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  1. Despite our limited interactions, you have came across as someone who is easily approachable and a great person to hold a conversation with. You have a decent roleplay ability, and you have been in this community for along time. You also expressed your desire to give a helping hand to this community and personally told me this. You have conducted yourself well and that has left a good impression on me. I can't speak for anyone else, but I do believe you can hold a role in the administration of this server. +Support
  2. "When I was a kid, I used to think about becoming a teacher. Look at me now... look at everyone else. We were all pure at that time, but everything got muddled and confused. I miss the simple times. It's hard now." - John Gasparino His shoulders hike, hand reflexively reaching for the door before him. He wasn't much of a truly religious man, other than the fact he was brought up as a Catholic. He was intending for a brief stay in the Church, to let out all that was inside of him. His hands were trembling as he walked into the Church, feeling such a strong mixture of pain and anger in that moment. John desperately believes he can become a better person. Sure, most would say he's trying to live a quiet life, doing his best with others, is insincere; and to a point, yes, he was doing it for his own safety. Those thoughts race into his head at every moment. As the smoke from the end of his cigarette ghosts up into the air. Hearing the ambient sounds of the church, his instincts kicked in and he immediately scanned over the area for a suitable place to sit. It just had to be so uncomfortable, hadn't it? There was a priest, standing idle, lighting candles. His eyes watched the priest closely, keeping a steady view on him. John was always so strong, so brave and it was something that never failed. But now, he was trembling, afraid and it was an unusual sight. He noticed the priest taking notes of his nervous behaviour, and twiddled with his thumbs. His heavy eyelids began to blink at a rapid pace. He could feel his muscles tense up and the world grew a little more enclosed for him. John took another deep breath, clutching his hands together. He blurted out a couple words, before praying in a silent manner. But nonetheless, he was still trembling, calling out for redemption. The priest who noticed him was curious, he had so many things to ask of him. But he kept them quiet for now, not wanting to bombard the man with questions in his time of prayer. He was praying for hours, a dark shroud coating him throughout his prayer, though with a small state of agony pushing through. His voice was like a mumble at times, sounds that escaped his lips. At first, he tried to contain all of his agony in silence, thinking that he could contain years of anger. Breathless heaves tore itself from his throat. His chest rose and fell rapidly as his widened eyes gazed straight ahead. As shivers ran up and down his spine, his gaze fixed onto the priest, just looking at him. "Are you alright?" The priest gazed at him for the sake of eye contact, and step by step he walked closer and was immensely cautious. "What?" His face scrunched into one of confusion. Since he didn't feel like he was doing anything wrong, he was a bundle of confusion; fortunately, he went along with it. His brows perked up. "I'm praying." He folded his arms and looked at him as if to say, "Alright. You've got my attention." There he was. The priest. The guy who rang a bell - the guy who built the foundations of his Church on something else than donations. John was silent for a moment, but at the same time he felt like he needed to talk. Yet again, his voice rang through and into John's ears. "You were yelling. For the past hour, and I listened." He let the man talk. His face was as confused as ever; because he didn't think he was yelling. John believed he was speaking in silence. Something obviously overtook him in the last moments of his prayer. John just stared at him for a moment, twiddled his thumbs, then spoke again to him. "You ever... hurt someone? Make 'em disappear? I did things for no reason." A stiff smile broke from the priest's lips. "No, I haven't... but I have met people with stories like yours." But the priest couldn't understand. Why would this man come here? Why would he even come to a Church? Redemption or Rage? He couldn't tell. He knew that John had killed people. Not because it had been justified, but solely because of temptations. He killed people who might not have deserved to be killed. He should already know that killing people was wrong. Feeling regret did not erase what he had done. It did not erase the fact that the priest knew he was talking to a murderer. He didn't want to probe him with questions, because he knew of the unease that was circling around him. "Why?" The priest looked directly at him, looking him into the eye after what felt like an eternity of silence. John's mind was daring his eyes to dart away. Search for cover and find something else to look at instead of him. He should've just kept quiet. The priest's words put even more of a sober stamp on this whole ordeal, if one could call it that. John's heart sank a hundred miles down. His simple question made it all the more real. Painfully, so. "I... an impulse." He rasped. "But other than that, yeah. That's pretty much it." The priest's smile faded a bit. He didn't know what to think. He certainly didn't want to go for a phone, even if this man looked like a threat. There was no way he was leaving the conversation, especially whenever talking to a murderer. "I've waited years..." John said. "Always believed that prayers were bullshit." He almost changed his tone. He might start questioning the priest, and he was looking slightly uncomfortable at every second. "Do you... remember me?" The priest chuckled nervously at his response, his hands roaming nervously. "I remember everyone who comes here." John's steel blue eyes stare at him which almost is threatening at this point; however his movements were void. "Y'know... I wasn't only praying for myself. Prayin' for your family, too." His eyes flick down to his gun; his reflexes are quick to motion as his gun is pulled out, complete with a removed serial number and untraceable bullets. A hint of anger rose as he's aiming at the priest - as the priest was standing like a stone. "Who are you?" and John aimed his weapon at him for several moments. "You know who I am," began John, the steady lip of his gun continuing to laser at him, as he took a calculated approach towards him. The metallic click of his safety mechanism falling sung. Two bullets entering into his legs at a crippling speed. His gaze dropped to the floor as he watched him tumble, and he walked slowly and stared at him for a long while - before he finally spoke. "Gasparino. Your family are gone, partner. I knew you would forget... because that's who you are. I'm the one who remembers." A small gasp broke from the priest's throat and it was a look of pure horror that flicked into his eyes. "...Fuck you." His expression was mixed with agony, suffering, and rage. That was what John tasted for his whole life, and he got a taste of it. Before a bullet entered into his brain. A canvas of brain matter splattering over the floor of the Church. Once John left and the door was shut, he pressed his back against it released a breath he didn't even know he was holding in. John tried to clamp onto a piece of quiet as he walked to his car and left. Anything to get all this noise out. He watched as the place was up in flames. John had went back into the murky waters. A man who couldn't let go. A man who couldn't forget. That was what defined John Gasparino. A crown with gems and gold, Chase the throne, If I could only let go.
  3. " La pazienza di un uomo รจ una cosa mortale." Age: Seventy-Eight Race: Caucasian Gender: Male Height: 6'3 Weight: 195 Pounds Hair Colour: Grey Eye Colour: Pale Blue Birth Place: Sicily, Italy Alignment: Chaotic Neutral Previous Occupation: Businessman, Mafioso Boss, Soldier. Seven of Cups How to resist temptation, how to still the longing for everything in the world? That which you want is a mirage. A man stands before gifts. Some cups bear desirable gifts. But others hold gifts that are not gifts at all; instead, they are curses. The clouds and the cups symbolise his wishes and dreams, and the different gifts means that he needs to be careful. Choices need to be made, but in doing so, he must go beyond illusion and allure, and focus on what's right for himself. Skills or Abilities: Firearms: John is trained in the use of firearms and has used them practically all of his life. He can wield rifles, handguns, shotguns, and anything else you could think up with some proficiency. Trade: An experienced business man from his escapades and led a lengthy career in such a market. Intimidation: John being a Boss for endless associates and wiseguys required for him to be tough and ruthless. Even his appearance is somewhat intimidating even in his old age. His charisma is flawless. Tactical Prowess: John led a war on his own through the use of guerrilla warfare and fought in the Second Mafia War and was also previously a soldier. Suffice to say, he is incredibly efficient in thinking up plans to gain a strategic advantage. Hardened: John has suffered through incredible hardships of his own. He has seen people skinned alive, burned, scalped, disembowelled, and eating bullets. John's done all of that himself and seen others do it. Torture: A necessary skill for his previous job as a Boss. He would frequently have to extract information from people in the most ruthless ways possible. Furthermore, his skills do not just lay in the physical side of things but also the mental side of torture and he can also emotionally manipulate people. Knowledge: Perhaps his greatest asset is his vast pool of knowledge from personal experiences. Having lived an incredibly lengthy life. He also received a good education from the funding of his father; while most during that period were unable to read or write. Hand-To-Hand: John's been fighting people for over half of his life. He still retains the techniques and knowledge he has gained from fighting in endless brawls. He also holds some skill in the use of a knife and favours using thrusts for lethal damage. High Pain Tolerance: John's been shot, stabbed, and beaten to a bloody pulp. His tolerance to physical pain is far greater than your average man. Of course, he cannot truly negate the feelings of physical pain. Stealth: He has some skill in sneaking around like a virtual ghost. He learned to be quiet and light on his feet through several robberies he committed whenever he was young. Improvisation: John is highly adept at using an environment or everyday objects as a weapon. Such as using piano wire as a garrotte. He has also used toilet seats as blunt force weapons, and has also made use of drills, jackhammers, and spanners. Multilingual: John can speak his native Italian, as well as fluent English and Spanish. Negatives: Old Age: As with any normal human being; he is subject to ageing. John's body is not as strong as it used to be. While he still retains some of his youth, he's not got much of it left. Quick to Anger: John could find an insult in a bouquet of roses. Conflicting Morals: John has a constantly conflicting moral code. He can be a honourable and pleasant man and then a ruthless killer with no regard for life. He is plagued by temptations and is very unpredictable. Relations: "l'uomo che non perdona mai."
  4. memecity

    John Gasparino

    Steam Name: banned for being smart Steam ID: STEAM_0:0:8810525 Steam Profile Link: Roleplay Experience: I have eight years of experience that spans from my entire time playing a wide array of STALKER servers and Metro Servers. I have also dabbled in some limited 1950's RP and that's where this character was originally from. How did you stumble upon our server?: I saw someone playing on the server and I asked if it was any good and I was told that it was. I've been wanting to branch away from the regular servers that I frequent and find this to be a healthy and viable choice. Character Name: John Gasparino known as Mark Hamilton Character Sex: Male Character Age: 78 Previous Major Occupation(s): Mafia "Boss" Character Equipment: C96 Pistol and his Suit /w Fedora and Sawn-Off Shotgun Moral Alignment(See Chart below this post): Chaotic Neutral Strengths: Strong will, capable of emotional and mental manipulation, experienced with trades, charismatic, and trained in the use of firearms, with skills in guerrilla warfare, and general skills in survivalist techniques. He is a loose cannon; but a man with skills that any group would need. Weaknesses: Quick to anger, despite all of his level-headed and cool persona. He is like any gangster and could find an insult in a bouquet of roses. While he won't show it and has a unique way of containing his anger, that doesn't mean he won't show it in some form or manner. Frequently, by relentlessly chewing on his match stick or toothpick during a heated conversation. He can also be prone to bouts of overconfidence in his prowess with playing mind games with people. He has a tortured past with him frequently turning the tables on his own conflicting personality, he could be nice once, and a murderer the other. He has suffered from temptations his whole life and mustering the will to band together once more with people will prove to be the most difficult decision in his life. Character Backstory a.k.a. how or why are you here (One paragraph minimum, be creative! More backstory does not always mean a better app! Put thought into how they'll interact with others too!): This is the story of John and will include major events during his time as a Boss and during the outbreak. <Before His Time as a Mobster> John saw the world as a poison, as a venom that infested everyone and was unseen and unnoticed until it was too late and there were bodies in the ground. Even with the amount of fortunes given to him by his father, his mind stayed painfully clear and aware of his business. It was like he couldn't shift. No matter what his father would try, in these moments, these nights, would do nothing to change his distaste for his father's business, a youngster who wanted to be better. That was John at the start. The hurt of being forced in this life was a constant reminder of a horror that dared to stain and puncture his mind. He didn't ask for this. Expectations were forced upon him and John couldn't rebel against it. John could tell that what he said didn't sit well with his father, his attempts to ignore a destined path. And his friends certainly didn't blame John for feeling that way. For a few hours, all he could think about was leaving without a word. He was trapped, he desired to get everything and run for the hills, in hopes that it would lead him to a more prosperous life. It wasn't like him to stay and become a part of his father's empire, a part of his ruthless life. But his father's ruthless drilling about the importance of a legacy were like sickly black vines that had crawled their way into his chest and tangled into his heart. The feeling of abandoning his family would melt John's core, even if he desired it the most. He couldn't abandon his father. A horrific fate that he would have to abandon others in the future. Flight and fleeing were put in his head, but the thoughts were never planned forward, and were immediately thrown into the gutters. Those were his last thoughts of leaving, his last true desire, and with a deep exhale, John gathered himself and rose from his seat, and accepted a position in his father's business escapades. Caught in a tangle of vines that would follow him forever. <1977> The night moved along his fine, wire - a thin boundary of being just too cold for him. Vapour wisps from the nostrils of the exhaust pipes of every car. Only the brightest of the stars could be seen to him, like buttons stringed upon the coal fabric of the midnight sky; the city lights are dimmed here. Everything was dimmer. John couldn't decide whether he likes it better that way. One thing was for sure; he loathes all of it. A grey, miserable shadow loomed over the bright landscape of New York, even taller than the tallest skyscrapers, more formidable than any capo. And with all of this came starvation, desperation, and the cold ruthlessness that surviving here required. He was planning to start his preparations early this dark year, setting up the chess board before his fingers freeze, burning names into his bullets while his fire was still piping hot. Why else would he be in this abandoned shithole? The metal door to the brick building, leading into the grimy alleyway, opened with a squeak. Warm, yellow light graced the puddles of squalor just before it shrunk down to silver. A man has emerged. John roused from his perch and closed the distance, stepping in line beside him. "You've got what I wanted, no?" He says pointedly. "I've not had a chance to see all of that Heroin. I apologise." "Gasparino," he says his own name, introducing himself to the man delivering. Italian names are mellifluous and satisfying in their rhythm, as if crafted from instruments. They rolled off the tongue like arias. However, he knows that, in his line of business, the mark of an Italian name is not in its sonority, but rather the weight it carries. The momentum of the name Gasparino stretched across the east coast; it might as well have been branded, cauterised upon the wooden crates holding gallons upon gallons of illegal liquor. But he was after the drug trade, this time. Sounds of life still echoed across this city, but this neck of the wood has all but quieted. Fire escapes climbing up the side of the bleak buildings like vines. Most of the lights in nearby apartments are off, but a few lingered on, betraying the shadows of the tenants like a shadow puppet. Further down the street, to the east, clouds of smoke still drift up into the night sky. "This all of it, no?" He knows that his supply was secured. However, some level of caution was required, and he came across as bordering on paranoia. When he says that, it was meant to confuse and muddle with the man and he would come soon to know it. There was little to be said between them. John possesses a keen brutality for causing doubt in other's mind and it was something very few had gained; he might have let the man go on his way but he had something to say, this man was jittery in his movements, and John noticed it. "This your first time, huh? Dealin' with shipments, no?" He says. Planting the seed of a sparked conversation. He can't help notice the small smile that flits across the other man's lips. He, too, once was a youngster like him. John was young when he was taught, by his father, that, though young men came to this business, very few made it out alive. This landscape was a tournament between the Italians, the all Americans, the Irish, the Germans, the Chinese, anyone who was brutal enough to lay a claim for America. It was neo - colonialism, almost, like the Dutch, English, French, and Spanish battling for land back before America's conception. Logistically, what a silly thing it is to all come to the same place for the same reason, and then be so unfriendly and harsh. Business is business, however, and he was as friendly or unfriendly as his profit and power dictated, per the American dream. John casually moved closer. It's a simple business choice that would occur normally within the boundaries of New York and, for a moment, he realised that the world is bigger than buying plots of land and getting police officers bribed and drunk of absinthe. He turned back for a moment as his teeth drag over his lower lip as a bullet is slotted into the chamber of his gun. It was quiet... done with care. "How old are you, huh?" The youngster just managed to utter a response. Regardless of the intense fear, he was still a brave youngster. "Seventeen, sir." John's weapon briefly raised up, his back still turned. His gun brushing against his side as he lowered it once more. Tone stern, there was a hint of underlying threat as his voice changed. "That's good, kid." He turned the aim of his gun onto the youngster before killing him with that bullet. His thin fingers unwrapped around his gun as he lowered it back onto the table, completely uncaring of the dead corpse next to him. His eyes settled on the corpse, taking in every detail of his face, every feature on his face. He wanted to remember every detail of his face, every line. He wanted to remember because that was what he did, if he couldn't remember all of those who he killed, he would be swallowed in a pit. He raised his glass up to his parted lips, he let the liquid burn a slow, agonising path down his throat. The fire of his drink reminded him that he just killed a youngster. Business was business. He couldn't turn down the deal with his other business partner. He wanted to raise up in the hierarchy with his entire heart, body, soul, and mind. He knew that his other partner wanted it too. That's what made their relationship so dangerous, so deplorable. Both wanted this, but they could've walked away. They had a true passion. Through the downing of the intoxicating liquid and closing his deal, the man couldn't help but find himself setting his empty glass on the table. It clinked against the wood ever so quietly, with even his breathing down to a minimal volume, and it wasn't long until his vision was blurred. His men came forward to him and were waiting for him to conduct the start of a war. "I'd like to put Mayor Kevlan out of commission, to start," he says, as chewed on a match stick. Contrary to what a great deal of people believed, John has a political agenda beyond what most would think. It makes people, even his own subsidiaries, uncomfortable to think of him having a hand in the political arena. John cared little for their thoughts, as some of his biggest customers are elected officials. He had little respect for the Mayor. His word is mediocre and pandering to the ocean rather than what he was charged with. He bumbles through speeches and address with a foolishness that is nearly unbearable to him. And who employed Mayor Kevlan? His rival. This was just another wall that he wished to break down. What was their plan? His business partner and himself got their rival to sell several shipments of Heroin, before, pulling a literal trigger and killing the deliverers and refusing payment to their rival. In essence, they royally fucked him. The sparks of a war was ignited and the victors would be the ones who could pull the most strings. >Time Skip< Men were stubborn. And John was no exception. In fact, he was the prime example. This conflict of his went on his brain and it was played out for years to come like a picture show. None of his men was aware of his thoughts, but he was silently thinking. His men could see what this war was doing to him. John's eyes flickering to something else in the room. "Gimme the phone." Bringing a cigarette back to his lips. It was burning rather quickly, perhaps more than expected, but it was on such an occasion that time slipped away, and he found himself sucking at the dying end of a cancer stick. He went to ring and the few moments would be hard, heavy, like a weight on his shoulders that was dragging him towards the earth. He was stuck in his chair by an unseen force, and his clarity was evident. "Your partner sends his regards." The line to his phone was cut. His chest was on fire, the very thought of him being killed was burning him from the inside out. It brought colour to his pale face, bringing life to every inch of his skin as his men loaded their guns in response to that, his breathing was constricting in fear. Before replacing that with a swig of rum. A soft amber haze of liquid poured down his throat, ensuring his focus. He couldn't believe it, that he was betrayed by his own business partner. His own partner joining with the man they wished to squash? Music playing in the background of this chaos. All hail the king, The holy one, The broken son. Take this boy, Set him free, For his restless heart Will never let him be Home. Layers upon layers of gunfire were fired from overhead, and like a war-zone, he felt his men dropping like flies, mutilated skin clashing onto the floor. There was no stopping this bloodbath once it happened; the stench of blood that overcame his warehouse like a butcher shop. Slowly, he would run away from the battle, his fear for his life reminded him that he was still human but a terrible man; but he would move onward, for he knew his power was squashed by his partner in one quick swoop. John's escape would always torment his rivals for years to come - John had retired himself to his family, knowing that this life was going to chew him up. That was his wake-up call. All of John's history as a Boss were consigned to history and forever forgotten. He operated on a false identity for the rest of his life. <Outbreak> Like lightning, the touch of the infected spread to his location like wildfire. His house in Washington was eventually hoarded with the cries of the infected. His everything was in his house, and with a strong hand and will, John who was meant to attend a funeral, was completely obstructed. Standing up to his full height, he peered through the window and his eyes dared to freeze at the sights. There was no secret, he was fucked. From nearly all angles, these things were rotted creatures that plagued this area. He didn't know what they were, but he wasn't going to fuck with them. He took off with his family, and went for the back. They met a complication. The infected were right behind all of them. John was the closest one to leaping over his fence. He had to watch as his family were anchored from him and his gaze shifted backwards in sight, pulling himself over the fence. There was nothing he could do. His will to survive was that strong... he didn't have time for tears. In John's mind, this was his punishment from God. Hysteria littered the entire streets and this infection just kept spreading, and it seemed clear to him that the soldiers couldn't handle the situation. It was a miasma of human corruption and the dead walking among us all. John did not leech to the safety of the military, but struggled on the sweat of his own brow. He managed to find the weapons of two rednecks who were literally mauled to death and their guts hanging out like sausages. His recent findings made him come into contact with a group who jokingly laughed at him looking like an Italian Mobster. What they didn't realise was that he was one. For two years he kept this secret; a man who would impart wisdom on the group of misfits who were with him. He thought of these people like a new family; but some split away from the group due to grievances over the equal distribution of food. Those who continued with John were about to find their fortunes to be crushed. One after the other, he unloaded a bullet into the back of their heads as he was walking with them. During a walk. Why did John commit this crime? It was in his blood and he couldn't escape the past that haunted him. It took over his mind; he could've took all of their supplies for himself. Despite him declaring them as a new family, it was greed that motivated him to do so. This man was a killer at heart. Only by himself admitting what he was would allow him to get what he wanted. For a long period of time; he was alone. Forced to fend for himself, but, his relentless knack for survival made him great in these places. Even with old age creeping up to him. His luck turned sour in the end, and he didn't have anymore cards to play. Out of options and in desperation, John searched for what he knew as a rumour. He wanted to find this haven, despite believing for it to be a bunch of bullshit. That was his only hope. This man's hardship turned him into an even greater killer than one would imagine. A man haunted by his past. Finer words were never said.