He was a sumo, and he was going to go into the arena as one, dammit.
Watanabe swatted aside the designer clothes that were thrust into his hands and glowered down at the mousy man assigned to him. "Get me thirty feet of silk," he commanded. "I will wear the mawashi, as is traditional. None of this modern day foolishness," he said as he contemptuously kicked at the pile of clothing on the ground. The stylist gulped nervously, relayed the request outside. With that concession made, the little man proceeded to snatch up a comb and hair product.
"No," Watanabe growled, protectively covering his long, flowing hair. With impressive dexterity for a man with such thick fingers, Watanabe nimbly tied his shoulder-length hair into a chonmage, the traditional topknot for sumo wrestlers. "I will fight with dignity and honor and I will not debase myself by pretending to be anything other than a sumo," he informed the cowering stylist. "Is that understood?"
The man couldn't do anything but gulp again and nod.
Polyphemus Member
They/ Them
- Last Seen: 4 yrs ago
- Old Guild Username: Vulture
- Joined: 12 yrs ago
- Posts: 1829 (0.41 / day)
- VMs: 0
-
Username history
- Polyphemus 12 yrs ago
Status
User has no status, yet
Bio
User has no bio, yet
Most Recent Posts
Todd America, former Navy SEAL (before they were founded!) who kills Nazis with his dad's Colt while driving a car painted with the Constitution!
Name: David Schoenberg
Age: 65 (born February 4, 1949)
Height: 5'10"
Build: He's in decent shape for an older man, carries a slight paunch and a stoop in his shoulders.
Appearance:
Family: His wife Rita passed away from breast cancer two years back. His son Philip (34) lives in New York City, his daughter Evelyn (31) in Des Moines. He does not know what became of them.
Personality: Grumpy, argumentative, the kind of man who turns off the lights on Halloween. Despite his cynicism, however, he's committed to helping other people out however he can (usually with a lot of grumbling). If someone's in trouble, he will immediately step up to the plate while kvetching about "having to do everything around here for you damn kids".
Occupation Before: Retiree, was a jeweler up until his retirement in 2011.
Notable skills: David is a war veteran (see below) and as such has some experience in infantry and hand-to-hand combat, as well as basic first aid. His work as a jeweler has given him experience with tools, especially delicate, small-scale detail work. Something of a polyglot, he speaks English, Hebrew, and Spanish, as well as a smattering of Yiddish.
Bio:
"Next year in Jerusalem!"
An old phrase, for sure, but one old Solomon Schoenberg lived by. In their upstairs apartment in New York's Upper West Side, David, the youngest of five, heard this phrase dozens of times throughout his childhood. His father, like his father before him, had been born and raised in the United States. But now that Israel was an independent country, what had long since seemed a pipe dream had become a tangible reality. Living in Zion, a lifelong ambition for many of them. All that was needed was for the old man to save enough money for the move, a feat he managed in 1964. And so, at the tender age of fifteen, David was uprooted from his friends and American lifestyle, taken across the sea to Tel Aviv. Strangely, though, he was not terribly upset. The idea of living in the Holy Land was intoxicating, the closest one could get to sitting among the angels.
He was called up for compulsory military service at the age of eighteen, just in time to be sent into the Sinai with thousands of other combat infantrymen when the War of 1967 erupted. A second-line trooper, David saw little in the way of combat, but returned home to be regarded as a hero nonetheless. He began an apprenticeship at his father's jewelry store, learning the trade and serving his required time as a reservist, while still making the time for Talmudic studies.
In 1973, he was called up in the panic following the start of hostilities on Yom Kippur. This time, he was not so lucky as to avoid combat. Instead, his unit was thrown into some of the harshest battles of the war. The hard slog towards the Suez Canal, the fighting at "the Chinese Farm", Ismaila- David was present for the worst of it. He saw friends and comrades cut down by bullets, grenades, bayonets, while he himself remained untouched.
David was a very different man by the end of that October. Returning home, he was once again greeted as a hero, but he didn't particularly feel like one. He couldn't bring himself to touch his Talmud or enter the temple. He couldn't give any real name to what he felt. A crisis of faith, perhaps, mixed with some survivor's guilt. Whatever the case, Israel no longer felt like the right place for him.
And so, he took his savings and back pay and left in 1978. Back to New York to open his own jewelry, not quite renouncing the faith but never again practicing it (though he liberally laced his speech with Yiddish). He married a shiksa woman, had two children, lived as best as he could. A fan of the warmer weather in Florida, he and his wife Rita planned to retire there, buying a condo in a quiet retirement community in Boca Raton. Cancer claimed Rita only a year into their new life in retirement, leaving David alone again, naturally.
Old, jaded, and a little bitter, when the crisis began, David stubbornly refused to follow the emergency protocols dictated by the government. The pessimist in him predicted how completely out of control this was likely to become, and sadly he was proven right.
Disability/Fear:
David is an older man. While he's still capable of short-term exertion, a prolonged fight, chase, or other physical endeavor is going to seriously exhaust him. He will not recover easily or quickly from injury and is far more susceptible to sickness.
Weapon of Choice:
David prefers to use a Stevens 67E pump-action 12 gauge. It holds six rounds, and he has twenty-four rounds of 00 buckshot on his person.
Equipment: Aside from his shotgun and spare rounds, David carries a beat up old canvas backpack. Inside is a Leatherman multitool, a gallon jug of water, six cans of soup, a book of matches, a small gun-cleaning kit, a toothbrush and razor, a change of clothes, a copy of Moby-Dick, and a few family photos. He wears khaki slacks, a robin's-egg blue short sleeved shirt, and some Reebok sneakers.
Of course we had to have a retired person, it's Florida. The sheet's a little light, I know, let me know if changes are needed.
Age: 65 (born February 4, 1949)
Height: 5'10"
Build: He's in decent shape for an older man, carries a slight paunch and a stoop in his shoulders.
Appearance:
Family: His wife Rita passed away from breast cancer two years back. His son Philip (34) lives in New York City, his daughter Evelyn (31) in Des Moines. He does not know what became of them.
Personality: Grumpy, argumentative, the kind of man who turns off the lights on Halloween. Despite his cynicism, however, he's committed to helping other people out however he can (usually with a lot of grumbling). If someone's in trouble, he will immediately step up to the plate while kvetching about "having to do everything around here for you damn kids".
Occupation Before: Retiree, was a jeweler up until his retirement in 2011.
Notable skills: David is a war veteran (see below) and as such has some experience in infantry and hand-to-hand combat, as well as basic first aid. His work as a jeweler has given him experience with tools, especially delicate, small-scale detail work. Something of a polyglot, he speaks English, Hebrew, and Spanish, as well as a smattering of Yiddish.
Bio:
"Next year in Jerusalem!"
An old phrase, for sure, but one old Solomon Schoenberg lived by. In their upstairs apartment in New York's Upper West Side, David, the youngest of five, heard this phrase dozens of times throughout his childhood. His father, like his father before him, had been born and raised in the United States. But now that Israel was an independent country, what had long since seemed a pipe dream had become a tangible reality. Living in Zion, a lifelong ambition for many of them. All that was needed was for the old man to save enough money for the move, a feat he managed in 1964. And so, at the tender age of fifteen, David was uprooted from his friends and American lifestyle, taken across the sea to Tel Aviv. Strangely, though, he was not terribly upset. The idea of living in the Holy Land was intoxicating, the closest one could get to sitting among the angels.
He was called up for compulsory military service at the age of eighteen, just in time to be sent into the Sinai with thousands of other combat infantrymen when the War of 1967 erupted. A second-line trooper, David saw little in the way of combat, but returned home to be regarded as a hero nonetheless. He began an apprenticeship at his father's jewelry store, learning the trade and serving his required time as a reservist, while still making the time for Talmudic studies.
In 1973, he was called up in the panic following the start of hostilities on Yom Kippur. This time, he was not so lucky as to avoid combat. Instead, his unit was thrown into some of the harshest battles of the war. The hard slog towards the Suez Canal, the fighting at "the Chinese Farm", Ismaila- David was present for the worst of it. He saw friends and comrades cut down by bullets, grenades, bayonets, while he himself remained untouched.
David was a very different man by the end of that October. Returning home, he was once again greeted as a hero, but he didn't particularly feel like one. He couldn't bring himself to touch his Talmud or enter the temple. He couldn't give any real name to what he felt. A crisis of faith, perhaps, mixed with some survivor's guilt. Whatever the case, Israel no longer felt like the right place for him.
And so, he took his savings and back pay and left in 1978. Back to New York to open his own jewelry, not quite renouncing the faith but never again practicing it (though he liberally laced his speech with Yiddish). He married a shiksa woman, had two children, lived as best as he could. A fan of the warmer weather in Florida, he and his wife Rita planned to retire there, buying a condo in a quiet retirement community in Boca Raton. Cancer claimed Rita only a year into their new life in retirement, leaving David alone again, naturally.
Old, jaded, and a little bitter, when the crisis began, David stubbornly refused to follow the emergency protocols dictated by the government. The pessimist in him predicted how completely out of control this was likely to become, and sadly he was proven right.
Disability/Fear:
David is an older man. While he's still capable of short-term exertion, a prolonged fight, chase, or other physical endeavor is going to seriously exhaust him. He will not recover easily or quickly from injury and is far more susceptible to sickness.
Weapon of Choice:
David prefers to use a Stevens 67E pump-action 12 gauge. It holds six rounds, and he has twenty-four rounds of 00 buckshot on his person.
Equipment: Aside from his shotgun and spare rounds, David carries a beat up old canvas backpack. Inside is a Leatherman multitool, a gallon jug of water, six cans of soup, a book of matches, a small gun-cleaning kit, a toothbrush and razor, a change of clothes, a copy of Moby-Dick, and a few family photos. He wears khaki slacks, a robin's-egg blue short sleeved shirt, and some Reebok sneakers.
Of course we had to have a retired person, it's Florida. The sheet's a little light, I know, let me know if changes are needed.
I have a sinking feeling it might just be you and me.
I was trying to make a joke, I'm sorry if that didn't come across. No need to start hurling accusations.
Why even ask for opinions if you're going to decide for us?
Truth or dare.
Dropping interest, willing to wait a month.
"Alright, I'm an intelligent man," Alex said to himself as he surveyed the line of abandoned cars stretching into the distance. It was eerily calm- the cars seemed to be abandoned without exception. "Which of these is going to have useful supplies in it?" Hefting the hockey stick, he began a slow tiptoe through the wrecks. They seemed to have only been abandoned a few days, like the owners might return in an hour or two. But the broken glass and shell casings on the ground told a different story, as did the occasional brownish stain.
He was hoping to find a gun, really. Alex's father had made sure to teach him how to shoot at a young age. But there really wasn't time to suss out each and every car, he didn't want to leave the two women more than a few minutes. Call it pragmatism, call it chivalry, call it wanting an audience.
So which car might have a gun? No police cars in sight, this hadn't been an orderly evacuation. Maybe, he thought, I'll find a big ole pickup with a Confederate flag, a rack of rifles and a pistol in the glovebox. But no, that particular type of person was the type who would stay and defend their home, not get caught up in a panicked evacuation.
There was too many cars. Alex shook his head. Not likely to find a gun here, and he wasn't going to get anywhere just off make or model. Might as well just crack one open at random and see what was available. Alex stopped at the nearest car. A minivan, a stylized soccer ball on the rear windshield. Soccer mom. He remembered him and his buddies being chauffeured back and forth from hockey practice as a kid. God, that must have been trying on the woman. Alex really hoped she was okay.
He reached out, tried the sliding door, found it unlocked. Well, something was going right today. He yanked open the door-
-the arms reached for him, and the teeth snapped at him. Alex took an involuntary step backwards. Before her throat was ripped out and her skin turned yellow, she had been attractive. Seven out of ten, maybe. Of course, death and undeath had ruined that. Not a MILF anymore, just another geek. Alex swallowed, clutched the stick, remembered what they had said on CNN as it climbed out of the van, groaning and snapping. Go for the head.
He timed his shoulder check just right, as the geek was setting one foot on the pavement. No balance. His shoulder rammed right into the thing's collarbone. No boards to catch it, just empty air. There was a certain satisfaction in watching the dead thing fly backwards, smash to the pavement, struggle to get up. It was slow and awkward. It needed time to regain its feet, and Alex wouldn't allow that. "Sorry, mama-san," he said as he brought down the stick like he was chopping wood, a huge over-the-shoulder blow. The skull split, like a cleaver had been taken to a melon. The groaning and snapping stopped, and the geek lay still. One down, ten million to go.
No more wasting time. He looked inside the old minivan, musty with the smell of blood of death. Mamacita must have bled to death in here. Alex lit on the plastic Ralph's bag lying on the passenger seat and snatched it up. Two granola bars, a can of tuna, a half-empty bottle of water. And one unopened bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin. Well, better than nothing. Might as well git while the gittin' was good.
Snatching up the plastic bag and his newly blooded stick, he picked back down the slope to Las Pulgas Road and the Humvee. The thudding of his heart didn't let up as he saw the other vehicles that had joined the girls. Slow and easy, Alex. He raised up his stick over his head, slowed his step. "Don't shoot! I'm not one of them!" he called.
Somewhere, a car horn sounded.
He was hoping to find a gun, really. Alex's father had made sure to teach him how to shoot at a young age. But there really wasn't time to suss out each and every car, he didn't want to leave the two women more than a few minutes. Call it pragmatism, call it chivalry, call it wanting an audience.
So which car might have a gun? No police cars in sight, this hadn't been an orderly evacuation. Maybe, he thought, I'll find a big ole pickup with a Confederate flag, a rack of rifles and a pistol in the glovebox. But no, that particular type of person was the type who would stay and defend their home, not get caught up in a panicked evacuation.
There was too many cars. Alex shook his head. Not likely to find a gun here, and he wasn't going to get anywhere just off make or model. Might as well just crack one open at random and see what was available. Alex stopped at the nearest car. A minivan, a stylized soccer ball on the rear windshield. Soccer mom. He remembered him and his buddies being chauffeured back and forth from hockey practice as a kid. God, that must have been trying on the woman. Alex really hoped she was okay.
He reached out, tried the sliding door, found it unlocked. Well, something was going right today. He yanked open the door-
-the arms reached for him, and the teeth snapped at him. Alex took an involuntary step backwards. Before her throat was ripped out and her skin turned yellow, she had been attractive. Seven out of ten, maybe. Of course, death and undeath had ruined that. Not a MILF anymore, just another geek. Alex swallowed, clutched the stick, remembered what they had said on CNN as it climbed out of the van, groaning and snapping. Go for the head.
He timed his shoulder check just right, as the geek was setting one foot on the pavement. No balance. His shoulder rammed right into the thing's collarbone. No boards to catch it, just empty air. There was a certain satisfaction in watching the dead thing fly backwards, smash to the pavement, struggle to get up. It was slow and awkward. It needed time to regain its feet, and Alex wouldn't allow that. "Sorry, mama-san," he said as he brought down the stick like he was chopping wood, a huge over-the-shoulder blow. The skull split, like a cleaver had been taken to a melon. The groaning and snapping stopped, and the geek lay still. One down, ten million to go.
No more wasting time. He looked inside the old minivan, musty with the smell of blood of death. Mamacita must have bled to death in here. Alex lit on the plastic Ralph's bag lying on the passenger seat and snatched it up. Two granola bars, a can of tuna, a half-empty bottle of water. And one unopened bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin. Well, better than nothing. Might as well git while the gittin' was good.
Snatching up the plastic bag and his newly blooded stick, he picked back down the slope to Las Pulgas Road and the Humvee. The thudding of his heart didn't let up as he saw the other vehicles that had joined the girls. Slow and easy, Alex. He raised up his stick over his head, slowed his step. "Don't shoot! I'm not one of them!" he called.
Somewhere, a car horn sounded.
I think I could do either group with the character I have in mind.
And I love the idea of two groups. We could either team up to rebuild or fall into conflict, like Woodbury and the prison.
And I love the idea of two groups. We could either team up to rebuild or fall into conflict, like Woodbury and the prison.
© 2007-2026