- Invitation Status
- Posting Speed
- Multiple posts per day
- 1-3 posts per day
- Online Availability
- Christmas
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- Adept
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- Prestige
- Douche
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
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- Primarily Prefer Male
- Primarily Prefer Female
- No Preferences
- Genres
- Alt-rock and grunge
Harlem despite its relatively recent run-in with Hulk and that abomination, as well as the alien incident remained strong with a tenacity the most recent figure driving up could admire. Such was the mindset of survivors, of those who had learned from the lash and from hatred to become stronger for it, answering to none but themselves. It was a lesson in power she would take to heart as her driver respectfully opened the door for her and she stepped out.
Sleek nylon emphasized her muscular legs, combined with a business suit skirt and suit that while not as obvious as some who came, nevertheless hinted at in ways that were more tantalizing then simply showing them on display. Her hair was tied up in a bun, held in place with two decorative chopsticks and displayed a lovely face, Japanese in origin and completely at her ease. Subtle strength hung around her aura like she was made for it and with complete confidence, she headed for the front of the line and without a word, displayed a card.
The bouncer glanced at it, startled before opening the way for her to enter as the woman said idly.
"No rush."
Within, as the next number began to play she breathed deep and headed to the bar to get herself a drink while she waited on the man above. This was his domain after all. A good guest was patient and to be frank, there were worse places to be if you had to wait.
And the music vibrated her soul in a way to make her smile, small as it was.
Upstairs, the card would be passed down to a new minion as he cleared his throat and tried to not interrupt.
"Er, Mr. Stokes? Apologies sir, but there's someone here to see you once you're done. She says no rush."
And sliding over the card, he stepped back.
@OrlandoBloomers @Michale CS
Tockman lowered his head slightly, and smiled. "Poor choice of phrase, I'm afraid. It shan't happen again."
"I'm fully aware of the source of Miss Dillard's financing. I am, after all, her accountant. Though I do thank you for reminding me. I'm sure you're used to dealing with lesser minds, and such guidance is simply necessary. I applaud your patience."
The drink arrived then and he took a healthy drought of it. "I see you only stock the highest quality spirits, Mr. Stokes. But, on to business. Oh, tell your concerned friends that you surround yourself with to relax, as I'm about to draw a gun."
Then, faster than Cornell could even see, there was a pistol, plated in gold it seemed, in Tockman's hand, and pointed at the bodyguard who had let the accountant past him earlier. He reversed the grip and handed it, grip first, to Cornell.
"What you hold in your hand, Mister Stokes is the MIDAS. There are submachine gun and soon, assault rifle versions of it as well. I won't bore you with all the science but MIDAS stands for Multiple Ignition Directed Aperture System. You see, unlike the Judas ammunition, standard ammunition will work just fine with MIDAS."
Tockman opened up the briefcase to remove a tablet PC.
He queued up a video, and played it. A test dummy was sitting in an armored car. The scene pans to a man holding a pistol that looked a lot like the one Cornell was now holding.
The man walked around a cinderblock wall, lifted the weapon and fired.
The bullet blasted through the wall, through the bulletproof glass of the armored car, through the dummy and out the second layer of bulletproof glass.
"I'd advise against discharging that firearm in here, unless you really despise your neighbors. The muzzle velocity of a MIDAS round fired from a pistol is approximately thirty five hundred feet per second, and due to the Vibranium rifling, the range is just shy of eight thousand feet. The rifles will of course far outshine that."
He closed the suitcase and smiled again. "Production funding is being secured as we speak, but a limited run of pistols and submachine guns are already being machined. You should have a sample case by the end of the week. Please, keep the prototype as your own."
He leaned forward and whispered, "You might have a word with your friends here. They're far too slow to protect you from a truly competent threat."
Tockman picked up the drink, drained it and set the glass to spinning on the table, but it wobbled right back to being upright.
"Have a good night Mister Stokes."
Down below, another singer was being announced.
"In her first appearance here at Harlem's Paradise, up from Jersey way, put your hands together for miss Lizzy Berg!"
Tockman, if not prevented, would take his leave then.
@OrlandoBloomers @Ringmaster
The club lighting in the room shifted once more from red to a deep-hued purple, casting both the casual social scene downstairs and the tense, suspect business dealings upstairs in a shade that was inviting for one, sinister for another. Funny how perspective could change a whole situation like that. When his man sidled up and slid the card across their table, Stokes uncrossed his legs and peered in closely to examine it in the lowlight, expression all-business all of a sudden with less of the smugness on his face when he gave a solemn look back and a slow, intense nod to the employee that showed he understood. It was all the subordinate needed to return a less collected one and step back, waiting for Cottonmouth's business to be concluded with nervousness. Mister Stokes was always good to his boys so long as you did right by him, but he was always just one step away from deciding you weren't. No one here wanted to end up like Tone.
For Cornell's part, he continued his proceedings with Mr. Tockman as though nothing had happened, leaning back in his throne again to cross one leg over the knee once more and flash that inviting smile again.
"Eventful evening. Now, you were saying..."
And when events unfolded as they did, Tockman's gun whipped out in a blur and leveled straight for a longtime loyal employee and street acquaintance of Cornell's, the chief's response even as the others on his payroll frantically scrambled for their own pieces was to simply hold up a hand faster than any of them could truly act on their sudden impulse to ventilate Mr. Tockman, leaned slightly forward in his chair again and with an unnerving stillness to his features like that of a snake coiled and watching in anticipation. He knew damn well Mariah wasn't sending anybody to smoke him in his own club, so the personal risk he felt was minimal, and in all frankness he was watching Tockman's steady grip on the weapon with a glint in his eye that was practically eager, flicking his tongue once to moisturize his lips.
He was ready to take the gun when it was proffered to him, holding it so his body shielded it from anyone who happened to look up at the balcony from downstairs as he popped the magazine out and looked briefly down the sights. Though watching the video with reserved judgement for the first portion, when the whshit am moment hit and the bullet took off through two panes of bulletproof glass and cinderblock, his reaction was to damn near bolt upright in his seat and do a double-take between Tockman and the screen, looking on with a mixture of stunned elatement and disbelief.
"THAT IS THE MOST GANGSTA SHIT I'VE EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE! YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKIN' ME?!"
The club owner's jubilant tone, though, implied he knew otherwise, his gaze going back to the piece in his hands with obvious excitement.
"Hell with Jesus, this is the shit you'd use to take out Iron Man at 4000 feet. I hook up Sionis with these, we're good, all our problems go away. The Bat and his crew's armor won't do shit. And Luke Cage?! That nigga stops rolling with his amazing friends long enough to set foot back in Harlem and any street punk with a gun can end his bulletproof ass! Shit, fuckin' ZIP could take him out!"
A laugh ran through the mostly-stunned crew members gathered (except Zip), defusing some of the tension from the gun scene earlier. "And this won't set me back none? Like Shades and his Judas?" Forget Diamondback. He started supplying specialized hardware that matched his best at lower prices, nobody was even gonna remember that name in Harlem.
Whatever the answer to that question was, he pocketed the MIDAS prototype on the inside of his coat and relaxed in his chair again, in too good a mood to let Tockman's questioning of his hired help weigh on him. Though he did take the opportunity to flaunt a little.
"Big leagues means big muscle. And if Mariah expands her personal staff then you sure as hell best believe I can too. Been eyeballing a couple freelancers, can handle shit a lot better than these sorry fools. That stunt of yours, I actually like that Wu Tang-style shit; But I wouldn't try a repeat performance, you show up here again. I understand these world-class cats are quick on the draw. Might not be fast enough to dissuade that unfortunate trigger instinct next time."
He smirked, though there was no malice carried in the expression. All things considered it was safe to say he was pleased by the visit, and when Tockman rose to go Cornell simply splayed out his hands accommodatingly, looking him straight in the eye and bidding him a breezy farewell.
"My man."
---
Yet another few minutes, yet another changeover in musical act. Cottonmouth finished up his drink before anything else as his looming presence watched over events in the club, lounged out in his seat with plenty on his mind. Finally, he beckoned for the one from before and leaned from his chair to address him.
"Bring her up."
The card lay flat on the table, his eyes roving over it occasionally. He rubbed at his upper lip.
"More drinks, too. Singapore Sling for our new guest. Ha-ha-ha."
He pushed out that laugh again, shaking his head. Of course, his own familiarity with the Foot came mostly from their fixture in Chinatown and pervasive presence across Manhattan, but word breezed in of what went down in Madripoor every now and then. Most like Cottonmouth kept the place on the backburner as an escape plan if plans ever went south, its criminal extradition laws making it an ideal refuge for the alleged criminal.
Alleged.
@Michale CS @Ringmaster
For Cornell's part, he continued his proceedings with Mr. Tockman as though nothing had happened, leaning back in his throne again to cross one leg over the knee once more and flash that inviting smile again.
"Eventful evening. Now, you were saying..."
And when events unfolded as they did, Tockman's gun whipped out in a blur and leveled straight for a longtime loyal employee and street acquaintance of Cornell's, the chief's response even as the others on his payroll frantically scrambled for their own pieces was to simply hold up a hand faster than any of them could truly act on their sudden impulse to ventilate Mr. Tockman, leaned slightly forward in his chair again and with an unnerving stillness to his features like that of a snake coiled and watching in anticipation. He knew damn well Mariah wasn't sending anybody to smoke him in his own club, so the personal risk he felt was minimal, and in all frankness he was watching Tockman's steady grip on the weapon with a glint in his eye that was practically eager, flicking his tongue once to moisturize his lips.
He was ready to take the gun when it was proffered to him, holding it so his body shielded it from anyone who happened to look up at the balcony from downstairs as he popped the magazine out and looked briefly down the sights. Though watching the video with reserved judgement for the first portion, when the whshit am moment hit and the bullet took off through two panes of bulletproof glass and cinderblock, his reaction was to damn near bolt upright in his seat and do a double-take between Tockman and the screen, looking on with a mixture of stunned elatement and disbelief.
"THAT IS THE MOST GANGSTA SHIT I'VE EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE! YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKIN' ME?!"
The club owner's jubilant tone, though, implied he knew otherwise, his gaze going back to the piece in his hands with obvious excitement.
"Hell with Jesus, this is the shit you'd use to take out Iron Man at 4000 feet. I hook up Sionis with these, we're good, all our problems go away. The Bat and his crew's armor won't do shit. And Luke Cage?! That nigga stops rolling with his amazing friends long enough to set foot back in Harlem and any street punk with a gun can end his bulletproof ass! Shit, fuckin' ZIP could take him out!"
A laugh ran through the mostly-stunned crew members gathered (except Zip), defusing some of the tension from the gun scene earlier. "And this won't set me back none? Like Shades and his Judas?" Forget Diamondback. He started supplying specialized hardware that matched his best at lower prices, nobody was even gonna remember that name in Harlem.
Whatever the answer to that question was, he pocketed the MIDAS prototype on the inside of his coat and relaxed in his chair again, in too good a mood to let Tockman's questioning of his hired help weigh on him. Though he did take the opportunity to flaunt a little.
"Big leagues means big muscle. And if Mariah expands her personal staff then you sure as hell best believe I can too. Been eyeballing a couple freelancers, can handle shit a lot better than these sorry fools. That stunt of yours, I actually like that Wu Tang-style shit; But I wouldn't try a repeat performance, you show up here again. I understand these world-class cats are quick on the draw. Might not be fast enough to dissuade that unfortunate trigger instinct next time."
He smirked, though there was no malice carried in the expression. All things considered it was safe to say he was pleased by the visit, and when Tockman rose to go Cornell simply splayed out his hands accommodatingly, looking him straight in the eye and bidding him a breezy farewell.
"My man."
---
Yet another few minutes, yet another changeover in musical act. Cottonmouth finished up his drink before anything else as his looming presence watched over events in the club, lounged out in his seat with plenty on his mind. Finally, he beckoned for the one from before and leaned from his chair to address him.
"Bring her up."
The card lay flat on the table, his eyes roving over it occasionally. He rubbed at his upper lip.
"More drinks, too. Singapore Sling for our new guest. Ha-ha-ha."
He pushed out that laugh again, shaking his head. Of course, his own familiarity with the Foot came mostly from their fixture in Chinatown and pervasive presence across Manhattan, but word breezed in of what went down in Madripoor every now and then. Most like Cottonmouth kept the place on the backburner as an escape plan if plans ever went south, its criminal extradition laws making it an ideal refuge for the alleged criminal.
Alleged.
@Michale CS @Ringmaster