Post by Lucas Noah Fischer on Dec 28, 2009 1:00:28 GMT -8
,fischer, lucas.
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"NO MATTER WHERE I GO, YOU’RE ON MY MIND. I’LL ALWAYS STUMBLE HOME AND PRAY I’LL FIND YOU WITH YOUR FLAMETHROWER EYES AND JILTED SMILE SO YOU CAN SOOTHE MY WOUNDS AND DRAIN MY BILE. YOU’RE WITH ME ALL THE TIME."
-BABY GIRL I'M A BLUR, SAY ANYTHING
the preliminaries,[/size]
INTRODUCING: NOAH FISCHER[/center]
[/color] I've been on this earth since APRIL 18, 1988[/b], so i'm 21[/color] years old. I'm a RESIDENT[/color] but I was born in NEW JERSEY. In case you were wondering, I'm TAKEN AND VERY HETEROSEXUAL. I know what you're thinking, I look a lot like HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN. But I'm much more polite.[/blockquote][/blockquote]"Hi, I'm LUCAS NOAH FISCHER but most people just call me NOAH.
free-styling,
[/size]EXCERPTS AND TIDBITS FROM THE LIFE&TIMES OF NOAH FISCHER[/center]
[/color]WORDS FROM THE MOUTH OF NOAH FISCHER
"...i've always thought the name lucas was the gayest name ever. so you wonder why i go by noah."
VOICEMAIL FROM OWEN FISCHER[/color]
"hey, little brother. how're things going? we miss you... mom misses you. are you coming back sometime soon? we'll be waiting."
VOICEMAIL FROM LEILA FISCHER[/color]
"lucas... lucas when will you come home? is everything alright? please pick up... i'm worried."
VOICEMAIL FROM 405-978-5031[/color]
"watch your back, les faucons de la nuit are not safe. neither are you."
TEN LAST SENT TEXTS[/color]
"i'll be at paul's in ten minutes. be there."
"i can't make it in time. sorry..."
"mom, look i'm fine... just don't worry about me. don't come and find me."
"i think you need to chill, man. i went over there and everything's okay. the police are too stupid and scared as hell that you'll do something to them."
"hey, babe i'll be home in a few. sorry i'm late, had to work overtime."
"i'm fucking scared. this better be a joke, or else we're all in deep shit."
"i think you know what i want."
"skjdflkslkjhugf"
"i'm cold, let me in. sorry, i know it's late. just... god, you women."
"suck my dick. i don't give a shit."
CRIME SCENE REPORT FILED NOVEMBER 7, 2009[/color]
Detective Jamison, lead investigator:
DATE: Wednesday, November 7
3:04 AM
LOCATION: uptown, near residential area (flats), alleyway.
WITNESSES: various complaints from residents, two phone calls in.
NOTES: Various residents claimed two voices heard below in the alleyway. L. Fischer was claimed to be seen fleeing the scene after a gunshot was heard. No gun was found. No body was found. Unsure whether the gun was in L. Fischer's possession. L. Fischer was found and questioned later, no evidence was found to suggest the suspect was guilty of producing the gunshot, or even owning a firearm.
COAT & POCKET CHECK[/color]
Coat pockets: 1 lighter, 1 bottle of lighter fluid, 2 packs of cigarettes, 1 ring of various keys, 5 scraps of paper with scrawled directions and phone numbers, 3 small plastic bags filled with suspicious contents, 1 small bloodstain in the right inside coat pocket,1 small handgun, not loaded.
Jean pockets: 1 pack of cards, 2 receipts from a firearms shop, 11 small rubber bands.
RECEIPT FROM LOCAL LIBRARY[/color]
France for Dummies by Darwin Porter, Danforth Prince, Cheryl A. Pientka
French for Dummies by Zoe Erotopoulous
The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway
The Godfather I
[/blockquote][/blockquote]
history,
[/size]THE BACKGROUND.[/center]
It was a sunny day in Newark, New Jersey, April 18, 1988. The weather was mild, a little chilly, and an overall good omen should any births occur. Coincidentally enough, the cries of a newborn baby could be heard coming from a certain room in The Little Company of Mary hospital on Martin Luther King Boulevard. The baby was healthy, slightly pink, and belting out unwavering chords like Beyonce. The nurses all smiled, cooed, and proceeded to swaddle the baby boy in a starched white blanket. The birth went smoothly and was what anyone would call a success. Across the hall in room 321B, the umbilical cord had wrapped around an unlucky baby's neck. In seconds, the problem was assessed and corrected with only moments to spare. The baby boy was delivered, also on April 18, 1988, slightly blue with lips closed tightly shut.
Breath came after the second slap of the doctor's gloved hand against the little boy's backside, it filled his lungs in the form of a scream and Lucas Noah Fischer turned a healthy pink. Later, when his grandmother (a superstitious Scottish-French woman prone to reading palms and tea leaves) heard the news, she pressed her lips together and shook her head, "No, no, no. This is not a good omen." The old woman (a mother in-law, no doubt) wagged a solitary tarot card at her son's wife, clucking like a proverbial hen, "I told you. No carrots on Sundays. And what did you do? You ate carrots on Sundays. Naughty, naughty girl." She prophesied that no good would come of his birth. In twenty years or so, she warned, he'd be off somewhere else, burying his head in serious, life-threatening trouble. The kind that came from dabbling in drugs, or dabbling in drugs for someone else, guns, mobs, very much like The Godfather, only real--and no severed horse heads (who uses horses anymore?) Her one consolation was that Lucas would have a heart of gold... or silver, the crystal ball was a bit hazy at the time.
So the boy grew in the shadow of the man he could have been, had his mother only eaten celery in her salads instead. His grandmother treated him normally, insisting he refer to her only as 'Nana.' She never felt the need to tell her grandson of his ill-fated future, and oddly enough never once reached for his palm, or tried to feel the fine bones in his wrist. Instead, she seemed to devolve into that of a normal grandmother, baking cookies, reading bedtime stories, she even tried knitting. The superstitious lunatic was lost to the ages; tarot cards replaced with bingo cards, crystal balls with bowling balls, palm reading for fairytale reading. Still, every now and again the stereotypical "old woman with one eye and a crystal ball" would awaked within her and she'd terrorize the schoolchildren as they walked home from school (sometimes Lucas would tag along).
Tragedies happen in threes, they say, and of course Nana believed it. So when Lucas' pet bullfrog (his name was Percy) died mysteriously for unknown reasons, she knew something was up. Sure enough, Lucas' older brother Owen (yes, he had a brother) came home from a camp with a broken arm and a busted lip. He refused to say what happened, but implied that it was somehow his younger brother's fault despite the blindingly obvious fact that Lucas was happily playing trains 2,000 miles away. The third, and final tragedy was that Lucas was punished for this and was practically starved for a night. So it was quite a shocker to all of them when Lucas' father (yes, he had a father) passed away in his sleep the next day. No one ever said anything about tragedy in fours.
On Lucas' tenth birthday many things happened. Most children his age would crowd in a corner before school started, giggling like the little sugary sweet munchkins they were. They whispered words like 'sex', 'penis', 'gay', and sometimes even 'asshole' which silenced most in one awe-filled gasp. Lucas stayed away and played with his toys. His fellow classmates thought him childish and even a little prudish as he wouldn't join them in their merry "debauchery". He didn't care, he knew how each and every one of them would die. In the end when they were decrepit and pitiful, laying feebly in a hospital bed whispering vagina, he'd be sitting on his bed reading, or in the bathroom thinking about how wonderful life was not to be dying. So he lived obliviously on until Nana died and then had no power over them.
She died in her sleep, peacefully, wearing a knitted poncho she'd created years ago. They found her bent over the oven with a cookie tray in one hand. Nana had always had strong muscles. Lucas took a bite of one, the cookies were fresh out of the oven.
The rest of the years were the span of a brief, sweet summer. A fusion of disco and enthusiastic 90's pop that reverberated through every day of his life. NSYNC and the Backstreet Boys, when things were always slammin' and life was a breeze. Lucas, like many others followed the trends and fads and would look back on those haunting days in confusion. Like escaping from a brainwashing cult, it was easy to forget but would stay with you forever. The tacky clothes and even tackier music would scar him for life. That and his name. Lucas. Thankfully enough, he changed it formally enough at the brink of the early 2000's. Reason enough not to abandon it along with all the other changes and events that had taken place in the tie-dyed world of the 90's. One day Lucas-turned-Noah awoke to the cold, hard, less colorful world of so-called modern times. He embraced it whole-heartedly.
More years drifted on by like a lazy dream (what with all the partying and drinking, it could have been one), college happened. Noah decided to spend a year abroad in Paris, a dream he'd had since childhood. Nana had told him stories about this wonderful place, the food, the sights, maybe not the hospitality towards Americans, but she said that any thick-skinned, no nonsense, hardly a pussy, strong-willed American could deal with that. So he flew to Paris with a group of fellow students. The first night there, he tossed and turned and barely got an hour's worth of sleep. In his drunken stupor (yes, drunken) Nana's face appeared in a dream or in the murky depths of his next bottle of Jack. She shook her head, "No, no, no. Go home. This place holds danger for you, Lucas. Go home......" He blacked out and woke up standing at the foot of his bed in a suit and tie. Dazed and slightly afraid, Noah left the room and forgot about it for the rest of the trip.
One night, Noah abandoned his friends, choosing to brave the darkened streets of Paris on foot. He was in a joyful mood and had returned home just hours before, digging out the suit he'd oh so magically found himself in weeks before. To be honest, he'd never seen it before in his life. It was a dark black suit accompanied by a red silk tie with light grey stripes. The shirt was a light pinkish and to say the least, he looked professional. It almost felt silly, playing dressup. Maybe he was crazy, maybe Nana was pulling strings from Heaven, he was her puppet. All he knew was that his feet were carrying him out the door into lands only slightly unknown. After that everything was a stereotypical blur. He seemed to black out (what was it with these suits) and was forced awake by a forceful kick to the side. Life was never the same after that kick.
"Listen. I know what I heard. Black suit, red tie, same shirt, stupid, young, American. It's pretty self-explanatory." Another kick and he was out like a light. The next sensation was a throbbing headache and the feeling of a flame grazing his skin. A scream escaped but was muffled by a rag--dirty and caked in something. It could have been blood for all Noah knew.
What happened after that was a mystery. He blacked out countless times, only to be awoken again, drenched in sweat, the stench of vomit stinging his eyes and filling his lungs. He had this gut feeling that he wasn't in Kansas anymore. Apparently he was a naive new drug lord hopeful who had dared to try to steal drugs from the notorious Les Faucons de la Nuit, whoever the hell they were. In all honesty, maybe it was true. His usual night life tendencies were unknown even to himself--the drinking and partying blurred what little he could remember. So he said yes to what they told him to say yes to and admitted he was a filthy, no-good, horse shit, American and prayed to the God he'd never thought of outside of church with a sudden fervor.
Noah woke up in an apartment. It was cold and the countryside beyond the windows suggested that Paris was miles away. The five o'clock shadow on his chin suggested days had passed by. Noah Fischer went to sleep and woke up from a knock on the door. It was a pleasant alternative to a kick. A man came inside, spoke slowly, coolly and patted him on the back like they were long lost brothers. He had a horrible accent that made his English sound guttural and raspy but was able to get the point across. He handed Noah a few bags of white, powder-like substances and gave a few directions tinged with warning. From now until his body was six feet under the grassy, French soil of Cordes-sur-Ciel, he was to do what he was told, ask no questions, and remember what it felt like to have a gun pressed up against his temple. Noah remarked too coolly that he hadn't had the pleasure of knowing what that felt like. The stranger found no trouble in showing him. Just as he felt the cool barrel of a gun pressed into his head, he thought he tasted carrots.
the sample,
[/size]BEE'S ROLE PLAY SAMPLE. [/center]
The whole idea of zoos seemed highly counter-productive. Avid bird-watchers, animal lovers, would go to the wilds of foreign countries simply to snatch up their feral animals (who are happily living in fresh, clear air, eating all natural foods) and dump them into tight cages filled with smog and city air.
Callum Stone closed his eyes. He leaned back against the railing, the usual cigarette perching precariously between his lips. His arms were stretched back behind him, bent, and pillowing his head; a mess of ruffled dark hair that seemed to be growing in no set pattern. Cold eyes of piercing ice-blues and greys wandered around the place, passing over the zebras, crammed into their habitat of little space and filthy trash. They scanned the monkeys, birds, all uncomfortable and claustrophobic. Each complaining loudly. But no one heard their complaints and cries for help. In many ways, Callum felt the same. How could he ever connect to the people around him. There they were, they chewed gum, ate popcorn, talked loudly, and jumped up and down, while pointing obnoxiously, waving thick arms and legs, eyes wide. A thin trail of cigarette smoke poured from his pursed lips, forming a fading grey cloud. It struck him that he almost felt sorry.
Turning from the disturbing view of the sad excuses for a race that he, Callum belonged to, he looked for another. His pale, thin fingers trailed over the railings, feet moving slowly, as if in no hurry, as if the land they stepped on belonged to their owner. A smirk curled his lips which still held the cigarette, they soon turned to a slight frown. Standing, almost unmoving, staring straight back at Callum was probably the ugliest animal he had ever seen. According to the sign below, it was tapir. Callum's frown deepened even more, "You're fucking ugly." He told it in a casual, almost friendly tone--one he never used with animals, let alone people. In all honesty, it was. It had a long, tuber-like nose, wide-set eyes that were beady and black, and tiny, with shriveled ears. The thing was small, probably a baby. And it didn't move.
Callum's gaze never wavered. After a long, intense stare down, he had to turn away from the animal. What the hell was wrong with the thing? He shut his eyes, took a breath, and turned back. The creature--whatever it was, was gone, thank god. For some reason it sent chills down his spine, the creature was forever imprinted in his brain. He exhaled, stubbed out the cigarette, and dropped his head as if he had a severe case of narcolepsy. Why was he even here of all places? A zoo for God's Sake. Again, he exhaled, this time slowly, head still bowed, eyes staring almost angrily at the ground.
Had anyone come upon this sight, they'd wonder if the young man had just broken up with a high school sweetheart or at least was in a serious amount of pain. It was hard to tell if that look in his eyes was an indicator of pain, or just a sign of being pissed. Or maybe he always looked this way--just an angry lost soul who didn't give a shit about the world moving so quickly around him. Hopefully no one could care, or would even try to. They'd only be met with the hard, slightly insane glare of a mad man who'd spent the last few minutes staring down a wild (or not so wild) tapir. So Callum remained alone and in denial, brow furrowed, lips twisted into--not a smirk but a dazed frown. No one, no animal or human gave him much attention. He'd long ago abandoned the idea of a god governing his life and had no hope in society, no belief in miracles or the supernatural. Yet, for some reason he felt the closest he'd ever come to a religious experience.
From looking at a tapir. An ugly one at that.
about the author,
[/size]SO WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF? [/center]
[/color]. I've been roleplaying for MANY[/color] years now. I hail from CALIFORNIA[/color]. If need be, you can contact me by PM[/color]. My other characters are NONE SO FAR[/color] and I like KYLE XY AND HIS LACK OF A BELLYBUTTON[/color]!Hi everyone, I'm BEE and I'm OLD
[/blockquote][/blockquote]
