The Psychosis of a City

Discussion in 'THREAD ARCHIVES' started by RiverNotch, Dec 1, 2013.

  1. OOC:
    Cities aren't just places. They're people too. Only instead of cells and organs, they're composed of buildings and people. And just like people, they have a lot of problems.

    This roleplay isn't meant to be conventional. There's no one questline or one unifying theme holding together all of the interactions between its players. It's almost completely freeform, except that all of the posts have to be set in the city at the prescribed time. And of course, no god-modding, and being total trolls to everyone.

    Each post is supposed to add a bit of color to the city, which should remain perpetually unnamed and unplaced (that is, it's in planet earth, but it ain't in any specific country), until the city becomes alive, becomes maybe even truer than the people behind the posts. And each post, and the stories they add to, are supposed to highlight the different problems of the city. Problems that, if they were the problems of a person, would make a psychiatrist's career.

    Hence the title, "The Psychosis of a City". Good luck, everyone.

    You must post stuff set only within the prescribed setting (unless they're flashbacks, or background-setting stuff). The setting is a city found in the planet earth of our universe in the year 2013 with roughly the same tech level, cultural level, land area, climate, official language, and population size as NYC.
    You may not place the city anywhere specific. That is, it can't be in any specific state in the world, e.g. the US or the UK.
    You may not name the city. This is to make direct mentions of it more interesting.
    You may not god-mode, or control other people's characters without their permissions.
    You may not completely isolate yourselves. That means that your character could never go completely alone, without even once being affected directly by other players' actions.
    You must work with other players. What's first said, goes. So if someone says that this gang is so-and-so, then this gang is so-and-so.
    You may not troll other players outside of the rp.
    You must enjoy. ;)

    I'll post something character-related when someone else has posted here. Again, good luck everyone, and I hope my first venture into hosting an rp doesn't overflow in failures...
    Another dawn, another day. The city wakes up.
    • Love Love x 1
  2. Nimrod

    Music being played by my phone, from Revolver, old stuff, good stuff. My heads nodding a bit, nodding to the rhythm of Ringo's drums. My eyes are partly closed, really savoring the music I am, but not completely. I'm still looking around, still wary; I ain't stupid. This is Nimrod.
    My left hand's in my left pocket, holding my switchblade. Right hand's in right pocket, holding my phone. The Package is in my pack. I'm wearing jeans, nice dark blue ones, and a green shirt. "Kiss my ass" on the shirt.
    Shades, black ones. A cap. That's my get up. Seems to be the get up of the people around me, too. They're looking at me... with contempt in their eyes. I think they think I'm joining in on the business. Some of them are even pointing their guns at me; doing it low, though. Down here, everyone's a criminal, everyone's a cop. Just gotta be smart with the business.

    Nimrod, Nimrod alley, Nimrod street, Hunters' avenue, whatever you call it, it's a dirty place. Filled with dirty people. Right between two dirty apartments: one, the smaller, older, cleaner, brick one being the one for the businessmen, the other, larger, slightly more modern, concrete, for the customers.
    Right side, brick side, got paintings. Spray paint, poster paint, blood, whatever the artists here can get their hands on. Tags of the shitty gangs that "run" this place, mostly. Some real works of art though.
    Next to a dumpster, there, where I'm pointing, that was made by a friend of mine. Went to art school (her name's Wendy), dropped out, got into coke. Now she makes a living making a living, going here at the dead of night and whoring herself to the tired businessmen. Money's for food, coke, rent, and sometimes, these.
    It's a lovely painting. Damn, lovely's such a gay word.

    A girl, with a beak for a mouth, tentacles coming out of it. Girl has black hair, no eyes. Chest up, with massive breasts. That's her painting. Seems like no other paintings like this around me. Especially on the left side, that's where the beggars are. They're looking at me... asking me for alms. I think they think I have sit with me. Some of them are getting in my way; that's until I flash them my blade. Down here, you gotta kick them beggars in the asses, in the balls. Just gotta let them die.
    My left foot's buried in one of them beggar's faces, he's crying. Right foot's on the ground, it's wet. The Package is in my pack. One of the dealers is wearing jeans, nice greenish ones, and a blue jacket. Nothing written on it.
    I stop the music being played by my phone, this time from Nicki Minaj, new stuff, shit stuff. My coz put that in there, for the last Package. It was late, a bit too late, and now I'm gonna be late again, but not too much. Just gotta get a quick fix; I'm gonna buy some of the good stuff from Jorge here. This is Nimrod.
    "Jesus died for somebody's sins but not mine..."
    I smoke and smoke and smoke, happily smoke, divine is this smoke, smoky my vision, due to this smoke, smoke, smoke, smoke... I feel like I'm melting, but this melting's a good kind of melt, like a cheese-melt, a cheese-steak sandwich kind of melt; ooh, cheese-steak sandwich, love to get my hands on one of those, or one of Hers... Hers? Who is She? She who walks in front of me, wild cards flowing out of Her sleeve, covering me with their wild, wild, wild! madness, wildness, orgasmic orgiastic madness, all of them, all of me... My heart, it's melting: it's made of stone, thick stone, it's melting. Turning into a pool of lava, hot lava, burning at 500 degrees Celsius, a thousand degrees Fahrenheit, a million [degrees] Kelvin. What's a Kelvin? Isn't he a friend of mine? A sinful friend, sinful, rape and theft and murder and treason and death and famine and four, nay, five horsemen of the Anti-Apocalypse, destroying me, my sins, my own, belonging to me, me, ME!

    "[People say] BEWARE!"
    Fuck, I don't care. Another shot, another shot; here, there, on my arm, on my leg, on my head! More, more, more! Let it all flow in me, flow in me like a river, a river in a sea of troubled chaos, rules, regulations, limitations! I don't care!

    "I-I walk in a room, you know I look so proud..."
    Now I'm bored. Now I'm dead. I don't feel a thing. I may have used a bit too much. I slink, slink, slink away. I'm tired. I'm dead. I slink away.
    "Sweet young thing" awaken me, I say to one of the beggars. She's humping on the garbage can, leaning on the beak-woman, looking good, looking fine, crazy feelings, "with a bit of cash" she says, she's mine. I'm gonna make her mine, she is mine.

    I forget.

    I am done. A bit woozy, though. That was one hell of a trip. Okay, back to the business at hand.