non compos mentis

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  1. non compos mentis
    adjective / non com·pos men·tis
    1. when one is in a confused state, intoxicated,
    or not of sound mind.

    (a private roleplay for cyclopsdoe and god of teeth)

    #1 light bringer, Jul 6, 2015
    Last edited: Jul 6, 2015

  2. ‍ ‎ ‏‍ ‎ ‏‍ ‎ ‏ s i m o n ‎ ‏ e . ‍ ‎ ‏p r o c t e r
    ‎ ‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‏‍‎ ‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎MALE‏ ・‎ ‏ THIRTY THREE‏ ・‎ 191CM/186LB‏ ・‎ ‏ NOV 13, 1982 ‎‎ ‎ ‏‍‎
    ‎ ‏‍‎ ‎ ‏‍‎ ‎ ______________________________________________________________________

    ‎ ‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎・‏‍‎ ‎Dorian is the third and youngest son of the successful and well known business magnate, Edward‏‍‎ ‏‍‎

    ‎ ‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎Procter. ‏‍‎
    ‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ・‏‍‎ ‎His older brothers are at the top of their respective fields, giving him ties to the medical and corporate
    ‎ ‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎world.
    ‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ・‏‍‎ ‎Perhaps to anticipate and circumvent his family's perpetual disappointment, Dorian convincingly acts like a
    ‎ ‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏lazy, spoiled philanderer to downplay how hard he actually works
    ‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ・‏‍‎ ‎Dorian made partner at twenty seven years old, establishing Cromwell & Procter as a legal firm.
    ‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ・‏‍‎ ‎Although tabloids gossip, there's little concrete evidence of family feuding within the Cromwell family.
    ‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ・‏‍‎ ‎Of course, that would depend on where you were looking.
    ‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ・‏‍‎ ‎When normal families argue, feelings are hurt, noses are bloodied and someone's uncle drinks too much.
    ‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ・‏‍‎ ‎When the Cromwells fight, empires collapse, shares fall, the stock market stutters and stops.
    ‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎ ‎‎‎ ‏‍‎‎ ‏‍‎・‏‍‎ ‎Cromwell & Procter is currently planning a hostile takeover of a smaller firm, Fischer LLP
    #2 light bringer, Jul 6, 2015
    Last edited: Jul 7, 2015
  3. Simon hated himself.

    No one ever really meant it when they proclaimed self loathing. Or if they did, it was for stupid reasons like drunk texting their shitty exes or eating an entire cake by themselves on a Friday night. It made Simon want to scoff. Those people? Weak. Plebes. The kind of people that natural selection was named for. Sad sacks of meat who'd be the first to be killed off in a bloody free for all, to say nothing of the savage corporate world that Simon had grown up in. What did those people know about hating themselves? No, self loathing wasn't making dubious romantic decisions or breaking a diet ― self loathing was leaving your estranged father's funeral and heading to the nearest establishment serving alcohol and then proceeding to drink the place dry.

    To be fair, it wasn't like he did these kinds of things often, despite the reputation he'd deliberately fostered for himself; anyone could pretty much say that the death of a father, even a distant one, counted as extenuating circumstances. Simon was thirty three years old but he could count on one hand how many times he'd gotten this shit faced drunk ― once when he was sixteen after which his father promptly sent him packing to a boarding school, and again during his senior year in college, which resulted in his father cutting him off for a month. Simon supposed that the only thing making this time any different was that his old man was too dead to punish him.

    Parents shaped you. Even the absent ones. Maybe even especially the absent ones. Like a tree growing straight through a chain link fence, Simon had grown around the stern lines of his father's face, the blunted shape of his father's disappointment. They grew like seeds, and would come to define him as he grew up

    No one had cried at the funeral, though the procession had stretched on for blocks. Hundreds of people had attended and through the veil of their sincere condolences, Simon could sense the vultures starting to circle overhead. Edward Procter had been a colossus in the business world, and already the scavengers were creeping forward to pick at his corpse. Simon wasn't surprised. This was the kind of world he'd grown up in, where people attended funerals just to grease palms.

    His father wouldn't have minded. He would have urged Simon to use the opportunity to collect favours.

    As it was, Simon wasn't in the position to solicit dead-father-sympathy favours. He was far too busy trying to replace all the blood in his body with booze. If he died of alcohol poisoning, he'd still get to see his old man in hell and punch him in the face like he'd always wanted to.

    Simon caught the barman's eyes and waved up over with two fingers. "Pour me another," he said, sounding deceptively sober.

    The bar tender eyed him with deep suspicion, looking at all the empty glasses. "Hey buddy, you're drinking me dry. Leave some for the rest of us. How exactly do you plan on paying for all this?"

    Another side benefit of drinking in a seedy little shack that hadn't seen a new face in a decade was that no one knew who he was, here. Good.

    Simon rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket, withdrawing his wallet with drunken flourish. He made a show of slowly counting the bills and dropping them onto the counter. "Here's a hundred for the tab I've racked up so far, here's another hundred for the bottle of whiskey I'm about to order, and here's another hundred for you to shut the hell up and leave me alone."

    The bartender gave him a long look.

    Simon returned it flatly.

    The disgruntled man threw his hands up and left, returning with a bottle which he slammed down forcefully.

    "My compliments to the chef," he snarked to the barman's retreating back.

    He uncapped the bottle and gave its contents a dubious look. He didn't know what kind of swill he was drinking. He doubted it was worth even half of what he paid for it, but it smelled like bleach and burned going down. It'd get the job done.

    He propped his chin in his hand a poured, watching the play of the dim fluorescent over the amber liquid, when suddenly an elbow jostled his arm, sending whiskey pouring into his lap.

    Simon set the bottle down with a deeply aggrieved sigh and glanced over next to him, irritated. "Hey. Watch what you're doing."
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  4. Zachary Clarke
    MALE . TWENTY-SEVEN . 6'0"/180 . OCTOBER 15, 1988 . LIBRA
    • Zachary is an only child and was born into an upper-middle-class family from Indiana.
    • Because his silver-tongue, someone once suggested that he become a lawyer, and Zachary took it seriously.
    • He earned a full scholarship to the University of Michigan and graduated with honors at the top of his class.
    • After college, Zachary took a job at a small firm in New Jersey and claims that he's happy there.
    • Zachary genuinely enjoys his work even if some people out in the world think he's scummy.
    No one in their right fucking mind wants to stay in Jersey!”

    The entire day had been filled with similar comments, little digs to build up Manhattan and tear down everything from Franklin Lakes to Newark. Hailing from the midwest, a flyover state that didn't count for much of anything, there was no love lost with each remark that left the sloppy, loud, mouth of Dan Hastings. This was hardly the first time that Zachary had been headhunted, but the experience was always something that he enjoyed. Most of the time, it earned him a free day in the city that consisted of dinner at the finest restaurants and drinks at the most swanky lounges. As someone who defended greedy men and women for a living, being considered a valuable asset was a good feeling.

    The bar that the two men were currently in could hardly be described as swanky, or even clean. Dan, with his schmoozing ways and horrible taste had decided to end his attempts at recruitment with a beer or three, and a few shots to go along with it. While the tour of the city may have gotten derailed, not that Zachary really needed one, the conversation remarkably managed to stay on track. The dark-haired man had a feeling that the greying, middle-aged man across from him at the smallish table wasn't going to leave until there was fresh ink on the contract between them. The corner of the paper was soaked with spilled beer, but Zachary reached for it anyway.

    I like New Jersey,” he insisted with a laugh as his brown eyes focused on the large walls of tiny black text. Contracts always came with so many catches and while signing on to work for Cromwell & Procter meant more money and something shiny to add to his resume, Zachary still had his reservations. “You just want your bonus,” he added with another chuckle but he continued to look over the contract.

    Across from him, Dan laughed as well and raised his half-full pint glass to signal that he'd been caught. The motion was quick and jarring and the amber-colored liquid inside sloshed violently before spilling over the lip and onto the table. The man was a mess of deadly sins, but Zachary still found it charming; he was very eighties, all excess and no apology. “Do you really want to stay at that pissant firm forever?” Dan asked with a surprising amount of sincerity. “What do you do there? Some tax fraud? Money laundering? I read your file, the biggest thing you handled was an energy drink ponzi scheme. You could do everything here, kid.” Another drink, and another slosh, “every-fucking-thing.”

    Hammered as he was, Zachary knew that Dan had a point. “I didn't even get to meet the bosses,” he said, stalling before a pen was pushed to him. “What kind of people aren't in the office to show me around?”

    The old man croaked—there was a funeral today. Didn't you hear about it?” Zachary shook his head, feeling a small amount of shame for his callousness. “See? Jersey's right across the bridge, but you don't know shit.”

    Unfortunately, that was true and maybe that was what ultimately convinced him that moving onto bigger and better things was a good idea. Picking up the pen that was wet with alcohol, Zachary shook off his hand and the nagging feeling that said he was going to regret this—people were going to angry, feel abandoned but there was little that could be done about it. “You're welcome for your bonus,” he joked flatly as he scrawled his name in jagged cursive on each marked line. There was no going back now.

    In no time at all, the two men were shaking hands and Dan was out the door and back to the office, promising to finalize everything that night and give him a call when the wheels were in motion. Breathing a sigh, Zachary realized that he was completely alone with himself, left there in that seedy bar to process his thoughts and try and make sense of what he'd just done. There was a lot to give up in New Jersey, things to leave behind now that he was going to be working for such a large and reputable firm and already, he knew that bridges had been burned. His co-workers weren't going to forgive him, and his friends were bound to be green with envy over the move when their own careers didn't offer the same advancement opportunities. However, Zachary couldn't even say that he was that sorry about it; he'd worked hard for the things he had and making a splash in the legal world at the tender age of twenty-seven was a rare thing.

    With thoughts still swirling around in his mind, Zachary didn't feel ready to head home. He stood from his seat and felt the floor shift beneath him, apparently more drunk than he'd originally thought. Regardless, Zachary headed over to the bar to order something stronger than beer and tequila shots. He hadn't even noticed the graceless way that his elbow had knocked into another patron—an incredibly well dressed man who now had a lap full of whiskey.

    Sorry,” Zachary said immediately and reached over the bar to grab a stack of napkins. “I didn't see you, or...I did, but.” He stopped himself before he could make a bigger ass out of himself. “Can I get you a drink to make up for it?”
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