Hello, my name is: James Samuel Holt
You can call me: James. I don't have a nickname. I do, however, have a whole bunch of aliases when I go to upper class parties. Can't exactly go around telling people my real name.
My role in this story is: Other Member #1
I'm only: 25
I was born in: The South Bronx, New York
And on the: 8th of November
People say that I'm: a great guy. They're wrong of course, but why would I enlighten them? I manipulate; it's what I do. It's why I've yet to get caught, and also why very few women have even realized the fact that I steal from them every time I sleep with them. Or maybe that's because I keep it subtle. Which leads me to the next fact about me; I'm smart. Not book-smart, considering the piece of shit school I went to as a kid, but I'm streetsmart. I know how to take care of myself and the others, and I do quite well, if I do say so myself. I'm a great actor, it's a talent of mine, and I mostly use it to conceal the disgust I really feel for all these upper class women when I... well, seduce them.
I may be a cheating, lying asshole, but I also have my commendable sides. I suppose they're mostly shown when I'm around my group, Fee in particular. I really do care about them, and I'd do anything to protect and help them if they needed it. I generally have a soft spot for troubled people. Those who cannot fend for themselves, having been through hell. I guess that's why I took these guys in in the first place, in reality. With time though it grew into friendships and with the girls... more than that. I can be quite blunt and sarcastic at the same time. Actually I'm almost always sarcastic. I like to just sit back and observe people from a distance, analyzing and judging them from afar, so around more than one other person I will often be quiet. I'm not the funny guy who cracks the jokes, even if I do laugh at others. I honestly often think it's a waste of time; I have more important things to think of. Like, say, bills, food, heat and so forth.
I'm oftentimes rather serious and calm; I can come off as cold and uncaring too, if I choose to show my real self; something I rarely do. I'm the man who'll smile at you while thinking bitch. I actually do that a lot more than you'd think, so people very rarely know what I think of them in reality. This is what makes most people think I'm this great, nice guy, even though I'm not. People think of me what I want them to think of me, and they know nothing more than what I want them to either because I'm always in complete control of my actions and the impressions I give others.
I also have a rather fiery temper, but it's not easy to rouse. Think of me like this ginormous bomb at the end of a very long fuse, then you've got a pretty accurate picture of things. I'm not all bad though; I can be quite gentle and caring. Especially with those who need it, and I'm never one to start a fight. However, I will retaliate in full if you hurt me, physically or emotionally. I never hold grudges (unless you're upper-class, cop or black) and forgive very easily if you apologize for something you've done, so I suppose that's one of the few good things about me.
I absolutely love:
- Peaches
- My small gang of outsiders
- Stealing from rich idiots
- Taking care of Fee
- People who know when to shut up
- Kissing - and I'm good at it too... just FYI
- Being a jerk to the people I don't like, which is...basically anyone who complains about trivial things
- Bringing home a decent amount of money
- Paying the bills - it's always such a relief once they're gone... until next month. Yeah.
- Sleeping
But I can't stand:
- Upper class brats - I despise them
- Cops and authorities in general
- Arrogance
- Vanity
- Brands
- Black people
- People who don't put action behind words
- Bananas
- Kids - they tend to get in the way
- Threats
Oh, and I'm petrified of: being helpless. The fact that I may one day end up not being able to take care of myself and my little group, scares me to death. I'm also not a fan of lawyers. They're some creepy fuckers.
If I could, I'd love to be: free... free from my past. That's all, really. I know it's not possible, though. It'll always be there, haunting me.
But in reality, I work here: Rino's. A pizzeria down the street from our building. I'm basically the delivery-guy. However, the job that makes the money - the one no one knows of, is stealing. It's also the job I like, not for the sex though. The girls honestly disgust me. But for the way I get to treat them afterwards, when they're asleep. I know it's cruel, but I don't care.
Shhhh, don't tell anyone, but: I cheat on my girlfriend nearly every night. I enjoy the cruel streak of using rich sluts and I never feel remorse afterwards; why should I? Also... pretty much every part of my past is confidential. I haven't told much of it to anyone, and if they ask about the long scar on the side of my neck, I'll tell them a funny story... a different one every time. No way am I going to tell anyone that my mother, or rather, Mischa tried to kill me with a broken bottle.
My life so far? Well...:
8th of November, 1987. This is where my life started, something I really can't say I've been all that happy about. Mischa Delia Holt would be the woman on the dirty couch, screaming for this little child to get the hell out of her while her boyfriend, who wasn't the father of the baby stood of to the side, indifferently watching her with a cigarette in his hand. His name is Fred Tonkin, a fat, bald man, and the first time he raped me was 5 years later. It didn't start there though. Oh no, he'd be looking at me often even years before that, putting his hands on my thighs, wetting his lips when I ran around the trailer in my underwear. I hadn't thought much of it before, but that changed after the first time. Mischa was out, probably buying the next round of drugs with her body, leaving me alone with a man who watched me hungrily at every turn. I very clearly recall the way he'd called for me, telling me to get onto his lap. Now, I'm not going to tell you the rest of this incident, because it wasn't pretty. Let's just say little James stopped running around in his underwear. I didn't tell Mischa, and even if I had, she would've brushed it off. She knew, however. He'd often tug me into bed with them, me on one side, Mischa on the other. He'd start with her... then she'd pretend to fall asleep, he'd turn around... and then continue with me. She never did anything about it. Not a thing.
I grew to hate my mother. There's no way she could've missed the crying and screaming, or the movements in the bed. No one sleeps that heavily, and the fact that she did nothing made me despise her. I was about 6 years old when I stopped calling her mom, no longer thinking her deserving of such a title, so I started merely calling her Mischa. We never had much money, and what little we had was usually spent on drugs and booze, so I started working at the age of 9, taking money for the services I was providing at home already. Hey, they say it's natural to follow in the footsteps of your parents, right? I began making more money than my mother, since people would pay more for discretion if they were turned on by pretty little boys, considering the whole 'frowned upon' business. And guess who forced me into the business? Mommy dearest. Yeah, and I brought home every penny I made. Problem? that meant my mother thought I was ready to join the big boys. Yes, this meant she began slipping drugs into my food. She had to do it that way because I always said no. Apparently she didn't agree with my decision. Parents, huh? No... wait... it's usually the other way around, isn't it?
It didn't take long for me to become addicted, so at 10 I was literally a drughead, an alcoholic and a slut all at once. I doubt I was all that charming. Of course I went to school too. Why she bothered, though, I never did understand, but I was glad it was there, because even though it was crappy and I was bullied, it was still a safehaven. A place away from home. Away form pedophile stepdads and mothers who forced you into dark times. As I grew older, however, Fred began losing interest in me, and I stopped making the money I had before. Now, I was attractive to homosexuals, not pedophile homosexuals, not that the change was all that grand. The only real difference to me, was the amount of money. Fred left when I was 15, probably out hunting for another kid to molest and ruin. With him gone, and my income being less and less, my mother became desperate, blaming me for everything. She often went without drugs because she just didn't have the money for it. You know how people who stop smoking can become real temperamental? Imagine my Mischa who took cold turkeys for a couple of days, both from alcohol, cigarettes, and drugs. She became violent during those times, though mostly towards me. After all, I was at fault here, right? Damn me for growing up. Must've come as a shock that I wasn't Peter Pan.
One day I came home from 'work', having had just about 4 different men inside me several times during the evening. I was 16 at this point, and I'd taken a lot of beating from Mischa - I never hit back, however. I wanted to quite often, though. Either way, she was in one of her dry periods, sitting on the sticky floor of the dirty, old trailer. I remember the black rings around her eyes; you know... the ones drug addicts often had. She was pale and dirty, her blonde her messy and chopped off in odd places. I didn't care though; she did crazy shit all the time and if I had to worry about her doing that, I'd never to anything else. Besides, she was the reason I was in this whole mess. I'd become clean during the year since Fred had left, since she no longer had enough money to stuff it into my food, and only had enough to just sustain herself. I'd had a hard time recovering, and malnutrition wasn't exactly making things easier either, but I'd gotten trough it. I was still offering my ass to anyone who could pay, however. It was all I could do to at least eat once in a while, or I'd die. The heat had been cut off, and water too, because Mischa hadn't paid the bills. Maybe that's why I'm so obsessed with it now; having them paid on time.
I remember the way she suddenly shouted '"it's your fault!" and when I turned around, she was screaming frantically, a wild look in her eyes as she ran at me with a broken bottle-neck. She was weak though, and I tried to merely ward her off... I did, but it ended badly. She lashed out at me, waving the sharp ends at me, and then she hit me. On the side of my neck, where I now have a scar. I lost it, knocking it out of her hand. Most of my actions follow this, I do not recall. The next thing I remember as me, standing over the dead, bloody and broken body of the woman who gave birth to me, red, thick fluids dripping from my hands.
Then I ran. Left her there. I lived on the streets for a while, going from one place to the other, feeling better than I had in my entire childhood, even though I had no home. I got by, teaching myself to pickpocket without being noticed. Then I met this guy; Watch. Of course, that wasn't his real name, but it was what people called him. I never got to know the actual one. I'm pretty sure he'd even forgotten it himself. Regardless, he offered me a family and a place to stay, along with a job. I didn't believe him for one second. I knew precisely what kind of sick bastards were out there, but I went to this park with him where he began explaining the concept of his little gang.
He was the leader, they were thieves and they lived in an old storage building. Apparently one of them was a total genius so they had both water and heat, although isolation wasn't exactly state of the art. There were four of them, including him, and they all had an area of expertise. Snake-eyes was great with pick-pocketing, Watch himself could pick any lock, Hand was you guy if you needed any online thievery, and Jones was the mastermind. So of course, I had to ask what he thought I could possibly contribute. That's when he smiled at me and told me he needed someone with looks... someone who'd be able to con his way into any pants; someone who could talk well for himself. I remember being to confused, telling him that I didn't quite get how I fit into that description. His next words were a little weird, "dude, you just got it."
I ended up with them and life was good for a while. My expertise became a little abstract; I would talk my way out of any situation, and that's what I did, honing my skills over the next year. They also spent a long while teaching me how to fight properly, so that I could defend myself physically if anything should happen. I also began carrying a gun. Well, until the cops found us because some rich brat had slept with Snake-eyes and ratted us out. We all ran in different directions and I haven't seen any of them since. My one moment of contentment had been ruined by some upper class bitch, and the cops. So, I took my revenge. Having learned exactly how to act, exactly how to dress to blend in with them, I slithered my way into her circle of friends, and them... into her heart. I humored her for a while, acted loving, sleeping with her, slowly stealing from her every time I saw her. She didn't realize, too busy thinking I was perfect. Because that's exactly what I wanted her to think, and hey... love makes blind, does it not? One night, after once more having taken what I wanted from her body, I stole every cent of cash she had around the house, and drifted off. I didn't come back.
After that, feeling good about my little revenge, knowing I would've left her heartbroken just like she'd caused my happiness to crumble, I spent the money wisely. She'd had a lot of cash laying around as was typical with rich people; arrogant and careless. I bought myself more fancy clothing and the little apartment I'm living in now. Then I started working again; really working, my body and manipulation once more my tools. I don't like it. I'd really much rather be able to have a normal job that paid enough for me to take care of the others, but I don't, and I've got to work with what I've got. With what I'm good at.
When I was almost 22 I met this gorgeous brunette; Gabby. Some guy was manhandling her in the streets. Obviously he wanted something she didn't. I never like to see any street-girl treated like that. I honestly think there's enough shit in our world without us going around hurting eachother too. But yeah, I helped her out. The guy left in a huff. I never asked what the whole situation was about, but once she told me what she did for a living; whoring herself out in the streets, well... I just stopped caring what the situation had been about and started focusing on helping her out with her current situation. I got her out of the business, she moved in with me, and well... one thing led to another. To say that our physical attraction was normal, would be lying. It was in no way normal; Gabby knew exactly how to work me up, and I have to say, I learned a few tricks regarding her too. It remained that way for a while; physical. And during the next couple of years it developed into a relationship as we came to care for eachother.
The problem was that Gabby wasn't good for me. Let's be honest; she's a right bitch. It turned me on for the first long while, and then it just... got annoying. I mean, she still knew exactly which buttons to push, and hell... maybe I just got sick of out whole relationship being based on sex. I had enough of that during 'working hours'. Had enough of bitching too. She just... made me more of a fucked up, cruel bastard than I am now. There were good times, yes, but the bad ones outweighed them by far. And so, my feelings had begun diminishing even before I met Fee.
Fee was another story; I met her on my way home from 'work'. I heard her crying in an alleyway and went to see who it was. This dirty little blonde ball of shredded clothes and malnourished limps was what I met. I'm a sucker for people like that, I have to admit. She was so pathetic and helpless I couldn't not help her. So yeah, I gave her my jacket and some water. I think the warmth was too much for her, so she fell asleep. I'm sure she would've died there alone if I hadn't carried her home. Gabby wasn't home, luckily. She was out, probably working. I don't recall. In time Fee became more and more confident... or, as confident as Fee can be. Simultaneously, I broke things off with Gabby and had her move in with Trey instead. It truly had nothing to do with the blonde at first, but Gabby blames her regardless. I'm not sure what to do about it, honestly. Well... yeah, so Fee sort of grew on me as she lived with me alone. We began cuddling on the couch and she came in to sleep in my bed when she had bad dreams; probably more like memories from her past resurfacing in her sleep. For some reason I helped make them go away.
After I helped her out with a couple of guys trying to rape her, she kissed me, and things just went from there. I'm gentle with her... more so than with anyone else. Maybe because she needs it more; I don't know. I care about her a lot, but I don't love her. I doubt I'll ever be able to truly love anyone or anything. It makes me feel like the worst piece of shit sometimes, because I know she feels much stronger for me than I for her. It's the same way with Gabby. I'm a cold bastard like that, I suppose. Then again... we're all damaged goods in one way or another. Gabby's insane, I'm emotionally challenged, and Fee is scared of her own shadow when she's not with me. That's just us.