Post by Peter Turzynski on Nov 14, 2015 3:18:35 GMT -5
LAS VEGAS CENSUS PLEASE FILL OUT THIS FORM AND RETURN BY MAIL. PETER ADAM TURZYNSKI  BASIC INFORMATION
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION HAIR COLOR AND STYLE: Naturally dark brown, always dyed jet black and greased into a pompadour. EYE COLOR: Brown BODY BUILD: Standing at 5' 9", Peter has a lean but muscular built. He is toned from work-outs and fights. GET UP: Black leather. Propped collar. The Hand of God capsized, His middle finger raised to give the bird to whomever's behind him, anytime, anywhere. Peter has his jacket, the bold flag of the Sons of Saints, always well-maintained and shiny, on him at all times. He wears it with pride, usually matching it with a plain (often white) T-shirt and dark jeans. He only gussies up for dates with his on-and-off girlfriend, Bee - although he does sometimes style himself up a little for first dates with other girls when they're off, mostly just to rile her up. PERSONALITY DISPOSITION: Power. That's the word that hangs in Peter's head, every second of every minute of every day, swinging back and forth like a pendulum before his mind's eye. Power is what he wants. What he needs. For power is what prevents him from being hurt, from being spat on and beaten and kicked in the stomach like a dog ravaged by disease. He is ready to do anything and everything to maintain the power he holds over his gang, and he would sell his soul to the Devil for more - if given the chance. To submit to the authority of others would be an act of giving up a part of his own authority - and so he gives the finger to the former. But don't interpret this as a sign of recklessness - he knows when to draw the line, and every time he lowers his hand it's to preserve his authority. After all, it's not worth losing for one little gesture. He is slow to trust - most times he just never does. Men, women, children, dogs - in (t)his world, everyone's out to get him. Everyone but a few, that is. But a few is less than most, so he keeps his guard up. He's never tired of this. Not consciously, at least. Love is a roll of the dice, and meeting someone with good intentions is as common as catching starlight in one's hands. Both are easy to feign. He does the latter with little difficulty, employing his own brand of charm he's worked on over the past seven years - a charm that unfortunately doesn't make him completely approachable. It's not natural, after all. He uses this to his own advantage, though: the lack of total approachability is what helps separate him from the rest of the gang, creating a barrier that further reinforces the power divide between them. He is quite the determined person, never eager to back down from a fight or lose it for the sake of his pride and inability to let go of grudges. Nonetheless, he knows when he's losing, and in such cases he'll stop – but only for a bit. Also due to pride is a refusal to let go of any hard feelings. Instead of running away with his tail behind his legs, he chooses to run away with his mind wheeling until he thinks of a way to beat his opponent. Then he strikes back. HISTORY HOMETOWN: Chicago, Illinois. FAMILY: Stanley Turzynski - father; forty-five; second-generation Catholic Polish immigrant; current whereabouts unknown to Peter Iwona "Annie" Turzynski - mother; forty-two; first-generation Catholic Polish immigrant; probably still in Chicago, Illinois Lois Jane Turzynski - older sister; twenty-five; current whereabouts unknown to Peter Charlotte Maria Turzynski - older sister (Lois' younger twin); twenty-five; current whereabouts unknown to Peter Anthony Gordon Vecchio - younger half-brother; eight; probably with Iwona in Chicago - existence unknown to Peter FRIENDS: Beatrice "Bee" Louise Poplawski - on-and-off girlfriend of three years; unofficial (via Peter's presidency of the Sons of Saints) leader of the Soul Sisters Frederick "Freddy" Bosko - best friend; Vice President of the Sons of Saints Jerry and Lucas - former non-friends and roommates; formerly of the Sons of Saints and another gang; both left the Sons of Saints in 1951 upon finding out they had knocked up their girlfriends While Peter looks out for the Sons and the Nuns, he does it mostly out of executive obligation instead of a deep, genuine care for them. He sees them - with the exception of Bee and Freddy, as well as his War Councillor and less than a handful of seasoned members of the gangs - as not family but allies and soldiers: people whom he can trust enough to show up at a rumble, yet not trust enough to completely loosen his guard around. RECORD: Iwona never wanted him. Tiny, fragile and redder than the juice trickling from a pack of meat left out in the sun - that was the burden that cried and wailed and screamed in her arms, on the windowsill, on the floor. Peter. That's what she never called him. He had a name, you know - Peter Turzynski - but the neighbors didn't know that for three whole months because she simply never called him that. It was always you or whiny brat or (shut up!) little fucker - never Peter. Never even my son. It's a surprise she never called him garbage, because that's what he was to her. A torn up newspaper. Litter on the streets. And she sure treated him like that. He was often left in a corner amongst the cobwebs and balls of dust. He learnt not to cry early in life because that would only result in more crying. There was always food on the table but she would hit him every time he took from it. He was garbage - unwanted, undeserving garbage - and he learnt that before he learnt how to spell. His father never defended him. The man simply never stayed past two smokes on his rare visits. His sisters were, in a way, worse. Whereas Iwona was cruel on the inside and out, Charlotte and Lois hid their cruelty behind the smiles of cherubs. They would sneak him food from the table - Iwona treated them better simply because they were wanted - only to run to their mother and tell her he'd been stealing again. They would lure him into telling them his secrets with promises to keep them safe in their throats - only to spill them into a great wide puddle at their mother's feet. They would trick him and lie to him and stab him in the back and he would continue to trust them, until one day he realized the bitter truth: it did not matter that they were his sisters - they did not love him and he could not trust them. Ever. His sisters did not love him. His mother hated him. He knew the senile old man living next door more than he knew his own father. The notion of family was as foreign to him as sand in Antarctica. And yet. Family was a necessity. As much as he denied it, he was unhappy without one - even one not defined by blood. Loneliness. It threatened to eat him away. And so he wandered. He wandered and wandered and wandered, staying out as late as he could, because anywhere was better than the hostile coldness of the dingy Chicago apartment he rarely called home - until one afternoon, at the age of ten, he wandered right into the arms of the Flames. The Flames were a gang of boys - cold, hard, Polish-American boys like him. The oldest was barely a man at eighteen, while the youngest was eleven. They had switchblades in their pockets and their hair were combed with grease and their black leather jackets gleamed like steel in the lamplight; Peter saw the glint on their teeth as they cracked the warmest of smiles at him and immediately he was drawn to them like a moth to a bonfire. They humored him; to them he was just a boy, cold and unhappy. Useless. But he knew they were better than his mother and sisters and so he pursued them, every day, until they grew weary of him and, exactly one year later, put him to the test: they told him to steal. And so he stole. He was practically an expert at it, having been forced into the trade by his mother's withholding of food from him. The Flames were impressed. He was one of them now. He skipped school - a lot of it - to be with his new family. He felt protected. Cared for. He felt like he mattered, and he continued to feel this way even as the feelings of protection and compassion deteriorated. He'd gotten used to thinking he was in a hostile environment wherever he went, that everyone was out to get him. Family? Friends? Those didn't exist. The Flames were using him. One day, they were going to stick a knife into neck and no one would care. His name wouldn't even make it into the news. And yet. He stuck with the Flames. He stuck with the Flames because they were the lesser of two evils - it was either eat at one of the boys' apartment or starve under the glare of his mother. One day while smoking his youth away, he overheard two older Flames - Lucas and Jerry were their names - talking about the city of Las Vegas. Something about starting a gambling business, but that's not what had caught his attention - "Anything can happen in Vegas." That's what got him. And so, at the age of fourteen, he asked to join them. Simply stood up and walked straight towards them without thinking of his mother and sisters. They were taller and bigger than him, and the pockets of their jeans only hid half the bodies of their switchblades. When he told them he'd been listening to them, their eyes narrowed. And as they did so Peter braced himself for his inevitable death. A death which did not come. For some reason or other they let him join them. He was relieved, but only a little, because in the whole of his mind he knew they had some malicious ulterior motive behind their support. But the plans were made, and being younger and weaker than them, both physically and in status in the gang, he dared not back out. He left Chicago without saying goodbye to his mother and sisters. He doubted they'd miss him. None of them were eighteen, but the landlady didn't care. "Just pay rent on time," she said, before shutting the door to their run-down apartment in the most run-down part of Las Vegas. With little coin to spare, Lucas took up a job at a convenient store, while Jerry worked as a mechanic for automobiles. Limited by his age, Peter resorted to delivering newspapers. They all stole. They all looked for a new gang, too, and it did not take long for them to find the Sons of Saints. The Sons of Saints were a gang consisting mostly of Polish-American boys. Petty theft, street-level extortion and even the sale (although never the use) of drugs were what they were good at. Due to their common heritage, Lucas and Jerry decided this was the gang for them. Peter felt no choice but to agree. They affiliated themselves with the Sons for a while, until they were deemed reliable and trustworthy enough to become official members. Once again, he was part of a gang, and once again he felt they were going to silence him with the slip of a knife. There was only way to end his vulnerability: he had to be stronger than them. He had to be their leader. It was a plan that took three years. He charmed them, made them think he genuinely cared for them. He defended them in rumbles and always made sure to ask after those who were injured, no matter how lightly. Sometimes he even tended to their wounds - he was no doctor, but he knew to at least pour some whiskey over their wounds and offer the remainder for them to drink. Even outside of rumbles he went out of his way to help them - although he made sure to balance it with an air of confidence so as not to appear as a doormat. He gave off the impression that he helped them not out of desperation but because it was something he wanted to do and was capable of doing. The years went by, and he became more and more popular with the gang. With popularity came power - though not their leader, he held considerable sway over them. He was sixteen when he met Freddy. Freddy Bosko was a year younger than him. He had a laid-back attitude that gave off the impression that he had not a care for anything that moved and did not move. This impression was false, as Peter was quick to learn, for their personalities had drawn them remarkably close in less than the time it normally took high school couples to kiss at the altar. Knowing how Freddy hated the social norms that suffocated him, Peter invited him to join the Sons, an invitation the former gladly took. He flourished as a Son, and the two rose amongst the ranks in the gang. He was seventeen when she caught his eye. Beatrice Poplawski did not have the face of a pin-up model. It was pretty, but also plain. Peter took a liking to her. A liking which grew into a warmer, deeper feeling. Fifteen and rebellious, with hair browner and darker than the bark of an ancient tree, she filled the air around him, soaking into the depths of his head and permeating that unmovable weight in the core of his heart. She was loud and fearless and her fiery laughter smelled of liquor and tobacco and he loved it. Soon enough, she became his (and he became hers) and it did not take long for him to say to her - his hands damp with sweat, his eyes naked without the protection of his shades - I love you. He was eighteen when both the President and the Vice of the Sons of Saints were arrested for selling heroin and stealing two cars. No longer a minor, the former was sentenced to prison time, while the latter was sent to juvenile hall. The War Counselor had fled the city long before news reached the rest of the gang. The Sons needed new leaders. Peter had been with them for four years now, and this fact was not forgotten by both seasoned and new members of the gang. They knew how hard he fought in every rumble, but more importantly, they knew they could rely on him to help them out of a tight spot. Coupled with that almost approachable charm that hung in the air around him like the scent of sandalwood above a bundle of incense sticks, they elected him as their new President, a role which he gladly - although not without caution - accepted. He appointed Freddy as his Vice, and with his input appointed the new War Counselor as well. THE INCIDENT WHAT HAPPENED?: He was standing in front of Peggy Sue's, debating between having large fries and a small shake or double larges fries and a medium coke for dinner. Bee had broken up with him not too long ago and he needed extra salt for his silent tears. He didn't and still doesn't think much of the event - it's just another of the government's atom bomb tests, just gone a little unexpected. 'Cause it's a test. Duh. OOC INFORMATION
ROLEPLAY SAMPLE: A trickle of cold water splashed onto the trackpad of my Macbook Peggy and she had to go to the hospital. She just came out a week ago. I got a student discount for the surgery. BTW this app was written in two different months if you're wondering why the writing style's so inconsistent. |
