The blood flew, misting the air around the four sweaty bodies that stood menacingly in the narrow alleyway. A whimper from the ground protested the blows reigning down on its owner’s body, but there would be no reprieve in the near future. The grunts of those delivering the blows, the dull slap of shoes and hands against pliant flesh, the low, keening cries of the soon-to-be-deceased; it was all background noise to him, after ten years of living in the bowels of the city’s underground. It was almost like a song, if one were to tilt their head and listen close enough.
Hear the knuckles splitting as they hit the cheekbone? That was the clash of the drums. And the groan of pain as the toe of a boot found that innocent left kidney? The beautiful strum of the bass.
The poor schmuk. He really should have paid his employer instead of trying to pack his measly things and run for the hills.
Lighting a cigarette, a man standing at the end of the alleyway couldn’t help but sigh. The acrid smell of smog and New York City- yes, it did indeed have its own scent, especially on nights like these- assaulted his senses, and he wrinkled his nose against its gassy tendrils. The shiny black of his leather jacket blended in with the shadows surrounding him, and he gave silent thanks to the paid off cops that kept the normally busy street quiet. Just ten more minutes, and he’d be out of there.
One hand, stained with three faded teardrop tattoos, came up to rub at the back of his scarred neck, rolling sore shoulders as he mentally counted to five hundred. It was never a good idea in his line of business; having a mark that could point him out from a crowd. But over the years, he’d grown fond of the little things. They reminded him of people lost, and gave him a reason to go on.
…If trying not to sigh loudly at the pained mewls coming from behind him was ‘moving on.’
“Hey, Styx, that enough?” One of the Rent-A-Thugs asked, his bald head shining in the dim light surrounding them. He was half bent over, breathing heavily from the exertion that was beating the living crap out of a 40 year old banker who’d come too late on his payments to their employer.
Once again, the poor, poor schmuk.
Taking one last, long drag of the oh so calming cancer stick, he threw the bud onto the street, still damp from last night’s rain storm. Casually, he walked toward the four large man and their target, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket.
“P-p-please…” The banker- Larry Neckman, or something like that- stuttered, raising his head slightly from the floor. He’d been half dragged to his feet, blood dripping in short rivulets off of the many gashes on his face. “Please. Tell the Bolt that I’ll get him his money soon. He’ll listen to you.”
Styx bit back yet another sigh. “That’s what you told us last week, Mr. Neckman. But alright. I’ll talk to Mr. Gallagher, and we’ll come and see you next week.” He put his face close to the other man’s, wrinkling his nose slightly at the coppery smell of blood, and the sharp pang of urine and shit. “You will have the money next week. Won’t you, Mr. Neckman?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Turning around, he walked quickly toward the street, and kept walking until he reached the corner. Rounding it, and glancing around to make sure that no one had followed him- he’d left instructions with the Rent-A-Thugs that they’d have some fun then drop the guy off at home- he sagged back against the brick wall of a Chinese restaurant, and let his head drop into his awaiting hands.
It was a fucked up world, and he was just a minor player.
Giovanni Adrian Styx: Mobster, murderer, and overall, a really nice guy.
Run while you still can.
----------
Throughout history, crime has existed in many different forms and has been committed by not only individuals, but by groups as well. Crime is something that knows no boundaries; it exists in all cultures, is committed by all races, and has existed in all time periods. Crime exists as a part of the economic institution and is a lifestyle for many people. Crime also exists in both organized and un organized forms. Since the early 1900's, "organized" crime has existed in the United States in the form of the American mafia.
The American mafia has proved to be a conniving, cold hearted organization. The American Mafia consists of a large group of glorified thieves, pickpockets and murderers. Although it began with the adoption of much of the Sicilian heritage it has evolved into an organization that's sole purpose is to make money using any illegal means possible. The members of the American mafia use extortion, bootlegging, gambling, kidnapping, and murder to achieve their ends. Unlike their ancestral ties, th Sicilian Mafia was to protect its' members interests and grant them freedom in business in exchange for absolute loyalty and submission to the "family". The Sicilian Mafia was based on the belief that justice, honor and vengeance are for a man to take care of, not for a government to take care of. The Sicilian mafia valued the code of "omerta" , the code of honor and silence and strictly adhered to the ruling that this was a secret society, open only to those who shared Sicilian blood. In contrast to the noble Sicilian mafia, the American mafia has proved to be a conniving, cold hearted organization.
In The American Mafia, the only justice that is served is that of revenge, or the result of quests for power. On these grimy streets and dark alleyways, money is king, and the more blood that is spilled, the more influence you have on daily life. In this world, Mobsters rule the earth, those who aren't willing to play by the Don's rules will not be living to see their next birthday, and the good do indeed die young.
And above all, reclining comfortably on his seat of power, is the notorious and mysterious Cane 'The Bolt' Gallagher.
--------------------------------
Now for some friendly suggestions and warnings. Hence, rules. Laws. Whatever you want to call them to take away your fear of them.
A warning, to begin. If something in your character bio or in your post does not agree with me, you will most likely receive harsh criticism. If you don't like when someone suddenly, and probably rudely, points out your flaws, you can leave, or criticize me back. But if it isn't something of a good reason, you will be criticized for your criticism. (Irony?)
No perfects, GM, PP, the usual.
Literacy. Two paragraphs for a usual post. Give me something to work with, please.
Everyone must use this skeleton, then follow with a nice intro.
Go all-out with violence and swearing. I mean, this is the early 1900’s American Mafia.
Name:
Age:
Position:
Personality:
Biography:
Appearance:
Name: Giovanni Adrian Styx
Age: 28
Position: Enforcer, second to “The Bolt”
Personality: Giovanni Adrian Styx, known solely as ‘Styx’ by the world at large, is the epitome of hired muscle. He doesn’t talk unless spoken to, has no qualms with using his knuckles to milk even the Lady Justice of the debts she owes to his Family, and would kill to keep his position intact. A seemingly heartless bastard, he tries his best to lock all feelings away, lest they get in the way of his doing his job. Giovanni is gutsy and prideful to a fault, and isn't afraid to put his life on the line. He is always trying to live his life to the fullest, and if it means spitting in death's face, then he might even throw in a mocking laugh. He’s methodical, a bit on the anal retentive side, and would rather die painfully than admit defeat. At the same time, there is an air of complete wariness about his person; an aura of hopelessness, and the constant need to get away from the life that he currently lives in favor of something much gentler.
Something that, according to his almost shattered mind, he does not deserve.
Biography: Like images on a broken mirror, Fate seems to shove pieces of what has yet to happen into his head; pictures of bleeding faces, death, destruction, and pain. Given the ability to change the future and help people, he viewed his powers as a gift from a higher power; a gift that he could use to save those around him, and change the world for the better.
But as most sad stories go, it wasn’t meant to be.
After seeing his family die by the hands of a serial killer, Styx fought to bring the local police onto the scene, but was cast out by his community; ostracized as being a lunatic from a lunatic family. His father, the town drunk, was no help, and his mother- worked to the bone and half mad herself- thought that his visions was the work of the Devil. For days, he tried to convince the police and his parents that the danger was very real, that the maniac from two states over was going to come storming into their home with a shotgun and a butcher’s knife, but no one believed the supposedly dreamed up story.
Three days later, Bernard ‘The Butcher’ Harris, came crashing through the front door, shot his father, decapitated his mother, and tortured both him and his younger brother for six hours, before the police arrived on the scene. Little Jimmy, the only person who believed that he could see things before they happened, died of blood loss moments after The Butcher was shot trying to flee the scene.
The rest of Styx’s life revolved around petty crimes and gambling. After almost cleaning a Las Vegas casino out, he was approached by an intrigued mobster, who later became his boss and only friend. Now, he works as the right hand man to the Devil himself, using his visions to protect the Family’s interests, forgetting the world.
Appearance:
Hear the knuckles splitting as they hit the cheekbone? That was the clash of the drums. And the groan of pain as the toe of a boot found that innocent left kidney? The beautiful strum of the bass.
The poor schmuk. He really should have paid his employer instead of trying to pack his measly things and run for the hills.
Lighting a cigarette, a man standing at the end of the alleyway couldn’t help but sigh. The acrid smell of smog and New York City- yes, it did indeed have its own scent, especially on nights like these- assaulted his senses, and he wrinkled his nose against its gassy tendrils. The shiny black of his leather jacket blended in with the shadows surrounding him, and he gave silent thanks to the paid off cops that kept the normally busy street quiet. Just ten more minutes, and he’d be out of there.
One hand, stained with three faded teardrop tattoos, came up to rub at the back of his scarred neck, rolling sore shoulders as he mentally counted to five hundred. It was never a good idea in his line of business; having a mark that could point him out from a crowd. But over the years, he’d grown fond of the little things. They reminded him of people lost, and gave him a reason to go on.
…If trying not to sigh loudly at the pained mewls coming from behind him was ‘moving on.’
“Hey, Styx, that enough?” One of the Rent-A-Thugs asked, his bald head shining in the dim light surrounding them. He was half bent over, breathing heavily from the exertion that was beating the living crap out of a 40 year old banker who’d come too late on his payments to their employer.
Once again, the poor, poor schmuk.
Taking one last, long drag of the oh so calming cancer stick, he threw the bud onto the street, still damp from last night’s rain storm. Casually, he walked toward the four large man and their target, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket.
“P-p-please…” The banker- Larry Neckman, or something like that- stuttered, raising his head slightly from the floor. He’d been half dragged to his feet, blood dripping in short rivulets off of the many gashes on his face. “Please. Tell the Bolt that I’ll get him his money soon. He’ll listen to you.”
Styx bit back yet another sigh. “That’s what you told us last week, Mr. Neckman. But alright. I’ll talk to Mr. Gallagher, and we’ll come and see you next week.” He put his face close to the other man’s, wrinkling his nose slightly at the coppery smell of blood, and the sharp pang of urine and shit. “You will have the money next week. Won’t you, Mr. Neckman?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Turning around, he walked quickly toward the street, and kept walking until he reached the corner. Rounding it, and glancing around to make sure that no one had followed him- he’d left instructions with the Rent-A-Thugs that they’d have some fun then drop the guy off at home- he sagged back against the brick wall of a Chinese restaurant, and let his head drop into his awaiting hands.
It was a fucked up world, and he was just a minor player.
Giovanni Adrian Styx: Mobster, murderer, and overall, a really nice guy.
Run while you still can.
----------
Throughout history, crime has existed in many different forms and has been committed by not only individuals, but by groups as well. Crime is something that knows no boundaries; it exists in all cultures, is committed by all races, and has existed in all time periods. Crime exists as a part of the economic institution and is a lifestyle for many people. Crime also exists in both organized and un organized forms. Since the early 1900's, "organized" crime has existed in the United States in the form of the American mafia.
The American mafia has proved to be a conniving, cold hearted organization. The American Mafia consists of a large group of glorified thieves, pickpockets and murderers. Although it began with the adoption of much of the Sicilian heritage it has evolved into an organization that's sole purpose is to make money using any illegal means possible. The members of the American mafia use extortion, bootlegging, gambling, kidnapping, and murder to achieve their ends. Unlike their ancestral ties, th Sicilian Mafia was to protect its' members interests and grant them freedom in business in exchange for absolute loyalty and submission to the "family". The Sicilian Mafia was based on the belief that justice, honor and vengeance are for a man to take care of, not for a government to take care of. The Sicilian mafia valued the code of "omerta" , the code of honor and silence and strictly adhered to the ruling that this was a secret society, open only to those who shared Sicilian blood. In contrast to the noble Sicilian mafia, the American mafia has proved to be a conniving, cold hearted organization.
In The American Mafia, the only justice that is served is that of revenge, or the result of quests for power. On these grimy streets and dark alleyways, money is king, and the more blood that is spilled, the more influence you have on daily life. In this world, Mobsters rule the earth, those who aren't willing to play by the Don's rules will not be living to see their next birthday, and the good do indeed die young.
And above all, reclining comfortably on his seat of power, is the notorious and mysterious Cane 'The Bolt' Gallagher.
--------------------------------
Now for some friendly suggestions and warnings. Hence, rules. Laws. Whatever you want to call them to take away your fear of them.
A warning, to begin. If something in your character bio or in your post does not agree with me, you will most likely receive harsh criticism. If you don't like when someone suddenly, and probably rudely, points out your flaws, you can leave, or criticize me back. But if it isn't something of a good reason, you will be criticized for your criticism. (Irony?)
No perfects, GM, PP, the usual.
Literacy. Two paragraphs for a usual post. Give me something to work with, please.
Everyone must use this skeleton, then follow with a nice intro.
Go all-out with violence and swearing. I mean, this is the early 1900’s American Mafia.
Name:
Age:
Position:
Personality:
Biography:
Appearance:
Name: Giovanni Adrian Styx
Age: 28
Position: Enforcer, second to “The Bolt”
Personality: Giovanni Adrian Styx, known solely as ‘Styx’ by the world at large, is the epitome of hired muscle. He doesn’t talk unless spoken to, has no qualms with using his knuckles to milk even the Lady Justice of the debts she owes to his Family, and would kill to keep his position intact. A seemingly heartless bastard, he tries his best to lock all feelings away, lest they get in the way of his doing his job. Giovanni is gutsy and prideful to a fault, and isn't afraid to put his life on the line. He is always trying to live his life to the fullest, and if it means spitting in death's face, then he might even throw in a mocking laugh. He’s methodical, a bit on the anal retentive side, and would rather die painfully than admit defeat. At the same time, there is an air of complete wariness about his person; an aura of hopelessness, and the constant need to get away from the life that he currently lives in favor of something much gentler.
Something that, according to his almost shattered mind, he does not deserve.
Biography: Like images on a broken mirror, Fate seems to shove pieces of what has yet to happen into his head; pictures of bleeding faces, death, destruction, and pain. Given the ability to change the future and help people, he viewed his powers as a gift from a higher power; a gift that he could use to save those around him, and change the world for the better.
But as most sad stories go, it wasn’t meant to be.
After seeing his family die by the hands of a serial killer, Styx fought to bring the local police onto the scene, but was cast out by his community; ostracized as being a lunatic from a lunatic family. His father, the town drunk, was no help, and his mother- worked to the bone and half mad herself- thought that his visions was the work of the Devil. For days, he tried to convince the police and his parents that the danger was very real, that the maniac from two states over was going to come storming into their home with a shotgun and a butcher’s knife, but no one believed the supposedly dreamed up story.
Three days later, Bernard ‘The Butcher’ Harris, came crashing through the front door, shot his father, decapitated his mother, and tortured both him and his younger brother for six hours, before the police arrived on the scene. Little Jimmy, the only person who believed that he could see things before they happened, died of blood loss moments after The Butcher was shot trying to flee the scene.
The rest of Styx’s life revolved around petty crimes and gambling. After almost cleaning a Las Vegas casino out, he was approached by an intrigued mobster, who later became his boss and only friend. Now, he works as the right hand man to the Devil himself, using his visions to protect the Family’s interests, forgetting the world.
Appearance:
(with jeans)
