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Monty Buzby: "Trip"

Villain: "To infinity and beyond, loves."

0 · 261 views · located in Meanwhile in Metropolis...

a character in “Blurry Lines: Crossing Them”, as played by onetrickpony

Description

Trip
"To infinity and beyond, loves."


Image
Monty Buzby

Age
44

Appearance
Tall and lanky, Monty stands very straight in almost a militant kind of way, or the posturing of an aggressive canine kind of way. He often bounces on the balls of his feet, hands in his pockets, while he is speaking or waiting for someone. When he sits, he's all stringy limbs. Covered in a layer of grime that would take more than a few showers to scrub off, he almost looks as if he lives in a gutter. He's covered in grease and dirt, bits of dried blood on his knuckles, his arms, in his nose, it's not uncommon for him to have blood in his mouth.
He speaks quickly, often times muttering, and often times directed at no one in particular.

Even upon a first impression, one notes how seedy he is. Prominent dark circles positioned under his eyes that are purplish give him a foreboding, dangerous appearance. His eyes are always bloodshot, sclera a bright pink when it should be white. Despite these set backs, his eyes might have been lovely once, icy blue orbs floating beneath masculine eyebrows, generally holding an audience with a startlingly intense gaze despite his corpse-like appearance. He has dark hair that was once an angelic blonde when he was a child--he likes to fancy that it turned black with his soul--shaved into a Mohawk, though at the moment it's beginning to grow in and he's way too high to care. Continuing with this theme of "I don't give a fuck what I look like anymore," a considerable amount of scruffy facial hair has taken over much of his face, though it isn't the most impressive beard ever grown. He isn't capable of growing a thick beard. His mouth is always drawn into a sharp scowl, and it is rare to see him happy. If you get a glimpse at his teeth, they are slightly crooked, especially the lower ones, and several cuspids are missing. He has plugs in his ears, a pierced septum, and random tattoos that hold no apparent meaning scattered on his chest, back and arms--varying from hand scribbled messages saying "TUFF" to the outline of a hand on his stomach. A shambling corpse, scars cover most of his arms and legs from injecting heroin.

Likes
Drugs (Dust, snow, dynamite, peyote, psilocybin, etc…), Aurora (his fiancé), loud music (dubstep in particular and punk for nostalgic reasons.), chips and salsa,

Dislikes
posh things, feeling judged, being sober, bright day light, speaking, classical music

Personality
Everything about him seems muddled and hazy until you meet his penetrating eyes. He has a habit of boring into people, unabashed about staring. People stare at him, why should he not share the same luxury? Angry and sinister, he seems to be filled with rage and hatred toward every living thing he comes across. Notorious for spitting, even indoors, he often snarls at his own brooding thoughts. Unpredictable, certain things can set him flying into a violent rage, while other times he can possess the patience of a saint (albeit an unhappy saint), though it is difficult to foresee which way he'll react. At times he can be jittery and seem neurotic, other times he is icy and calculative. Perhaps it depends on what drug he is on at the time. Most of the times he mutters, but when he feels particularly keen on communicating, he is capable of producing responses that are surprisingly articulate and insightful while generally harrowing realizations and contemplations about the world around them and their own secret motivations. No matter his mood, his thoughts are always racing, and his reactions almost instantaneous. Unemotive and secretive, he prefers to work and live independently from others, only scurrying out of his lair for business. His words can be cutting and scarily accurate, and he knows how to feel around and strike at psychological nerves in his victims, sometimes causing them pain just for the hell of it. He swears a lot and makes a lot of threats. Whether or not they are idle threats is hard to detect, as he sometimes seeks after revenge tirelessly for seemingly trivial things. He also seems to know a lot about classical music, which always floors those who get him to talk about it. From outside his room, the light sounds of him picking at an acoustic guitar can be heard along with medium to loud music. Perhaps the moans of his fiancé. He spends a lot of time writing and mixing music that he performs in local clubs and raves. He doesn't bother finding an alias for himself when he performs. Both his clients and his fans know him as "Trip."

Relationships
Usually a psychological tyrant, his power based upon how much pain he can deal a person, he doesn't have many friends. Not that he wants any. He has kept the same girlfriend since high school, but who knows if she would stay if she were in her right mind. She has been strung out on drugs for years, and he's induced other addictions in her. Namely, himself. She can't leave, and she can't even want to leave; does this count as true love? Her name is Aurora. She draws a little, usually abstract things, mind too boggled to draw a realistic image anymore, but here's a little picture she drew of Monty: AWWWW. She is sweet, naturally blonde, but she dyes it blonder. ImageHer motions are lethargic, and she almost never leaves the safety of their room. Her skin is smooth and pale, corpse like almost, clammy and always veiled in perspiration. Her eyes are green, but they are dim now, clouded with the drugs. Her hands shake constantly. She is skin an bones, though she once was pretty and round. Wholesome looking even. Her hair is dead and fried. She was an artist, and she sometimes sings soft lullabies beneath her breath. The relationship Monty has with her is very complicated, spanning twenty dramatic years. He loves and hates her, fawning over her while abusing her within the same hour.

He also has his clients, who are generally out of their mind on drugs . They probably couldn't even recognize him anywhere other than where he does business though. They're afraid of him too, and for good reason. His musical following is meager but loyal, though he isn't close with anyone in particular. Sometimes he gets stopped on the street by a gutter punk and berated with compliments, which he receives with a serious expression, a nod, and possibly some small talk.

He works for Flawless, an easy choice for a creature of self-preservation. It's not as if he was passionate about dealing drugs, it was more the power and security he was after, which is easily achieved now.


Power
A power that could only be used to destroy those around him, Trip can forcibly create addictions in other people. Great for business, no? He has also been known to create painful addictions for those that particularly piss him off. Like plucking their hairs until none remain. Like biting their nails until no nail remains, yet they still gnaw on their bloody nubs. Like drinking bleach until they die in a puddle of their own red, frothy vomit. Like skinning themselves alive. He has been getting creative lately.
Yet this little piece is only part of the puzzle. He's been forced to master the art of psychological warfare. He gains power from amount of pain he has caused his victims, whether psychological or physical. The pain charges his power, gives him energy to release a blast from his hands. He is an absolute terror to those he sells to, due to all the scarring he's caused through creating the addiction--ruining their lives and relationships. Breaking their skin with a butter knife is enough for a single blast that will launch them through the air, very painful for the addicts he deals with. If he were to stab them in the neck, he would gain the power for a blast that would kill them. The downside is this power isn't very strong against real super heroes. Most can dodge his physical attacks or have thick skin impenetrable by his blades. This demands that he stalk his enemies and torture them first, psychologically speaking. He's been known to take out vigilantes who have crossed him by killing their mothers before them, sending them one body part at a time via the great American post. Fingers, ears, noses, all wrapped up in soggy newspaper, a bloody mess.
One of the downsides of his power is that he isn't able to stop an addiction he didn't start, just like he doesn't gain power from pain he didn't have anything to do with. Though he can try and override a previous addiction with a stronger new one, there is no way to stop a person from smoking cigarettes if they so desire,


Equipment
A hodgepodge of every drug you could ever desire, as well as any mixture, a long blades and a pistol that he carries on him at all times, though back at his workshop, he has bolt cutters, buzz saws, pliers….

Strengths
Scrappy as fuck, he will fight dirty. Ruthless, cold, and self-interested, he will do whatever he needs to in the moment to survive another day.

Weaknesses
He does have feelings, and he's attached to the woman he has called his fiancé for the passed twenty years. He isn't very strong physically. If he hasn't hurt you, he's just an average strung out citizen. He can't stop an addiction he didn't begin. He can't take credit for pain he didn't somehow help cause.

Home
He lives in the hotel with Flawless and his other puppets. He shares a room on the 13th floor (his lucky number) with his strung out girlfriend/fiancé.

HistoryImage
Monty never had an easy life. No, indeed, from the very beginning it was rough. His mother was a poor lamb and his father was a vicious, ravenous wolf. The soft-spoken girl and the abusive addict. His father ended up killing his mother when he was seven, stalking into his bedroom after the blood-curdling screams followed by thunderous gunshots. He was covered in her blood, there to gloat momentarily.
"You know this is your fault, this was all your fault," he sneered before walking right up to him and placing that cold, heartless muzzle up to his head. Monty shivered. "And don't your little bitch ass forget it, you little shit," and daddy pulled the trigger.
Somehow, he survived the attack, and he was placed in a home. A numb little child, he didn't do much in terms of playing or speaking. He muddled through school, doing better than most while keeping his head down.
He met Aurora in high school, about the same time he learned about his power. You don't just get a girl like her by sitting there like a dumb rock, which is what he did most the time. But he didn't need to use it all the time on her, she did like him…mostly. And just because she was addicted to him didn't mean they didn't argue. No, they fought angrily, passionately, spitting hellfire at each other. People fight their addictions all the time…they just never get away. He never used his power to induce drug addictions in people, heavens no. He just made his girlfriend love him. Is that such a terrible thing? Not every girl, just Aurora, the lights that made the night so beautiful, his eternal night, his hell.
He wasn't always a villain.
He was once an alternative punk rock lover.
He ended up going to a university to study philosophy, so he often spouts off fragmented knowledge, distorted by years of drug use at this point. He used to play the violin, an electric violin to be more specific, in a band. And he also knows a bit of guitar, but honestly, who didn't back then. He was quite good, very good. He started taking hallucinogens to help him with the violin, to feel the music, to be inside of it.
In the meantime, Aurora loved him. The truth is, she truly, irrevocably loved him, and this was without his powers. He hadn't had to use them in years. She studied art. She had a soft singing voice. They spent many days lazily lounging in the grasses of park nearby their shared apartment, picking the grass out of each others' hair, whispering promises of forever.
Then he graduated. There wasn't work to be found anywhere. Aurora was pregnant, and the bills needed to be paid…he had to provide for his family.
So he used his powers dealing. He kept it a secret from her for the longest time. When she found out, she was 6 months pregnant. Watching him, horrified from the bedroom as she listened to him speak to a customer on his cellphone, pacing agitatedly back and forth. She told him she was leaving him that night. It was a long emotional argument. He couldn't handle it; it felt like his world was shattering, like he'd been punched in the gut, like his heart had been ripped out and replaced by a blackhole that was slowing eating at the rest of his organs, like he might pass out, like he, like he...
.
.
.
"No," he shouted, his voice cracked, "You will not leave me," he pulled at his hair, his thoughts were running into one another, he couldn't think, he couldn't breathe, this wasn't happening. He unleashed a primitive sound, screaming through clenched teeth as he paced around. His eyes were red and dry from the drugs, but they seemed to be able to muster up tears now, moistening the yellow sclera and sliding down his sweaty face.
He stared helplessly at her face, eyes pleading, searching.

"I am. I don't even know who you are anymore!" she screamed back at him, her cheeks were absolutely glistening with tears, her eyes so swollen they could barely open. She threw a coffee mug at him. He ducked it, kicking a corner table over. Glass shattered loudly, fragments skittering across the tile floor. He paced, sweating, panting, hysterical. He knelt onto the floor, begging her on his knees, "Please baby, please," he whimpered, clasping his hands in front of him, beseeching her, "baby, please, don't do this, baby. Baby. Baby, please baby, we got a good thing going."

She shook her head no, lips trembling as she reached for her bag,

He started, "Aurora, no, you can't, I love you, no--"
But she interrupted shrilly, "I can't, Monty. I won't!"
"SHUT! UP! Shut up, Aurora!," he bellowed, "You don't know what you're talking about. You love me, for fucks sake."
He thought he was going to puke, and he did. Bending over, he wretched right there in front of himself, hot chunks spewed on to the floor, a huge sticky, mustard colored mess. He felt a wave of heat and stench rise up from the floor, hitting him in the face so hard he puked again. Spit hung from his quivering lips, fat tears falling steadily and hot on his face, into the mess on the ground.

"You are an empty hollow shell of a fucking woman, you empty hollow fucking bitch," he sobbed. He began crying, slamming his fists into the floor. Suddenly, he breathed a sigh of defeat. With a wave of his hand, he recast his spell on her, and the world started turning once more.
.
.
.
Aurora was furious initially, all the time, for no reason at all it seemed--as angry as a rabid dog, chewing him out while bouncing the baby on her hip. It was dangerous, she would say. What would she do if…if something happened to him?
He comforted her by embracing her, wrapping his long arms around her, comforted in knowing that she couldn't leave him now. She would cry softly into his chest.
But the baby is what really brought them together. They named the girl Cricket, and she was a spitfire. Blonde angel-fine hair and the biggest, bluest, most sincere eyes you ever saw in your life. She would imitate her mothers humming, blowing soft bubbles in her crib, reaching for the mobile that spun lazily above her. It wasn't long before she could climb out of her crib, and once she learned to do this, there was no containing her. She would follow them around the house, imitating everything they did from their conversations to their arguments. She pretended to get ready for work like mommy, she pretended to cook like daddy, she would wag her finger at the family cocker spaniel, babbling nonsense, though her voice was low and serious and her expression grim, cheerios stuck to her face. She would often use that dog as a pillow, reclining while watching TV, loosely holding her bottle of juice. She grew quickly, as all children do, and soon she was four years old, twirling in her dresses, telling 'secrets' every ten minutes to every person that walked in the door (secrets really meant that she was going to whisper nonsense into your ear loudly, often filling it with enthusiastic spit as she 'WUSSAWUSSAAWUUUH'ed). She loved to cuddle in between her parents at night, falling asleep to the sounds of late night television. She was a delight and full of joy.
The child was four years old when she died.
Cerebral artery aneurysm that ruptured, leading to severe hemorrhaging in her brain . Aurora used to sing her the most beautiful lullabies, so soft you had to strain to hear them, they were meant for only the baby to hear. Now shrieked the tunes, sobbing to herself in the bathroom while pounding her fists on the wall.
Aurora turned to drugs, I mean… they were just lying around.
Monty couldn't stop her drug addiction, though he desperately tried. He hadn't started the addiction--she had. Of her own free, grief-stricken will. But he had essentially forced her to stay. He had forced her into a life with him, a life with a child that was destined to die. A life where there would be drugs lying around, ready to use in a moments notice.
Really, it was all his fault.
The death of that child, that perfect little angel being, made everything very bitter for him. The sweetness of life dissolved in a second.
He grew bitter. He grew angry. He grew ruthless. He turned to drug use with her, just to be closer to her. He grew his drug empire. He relished in ruining other peoples' lives, making them as miserable and broken as he is. Why should anyone be happy in this world? There was no meaning to it.
He is hateful and angry, but on the inside he is weeping.
With time, he grew more spiteful, more furious at the world.
Now he is devoid of mercy, now he is incapable of compassion.
Now he is Trip.


So begins...

Monty Buzby: "Trip"'s Story

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