Description
Rick Nasty, as the man calls himself, is an ectomorphic, slim-built individual that stands at six feet and one inch. His eyes are hazel, his nose is narrow and long, and his lips are thin. His skin is pale white, and his hair is kept styled in a tall, multicolored mohawk. Many describe him as an eyesore. For clothing, he wears a synthetic leather-composite jacket which combines the aesthetic appeal of natural leather with the tensile strength of spider silk, and is quite effective against bullets. His trousers are far too tight, and made of the same material, as are his combat boots. Rick delights in instigating and flaunting his coarse nature, and wears a shirt under his jacket, on which are scrawled multiple obscenities in different languages.
Personality
Rick Nasty named himself, and it is a fitting name toward his personality. Never does Rick pass up a chance to annoy, insult, or disgust an individual.
Equipment
Equipment
- Two high-powered laser pistols: Rick is a crack shot with these, and an expert in handling them. Unfortunately, he rarely takes the time to aim.
- Two deflector shields: Rick wears these on his wrists, and they extend along his forearms and three feet in both vertical directions. A leftover from his time in his home planet's SWAT squad. Designed for kinetic, energetic, and magical deflection.
- Various stimulant injections: Rick keeps a pack of stimulants with him, which are intravenously injected. They are standard medical-grade for SWAT teams on his home planet, and absolutely legal, though he does readily admit an addiction to them.
Abilities
- Weak Telekinesis: Rick has developed, as a sizable fraction of his native species, telekinetic abilities. Rick can manipulate certain objects if he concentrates hard enough, hence its weakness.
Other Statistics
Intelligence: Moderate
Spiritual: Very Low
Magic Resistance: Very Low
Stamina: High
Energy: Very High
Endurance: Moderate
Speed: Excellent
Strength: Below Average
Combat: Very High
Technique: Moderate
History
Rick Nasty was recruited into the SWAT Squad of the capital city of his main planet. A superior frequently remarked the only reason he made it was his quick speed, his combat scores, and telekineses; if not for that, he would have immediately been imprisoned. Rick is now on the run after a dishonorable discharge, after making various gross sexual comments toward a female superior. He has fled to Terra, as his home planet has no access rights on the planet, and they likely won't enter negotiations simply for a crazed punk.
So begins...
Rick Nasty hopped back down into his stool, leaning back before starting, and then leaning back forward. He overcompensated on that one, and his forearms crashed down onto the surface, which triggered the deflector technology in his arms. The repulsor field activated, and he fell back from the stool. Clapping his wrists together and standing up, the punk shook his head.
"I don't feel like beer anymore," he said.
Rick Nasty howled loudly, the lack of stimuli setting his nerves on fire as his most recent stim-injections coursed through his veins. Raising his arms, the punk fired several shots at the ceiling of Gambit's Bar, all of which were harmlessly absorbed before he hopped over the counter, yoinking a beer, and then hopped back over.
"I lied," he rushed. "Feel like beer anyway! I am the Great Russian Beer!."
Rick Nasty rushes out with his beer in hand, tossing it at the door's threshold before he pushed it open and ran down the street...and ran...and ran...and ran.
Rick Nasty
turned his cranium slightly, the empty and dead eye sockets fixing upon James. The figure moved little, its bone foot shifting only a bit toward the man.
The floor,
he rasped, is unharmed. See with your eyes, mortal.
A bone hand swept to the floor, which had indeed repaired itself after his entrance.
Rick Nasty
kicks open the door of Gambit's Bar, rushing toward The Assassin in a stim-induced frenzy, screaming as his jacket fluttered in his speedy gait:
Holy shit man, I'm totally in love with you! Give ol' Nasty a smooch!
Rick Nasty stopped mid-run. The punk shrugged, ran up to 'Rodrigez', and tried to give him an enormous smooch on the cheek anyway, just because he felt like it.
Rick Nasty fell, snapping his wrists together as he tripped over 'Rodrigez's' feet, bringing the deflector shielding up, and sending him in a clear sail out a window. That was fun.
Rick Nasty
bashed open the door to Gambit's Bar, the aid of a patron walking in before him absolutely unnoticed by the obnoxious individual. He rushed in, jumping onto a table, his leather-like jacket fully open and displaying the obscenities scrawled on his t-shirt, as he gyrated his hips grotesquely. His tight trousers pushed against his hips in a most inglorious manner as he swept a hand through his mohawk, looking over the establishment with his hazel eyes.
Everyone!
The punk called out, I have an announcement!
Rick Nasty brought his hands down to the holstered pistols at his hips, pulling them out with a graceful motion, utterly unusual against his chaotic and jerking tendencies. The skinny man stood atop the table, thrusting the guns up into the air, his eyes closed tightly, and let out a great, blasted:
{quote]Yahoo![/quote]
Rick Nasty
's writer lost part of his post to the enter button, the rest of his declaration went:
The punk cried out, after, I am the Bar's Go-Go Dancer!
Rick Nasty was satisfied with his entrance; he had raised more than a few eyebrows, and what was better than that? The obnoxious man's eyes flitted around the bar without any care of direction or preference as he spun the laser pistols about his fingers, like a gunslinger from the old west. There was someone with a good sense of humor, Adonis; though not a quick wit, the punk knew a good pun when he heard one.
"Alright," he called out, to the most serious figure. He fell to a crouched position on the table, jumping about on the surface like a crazed primate, hooting and hollering with no care of his image in others' eyes.
Rick Nasty looked at Dark Yami, clapping his wrist together quickly, a light static hum in the air. Both pistols came up quickly to the figure, aimed precisely.
"Fuck off, I'm dancin'," he stated, eyes narrowing.
Rick Nasty thrust his pistols back into their corresponding holsters, bringing his forearms up to bash his wrists together. The static hum disappeared, but now the skinny man was in a bad mood. Someone had threatened to interrupt his fun with a good fight, and now had just gone off and left him on the table. The punk hopped off easily, landing with a solid thunk on his combat boots.
Rick walked up to the current server, the one who he'd seen walking about and delivering drinks. He, at least, thought that Legion(?) filled that role.
"Yo, tender; get me a whiskey and whatever's under that stiff suit." He winked.
Rick Nasty raised a hand.
"Hold the glass, sweetums," he chuckled, as he leaned forward.
The punk made a quick dash-and-grab at the bottle of whiskey, attempting a grab for the bottle with a swift motion. His stim-induced reflexes shot his muscles out like a cable snapping under pressure, outstretched hand aimed directly for the neck of the bottle.
Rick Nasty snatched the bottle to his side, his momentum carrying him around as he jumped upon the counter in a seated position. The punk brought his lips up to the surly bartender's cheek in an attempt for an enormous smooch, as his thumb twisted the cap of the bottle loose.
That was Rick for you, unrestrained and discomforting.
Rick Nasty groaned in pain as Dom grabbed his ear, but shifted into an ecstatic, shuddering moan before he was released. He nearly fell onto the counter after, but the skinny man caught himself by the bottom of his whiskey bottle. He bent back up, twisting the top off immediately after, tossing it over his shoulder.
"Did'ja know," the punk replied, cheekily, "that is such a turn-on for me. Let's sin like nuns, right on the counter, you and me, big boy."
He then took an enormous swig of his whiskey, tilting his head back and leaning slightly, his other arm bracing him against the metal surface of the counter.
Rick Nasty brought the bottle back down to his side, gulping deeply and shuddering before letting out an explosive laugh. The punk's face contorted as the bartender reacted with shock and, was that disgust?
"My name's Rick Nasty," he said to Dom. "But you can call me 'Harder."
Rick Nasty laughed loudly, taking another deep swig of the whiskey after he came down from the fit. Boy, this one sure was a hoot. Rick's mood was drastically improving.
"Alright, big, bad, and Dom," he winked as he said the last word. The punk had no idea of the 'tender's actual name, it was just a little wisecrack.
Rick Nasty narrowed his eyes. That wasn't the reaction he was expecting. The punk placed the whiskey bottle down on the counter, pushing it off a bit to the side. There was a dangerous, unstable air about the man's actions, the jerkiness of them, the abrupt motions his hands made.
"Make me get off," he intoned, a growl hinted in the lower range of his voice.
Rick Nasty leaned in, his gaze down his nose at James. He shouldn't be the one quoting Eastwood lines, as far as the skinny man could see; he had the pistols at his hips. Still, there was a choice; bend down to authority, or risk being unable to drink.
The punk called the man's bluff.
"You're cute and all," he growled, "but my ass has claimed the little one-by-one spot on this counter it's sitting on."