Character Relationship Status
Talent agent, liar, low down good fer nothin' take yer pick. Sunglasses became funhouse mirrors, nearby bodies that shouldah-wouldah-couldah been enjoying their own reflection looked messy, collapsing inwards from the single brush of his fingertip. Carrying that top dollar merch further up the ridge of his nose, he came to a complete stop at the risk of some friendly fire from his oncoming middle finger. Why waste away in a place like this? Vince was taking full advantage of the break in his day. Still, he looked old enough to know butter, but the problem he had with his leg wasn't a run of awful luck because of some femme fatale. Shit, on second thought, didn't every mother fucker out their name their gun after some bitch? Regardless, smoke is taxing, especially to a body that survive the worst of it. Don't matter if you've been immune to grayed clouds since you was born. How many folks out there have passed on from too much of a good thang? Your local shithole had been trying to drown him in it, from first hand to second hand, all for that one lingering desire to see Tim Tebow get his ass sacked on the sometimes fizzling in and out television set. The one light house in a room full of fog, it got his eyes aching until that one big moment that made him smile as though though he was proud. "Hahahaha..ahh, yea' little shit. Keep yer face in the dirt, boy. All he does is win.. my ass" Did Vince have an axe to grind with him? No, you just aren't truly living unless you've enjoyed the misfortune of others, that's a fact. What actually burnt him the most was how some [MILF].. sorta, had gotten in his way. Fake jugs saw him as easy prey and intentionally shoved a [7.8] in front of an all [UMERICAN] judge who had definitely enjoyed himself a perfect  before. Each letter [censored] until it was absolutely necessary for him to respond in kind, like he put an thought into what he just caught her asking. "Did you look at my photos? I used my best side like you told me to--" "I'm busy sweetheart, how about a refill?" He knew that look, that [you just squashed my dreams under your boot, here's my spit in your drink when I get back] look. So while she was off to do the deed and provide a fake smile whenever she decided to get her ass back to work, Vince realized the error of his ways and all he could do is mumble off screen.
Strip joints, bars, diners, hotels.
When it Rains it Pours.. back in my day.... "One Mississippi .. Two Mississippi .. " It was cold as the dickens out, the poor fool down on his hands and knees currently praying to God in front of the leaning tower of a man Vince was, now he had the worst of it. The barrel of Vince's handgun pressed against the side of his skull, still waiting for answers that weren't coming quickly enough during the sudden downpour. Unless he was praying for rain, God wasn't giving him jack shit and despite how amusing it was, it left Vince feeling exposed. The shakes were coming, like he'd gone without a smoke for a couple days or so and judging by the smoke oozing out from his choice brand tucked between his lips, that most certainly wasn't the case. With the trigger discipline in him starting to fade, he had fewer and fewer choices left and it was getting to him. Useless words like right and wrong come at you in a rush, how far you're willing to go to heal a more than bruised ego, that blatant disregard for human life. All he was doing was holding up a scared little man, but he had a name and more that made it worth the risk. Droplets beading down gloved digits like sweat, a steady aim now inspired by years of gloried vengeance from his favorite exploitation flicks. A justified nudge that scraped the muzzle of the gun in a painful way going down a now God fearing man's cheek spoke volumes. Ain't gonna lie, a gun in your hand an' a little know-how, it makes you feel alive again. Vince's ol' man, he used to say that bitterness is fer the weak, but when you got who wronged you coughing up buckshot, you don't feel weak at all. "Yea' gonna tell me wha' I need to know? It's real cold out .. I haven't got all fuckin' day .." Then it all came crumbling down soon as Vince spat that cigarette from his mouth. It bounced off the ground like a shell casing, brought back less than fond memories, now there ain't coming back from that. The roll it performed across the ground, it was seriously lacking in fireworks, now that would have been quite the sendoff if it wasn't for the drizzle from above. That was a long time ago...I'm older, an' wiser now....an' on top of that, the trail went dry. Some would call those troubling times a fucking nightmare, but when he thought about what he had done and the chunk of pain that seemed to melt right off of him after he buried all that baggage out in the desert, it was worth it. Hollyweird was just as dangerous anyways, backstabbing, lying, no good--his kind of place. There was a reason he told his pops he was going off to enjoy that big city livin', you should have seen the look on his face, he honestly thought his boy was going to stick around and form a local militia or some shit, protect the people from big guvment. Don't matter none, even if he went back with his tail between his legs, he'd bring that limp along with him, not to mention that chip on his shoulder kept growing over the years. He's an old man now, it don't matter if he's taking his sweet ol' time to recognize it now. Red carpets, legit and often shady deals done under the table, that was his life now, believe that.
Marskman Concealed Carry Smooth Talker
Writer's Writing Style (OOC)
Writer's Favored Genres (OOC)
Realistic, Rated R, 18+, Action