HomeIn the Miami Heat
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In the Miami Heat
by Quix Wed Feb 13, 2013 11:10 am
This is a journal entry or memoir style of roleplay. Each person takes turns writing about what their character does in first person and past tense perspective. This format lends itself into exploring and explaining the psyche of an individual. It lets the character reflect on their own actions. If an entry includes the actions of another person's character please clear it with them before posting. Keep length to a minimum of a page in MS Word or Google Docs single-spaced. Also, please reserve a post before posting, so that people know that it is your turn. Feel free to join whenever--no application necessary.
The setting is 1982 in Miami, Florida. Cocaine is the drug of choice and crime is prevalent. Your character is involved in the drug trade (whether facilitating it or stopping it). The focus is on a pulp noir (over the top violence and somber tone) feel, while also using this quote as inspiration:
(Play this to have the proper experience.)
_Hugo
A typical white suburbanite house sat on a lonesome corner between Fifth and Madrona. It wasn’t particularly big, probably a thousand square feet, but it had a modern design, harsh angles and geometric bullshit that is "all the rage". An orange sillohuette sat outside leaning its back against the black painted fence surrounding its backyward. The sillohuette rubbed a revolver with a red and white bespeckled cloth, its eyes barely paid attention whilst cleaning. A closer look would have revealed that the clearly mustached orange shadow sweltered under the Miami sun. That dripping mustache belonged to me.
I wiped away an accumulation of sweat and dirt from my forehead with the same cloth I used to clean the gun and then stuffed it into my pocket. Many nights I would drunkenly stumble from this same corner, but today I would stumble to it. I opened the chamber, briefly checked the bullet count, and spun it. Thought was my enemy and a moment’s hesitation was my downfall. I gently clicked the chamber back into place and held the revolver parallel to my check.
Slowly I turned, step by step I brought myself up to my feet. The sun beams bat down against my sun burnt face. Normally, I didn't mind the pain, but that day it seemed to sear deep into my skull. With an easy lift, I pulled the lock out of the gate and stepped into the yard. The garden was always taken care of, the roses perfectly trimmed with purple blossoms, and the hedges always level. A long fountain with bulbous frogs outlining its frame, curled around the edges of the yard. I had always wanted a garden like that when I settled down. If I settled down.
A sliding glass door was the only thing standing in the way now. Through the glass, the immaculately trimmed backyard stood in sharp contrast to the living room. Old beer bottles, pizza boxes, Thai food, and a carton of milk littered the counters and tables. “It was disgusting”, I reminded myself, “He was disgusting”. I gently tugged on the sliding glass door, but a wooden rod jammed it part way. I tried sliding through the small crack, but only my legs reached the other side. I muttered under my breath. I fooled myself into thinking if I insulted him enough this would get easy.
I stepped a few yards back and cocked the revolver. I wasn’t that dumbass who was going to let some glass blind him, you know the idiots in those action movies, so I covered my eyes with my sleeve. Shards blasted out into all directions, a piece flung itself into my leg, but I knew I couldn't deal with it then and there. Inside, a pungent orchestra of smells smashed my nose into bits. It was hard to breathe in the mold and rotting meat and I knew the sooner I got it over with, the sooner I could leave. Out of the corner of my eye I could see where the gunshot blasted a hole in his wall and smashed a portrait. I recognized the lady in the shattered photograph. In a roundabout way I blamed her for this.
Creaking wood and loud thuds followed my entrance and I turned directly towards the stairs. Again, I cocked the revolver, but my hand trembled. I didn't have much time. The cops would be there any minute. A bearded face peered from behind a wall at the stairs and called out to me, “Hugo? The fuck you doing, Hugo?”
I held my ground. “I’m trying to help you. Look at yourself, you’re a mess. Your place looks like shit. Everything is falling apart. Even the garden is wilting.”
“Don’t you even start. I promised her and I've kept my promises.” Yeah, I was lying, but it was always hard to get through to Joe, sometimes you had to lie to make him really pay attention to what you were saying.
“You know why I’m really here, don’t you?”
“Ya’ here to kill me? I mean, breaking into my place, shooting out my glass door. You would have knocked if you just wanted to talk.”
“I don’t want to hurt you." I didn’t. I really didn’t. "I’m just here to collect the package I let you borrow. ”
“Go fuck yourself. You know I ain’t got any left.” He stepped down a stair and jammed his index finger towards me. His clothes looked heavily worn, with threads sticking out from his arms and chest. It was littered in dirt, grime, old food and I spotted a brown stain on his pants. I couldn't believe he was so far gone.
“So, what am I going to tell them? They’re going to kill me, we both know that.”
“Doesn’t sound like it’s my problem.”
“I trusted you to keep the package safe.”
“Well, looks like you screwed up in the knowing who to trust department. The question now is what are ya’ gonna do about it?”
“I don’t want to do a damn thing unless I have to. You hand over one thousand and I can keep Mico off your back.”
“I’m not gonna give you or that prick a damn cent.”
“Don’t be unreasonable, Joe.”
"I don't have to take this "be reasonable" shit, especially from you. Do I have to remind you how this started. Nah, I won't. I'm done talking." He started down the stairs.
"I can't let you do that." I pointed my revolver at his chest.
“You’re really gonna kill me aren't you? Just do it then, get it over with, you fuckin’ pussy. Do I look like I’m living for anything? Go ahead.” He glared at me, it was a look I had never seen before. Whether it was the addiction or the mourning was anybody's guess, but something had changed him. Even so, I couldn't let him leave, so I tugged on the trigger. I couldn't tell you what it felt like, except that I could hear a bang and felt warm blood spray onto my face and brand new suit. I stopped looking at him then, I let him collapse onto the jagged, splintered edges of his stairs on his own accord. I let his body crumple and his skull crack as it hit the ground. It was even harder to breathe now, and despite the noxious fumes I could smell the gore and it made me even sicker. I scrambled to leave the house past the glass and the pain. Once outside I tugged the glass shard out of my leg and threw it into the living room. Blood started started spilling out of my leg then and left an irritating trail wherever I stumbled. I made it to the gate before I heard the sirens ring out and I grimaced as I forced my limp into a hobbled sprint.
It was the first time I ever killed someone; just my luck that it had to be my brother.
The setting is 1982 in Miami, Florida. Cocaine is the drug of choice and crime is prevalent. Your character is involved in the drug trade (whether facilitating it or stopping it). The focus is on a pulp noir (over the top violence and somber tone) feel, while also using this quote as inspiration:
For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?
Matthew 16:26
Matthew 16:26
(Play this to have the proper experience.)
_Hugo
A typical white suburbanite house sat on a lonesome corner between Fifth and Madrona. It wasn’t particularly big, probably a thousand square feet, but it had a modern design, harsh angles and geometric bullshit that is "all the rage". An orange sillohuette sat outside leaning its back against the black painted fence surrounding its backyward. The sillohuette rubbed a revolver with a red and white bespeckled cloth, its eyes barely paid attention whilst cleaning. A closer look would have revealed that the clearly mustached orange shadow sweltered under the Miami sun. That dripping mustache belonged to me.
I wiped away an accumulation of sweat and dirt from my forehead with the same cloth I used to clean the gun and then stuffed it into my pocket. Many nights I would drunkenly stumble from this same corner, but today I would stumble to it. I opened the chamber, briefly checked the bullet count, and spun it. Thought was my enemy and a moment’s hesitation was my downfall. I gently clicked the chamber back into place and held the revolver parallel to my check.
Slowly I turned, step by step I brought myself up to my feet. The sun beams bat down against my sun burnt face. Normally, I didn't mind the pain, but that day it seemed to sear deep into my skull. With an easy lift, I pulled the lock out of the gate and stepped into the yard. The garden was always taken care of, the roses perfectly trimmed with purple blossoms, and the hedges always level. A long fountain with bulbous frogs outlining its frame, curled around the edges of the yard. I had always wanted a garden like that when I settled down. If I settled down.
A sliding glass door was the only thing standing in the way now. Through the glass, the immaculately trimmed backyard stood in sharp contrast to the living room. Old beer bottles, pizza boxes, Thai food, and a carton of milk littered the counters and tables. “It was disgusting”, I reminded myself, “He was disgusting”. I gently tugged on the sliding glass door, but a wooden rod jammed it part way. I tried sliding through the small crack, but only my legs reached the other side. I muttered under my breath. I fooled myself into thinking if I insulted him enough this would get easy.
I stepped a few yards back and cocked the revolver. I wasn’t that dumbass who was going to let some glass blind him, you know the idiots in those action movies, so I covered my eyes with my sleeve. Shards blasted out into all directions, a piece flung itself into my leg, but I knew I couldn't deal with it then and there. Inside, a pungent orchestra of smells smashed my nose into bits. It was hard to breathe in the mold and rotting meat and I knew the sooner I got it over with, the sooner I could leave. Out of the corner of my eye I could see where the gunshot blasted a hole in his wall and smashed a portrait. I recognized the lady in the shattered photograph. In a roundabout way I blamed her for this.
Creaking wood and loud thuds followed my entrance and I turned directly towards the stairs. Again, I cocked the revolver, but my hand trembled. I didn't have much time. The cops would be there any minute. A bearded face peered from behind a wall at the stairs and called out to me, “Hugo? The fuck you doing, Hugo?”
I held my ground. “I’m trying to help you. Look at yourself, you’re a mess. Your place looks like shit. Everything is falling apart. Even the garden is wilting.”
“Don’t you even start. I promised her and I've kept my promises.” Yeah, I was lying, but it was always hard to get through to Joe, sometimes you had to lie to make him really pay attention to what you were saying.
“You know why I’m really here, don’t you?”
“Ya’ here to kill me? I mean, breaking into my place, shooting out my glass door. You would have knocked if you just wanted to talk.”
“I don’t want to hurt you." I didn’t. I really didn’t. "I’m just here to collect the package I let you borrow. ”
“Go fuck yourself. You know I ain’t got any left.” He stepped down a stair and jammed his index finger towards me. His clothes looked heavily worn, with threads sticking out from his arms and chest. It was littered in dirt, grime, old food and I spotted a brown stain on his pants. I couldn't believe he was so far gone.
“So, what am I going to tell them? They’re going to kill me, we both know that.”
“Doesn’t sound like it’s my problem.”
“I trusted you to keep the package safe.”
“Well, looks like you screwed up in the knowing who to trust department. The question now is what are ya’ gonna do about it?”
“I don’t want to do a damn thing unless I have to. You hand over one thousand and I can keep Mico off your back.”
“I’m not gonna give you or that prick a damn cent.”
“Don’t be unreasonable, Joe.”
"I don't have to take this "be reasonable" shit, especially from you. Do I have to remind you how this started. Nah, I won't. I'm done talking." He started down the stairs.
"I can't let you do that." I pointed my revolver at his chest.
“You’re really gonna kill me aren't you? Just do it then, get it over with, you fuckin’ pussy. Do I look like I’m living for anything? Go ahead.” He glared at me, it was a look I had never seen before. Whether it was the addiction or the mourning was anybody's guess, but something had changed him. Even so, I couldn't let him leave, so I tugged on the trigger. I couldn't tell you what it felt like, except that I could hear a bang and felt warm blood spray onto my face and brand new suit. I stopped looking at him then, I let him collapse onto the jagged, splintered edges of his stairs on his own accord. I let his body crumple and his skull crack as it hit the ground. It was even harder to breathe now, and despite the noxious fumes I could smell the gore and it made me even sicker. I scrambled to leave the house past the glass and the pain. Once outside I tugged the glass shard out of my leg and threw it into the living room. Blood started started spilling out of my leg then and left an irritating trail wherever I stumbled. I made it to the gate before I heard the sirens ring out and I grimaced as I forced my limp into a hobbled sprint.
It was the first time I ever killed someone; just my luck that it had to be my brother.
Last edited by Quix on Wed Feb 13, 2013 4:46 pm; edited 4 times in total (Reason for editing : missing period)
Quix- Posts : 178
Join date : 2013-02-06
KhazarLight- Posts : 9
Join date : 2013-01-21
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