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Sticky Tomas

"If we really learned from our mistakes, I'd be a freaking genius by now."

0 · 303 views · located in Brookly, NY

a character in “Hoodrats”, as played by Boomerang



Oh girl, this boat is sinking,
There's no sea left for me,
And how the sky gets heavy
When you are underneath it
Oh I want to sail away from here
And God
He came down down down down down down down down
And said...

Full Name: Sticky Carlos Tomas
Goes By / Nicknames: His real name is Sticky. He was given the name by Jose when he was a baby for being messy with food and because Carlos didn't have the time to think of a name it just kind of- stuck. 
Gender: Male 
Ethnicity: Salvadoran/Spanish
Birth Date: 19th May 
Age: 18


Height: 6"2
Scars/Tattoos/Piercings: A few scars scattered across his body. To many to count. A faded tattoo on his back that he often covers up that bears the name of his gang. Sticky has a nose piercing that is never seen without a fake crystal stud. 

Sticky holds himself at the height of 6"2 and although he isn’t freakishly tall his height has given him enough of an advantage to intimidate people and put them on edge. There was always a tense, proud set to his shoulders; it was a part of him that he had gained working with the gang. The proud 'family' he had lived with was enough to cause him to carry himself with that same dignity. 

Considering his height he weighs a decent amount, his lean body was once filled with muscles from the training he was put through as a child. Now that he had give  up that lifestyle the thickness has shrunk so it covers his skin, rather than protruding to give him a buff, muscular appearance. Nevertheless there is strength hidden within the boy, one that is still easy to see at a glance. I know I seen it, clearer than the scars hidden beneath. They lined his arms, legs and chest, his body strong enough to put up with the abuse it suffered on an almost daily basis. Scars hindered his legs and arms, reminders of the aggressive, harsh things he had participated in, they were hardly noticeable, thin white strips that stood out against his cafe au lait coloured skin, but they were so narrow and unless you knew theywere there they were almost non-existent. A few more puckered up, visible scars covered his wrists, and they were the result of a few months of depression, the momentary control of the depression over his body defeated by Morphine. Bruises and grazes covered his arms and legs from trips and falls, and others had more sinister meaning, wounds afflicted by the insomnia and nightmares that hit him some nights. 

From the age of ten he was forced into a life that no child should ever enter. The gang world. Granted it had its advantages, allowing him to gain a strong sturdy body, and giving him the capabilities to fight and protect himself. But now it seemed as though the years spent in the gang had been no more than a waste of time and energy. At the age of fifteen he had fled that lifestyle with one of his fathers close friends and the muscle that had once been so strong and prominent was  merely more than a faded sculpture surrounding his limbs. It was still there, of course, but now it seemed as though it had been replaced with the stained, lanky appearance of a boy with a secret or two. The drugs that he had become addicted to had addled his appearance, adding a more haunted look to skin that had once been more healthy and dewy. To anyone it he looked just like any teenage boy with a few issues. But if you knew him and the lifestyle he had once lived in you would probably think he was lucky for getting out looking the way he does, and not unlike a normal person. 

The sunken in eyes held a look of a damaged boy, and perhaps that is what he was on the inside. Sitting on the sunken frame where his two eyes, they looked rather odd, and slightly out of place, like two glimmering green pools surrounded by shadows. But then most people that had a substance addiction looked a lot like they had arms, legs or eyes that were oddly proportioned . His eyes were green. They were a dark and murky and often mistaken for brown or blue from a distance, but if you inched closer, you could see flecks of gold and bronze in amongst the polluted water kind of color, They are overshadowed by a set of dark eyebrows that tapered of to a thin end. His hair sits close to his scalp in coils that resemble curls. It had once been so short that he was almost bald, but a few years of growing out had made it a lot more unruly. He seems to have started to become more like himself before his substance abuse issue. His cheeks have begun to be redder, his green eyes have begun to glimmer again, but in spite of this his eyes are still sunken in to the point where it has become part of him. 

Role: Co-Songwriter
Hobbies: Music. Vintage-ness. Collecting old records. 


You think you are better them him? You think you are tougher and stronger? Just cos you can hit him and you will get no reaction? Well you are wrong. Sticky is fierce, he is cunning and brave. Anyone feels threatened when he is around you, even though you cannot even get one tiny reaction from him he can drill you and drill you, picking and prodding, stabbing and pulling at your insecurities. Nothing!escapes his expert eye, he knows how people work and he knows what makes him tick. Have at least some control is what he needs, he needs to know that he can do this, because if he can't keep his calm in a storm what other use does he have? He knows that his ability to stay strong whilst a storm rages is good. But he also knows that not fighting back just aggravates most people more and seeing those lines of tension being drawn tough just gives him that bit more contempt. That superiority is something he needs to feel. 

Perhaps a reason why Sticky never lifts a hand in defence is because he doesn't want to have the same feeling that consumed him after he slaughtered someone. He knows that rules are strict, he knows that brawls, bash ups and fights can get you into some serious trouble. In some way his cool, calm exterior is there to protect himself, to keep himself safe. He doesn't want to spin and tumble and trip and fall into a world of destruction, he wants to be the one that stands taller then the rest, because he knows that he can handle any situation. And yet, there is that nagging part of him that wonders how far can they all push you? How far until you crack and you explode. He has built up so many walls in his mind to stop people from being able to push him, to force him to fight, but every wall breaks with enough pressure and it will be only time before his does. And Sticky knows that when his wall finally comes tumbling down he will be in trouble. He tries not to think about it, in fact, he tries to build on it, because he knows he is strong, but is he strong enough?

Sticky , unknown to most as actually rather fragile, those walls that he built up are there to stop himself from cracking and breaking and the resilient young boy worries that one day they will fail him. Each and every time he dives head first into a fight of words, each and every time he is hit the thoughts nag at him. Poking him and prodding him always there to remind him that he can't keep fighting forever. No one has the strength to wage a war all their life, but Sticky is determined to see himself through his mind battle, because he knows that if he can push himself forwards he is one step closer to shielding himself from the same destruction that his father received. And yet, he is continuing to ignore the warnings that follow him, because one day he will shatter and then there will be nothing stopping him from burning down his home, his family and everyone his knows in the destruction, the hate, frustration and power that he had shielded from himself for so long. There is only so much you can prevent before it becomes too much.

Sticky has a way with words. When this boy speaks and he isn't being sarcastic or mean it normally always means something. He takes great precision with his words and finds it is often his greatest weapon. Having a sharp tongue or intriguing words can earn him almost anything in the end. He could be dubbed an amazing public speaker, as he  has been known to move large groups with a few well-chosen words. This can also be seen as manipulative, but Sticky is quite proud of his speaking ability. He is not known to use it for ill intentions or any sort of personal gain, only to smooth problems, persuade, and pry further into the truth within another. Even so, if he were to fall on hard times, he may just see the other side of the gift. 

Sticky gets easily addicted to things, especially drugs. Some people might wonder hy he's all into partying, drinking and shit but as soon as the word 'coke', 'blunt' or whatever comes up, he suddenly has to leave. The truth is, if Sticky smoked, injected, inhaled or sipped another drug, he would slip back into his state of addiction, and would eventually die. It's one of the clues to his past which are so easy to find.

Sticky is a kind, loyal boy if you really get to know him, and I mean really do. He isn't really the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, and usually assumes that every person he meets hates him or is out to get him. What he really needs is a couple good friends to help draw the kindness to the surface but because he moves around a lot that doesn't seem like its going to happen. He is quite a social person, and if he had a normal family he would have enjoyed the chaotic christmas dinners. He has missed out on a lot of crucial things for child development. 

Sticky isn't really the type of person to get scared at someone's threats. I'm not here saying that he is a stoic, fearless hero, but he's been through enough to know a lot about people and how they act and he knows that if someone is threatening then they have to be a little uneasy about what they're doing. Basically, cowards say it and real threats do it. Another thing about him. He is very analysing of people and has often been called a mind reader due to his hawks eye for human emotions and behaviours. Although, this can sometimes backfire if someone is trying to lie to protect him. 

Sticky has a habit of riling people up and picking at their insecurities for his own amusement or being as witty as possible. Sitting there with bulletproof calm and a cocky grin as someone else's anger is about to explode makes him feel like he has a little more control in the world than he actually does — he finds other people's discomfort comforting. In a world of endless chaos, he wants to be the eye of the storm, an oasis when everything else is spinning, spinning, spinning into destruction. So many people have tried to punch the shit-eating grin off his  face that the bridge of his nose permanently zig-zags from the breaks and all his expressions sit a little crooked on his features. He has never once swung his fist back after his old life, however, so his aggressors tend to give up easily. Few people even bother these days, knowing Sticky is an off-kilter kind of pacifist. The truth of it is that he's been training up his self-restraint all these years, because the kind of anger that dwells within him would be beyond dangerous if ever something managed to trigger it. At this point, however, that would take an event that threatened to destroy his life... again.


Relationship Status: Single

Family: All immediate family on his fathers side are dead except for a few in El Salvador, although Sticky himself doesn't know this. His mother is alive and working in Manhattan in a hotel after giving up the street corner life. 

Known Languages: Fluent Spanish, in fact, this is his first language, English being a close second. This has left him with the whisper of a Spanish accent when he speaks English. 


An accident. That's what Sticky had been, and he'd  always known it, right from the moment he was old enough to understand that his 'family' wasn't like a normal family. He  been the products of a man's foolishness and a young woman's willingness to go to any means to snag a couple of bucks. It was clear that the mother was used to this sort of thing in her line of business, after she fled straight after the birth of Sticky. 

Carlos Orelana was a high ranking member of the notorious Mara Salvatrucha (M-13) gang in Los Angeles after he immigrated there fron El Salvador when he was eighteen. He was a brutal man, so cruel that he could almost be called a sadist. Carlos had a problem with his emotions, often letting them control him at the worst possible times. This got him into trouble. Deep trouble. Alejandra Domínguez-Cajal was a poor Spanish immigrant. She was stunning, but unfortunately not smart enough to make a living for herself, so she ended up in prostitution, specifically, prostitution for M-13. After the incident, she fled to Spain, nowhere to be seen, and left Carlos with Sticky. 

Carlos moved back to El Salvador after Sticky was born to live at his parents estate- to let them care for the baby while He continued business for M-13, but Carlos' parents refused to take care of Sticky, and so he was left with the burden of a child while he done his business. Because of this he was teased by his fellow gang members. Carlos tolerated Sticky though, and saw much of himself in the child. He was determined to bring him up with blood on his hands.

 Growing up a child gang member had both positives and negatives, both of which Sticky experienced. He doesn't remember his mother at all  and was never told what happened to her either. It didn't bother him very much, although it made him trust and look up to his cruel father. He was brought up in and around the gang, and knew how to defend himself at a very young age. He was also told the tactical side of the gang life, and became a very smart and cunning, if a little sarcastic, young man. All was fine and dandy but when Sticky turned ten his father decided it was time. He trained for a while, then learned for a while, then started work. Of what he can remember, his early work involved undercover work, because who would expect a ten year old boy of working for a gang? But as Sticky got older his work begun to get more and more violent, until he was regularlly assaulting and robbing. 

And then it happened. Well, two things happened. 

The first, Sticky killed someone. Yes, at the ripe age of fourteen, Sticky Orelana murdered a man. Ripped his life from under him like it was a blanket. Clyde Davis, to be exact, was the man in question. Sticky had become a little shit to put it bluntly, and he thought he was on top of the world, especially when he was at work. Clyde Davis, as he was later to be known, was an American who had come to El Salvador on business. You see, Clyde owed indirect money from a shit load of cocaine to Mara Salvatrucha, and this was bad news for Clyde, as this was the time of Sticky's first assassination mission. You know what was the worst part? Do you really want to? Okay, it felt good to point a gun in the man's face. The cold metal under his fingers energised him. The taste of sweat at the back of his throat made him feel alive. Clyde Davis was strapped to a chair with rusty chains, Chloroformed a while ago. Sticky realised this was an easy kill, but it was his first. But as soon as that little fourteen year old Sticky pulled the trigger, he crumpled to the ground in a fit of sobs. It was simply too much for Sticky, and he had never realised it before but he hated his life. 

He had killed this man. He glanced at the now dead Man before hum. Clyde's ebony skin glistened with blood, and his eyes lolled about at the back of his head. What age was he? Late thirties, forty? He probably had a family, maybe some kids around his age. Sticky placed his head on the concrete and prayed for forgiveness, muttering the meaningless words under his breath. Then, he shot himself. But with a shaky hand, instead of his head, he shot his leg. 

After that, his father framed a gang member for the murder, Sticky was treated by the gang's 'doctor' and he recovered with only a small circular wound that was beginning to heal - externally. Internally Sticky was broken, dead. So when he was offered Morphine to heal the pain, he agreed, becoming hooked on the sweet, sweet stuff. He pretended to recover just so his father would get him more drugs- stronger drugs. One thing lead to another and soon he was doing more than shoukd be humanly possible. It began to effect the fourteen year old boy especially on the outside. His skin lost its healthiness, slowly thinning down into almost nothing. He thinned out too, after his extreme loss of appetite. His eyes became hollow and lifeless. He lay on the hospital bed, deranged, laughing, a strange guttural laugh that almost seemed wrong. He laughed at his pain, but didn't realise he was causing himself more of it by doing this to himself. It took someone real interested in Sticky's health to wake him up from his twisted slumber. That person was not Carlos. It never was! It was Jose  Tomas, was old member of M-13 who was looking to escape the gang, which was no easy feat. With determination, he woke Sticky out of his state. They had a sgreat bond before the incident, and an even greater one afterwards. They fled to New York with Jose's wife, Adela. 

After a slap in the face, Sticky slowly recovered. Little by little his personality ebbed back into him, but one side of him remained with Sticky Orelana. The violent side had stayed with that fourteen year old boy that killed Clyde Davis. The snarky little boy bit of his personality stayed with Sticky Tomas though. They moved to Brooklyn, into a shitty little apartment. Sticky changed his name but kept his nickname as his full-time name. He started school, pretending, always pretending, that he was like everyone else. So far, no one has guessed. No one has cared enough to piece together the clues that lie inside and out of Sticky Tomas, or should I say, Sticky Orelana. The bullet wound, scars, tattoos, psychotic-but-older-than-his-years look behind his eyes.They moved about a bit, then stayed. Sticky discovered the joys of life, namely music. 

He would sit in his room with his cheap headphones letting the smooth baritone of Frank Sinatra roll out into his ears, the words lifting his spirits slightly, temporarily. he hoped he would be able to craft such meaningful words from his brain  that made people feel something. Sticky started by playing the piano to learn a basic understanding of notes and rhythm. He began to sing, although he learned his voice was far from mainstream. He had a gravelly singing voice but this didn't stop him from singing. Then, Sticky started writing. I just seemed to come from within him, he knows it's cliche but it's true. He just knew what to write.

He has spent years building this facade, and if anyone ever pieced together the clues, noticed something was wrong, it would be his worst nightmare. And If they managed to dig deep enough into his soul to reveal the blood on his hands, it might just kill him.   

"That's life, that's what all the people say, you're riding high in April, shot down in May..."

Signed by: Image

So begins...

Sticky Tomas's Story


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double post.


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Character Portrait: Sticky Tomas Character Portrait: James Trinity Character Portrait: Zayne Peters
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When the pack was thrown at him, he immediately lit up one of the cigarettes as he was desperate for the nicotine. He didn't care about making the apartment smell like smoke or the white paint yellowing because of it. The burning feel of the smoke in his lungs was pure ecstasy to him. While the others smoked weed, he preferred not to. Not only because his worked gave random drug tests, but also because it didn't make him feel good. It made him panicky and even twitchy at times. It wasn't an experience he enjoyed.

Getting drunk, however, he enjoyed thoroughly. He had spent many nights on the bathroom floor with blacked out memories and a lazy grin that sort of said 'I am one awesome motherfucker.' Lately though, he hadn't had the time and it was a bit least in his mind. He needed a drink or sixteen every once in a while to keep him sane.

James chuckled when Zayne mentioned what they looked like at twelve, remembering quite well that he himself looked like a starved seven year old at that age. "At least we weren't completely ugly little fucks. We raised a lot of Hell," And as the words left his mouth, he took note of the bruising on Zayne's jaw. "Speaking of raising Hell, who messed your ass up? And what does the other guy look like?"

He understood getting into fights, before he had dropped out he had gotten in too many to count. In the world they lived in, you didn't take anybody's shit or you'd be killed. It wasn't their fault that the authorities and people at school couldn't understand that. The "turn around and walk away rule" didn't apply if you grew up in James and Zayne's neighborhood unless you wanted to die or, if you were lucky, end up in the hospital. Maybe it did in a high school situation, but they were already programmed to fight back.

"Did everyone decide to kick it at my house today or what?" He stated irritably, though it was more in jest than anything. He took a drag from his cigarette and grinned. "I don't have food, so if you freaks are hungry, I hope you're buying or really like cottage cheese."


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Zayne chuckled softly at the short travel down memory lane. He and James had been friends longer than he could remember, even when the school system had the smart idea to split them up. Living near each other all their lives had something to do with that a little too. They did raise a lot of hell though, enough that he probably got a lot of what he deserved at that age. But James' next question pulled him out of the past, and he gingerly pressed two fingers against the bruise again.

"Isaiah," he muttered around another drag. The king of thugs had made Zayne his personal project since the beginning of the year. For more than one reason, though he figured part of it was because no one actually thought Zayne would fight back. Which was kind of true, he hated confrontation, but he hated being pushed around even more. The lack of knowledge others had about his own personal rap sheet was amazing. That was why Cagle was trying so hard to keep him out of trouble. A mark on him at eighteen and he'd likely wind up in prison.

Fights were kind of his thing in a way he knew James would understand. He'd spent his whole life knowing you either hit first or you wind up in a dump somewhere and no one would find your body. They were programed to fight back, had been ever since they were kids. "I think the curls make me look innocent," he joked, running both hands through his messy hair while he balanced his cigarette between his lips with a grin.

With a sigh he watched smoke curl out in front of him then smirked slowly. "He looked like shit when they finally managed to pull me off of him. I know I broke his nose if nothing else. Probably could have landed his ass in the hospital if I'd had five more minutes." But the asshole had decided to push him in the middle of the hallway, and eventually staff found their way through the crowd. "Man I ain't got shit on me either. Spent the last of my cash on smokes."


Characters Present

Character Portrait: Sticky Tomas Character Portrait: Iris Fulcon Character Portrait: Tera (Niki) Desdamo Character Portrait: Reason Kendricks Character Portrait: James Trinity Character Portrait: Zayne Peters
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Iris looked over her shoulder to James, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips. “If you weren’t filled with piss and vinegar I’d show you just the same amount of love.” she joked, then releasing Zayne gently, looking down to him as he spoke. James suggested Iris go after the boy, to which she rolled her eyes, plopping onto the couch beside Zayne, slipping off her boots and slipping her feet into the cushions of the couch to keep them warm. Her knees up to her chin, she wrapped her arms around her legs resting her head against Zayne’s shoulder. “Please, you know I’m a pacifist.”

She had ignored the comment about her smelling like weed, she had only smoked a joint, but what was really ranking up the room was the small nug she was keeping in her front pocket that could break down to a bowl or two - but she would wait until they faced a standstill and needed a little...inspiration. Looking up to Zayne through her long lashes, she pouted, “From now on you’re forbidden to go to school unless I’m there!” She demanded, which might seem like a bad idea due to her spotty attendance, but given her promise to Beatriz that morning Iris planned on going to school more often.

There was a knock on the door, and without looking Iris knew it was the girls. She smiled to them as if to say, ‘finally’, but remained wordless, watching those around her. They all got comfortable and Iris hopped from her place to grab her keyboard, taking her seat next to Zayne once again and setting her keyboard across her lap. Turning the instrument on she played a few chords, looking down to the keys. It was a little slow, with sweet chords, then transitioning to higher more rapid notes - a staccato of a beat. Finally she looked over at James, “What can you do with that?” she asked.

The lyrics were in her mind, which she would share with Reason. Iris had a nice voice, but it didn’t have half the soul Reason’s did, which was why she stuck to the background. It was difficult for Iris to be able to share the intimacy of her lyrics, and to have someone else be the voice of them, which is why she almost never wrote them down until she presented them - at least that way they stayed hers. Beginning the chords again, she sang softly.

“No more twisted truth grown from the dark
I’m sick of the games life plays
Spending my days dodging the karma shark
My sins make me, I’m not ashamed....”

She then changed the key, picking up the beat and glancing at James from the corner of her eye, leading into the bridge and then the chorus, all filled with appropriate teenage angst and somehow she still managed to add her own edge of a bohemian vibe, although that may had to do with her breathy voice. Coming to an end she did a random three chords, looking at the others. “What do we think?” She asked.