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enigmatic-elegance · 4 years

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🔥🔥🔥 non-si:7 or ravenholdt spies/rogues etc also 🔥🔥🔥 ic royalty/people with titles etc

Oh man, that’s a lot. Okay, let’s go for it.

🔥 Frequent lack of finesse/subtlety, god-tier levels of flawless skill, feel free to apply what I said in my SI:7 post here as much of it does carry over.

🔥 This might be more a personal gripe and venture into the realm of petty but it’s still kind of a pet peeve. Why are most spy/rogue characters almost identical? I know it could be said for a lot of different classes/styles but still..

Handsome/Beautiful rogue with a sharp, typically dry wit. Likes to keep everyone arms distance but has those few people they ‘open up’ to typically in ways that send the character into spirals of negative emotion. Has an easy-grab vice (e.g. smoking/drinking/sex) and goes into great detail to play up said vice in every RP setting. Typically poly/open relationship type. ‘Consumed by the job’ in a way that it affects their home life you never actually read about. Did we mention sexy? They gotta be sexy.

I just want one.. just -one- spy/rogue who is just like.. a normal person. We really don’t need any more James Bonds or Beatrix Kiddos. We got those characters. I just want rogues who are less.. gimmicks. I know, petty of me. As I said it’s more a personal thing than anyone doing anything ‘wrong’. People should write the characters that interest them.

🔥 Being a spy is risky, -especially- of you are unaffiliated. You’re already a narc/snitch. That’s a bad gig to be in, lotta risk. Now you don’t have an agency like SI:7 to back you? Bitch you are going to be constantly on the run. Wish more spies went into things like hideouts, fake IDs, disguises, and simply how one lives their life in two ways. Their job, and their home, and the means by which they stop them from ever crossing. Would be interesting.

- - - - -

🔥 Same thing with people who make big military titles. Respect is earned. I don’t care if you are the Lord or Dutchess or whatever. I don’t care how much land your characters own, how many castles, how many peasants they oversee, give them a whole continent for all I care. If you rock up on the RP scene and expect people to immediately respect/fear/obey your character without putting in the legwork and the time, you deserve nothing.

Gotta walk the walk. Crawl before you run. Be patient and let your character earn their place in the RP sphere. If you try and force it, you’ll wind up ostracized fast.

🔥 ‘Bodyguard NPCs’. I hate that shit. I’ll tell you why. Because it’s a bullshit way of opting your character out of ever having to worry about anything. I mean, if I wanted to, I could say my character have 500 snipers on every rooftop in the city so if anyone tried to do anything they would be dead.

It’s lazy writing, and even lazier storytelling. It reminds me of this image in just how lazy it is. ‘My character is surrounded by 2 bodyguards at all times’. Well you and your bodyguards have a great day I’m going to go write with an RPer who is actually willing to open their character to events.

Also, if you want bodyguards, -have players as your bodyguards-. There are plenty of folks who would love to play bodyguard to a noble for that dynamic and story. Don’t just horsecrap in guards, actually hire guards. Played by players. Now that would be cool.

Ugh, it really bothers me. Such lazy writing..

🔥 I wanna conclude by saying something in defense of the noble RPers. I made a whole post here about this exact point. While I know many noble RPers get a well deserved bad rep, there are many decent and even phenomenal noble RPers who understand narrative flow and don’t always need their character at center of attention.

And it bothers me when people don’t ICly give nobility their dues. I understand if people are being a dick, but if a noble RPer is giving an honest go and not being invasive.. work with them, okay? Most people would show some degree of respect to nobility, even if it is just as simple as ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ or ‘my lord’ or ‘my lady’.

I know.. everyone’s character is too big and badass for that, but if a noble RPer is being respectful, then for the love of god be respectful back and show that character the respect the title deserves, yeah? Or at least -acknowledge- that the character has power and influence and you wouldn’t say.. spit in their face or insult them in person.

In a world where no one takes consequences.. fucking ever.. for anything.. it’s easy for people with titles to be abused by fellow RPers because they know they can’t really ‘do anything’. That’s just shitty. Try and play to what the character is, yeah? It will make everyone happier, and you’ll get some good RP out of it too!

#ooc #asks

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inadarkdarkroom · 7 years

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I Told You So

In the late ‘80’s I moved to a small town called Mercer Island just outside of Seattle to live with my aunt and her three daughters. I had just gotten out of one of those “troubled kids” institutions that I still blithely refer to as a reform school, and needed to enough credits to graduate.

I was totally cool with it. My aunt is a lovely woman and I did not want to go back to England where my dysfunctional immediate family lived. Fuck Margaret Thatcher, you feel me? I’d gotten used to living in the states after spending my entire life as an ex-pat.

When I first moved in with my aunt she’d been living in Winthrop, Washington, a small town in a county the size of Rhode Island but with only one stop light. But my aunt was getting her degree at the University of Washington, and Mercer Island has one of the best high schools in the state and she wanted to make sure her kids had a better chance of getting into the colleges of their choice, so we moved there soon after I moved in with her.

Mercer Island was, and is to this day, a very insular, wealthy, and tony community. And the people who lived there(not all of them, but most), were very pleased with themselves that they lived in a little John Hughes movie-type neighborhood. Which meant that there was fuck all for the local kids to do.

There had been bowling alleys and video arcades and an all-ages venue, but the parents had complained that these places were not in the Mercer Island spirit of making sure their kids were staying at home and hitting the books and making them proud. So pressure was placed, letters were written, complaints were filed, and one by one all these places went out of business. Then the parents would loudly bitch and moan and wonder why all their kids were dying in drunk driving accidents on the floating bridge coming back from keg parties held in Seattle eight miles away. It’s amazing how adults’ cogent thoughts and logic reasoning tend to disappear once they can afford a BMW...

What this meant was that there were two places for teenagers to congregate on Mercer Island. One was the parking lot at McDonalds, and the other was the local Denny’s. Years later, after I’d moved to Seattle, the local Parental Fun Police decided to take on this particular den of iniquity as well, with the end result that Mercer Island wound up as being one of only two places in the US where the Denny’s wasn’t open 24 hours, closing at 11 on weekdays and midnight on weekends.

So I’m now a senior at a real American high school after spending my entire life overseas. Sure, it’s in the middle of a overprivileged white ghetto, but the school is top notch and I’m making friends. And my friends and I would go and hang out at the local Denny’s, drink endless amounts of cheap coffee and smoke Camels and bullshit.

So one night my friends and I go down to Denny’s and I wind up meeting George Russell, who is hanging out there as well, and we sit at his table with him.

George Russell is charming. George Russell is loquacious. George Russell is well read. George Russell makes eye contact when talking to you, his handshake is firm. George Russell is also one of the very few black people who live on the Island, and all my friends who are quite sheltered are glad to have their One Black Friend to prove they aren’t that quite sheltered.

I could care less about his ethnicity or my friends’ attempts to gain street cred. I’d just spent eighteen months in a reform school after being kicked out of a British military academy I hadn’t wanted to go to in the first place, I have nothing to prove.

And like I said, George Russell is quite a fellow. That night we talk about comic books, and the publishing houses of Dark Horse and Fantagraphics, literature, movies, politics, foreign policy. George Russell’s a smart chap, and quietly self-effacing. Purposefully harmless.

But George Russell is also in his thirties, and while I understand the allure of associating with an older individual, especially if that older individual can buy your underage ass beer, that older individual is still hanging out with your underage ass.

And George Russell also has a police scanner on the table in front of him. Every now and then he would cock his head to the side to hear what was coming over the airwaves, pausing the conversation to hit the squelch button and fine-tune the frequency. Later that night, two cops wandered into the joint for some comped coffee and they give George Russell The Nod. George Russell gives The Nod right back. I ask him about it. Quite pleased with himself, he informs me that he does “some side work” for the local PD. My friends assure me that George Russell is cool. Don’t worry, he’s not a narc. He just helps them around the office. Also, he gets all the chicks. George Russell is the man.

But this sets my spidey sense tingling. I’m only eighteen, but I’ve already been around the block a few times in quite a few different neighborhoods in several different countries. And I’ve just gotten out of a reform institution. I can judge body language and vocal inflection and eye movement, and there’s something about George Russell that doesn’t add up. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s so self-effacing and purposefully harmless. Maybe it’s the fact that he screams Cop Groupie. And trust me, people who are Cop Groupies should set your antenna twitching. But no matter. As a minor acquaintance, he’s a good conversationalist.

So George Russell would buy my friends beer, hook them up with whatever shitty brick weed they were desperate enough to smoke, sometimes hang out with us at parties. We would chat a little bit, the two of us. But in the back of my mind I thought him an unctuous creep with a bad case of the smarm so we didn’t associate.

After I graduated I would still spend time on the Island, and I would run into George Russell here and there. By this point I was using my Swiss passport as a “fake ID” and my gift of the gab to get it past the liquor store clerks’ limited understanding of French and German so George knew he couldn’t sidle up to me and be all like “Hey bro, you need a half rack of Rainier? I can totally get it for you.” So we’d just give each other The Nod, and that was it.

One night I was hanging out at the Bellevue bus station waiting for the #220 to arrive. I looked over to the side and saw this girl nearby. Poor thing. She was probably barely seventeen and covered in makeup and her slumped posture and guarded body language just screamed “Get me out of here. Please. Take me away from this godforsaken dump and knock me up with two brats to beat in the double-wide while you’re working triple shifts at the brewery to pay off your Camaro lease, I don’t care. Just get me out of here.” My heart went out to the poor girl. Even though I was barely out of my teens myself I remembered how awful they could be.

Just then a voice said “Hey Dude. What’s up?”

I look over and there’s George, all smiling and harmless. He bums a smoke from me and we take in the night. He notices my pitying look at the sad case off to the side and apropos of nothing busts out with “Yeah, I noticed her too. Wanted to go over and say something and cheer her up, you know? But you know how it is. A black man in a town like this talking to a white girl? I’ve got to watch myself..”

The bus arrives. We stub out our Camels and get on board, he in the front with a magazine, me in the back with my Walkman and my thoughts. And my thoughts were this: What the fuck?

First of all, while Bellevue was another well-to-do white neighborhood on the East side, it sure as shit wasn’t Alabama. And yes, by this point I’d been living in the States for a few years and had realized that outside some cities it was kind of a racist shithole populated with really spiteful ignorant cunts who didn’t know jack and hated anyone that did. But it didn’t mean that if you needed to pull that Ralph Ellison Invisible Man shit, that Bellevue was the place to do it.

Second, every single other brother I knew would not for a moment have said something like that, much less to a white boy like me. Public Enemy was king, Malcolm X was years away from hitting the movie theaters but Africa medallions were omnipresent, NWA was pissing off both the cops and Tipper Gore in equal measure, no way somebody with any kind of self respect would up and announce that statement. Unless it was something they thought it was what you wanted to hear.

I remember looking at George Russell in the front of the bus and thinking to myself that yes, he was an unctuous creep with a bad case of the smarm. But there was something else. Something I didn’t like. I scanned my thoughts for racist overtones, but honestly could not find any.

Look, I understand if you’re a diplomat or a spook(Note to readers: Spook as in the pejorative of a member of the Clandestine Services, not that other pejorative. Please take a short fall off your high horse) or a diplomat who’s a spook or you’re an undercover cop and you want to blend into the background and not attract attention. I get it. But if you’re a normal citizen, a citizen, and you’re going out of your way to be unseen? There’s something going on.

And there was something going on with George Russell. And it made me suspicious that he told me what he thought I wanted to hear. Moral of the story here, if you’ve got spidey sense, listen to it when it tingles. It’s there for a reason.

A few months later one of my friends had a party at his apartment. He was one of the few of us who had one and because it was on the quiet white East side instead of Heavily Armed Hobo Junkie Alley where my warehouse was in Pioneer Square, all my friends would go there instead.

George Russell was there, doing hot knife hits off the stove and flashing that famous smile of his. Making small talk and minor physical contact, little pats on the back or touching your forearm when talking to you, like a waiter angling for a bigger tip or Bill Clinton hitting you up for a campaign contribution.

I remembered that night at the bus station and kept my distance. Just gave him The Nod, got it back in return. So far, so good.

George Russell soon left to go on a date, leaving behind the better part of a case of Henry Weinhardt’s for my friends to toast his early absence with. That was the last time I ever saw him. I don’t think I even touched a drop of his beer bribe, I just concentrated on the Afghani Blonde I had smuggled back from overseas the year before, so cut with henna it was like smoking designer shampoo.

Once again I voiced my personal opinion of his character to my friends, but they were white kids barely out of high school and so stoked to have a homeboy to high-five with, that they assured me I was just paranoid and definitely not as def and down with it as they were. My manners dictate that I don’t mention that they live in a fucking Disneyfied suburb where the most dangerous thing they have to deal with is drunken frat boys at TGIFriday’s.

The next morning a man walking his dog spotted what looked like a body by a dumpster near a nightclub noted for it’s blond and brainless clientele. The local homicide arrive in their unmarkeds and discover a twenty three year old female vic, naked and strangled and raped and most unsettling of all, posed. Laid out on the sidewalk like Jeebus on the cross, legs folded over each other, arms akimbo and outstretched with a pine cone carefully placed in each open palm. She’d been kicked so hard her liver had split open against her spinal column.

This is one was not a crime of passion. This one had had time spent on her. This one had been used like an object to send a message. This is not good.

Even though it’s a singular instance in a small town with a small police force, to give them credit they wise up quick. They swallow their pride and send an assistance request to Behavioral Science at Quantico.

But the Feds have a backlog a mile long and two miles wide. Everyone knows Washington State has the highest number of serial murderers in the nation, but the hard-ons in wingtips have been burned before out here. They’re still smarting from the fact that the Green River Killer has evaded capture for decades, burned up countless man-hours with nothing to show but the occasional awkward press conference. We’ll look into it. We promise.

About a month later a man broke into a woman’s apartment that she shared with her two young children. He raped and beat and strangled her to death, then placed her corpse on the bed posed so that when her kids came into the room the next morning to find out why she hadn’t made them breakfast before taking them to kindergarten, that the first thing they saw was the shotgun he’d inserted into her vagina and left there.

The suspect was a secretor, and the semen samples matched those of the woman found in the parking lot the month previously. The press dubbed him The East side Killer, and noted the two victims were habitues of local nightclubs where popped-collared douche bags flashed cell phones the size of bricks to impress the type of women easily impressed by a fucking cell phone.

Less than two weeks later, The East side Killer struck again. This one also was caught napping. Beaten with a baseball bat so badly her brains splattered all over the bedstead, he had then taken a knife and stabbed her almost three hundred times from her head to the soles of her feet, left her corpse with a dildo in the mouth and a copy of The Joy Of Sex tucked under what was left of her right arm.

By this point the Boys From Virginia With No Sense Of Humor had come on the case post haste. They sent out John Douglas, whose character Scott Glenn in The Silence Of The Lambs was based on. Overworked and seriously underpaid, he wound up with brain fever caused by exhaustion and almost died in a cheap hotel room in Seattle. But he recovered and continued to work the case. Posited that all three murders were the work of one man. Definitely a Cop Groupie. Maybe an African American, skilled at blending in white society, maybe brought up in white society.

This was big news. Serial killers go on the hunt inside their own ethnic backgrounds, at least, that was the given up until this happened. Douglas discussed how white American mono-culture had become so entrenched in media that it had become easy to imitate for outsiders. He was proven right when forensics found the pubic hairs found on all three vics were African American.

Meanwhile, good old George Russell was still being good old George Russell. Cheerful and good-natured and pleasant. But chinks were appearing in the armor. Ex-girlfriends now found him hostile towards them, whereas before he had always been Mr. Smooth. Whereas before he had always been modest, now he was cocky and arrogant.

One of the reasons George Russell had been doing “some side work” for the PD on Mercer Island was because he had been arrested a lot as a kid for petty crimes, and the local police had taken him under their wing to try and straighten him out, give him errands to run and a vision of a possible future that didn’t involve a vision from behind bars.

But it hadn’t taken hold, and they knew it. When the word was being spread around cop shops from Bothell to Bellingham that the suspect was an African American perhaps brought up in white society, they just knew. After all, Mercer Island was pretty much white society.

When they arrested him they found personal belongings of all three victims on his person. And although DNA testing was still considered science fiction, and expensive science fiction at that, they put up the scratch to have it done and it came back positive. He smiled and joked with them as they put on the cuffs. This is all a big misunderstanding fellas. Don’t worry, we’ll all have a good laugh about this later at Denny’s. Ha ha, you guys....

Good old spidey sense. It saved me from being subpoenaed. Because we didn’t associate I never had to stand up on the witness stand and point him out to twelve tried and true. A neighbor of mine with whom he’d had a relationship later told me he once confided to her that I scared the shit out of him. He was probably lying. If he wasn’t then it was probably one of the nicest things anyone has ever said about me. Friends, acquaintances, they weren’t so lucky. Summons servers slapped paper on them and they had to go to King County courthouse and see the glossy technicolor close-ups placed on an easel for evidence, Kodachrome enlargements showing battered bags of meat that had once been mothers and daughters. Human beings turned into bloody mush out of rage and anger and hatred hidden behind a smile they’d all fallen for.

And there, in front of them in a snazzy sport coat and tie, seated grinning by his grimly aware public defender, was George Russell. Giving them little waves of encouragement. Hey fellas. Sheesh, can you believe this? What a world, eh?

In Washington State they still hang you, you can decide between the noose or the needle if you get the death penalty. Fucking barbaric either way, I suppose. George lucked out with three consecutive life sentences. No possibility of parole.

Walla Walla isn’t the worst place to do time, but prison is prison and inside your word is bond. Some chancer who fancies himself a smooth mover with a fancy line of patter isn’t going to get much credibility no matter how brutal the crime. Last I heard he’d been attacked while in the yard, had his throat sliced ear to ear with a piece of broken light bulb. Whatever genius for a day trying to make his rep wound up missing both carotids, so George survived. Probably still trying to weasel his way into the upper incareration echelon. Hey Dude, remember when you tried to kill me? Ha ha, good times, Bro. Good times..

My friends were astounded and creeped beyond belief. None of them had known any of the victims, but George Russell had been their buddy, man, their bro, and their bro had turned out to be a fucking great white shark in their very small pond. They were lucky they were minnows, they just didn’t realize it. I’m not a cynic, I’m a realist. Very few cynics get to say I told you so as often as I do, but in this case I kept my mouth shut and didn’t remind them of the times I had warned them about him.

At this point I’m working two jobs while taking night courses at the UW in filmmaking. Evenings I’m bouncing at the Moore Theater to feed my concert habit, but by day I’m back at Mercer Island working at a video store, pretty much getting paid to get a filmmaking education of another sort. And the housewives would come in and chatter about the local boy turned serial killer, getting a slight frisson as they discussed the case over little cups of overpriced frozen yogurt.

I’ll never forget a comment made by one of these people that sort of made me see it from George Russell’s perspective, which was really creepy in and of itself. These two women were talking, and one of them said: “Well, you know he was never reallyfrom Mercer Island. He just moved here as a child.”

I almost wanted to scream at them what fucking idiots they were. They were so soft and suburbanized and stuck up that one of their own had started hunting them for sport and taking their lives as trophies but hey, at least he wasn’t really from the neighborhood. Their property values weren’t compromised. Hooray for them.

If you don’t believe me google George Waterfield Russell(Because remember all serial killers have three names, natch), but be prepared to see blurry cop polaroids of a dead and naked woman with a shotgun inside her.

But the point of this story is, is that Bundy was arrested in Florida, Bianchi was tried in California, at the time this all went down Green River was still considered a bad place to turn tricks, this means that I used to hang out and get high with the first convicted serial killer in Washington State.

And he was a total creep.

#serial killer #serial killers #George Russell #George Waterfield Russell #scary story #scary stories #true stories #true scary stories #serial killer story #true serial killer story #i told you so #washington #green river killer #ted bundy #mercer island

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