Post by krycalex on Aug 22, 2008 18:13:10 GMT -5
Name: Anthony McCormack
Age: 24
Sex: Male
Sexuality: Bisexual (?)
Occupation: Currently unemployed, but looking for a job.
Species: Human
Appearance: Anthony stands 5'11", is a bit on the thin side and has long slender fingers. From his rather pale complexion and his build, it's painfully obvious he's never really done a day's physical work in his life. Besides that, he has rather average-looking features, nothing extraordinary: hazel eyes, brown hair, a face that's a bit narrow compared to the norm. He tries to look clean-cut, keeping his hair short (apparently it's called a "short texture", heh). Anthony dresses consistently in dark colors, avoiding formal wear in favor of casual clothes.
Personality: Anthony is a quiet guy, and may come across as being a bit shy when others meet him for the first time. He prefers keeping to himself, even sitting in a corner by himself at social gatherings, although his reserved nature does not prevent him from being a social creature, albeit a slightly reluctant one.
When Anthony is confronted with unfamiliar faces and the need to make conversation, he puts up a smiling, polite facade to mask his uneasiness. Not exceptionally street-smart, he tries to be wary and look out for his interests first and foremost, but his nature is too trusting and he often finds himself unable to say no. (Growing up, he was surrounded by a very authoritative entourage, and his family made most of his life decisions for him. Because of this, he would rather agree with someone else's opinion than have to make his own and defend it from criticism.)
Anthony likes being alone mostly for the quiet. He has sensitive hearing, and becomes nervous when within earshot of loud noises. He finds it difficult to talk to very outgoing individuals, and tends to avoid them for that reason.
Codeword: Marilyn Manson
RP sample:
"No, no, please... come on..."
It wasn't warm in the car, but Anthony McCormack was sweating, and his palms slipped as they gripped the steering wheel of his rusty bucket of a Ford Taurus, as though the tight grip alone was some sort of car CPR that would save the aging vehicle from death by cardiac arrest. This was probably the old girl's last voyage, and here he was, about to be stranded in the middle of nowhere in Alabama, nowhere near his destination.
The car's engine shuddered again, violently, before blowing some sort of raspberry and finally quietening, like some young parishioner who had finally been hushed into silence by his parents and had given up making WWII airplane noises in the middle of Mass. The Taurus rolled to a stop, and stayed, an obedient dog of the metal and rusty and flaky variety.
"Oh God," Anthony said. He tried in vain to swallow the golf ball that had somehow lodged itself in his throat. Then he tried to start the car a few times but the engine obstinately refused to roll over.
I'm right where I wanna be, hun, the Taurus seemed to say, mocking him with a poor imitation of a Southern accent, an' I ain't goin' anywhere, no sirree.
He (the man, not the car) sat there for a while, panting quietly, trying to assess the situation. Then he yanked the seat belt off, opened the door and hopped out, and kicked one of the tires in frustration, and yelled out a stream of curses that couldn't be reprinted in the local newspapers, not that there was anyone to hear them anyway.
Finally, McCormack looked up, and there was a sign by the side of the road, and it said "Sanford: 5 miles". Not his original destination, but it would do for now, at least until he could get his car back on its feet, well, tires. He climbed back into the cab, grabbed the keys and his few belongings, and, once out again, slammed the door shut with a bit more force than was necessary. Anthony shot a dirty glance at the unmoving vehicle, slung his bag over his shoulder and started down the road toward Sanford.
(A bit, er, quite long, but I got carried away... Sorry.)
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Age: 24
Sex: Male
Sexuality: Bisexual (?)
Occupation: Currently unemployed, but looking for a job.
Species: Human
Appearance: Anthony stands 5'11", is a bit on the thin side and has long slender fingers. From his rather pale complexion and his build, it's painfully obvious he's never really done a day's physical work in his life. Besides that, he has rather average-looking features, nothing extraordinary: hazel eyes, brown hair, a face that's a bit narrow compared to the norm. He tries to look clean-cut, keeping his hair short (apparently it's called a "short texture", heh). Anthony dresses consistently in dark colors, avoiding formal wear in favor of casual clothes.
Personality: Anthony is a quiet guy, and may come across as being a bit shy when others meet him for the first time. He prefers keeping to himself, even sitting in a corner by himself at social gatherings, although his reserved nature does not prevent him from being a social creature, albeit a slightly reluctant one.
When Anthony is confronted with unfamiliar faces and the need to make conversation, he puts up a smiling, polite facade to mask his uneasiness. Not exceptionally street-smart, he tries to be wary and look out for his interests first and foremost, but his nature is too trusting and he often finds himself unable to say no. (Growing up, he was surrounded by a very authoritative entourage, and his family made most of his life decisions for him. Because of this, he would rather agree with someone else's opinion than have to make his own and defend it from criticism.)
Anthony likes being alone mostly for the quiet. He has sensitive hearing, and becomes nervous when within earshot of loud noises. He finds it difficult to talk to very outgoing individuals, and tends to avoid them for that reason.
Codeword: Marilyn Manson
RP sample:
"No, no, please... come on..."
It wasn't warm in the car, but Anthony McCormack was sweating, and his palms slipped as they gripped the steering wheel of his rusty bucket of a Ford Taurus, as though the tight grip alone was some sort of car CPR that would save the aging vehicle from death by cardiac arrest. This was probably the old girl's last voyage, and here he was, about to be stranded in the middle of nowhere in Alabama, nowhere near his destination.
The car's engine shuddered again, violently, before blowing some sort of raspberry and finally quietening, like some young parishioner who had finally been hushed into silence by his parents and had given up making WWII airplane noises in the middle of Mass. The Taurus rolled to a stop, and stayed, an obedient dog of the metal and rusty and flaky variety.
"Oh God," Anthony said. He tried in vain to swallow the golf ball that had somehow lodged itself in his throat. Then he tried to start the car a few times but the engine obstinately refused to roll over.
I'm right where I wanna be, hun, the Taurus seemed to say, mocking him with a poor imitation of a Southern accent, an' I ain't goin' anywhere, no sirree.
He (the man, not the car) sat there for a while, panting quietly, trying to assess the situation. Then he yanked the seat belt off, opened the door and hopped out, and kicked one of the tires in frustration, and yelled out a stream of curses that couldn't be reprinted in the local newspapers, not that there was anyone to hear them anyway.
Finally, McCormack looked up, and there was a sign by the side of the road, and it said "Sanford: 5 miles". Not his original destination, but it would do for now, at least until he could get his car back on its feet, well, tires. He climbed back into the cab, grabbed the keys and his few belongings, and, once out again, slammed the door shut with a bit more force than was necessary. Anthony shot a dirty glance at the unmoving vehicle, slung his bag over his shoulder and started down the road toward Sanford.
(A bit, er, quite long, but I got carried away... Sorry.)
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