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Post by alfred.r on Oct 3, 2013 20:14:37 GMT -5
The sun rises on the hood, the day starts, and if you aren't awoken by the jingle-jangle ringtone of your knock-off Nokeuh or Samsong phone, you're probably woken up by the sounds of music playing from every corner of the hood. Boomboxes set out on street corners by snack cart guys to get your attention, or inside little run down shops to give out some atmosphere. In San Carlos Boulevard -- Venice, Florida -- it's lots of Cuban beats, some old hip hop, and a lot of poppy radio hits, the kind that people eat up and love. The buildings are gaudy, painted bright colors in lead paint that's now peeling in places. Neon signs hang off building fronts, trying to show you how fun this part of town is; what a party it is to live and chill here. Somewhere, not too far away, a trolley clang-a-langs and makes a beeline for the coast.
With an open window, you can smell the clean, crisp salt air begging you to come out and play.
Outside the walls of your apartments, shops open up. Street vendors set up in the high traffic walking areas. The sidewalks are a stream of shorts, hideous Hawaiian shirts, bathing suit tops, with the occasional conservatively-dressed man or woman here or there to put in an "honest day's work." Somewhere, a car alarm sounds as someone gets up to a dishonest day's work. Hooting and hollering drills through your windows: people having fun and kickin' it, a few guys gambling in parking lots, some hawker, some panhandler, some juiced up street racers, some 'ladies of the night' working on their tans.
A police siren, somewhere; nowhere nearby, though.
Another day, another dime to scrounge up.
Tell me about your routine: what do you see when you wake up, your room and such. Are you a late sleeper because you get up to shit late at night? Or early to rise to get the worm? Intro yourself, so we're all on the same page with what you look like. Talk to me about what a normal day in the life for Switch, Tank, and Reaper is like. You've got to support your livelihood's, so keep that in mind. Who do you wake up next to? Anyone? What's your first appointment for the day? Give me the deets, kiddos.
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Post by bloodyvalentine on Oct 3, 2013 23:22:57 GMT -5
I get up around noon, always have since I started workin' Oasis. When you're up until 4 crackin' heads and throwin' guys around, you need to sleep in or else they're gonna get the better of you and crack your head. It's a good job, solid and predictable. Easy money, compared to other shit I've done over the years.
I roll out of bed, a lumpy full sized mattress with old as hell black sheets. My room is tiny and messy, clothes and pieces of crumpled paper lying everywhere. I'd hear somewhere that writing down shit that bothered you made you feel better, but so far all I felt was like I wanted to snap my pen in half.
I stumble into the bathroom, tired as hell, and have a quick shower. As I shave, I look at my hair in the mirror and sigh. "I need a haircut." My mom's eyes look back at me, gunmetal grey, and her straight black hair. It's shaggy now, but I can't really cut it myself and I don't wanna do the 2-guard electric razor style LJ has goin' on. He got more of Dad's genetics, his skin a few shades darker than mine, his eyes deep brown and hair tightly kinked when it was grown out. I flexed a little after I rinsed my face. I got Dad's build though, built like a brick shithouse and dense as fuck. LJ has Mom's slight body, more like a racer or something than a fridge.
In my room, I pulled on a pair of jeans and found some socks. I picked through the clean laundry hamper, and decided against the black tee I normally wore. Instead, I shrugged on a grey one Jenny had gotten me, supposedly because it matched my eyes. She was good like that, always found something personal for the people she cares about.
Cared, I thought and sighed again. I grab my phone, an old-ass Nokia brick that Big Geno lets me use for when he needs me for a job. He texts me when he needs me and then I meet him at his club for further instructions. Cleaner that way, tidy. No loose ends or phone records to really worry about in case shit hits the fan.
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Post by Jote on Oct 4, 2013 12:10:10 GMT -5
I rise with the sun in my single bedroom apartment above the cafe. I've become something of a habitual early riser. Habitual. There's a word. But anyway.
After taking a short shower, I change into a white cotton suit that I got at a discount--the jacket was $89.99 marked down to $8.99 because of some damage and the sleeves were two different lengths, but I knew a tailor who owed me, so no problem. I complete the look with a slim black tie. I then very meticulously brush my dark, ear-length hair, slicking it back. I should perhaps get a haircut soon. I look at myself in the small bathroom mirror and smile a crook'd, toothy smile. Today is a day to get things done.
Once I'm done with the vanity I slip on a pair of black dress shoes, lovingly shined the evening before, once a week like usual. It's important to establish a routine.
Then I'm out the door and down the stairs to grab a cup of coffee and read the paper. As the door closes behind me I suddenly stop, purse my lips and pinch the bridge of my nose, then turn back around to grab a sharpened pencil and notepad from my place. Then it's down the stairs for my morning Joe.
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Post by duranderonamous on Oct 4, 2013 16:27:26 GMT -5
I hit my alarm as soon as I'm awake, since Red doesn't have to get up nearly as early as me. No need though. He didn't get in last night, evident from the lack of a big Indian snoring on the other side of the bed. Out of habit, I check the box I jury rigged under my side of the bed to hold my shotgun, before sliding out of bed and into clothing. Okay, 7am, throw on something loose I haven't worn more than head out for my morning jog.
After a 30 minute trek around the neighborhood I come back to work out for what time I have left before I need to hop in the shower. "FUCK!" I shout as I step into water that feels 60 degrees colder than I expected. I make a mental note to get the staff to fix this. I like my showers to feel like a sauna, not give me frostburn.
I get out and ignore the brushes full of dyed hair on the side of the sink, and instead just run a comb through my black hair, going down a few inches past my shoulder. After I dry it for a couple minutes I hold it up to put it in a ponytail. Sadly, the only hair tie is a bright pink scrunchie with a bow that belongs to Vanilla, and no fucking way am I going to wear that since some white fucker called me "kawaii." Looks like my hair's staying down today. I pull together an outfit out of pieces I did not have to cut to make the correct size, and pull on the pair of boots that bloodstained. Still need to try and scrub that out. Last step is my knockoff aviators since the sun is out and shining at this point, setting them over my dark green eyes.
I set out for Dragon Express. Another day, another dollar. Whatever the hell that means.
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Post by alfred.r on Oct 18, 2013 19:37:53 GMT -5
TANK
It's not time for your stead job, what with the sun being up n' all that. It's you, doing you thing till the sun goes down and the neon lights up -- and all the ladies in their little see-through numbers and guys in their pastel party suits come out to play at Oasis. You've got a lot of time to kill, so maybe a quick mental check list will come up with something to get you by until work: Hank is free too, if you wanted to kick it even though you'll see him tonight; maybe Big Geno has something else for you to do if you just hit him up about it; Jenny if... you know... maybe?
Fuck it, man. Maybe you just need a decent breakfast and figure it out from there.
Getting ready, you hear some shuffling around in LJ's room -- and then you hear his rusty bed springs making an awful ruckus. Two minutes later, his door opens and a woman takes her leave of the apartment, still wearing her Cantina Diner uniform. Pretty cute -- Chinese, maybe? But anyway, she's gone, and then the sounds of Little John snoring comes through his door as he falls right back to sleep.
Whenever you get around to exiting your apartment, you find a piece of paper tacked to your door. It's mostly printed word, expect for Mrs. Gomez's cursive signature at the bottom. A quick read-through and you see that, apparently, the building is worse off than you thought. Mrs. Gomez hasn't been able to keep up with her payments these last few months, and so she's raising the rent on everyone -- which sucks since its due next week. She doesn't have a choice, her note says: the Bank of Venice is going to foreclose on the building, otherwise.
Where are you off to now? Any good way to make some quick cash that you've got lined up today? And of course: What do you do?
SWITCH
You've got a cup of joe in your hands, and Vale is behind the counter of the shop serving the teenie boppers and hipsters stopping in for their pick-them-ups and indie cred before hitting the beach for the day. You've got your little black book of names and favors. You've got Mouse across from you tapping his fingers on the table, waiting for you to look up from your cellphone and answer him. On your screen, a little envelope blinks at you, Switch, and it's soon joined by another. One says: im doing it. im done selling. And the other says: Hey Switch! The usual place tonight for snowcones? - Leo
Mouse clears his throat and his beard bristles.
"Well? Can ya help me'r not, Switch? I'm tellin' ya," and his voice is thick, rumbly thing like a bass drum that's smoked since it was whatever the analogy or a baby bass drum would be. "I'm tellin' ya, I says, I see it every week: two trucks for that crappy little tourist joint out ons San Roberto, all with what you'd expect -- shirts, shoes, an all that. I'm sayin', my cousin's got a stand down on da beach, an he needs one. One truck, take it off somewheres else, get the goods out, and it's done. C'mon, that's simple. My cuz needs this shit, man, things're tight."
"He's got a wife an' a boy on the side, man. Have a heart!"
Does Mouse have a history of these kind of carjacking jobs that he needs help with? Or is this new? What's the last thing you did for him? What're you going to tell your supplier, and Leonard? What do you do?
REAPER
While getting yourself together, you're working around Vanilla -- she's prissing and primming herself all up, and the whole time she is going on and on about Sugardaddy wanting her to come by the club early today. Something about investors, something about making a good impression. And the whole time she's talking in the voice that tells you she hopes he hasn't caught her skimming off the top; the voice that says she sure hopes her money in the sock inside her mattress hasn't been found out. She's talking fast, talking nervous. You manage to get the basic details though: some big money people are thinking of investing in the club, so Sugardaddy is going to give them the VIP treatment... drinks, music, girls.
As far as you know, though, Sugar doesn't need you at the club tonight. It should all go smoothly -- no troublemakers. And you should still be getting by okay-like with the money off your last hit... right?
And before you can get out of the apartment, you get a knock-knock-knocking at your door.
You and I never talked about who gave you such a good deal on that gun that you owe payback. Who is it? They're at your door now, and they'll be needing a favor. Also, Sugardaddy's been talking about this investor for weeks: who is the guy rolling in cash, and what's he make his money on? What do you do?
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Post by bloodyvalentine on Oct 18, 2013 22:20:12 GMT -5
I pull up Big Geno's number and send him a quick message, Do you need me for anything before work tonight, boss?
The phone gets shoved back in my pocket and I check my wallet, relieved to see a ten there. Some sweet little thing was bein' creeped on last night, and I put a stop to that pretty quick. She'd tipped me before swishin' away, blonde hair swingin' almost as much as her hips in her tiny dress.
My stomach rumbled as I thought about the bacon and eggs just waitin' to be ordered at the Diner, and I grabbed my jacket. I sling it over my shoulder and walked to the Diner, looking around for anything out of the ordinary as I go. I run through some jobs I'd heard about in the last few days, and as far as I can remember, there was somethin' that Mouse said he wanted moved in the package store. Maybe I could ask for some cash to move shit around his store? I'd stop by after breakfast.
I slid into my favorite booth in the back corner, where I could see the entire diner in front of me, and one of the waitresses came up. I ordered and sat back to wait for my food, people watchin' in the meantime as I toyed with my phone, wonderin' if I should text Jenny. Would she even wanna hear from me? I missed her, in my own way, but I know if I try that shit again, I'm just gonna fuck her over even more.
I slide the phone away from me as the food arrives, diggin' in as I continued sweeping the restaurant with my eyes.
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Post by Jote on Oct 19, 2013 18:05:18 GMT -5
"Yeah, yeah, heart." I say absentmindedly. I bite the right side of my bottom lip as I ruminate this sticky biz. To be honest I have no idea what Mouse is talking about. If he's into carjacking this is the first I've heard of it. I tap my black book before texting my supplier back So that means you'll be wanting to get rid of the rest of your stock.
I look back up at Mouse. "I'm gonna level with you, Mouse. This sounds extremely shitty. First of all, tourist souvenirs? Really. But that's besides the point." I take a sip of coffee. "Second of all, this whole thing gives off a sketch vibe. Third of all, this is a bit too blunt for me. But," I tilt my head a bit to the side as I stare into Mouse's eyes, "but I think I know a guy."
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