Post by Vinny on Aug 22, 2009 21:17:46 GMT -5
"It was a virus. An infection. You didn't need a doctor to tell you that. It was the blood. It was something in the blood. By the time they tried to evacuate the cities it was already too late. Army blockades were overrun. And that's when the exodus started. Before the TV and radio stopped broadcasting there were reports of infection in Paris and New York. We didn't hear anything more after that.’"
'28 Days Later'
'28 Days Later'
Your Name: Sam
How many years roleplaying?:11 - 12
"Because I could not stop for Death --
He kindly stopped for me --"
He kindly stopped for me --"
Emily Dickinson[/center][/size]
Character Name:Vincent "Vinny" Charmers
Age: 24
Date of Birth: 23rd Feb, '85
Residence: Shaftesbury Ave, London
Profession: Professional slacker.
Appearance: Tall, very skinny and usually bruised from tripping over this or that, Vinny is the quintessential throwback to the 80's. He is most often found clad in Duran Duran band shirts, skinny jeans and converse sneakers, and sports a Flock of Seagulls hairdo that is mostly untameable. Very pale in complexion and eyes, Vinny's eyes tend to look faintly pink, the pale grey tinged by bloodflow. When angry, the hue intensifies as the bloodflow does, but when shocked, they fade to monochrome.
Personality: Vinny is the eternal prankster, the lollygagger, and is not particularly reliable. Certainly, he is loyal, but he's also a junkie, not to mention clumsy as a rule. His preferred modus operandi is staying in his apartment with whatever drugs he can get his hand on.
History: Born in south London, Vinny grew up with his single mother and one older brother. he keeps in contact with neither of them, not through hate, but through negligence. Early in school life, Vinny was not a good student, too busy off in his own world, and was often quite disobedient. While he was not a cruel kid, he was not the poster boy for his age, and never did become so.
At around age 10, Vinny witnessed the death of his best friend, Simon, who fell from a tree he had coaxed him to climb, and broke his neck. Subliminally, Vinny imagines guilt for this death to this day, not that you can tell most of the time.
At age fifteen, before the end of his schooling, Vinny, after having already fallen in with a bad crowd, ran off to central london on his own and wound up living in a squat with a few other heroin junkies who inevitably introduced him to the 'lifestyle.' meanwhile, the cartoons and pictures he had drawn and circulated in those years finally got notice, first in small magazines, then in larger ones until they were in higher demand and earning Vinny money. The hapless prankster was thus thrust into the social life of London, raised from the slums into his own cheap apartment in SoHo. He fell into London's club kid scene and continued his reckless and recreational use of drugs right up until The Incident.
Nowadays, sporting his desert eagle .50, whom he has named Winona, as a tip of the hat to a favourite television show, Vinny stays out of the way for the most part, living in his barricaded top floor apartment. He only ventures out during the day, quietly raiding the stores closest to his home before retiring at night with his spoils.
Likes: 80's Synthpop. Muffins. Drugs. Winona
Dislikes: Responsibility. Early Morning. Pessimists. Zombies.
Strengths: Crack-shot with his gun, firm knowledge of London's layout, stealthy when not tripping over everything, quick on his feet. Good sense of humour. Optimism
Weaknesses: Clumsiness, drug addiction, lack of care for rules and responsibilities, solitude.
Parents: Mary Charmers and "?"
Siblings: Conner Charmers, older brother
Spouse: None
Children: None
Anything Else? He is invariably rarely seen without a pair of pink sunglasses.
Roleplay Sample:
Ecstasy. It had a name for a reason, but Vinny wasn't high on the sensation, but the drug. Surprise, surprise. But then he needed his ups and his downs, and he couldn't stay in that big, old house, couldn't look at those walls, couldn't stand not being able to get a rise out of Dante when he tried to play pranks on him, irritate him by sitting at the other end of the table, staring at him, aiming whatever was on the table to throw at his glass of red wine until Dante, without looking up from his papers, simply put his hand over the top of the glass and spoiled the game. He just wasn't any fun at all anymore, this business with Eleanor and Him was sucking the life out of everyone.
Everyone but Vinny. Fuck the danger. I laugh in the face of danger, ha ha ha ha! He'd rather suffer the danger than suffer the mind-numbing boredom. He had contemplated turning his pranks on Jack, but recalling their last altercation, had considered that he much preferred his vertebra un-shattered too, and his hands unbroken. Adeliah would be fun to mess with, but inevitably -that- road would lead back to Jack. Then there was Mercedes. He knew she had a sense of humour, a few people had even seen it recently, but she was too quick, too sharp of wit, and the moment he'd made to wander into her office, she had steadied a sparkling, dangerously smirking gaze on him and had said: "Touch anything and I'll send Jack after you." And that had been the end of that, with a mutual laugh and a return to the boredom of floating around the house, knocking over expensive vases and trinkets "by accident."
But no more! Especially not after he'd taken as many hits of ecstasy as he had. He was rolling BIG time, and was on his way back to his apartment to find a suitably touchable oufit to don for the evening's festivities. Well, if he couldn't touch anyone else, he might as well have his own clothing to touch! He had eyed the van as he had hopped past it, his feet skipping to an unheard beat, a slender, skinny glowstick clamped between strained, grinning teeth. Who the fuck? No time for that! Leather! Velvet? Do I own any? I don't know. And he had bounded up hi stairs and had erupted into the overturned lounge without even giving the disarray a second glance.
"Ta-da!" he exclaimed around the bright green glowstick, jumping into the lounge from the doorway, opening his arms to the place, his place, he had missed it. He grinned wildly and skittered down the hallway with a skipping step, immediately commencing to pulling out drawers of clothing, dumping them out and running his hands through everything until the mismatched outfit had been decided upon by tactile sensation alone. But then, he'd never claimed to be a fashion victim.
Tight leather pants over his customary doc martins, and a strange, impossibly silky sort of men's tank top affair that was classic 80's glamrock silver lamee, and clung and draped just as closely to his frightfully skinny form as the pants did to his hip bones. A few more glowsticks had been wound and stuck into the tangled, messed up front 'emo fringe' of his hair, and they stuck out like demented chopsticks of bright pink, green, orange, blue. The docs were discarded in favour of his heavy, metal plated and slightly platformed New Rocks, and that was that.
Much more heavy-footed then, he took a bound back down the hallway, the green glowstick still clamped in his teeth, the studs of his wide, studded belt glittering against the light of an overturned lamp. He was ready for anything! And he jogged down the stairs that led back toward the street, having slammed the front door after him as only an afterthought so that it didn't actually quite close but left the disaster of the apartment open to the world.
And there was that van again, right outside of his place, staring him in the face, and his spidey sense tingled and told him that someone, or someone's were inside, talking, moving around, thinking thoughts that he didn't feel like picking apart.
Utterly unabashedly, unfearfully, he grabbed the door handle and tore the door back along it's runners, opening the back of the vehicle up to reveal his almost demented, glow stick-filled grin, his face lit from above by the sheer number of them stuck in his hair like some fucked up piece of acid-trip artwork from the mind of a lunatic.
Oh! Zillah!
"What the fuck're you doing in the back of a transit van? Are you on a date-rape run or something?" He grinned at Zillah and then at the strange faces of Molochai and Twig. What a fun looking gathering! Maybe they -were- on a date-rape run! He cackled at the thought and leaned his shoulder forward against the door so his face was half inside, grinning wildly, his pupils like saucers behind the bright pink lenses of a new pair of sunglasses.
Everyone but Vinny. Fuck the danger. I laugh in the face of danger, ha ha ha ha! He'd rather suffer the danger than suffer the mind-numbing boredom. He had contemplated turning his pranks on Jack, but recalling their last altercation, had considered that he much preferred his vertebra un-shattered too, and his hands unbroken. Adeliah would be fun to mess with, but inevitably -that- road would lead back to Jack. Then there was Mercedes. He knew she had a sense of humour, a few people had even seen it recently, but she was too quick, too sharp of wit, and the moment he'd made to wander into her office, she had steadied a sparkling, dangerously smirking gaze on him and had said: "Touch anything and I'll send Jack after you." And that had been the end of that, with a mutual laugh and a return to the boredom of floating around the house, knocking over expensive vases and trinkets "by accident."
But no more! Especially not after he'd taken as many hits of ecstasy as he had. He was rolling BIG time, and was on his way back to his apartment to find a suitably touchable oufit to don for the evening's festivities. Well, if he couldn't touch anyone else, he might as well have his own clothing to touch! He had eyed the van as he had hopped past it, his feet skipping to an unheard beat, a slender, skinny glowstick clamped between strained, grinning teeth. Who the fuck? No time for that! Leather! Velvet? Do I own any? I don't know. And he had bounded up hi stairs and had erupted into the overturned lounge without even giving the disarray a second glance.
"Ta-da!" he exclaimed around the bright green glowstick, jumping into the lounge from the doorway, opening his arms to the place, his place, he had missed it. He grinned wildly and skittered down the hallway with a skipping step, immediately commencing to pulling out drawers of clothing, dumping them out and running his hands through everything until the mismatched outfit had been decided upon by tactile sensation alone. But then, he'd never claimed to be a fashion victim.
Tight leather pants over his customary doc martins, and a strange, impossibly silky sort of men's tank top affair that was classic 80's glamrock silver lamee, and clung and draped just as closely to his frightfully skinny form as the pants did to his hip bones. A few more glowsticks had been wound and stuck into the tangled, messed up front 'emo fringe' of his hair, and they stuck out like demented chopsticks of bright pink, green, orange, blue. The docs were discarded in favour of his heavy, metal plated and slightly platformed New Rocks, and that was that.
Much more heavy-footed then, he took a bound back down the hallway, the green glowstick still clamped in his teeth, the studs of his wide, studded belt glittering against the light of an overturned lamp. He was ready for anything! And he jogged down the stairs that led back toward the street, having slammed the front door after him as only an afterthought so that it didn't actually quite close but left the disaster of the apartment open to the world.
And there was that van again, right outside of his place, staring him in the face, and his spidey sense tingled and told him that someone, or someone's were inside, talking, moving around, thinking thoughts that he didn't feel like picking apart.
Utterly unabashedly, unfearfully, he grabbed the door handle and tore the door back along it's runners, opening the back of the vehicle up to reveal his almost demented, glow stick-filled grin, his face lit from above by the sheer number of them stuck in his hair like some fucked up piece of acid-trip artwork from the mind of a lunatic.
Oh! Zillah!
"What the fuck're you doing in the back of a transit van? Are you on a date-rape run or something?" He grinned at Zillah and then at the strange faces of Molochai and Twig. What a fun looking gathering! Maybe they -were- on a date-rape run! He cackled at the thought and leaned his shoulder forward against the door so his face was half inside, grinning wildly, his pupils like saucers behind the bright pink lenses of a new pair of sunglasses.
