Wright, Gregory Michael Jan 24, 2010 9:16:21 GMT -6
Post by GREGORY WRIGHT on Jan 24, 2010 9:16:21 GMT -6
What A Way To Start Another Messy NightGregory Michael Wright
"That silver tongued devil just slipped from the shadows,"Clothes Trailing From The Backdoor To The Bedroom
NAME::Gregory Michael Wright
NICKNAME(S)::Greg, "The Fixer" among his friends, "Shit Shiller" among his enemies.
And I Don't Even Know Your Name
PERSONALITY::Gregory is extremely talented at what he does, and what he does is talk. His job as a spin doctor, "Damage Control" as he calls it, has taught him the finer points of charisma and the crafting of a good story. While no more academically gifted than the next man, Greg strongly considers himself a people person. An extremely clever individual with a tongue of pure silver, Gregory appears as a man with a magnetic personality, always bearing a friendly smile and ready with a sharp quip or funny joke. He can captivate people's attentions with only a few words, always prepared to come out of any situation smelling like roses.
What must be realized, of course, is that almost all of that is an act. While charismatic, Gregory finds extreme difficulty in manufacturing any connections with other people outside of the manipulation to which he's become accustomed. The relationships he does form are almost inevitably shallow, and his idea of "romance" has twisted into nothing more than one-night stands. Lonely and rapidly becoming bitter, Gregory has developed both a drinking and smoking issue. He does enjoy his job, but he resents it for what he believes it has done to him. Whether it's the job's fault or some innate characteristic of his own, Gregory either doesn't know, or doesn't accept. He is also a staunch atheist, firmly denying the existence of any grand power or powers. He believes in getting by solely on one's own merit.
HEIGHT&WEIGHT::5' 10" - 163
MEDICAL/ADDICTIONS:: Functioning Alcoholic - Using his job as an excuse, Gregory has taken to drinking more than his fair share of alcohol a day. While this has given him a tolerance usually reserved for Irish dockworkers, it does not bode well for his overall health.
Smoker - Gregory has a tendency to go through a pack of cigarettes in a little less than a week. The rate varies with his moods that week.
Give Me All You've Got
Meeting new people
The innumerable perks that come with his job
His cat, Reggy
Success and victory
Getting caught in his words
What he believes his job has turned him into
Failure at working his magic
His birthday (Another year closer to the grave)
Non-profit Organizations (Damn special interest groups always lobbying for their needs.)
Extremely charismatic and friendly
Good sense of humor
Prone to bouts of depression
Occasional tendency to lie
Cigarette and Alcohol addictions
Lonely and bitter
Hidden sexuality from his parents
Always remembers a name and face
Adheres to a strict dental hygiene code. To balance out the smoking and drinking.
Silverware being on the wrong sides of the plate
The barking of small dogs.
Low-maintenance, down-to-earth men
Make This Night Worth My Time
OCCUPATION::Public Relations (i.e.: Spin Doctor, Damage Control, etc.)
FATHER::Jacob Wright, 63, Carpenter
MOTHER::Carol Wright nee Erickson, 61, Secretary
SIBLING(S)::Amanda, 36, Psychiatric Therapist
OTHER(S)::Carl, 37, Brother-in-law, New Age guru
Alek, 17, Nephew, Unemployed but fascinated by his uncle's (Gregory's) job.
PETS::Reginald (Reggy, for short), 3, Cornish Rex (Cat)
BRIEF HISTORY::Gregory did not come into this world as a smooth talker. Indeed, he didn't come in as a talker at all. Born on the 14th of November, in a small town in southern Kansas, Gregory's life began in a place entirely opposite to where he believes it will end. The town, Winslow, was a tiny community, a suburb to a more developed city in which most of its residents worked. His mother and father were no exception to this, and as they went off to their day jobs, they would leave little Gregory and his sister at a daycare with the other boys and girls. It was in this daycare that Gregory first came across his natural charm, though as a child he hardly realized it as such. He just noted that when he asked people "Wanna be friends?" they tended to say yes, and that was all right by him. This trend continued for quite some time, well into Gregory's high school years, where it would serve him well.
Gregory was not an academically gifted boy. If anything, he was purely average in that field. And he knew that when it came to school, you had to have good grades to succeed. Or, you had to know people. The right people. And Gregory was very good at getting to know the right people. The letters of recommendation written for him by his teachers were nothing short of glowing, describing the student as a bright young lad whose cleverness would get him far. With such kind reviews, Gregory was accepted at Kansas Wesleyan University where, unsurprisingly, he majored in Public Relations with a minor in Psychology.
In college, Gregory came to terms with something that had been plaguing him for a few years. Here, in the real world, he began to feel things more strongly than he did in the confined boundaries of his hometown. There was a man, one Connor Boxton, who, after a night of solid drinking, Gregory got to know in what he would humorously refer to as "The Biblical sense." Through his four years at the University, Gregory and Connor continued to "familiarize" themselves with each other, though Gregory's fear of his parents' reaction would prevent them from going any further. Years passed, Gregory graduated, went for his Masters, graduated again, and he set out into the world to find his calling.
His first job was at some toy factory. They'd gotten into a bit of trouble concerning small parts that kids tended to choke on, and it was Gregory's job to ensure the public wouldn't sue. Though only marginally successful at it, and never the sort of enjoy failure, Gregory loved the thrill of it. To look those people in the eye or through a television camera and to see his words take hold in their hearts. It was electrifying. His career snowballed from there, moving each time from one difficult task to another, always with his bags packed. The notion of a permanent residence is a new one to him, and a strange one. If it were not for his recent, long-term employment at a casino, he would likely still be living out of motel rooms. But the administration takes care of their own, and Gregory has been set up with a nice room in a hotel attached to the casino. The rush of keeping such a dark and dirty place like a casino afloat in the public opinion, is addicting, and Gregory has no intentions of leaving Sin City anytime soon.YOUR NAME/ALIAS::Sean
ROLEPLAY EXPERIENCE::About 8 years or so, I imagine
MY SAMPLE::God damn, this woman was slippery. Derek kept his eyes and gun trained on the monument behind which Thalia had fled, inching closer to it by the moment. He had passed his parents, doing his best to ignore their presence. But as he had drawn closer to his mother, he could almost smell her perfume. Derek could nearly see wooden dust flake off of his father's clothing, taste it in his mouth. They were just illusions, just images Thalia had put into his head. Derek had to remind himself of that constantly as he walked, becoming increasingly distracted. He wasn't used to it, this type of warfare. Derek knew well psychological techniques to unnerve your enemies, but this sort took the practice to an entirely new level. These Psyches were dangerous, incredibly so. They had to be contained.
"Shooting at an unarmed opponent? Very honorable, Master Sergeant."
Lying criminal. There was no way that, in this of all place, Thalia was unarmed. It was a dream, and even though Derek wasn't remotely certain of how much power she held, he knew she was far from defenseless. The derision in her voice served only to irritate the Master Sergeant further. She definitely deserved a bullet or three now. Thalia stepped out from behind her hiding place, the fool. Derek rose his gun to point at her chest, planning for a typical killshot: two to the chest, one to the head. Bang, bang, bang. Dead.
"I wouldn't shoot again, Brodie. You'll regret it."
Bullshit. Derek pulled the trigger. His reward was an empty click the dreaded and familiar sound of a lack of ammo. No! How? He had seen the bullets himself. Derek had just pulled the trigger, there should be some left. She must have taken them from him. No matter, it was his dream. He could make more. Derek released the clip from the gun, catching it in his free hand, willing it to be full once more. Nothing. No bullets appeared in the clip, and the only change was an increasing fury in the Master Sergeant. She must have taken it from him, his ability to change things. Now she was the only one with power, and he was beneath her. Unacceptable. With a wrathful growl, Derek threw the empty gun and its clip to the ground, turning to face Thalia with a deep anger in his eyes.
She had the pin. She had the pin, the one Derek's father had crafted for his son out of wood. It was small, as it should be from the distance he saw it, but he would recognize it anywhere. “..More useful for, I don’t know, maybe warming oneself up than for treasuring the memories of a mistreated, unloved parent, wouldn’t you agree?”
Derek spoke through gritted teeth, his lips twisted in a snarl. His voice was low, gravelly. "Don't you even fucking dare."
A lighter materialized in Thalia's hand, and a painful bolt of fear shot through him. The knowledge that this was all a dream no longer mattered to him. She had his pin. She had his goddamn pin. ”Now, let’s just burn out all your memories of this useless thing and be done with it. After you wake up, you won’t even remember what it is."
Something far down in Derek snapped. He could feel it, briefly, before he acted on it. In this short, infinitesimal moment, Derek felt as if something very tightly wound within him broke, and all the tension that had built up in it was released. All the tension escaped him in the most primal way possible: fury. The fire that consumed the dream-pin was nothing compared to the one that burned in his eyes. Whatever modicum of power Derek still had in this place was realized: he moved quick, fast. He was on Thalia in a flash, roaring like a caged animal just let out of its prison. He had no weapons, his gun discarded. The dream responded to his anger, filled with a crushing, sweltering heat that the enraged Derek only fed on further.
His hands grabbed the sides of Thalia's head, and Derek released a guttural roar, fully intent on mauling this bitch until she paid for every bit of the burned pin in blood, one hundredfold. To an observer, the entire scene would be nothing short of terrifying. The fire raged, Derek roared, and the heat pressed down on everything, ten tons of anger.
And then it ended. Derek opened his eyes and felt himself being shook. Still acclimating to the waking world, Derek did what was natural of him in that sort of situation. He curled one hand into a fist and swung it at whatever was assaulting him. Thankfully, his conscious mind kicked in, and Derek stopped his punch just short of colliding with his most trusted "friend", if he could use the term, Corporal Aleksandra Fedorov. He became aware of his own breathing: short, fast, and ragged. He was drenched in a cold sweat, and for a brief time before he regained control, his eyes were wide with fear. His mind kept bringing up the image of the burning pin, of Thalia reveling in her destruction. Derek slowed his breathing, rubbing his eyes. He was aware of how unprofessional he looked at the moment, clad in his simple sleepwear. But Alek had seem him covered in human excrement before. A tank-top and light pants were hardly equivalent. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, beleaguered.
"Jesus, Alek, you scared the damn shit out of me. What? What is it?"