Steam Name: banned for being smart Steam ID: STEAM_0:0:8810525 Steam Profile Link: https://steamcommunity.com/id/liquiddietpepsiman/ 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.
