who know exactly how to handle people like you. So there are two ways this can go. Option Number One. You can come back to the lobby and give up peacefully, hands up. You get a fair trial, your Constitutional rights, three hots and a cot at Marion. Or, Option Number Two, you can go ahead and escape. In which case you get to deal with me. Be it today, be it tomorrow, be it ten years from now, I will find you. Doesn't matter if you go two blocks down or to Timbuktu, I will find you. And you won't get any of those things. You will just deal with a sorcerer who has all the power of our nation's murder capital and every reason to hear you scream. So, Bouncer, what will it be? Number One or Number Two?
There was another click as the bolt to the stairwell door in the lobby slid back open. Sonja awaited a response.
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