Post by PUCK MASTERS. on Oct 14, 2009 23:47:47 GMT -5
{ I CAN'T FEEL MY SENSES }
name :: Robert “Puck” Michael Masters
age :: twenty-one (actually sixty-three)
gender :: male
{ I JUST FEEL THE COLD }
height :: 5'8”
weight :: 140 lbs.
hair :: black
skin :: pinkish-pale and nearly flawless
clothing style :: t-shirt and jeans regularly; other attire includes more unorthodox garb such as drag and various costumes.
tattoos or scars :: none
other distinguishing features :: huge, deep, brown eyes with long black lashes. Giant-ass eyebrows.
{ ALL COLORS SEEM TO FADE AWAY }
powers :: Puck can manipulate flawlessly with his eyes; people will do whatever he wants them to do if he gives them the proper look. He ferries the righteous dead from Earth to Heaven.
lifespan :: immortal (he's already died once xD)
faction :: impartial
race :: angel
other interesting abilities/talents :: He floats just slightly; his rump never quite touches his seat – it's not very noticeable but it'll make you look twice. He can also become transparent, invisible, and enter dreams.
{ I CAN'T REACH MY SOUL }
likes ::
brothels
blondes
hotels
the tuba
the drums
rock 'n roll
the Beach Boys
surf music
music in general
making people laugh
a challenge
oddities
Courvoisier brandy
amphetamines
dislikes ::
injustice
party poopers
cops
pot
American Top Forty with Ryan Seacrest
Ryan Seacrest in general
losing
being responsible
being alone
debt
people with bad hair
detox
fears ::
being abandoned
growing up
dreams ::
to participate in the world's first tensome
to explore Antarctica
to get discovered as a drummer
quirks :: EVERYTHING.
walks around at home in his underwear
sucks his thumb when deeply asleep
occasionally dresses in costumes and drag for effect
general personality :: Puck is a funny bugger. He’s incredibly perverted, I’d say he’s made of about ½ Glenn Quagmire; he’s a man-whore, but he’s not a sleaze. He’s actually quite adorable while being a ho, which makes it pretty much okay. He’s very outgoing, charismatic and friendly; he has a tendency to be boisterous and flamboyant. He absolutely adores attention, he craves it, and seeks it whenever possible, even if not appropriate. He’s a party boy; he LOVES to go wild, destroy things, binge drink, experiment with various drugs, cook with ingredients that you’d usually deep inedible, hire a flavored stripper – but never alone. When alone (if he doesn’t get up and seek out company), he tends to focus on his music. Puck adores his drums and is extremely talented, and oddly (but not surprisingly) he also loves his tuba (his drum kit is named Versailles, his tuba is Clarence). Puck has an affinity for the odd and rare; he has in his possession a shrunken head named Steven, a dried scorpion named Reginald, and three Venus flytraps named Feed, Me and Seymour. He likes to take all kinds of pictures of weird things with his Polaroid camera. The more serious side of Puck is almost dark. His alcoholism is no longer a life-and-death issue seeing as he's immortal, but it and his use of amphetamines have caused some terrible situations to occur. He gets very possessive over women he loves, often provoked to serious anger and domestic violence if provoked while drunk. He's not a bigot, but he does enjoy smashing images; he's dressed up as a Hitler and gone out heiling in public for the amusement of friends. The only thing that keeps him in God's graces is his true good nature; he does nothing in cold blood and is basically a six year old.
other informative facts :: Puck is straight. He tried kissing a man once, decided he didn't like it.
{ I WOULD STOP RUNNING }
mother :: Genevieve Masters nee. Richardson
father :: Robert F. Masters
siblings :: Catherine Masters
other relatives ::
hometown :: Wembley, London, England
history ::
was born Robert Michael Masters on August 26th, 1946
was nicknamed Puck after the mischievous fairy in Shakespeare's “A Midsummer Night's Dream” by his elder sister Cathy, whom he was very close to. The name stuck with everyone who met him except for his mother who still called him Bobby and his father who called him boy.
shuffled around holiday camps all his childhood by workaholic parents, fell in with the mod crowd of the late 50's and early 60's and took up brandy and amphetamines.
failed his 11-plus and dropped out of school at age 15 to pursue a music career on the drums, which he discovered he was rather good at playing.
played the drums with a small, not very serious cover band and partied his brains out.
literally partied his best friend Sean Nolan's brains out; during a riot between the mods and the punks the young men joined in with the mods, throwing objects and punches toward the punks; however the objects got larger and larger and the mob got more and more violent. Puck and Sean clambered to Puck's Volkswagen bus to escape – the punks saw them and began completely mobbing the bus, blocking their exit. Despite Puck's discouraging Sean got out to fend them off. Suddenly they began pelting the bus with sharp things and prying the doors open; Puck (still to this day without a legal driver's license) panicked and floored it, knocking the crowd over like duckpins and barreling down the road to escape. He found out that Sean Nolan had been shoved under the car, and he had run over and killed his best friend. He plead guilty in court of manslaughter and driving without a license, however he was let off with minimal punishment due to Sean's family pressing no charges and the fact that although he had been entirely over the legal blood alcohol level he had not planned to drink and drive – Sean was the designated driver with a legal license. He was severely depressed, drank and used harder than ever and was eventually forced to go into a painful detox at nineteen years old. He still has never forgiven himself for his friend's death.
A year after the riot incident Cathy, now a 26-year-old librarian, somehow ended up pregnant out of wedlock. Puck was never keen on the boyfriend, but Cathy dismissed it as protective little brother syndrome. However that opinion changed when there were death threats made against the boyfriend (Joseph Waters) when she told Puck she was pregnant.
The baby, Joey, was born – Puck immediately fell in love with his nephew and played the most willing – almost gleeful – mother's helper you ever saw despite the fact that he was a twenty-one year old man. He even cleaned up and got his speed out of the house in case they posed hazards to the baby. However, his brandy was still prominent and Cathy had to lock him out when he was drunk.
On the eve of Joey's first birthday, Puck and Cathy were about business as usual when there came a surprise guest – Joey's father, Joseph Waters. He wanted cash from Cathy, and had her pinned at gunpoint into a corner with her holding her son. Puck was coming out of the bathroom when he saw the scene; he came at Waters with his own pistol and backed him against the front door, both of them shouting names and profanities at each other. Waters promised to leave if Puck put his gun down and backed away from him. Puck obliged, and Waters made a move to leave – but at the last second he pivoted and aimed a shot right at Cathy with Joey in the path. Puck didn't have time to think. How could he? The bullet would have been between the baby's eyes and through the woman's neck in less than a second. He threw himself in front of his nephew and sister and was shot fatally in the chest.
He woke up. It was very white and very bright. After a lot of explaining from a rather interesting man, he was aware that he was in Heaven – and having a conversation with God. Despite the fact that he was a terrible sinner, his completely selfless sacrifice to save an innocent woman and a baby had earned him a place among the ranks of the angels. He was given the duty of escorting the deserving dead to Heaven.
He's wandered aimlessly doing odd jobs and playing drums with whoever will take him, doing his divine duty wherever needed. His sister knows of his existence as an agent of God and he has visited her (now 70 years old). He's been around to see Joey, now married and with children, but has never explained himself – just a hello that Joey took to be a polite stranger's.
He found his way to Shadowland after a brief stint as a drummer for a club band in New York City. He likes it here with the other oddballs.
other historical revelations :: He ferried a rather famous soul, a young man at the Woodstock festival in 1969 who had been run over by a tractor while sleeping (Puck had gone to Woodstock for the music and just happened to be there).
{ IF I KNEW THERE WAS A CHANCE }
ooc name :: umber
rp expirience :: five years
how did you find SL? :: CI
rp example ::
Math is easier to do when you equate it with something you like.
5 (various stimulants) + 1 ½ (bottles of Courvoisier) + 1 (bottle of champagne) =
Sticks rolling frantically across the tom-tom so fast it was hard to hear the spaces between if there even were any, pulse, pulse, pulse, it was there, in the wrist, in the thumb, on the neck, in the heart, on the drums, thump, thump, thump, thumpa thumpa thump, the bass drum the heart of the set, the heart of the man, the heart of the boy, irregular, spastic, sped and spurred completely and irrevocably out of control, boom, boom, boom, you touched the skin of any one of these drums and you’d burn yourself, no exaggeration ladies and gentleman, touch ‘em yourself; these people like loud noise, these people like destruction, that’s why they’re bleedin’ here! Pace, pace? There was no pace! Pace was lost this morning with five uppers shoved dry down the esophagus; short show, only a few minutes until it ends, people have short attention spans (including the performer) and no one wants to be subjected to this kind of loudness and wildness for too long, even the diehard people who really are looking forward to going deaf; because they don’t want to hear any more of the crap that’s said all around them, they want to be able to tune it out without even trying; it’s a wonder the drummer’s not bloody deaf with all this noise he’s making with the drums right next to his ears! But at the time, he is deaf; deaf, dumb, blind, he’d be a pinball wizard if he weren’t completely numb as well! Pump, pump, pump, bass drum, heart, CRASH, the cymbals, the brains of the operation, being beaten to a pulp with sticks, with drugs, with drink, with cymbals, the brains, beaten to a pulp, and the circle never really ends, the room’s a circle, the whole damn world’s a circle, and it’s in that direction that it spins, so fast, so very, very fast, can’t catch half the things going on because it passes by too quick; why won’t it just slow down –
A TENNIS RACKET!
Where had he put that racket; where had it gone off to, he’d been thinking about it (not really) and he couldn’t remember for the life of him where he’d put that tennis racket; he’d never destroyed a kit with a tennis racket before and he figured he’d give the audience something new (that was when he was still in the right mind to figure things) but he couldn’t stop drumming, really couldn’t, his arms would not stop moving, and his brain hadn’t the control to stop them, his heart was not in his body, it was in those drums, and his brain being French fried, it couldn’t make that heart beat; so his arms had to do it, those sticks had to do it, and they were all doing a very fine job. So Puck decided (we’ll say he ‘decided’ for the sake of not having a better word) to simply smile that huge grin, that mouth that belonged on a boy of ten, that radiant beam with a glint of mischief that even prevailed to shine bright through the fog of substance – at the big red button next to the bass pedal.
That big red button, that would go boom. Boom!
But wouldn’t the bass drum go boom too?
That was confusing.
Unconsciously continuing to beat the living excrement out of those drums (which goes to show something; and that something is all in perspective; some people may think it goes to show the madness, drunkenness; few like to think it goes to show the talent within this 5’8” man-boy, but that it what it does, in fact, truly, go to show), he began to think about the sounds he made; he including the drums because there is and was no dispute that the drums were an extra few body parts for Puck when he needed transplants, as he needed an extra heart and an extra brain on this occasion.
His heart went boom; or did it go thud? Or did it go badum-badum, an uncommon onomatopoeia, but it really did seem to fit. In Puck’s current mindset, two things could not possibly make the same sound; an explosive and a bass drum and a heart could not make the same sound; the bass drum and the heart were plausible, but an explosive making the same sound as a heart would equate a rupture, would equate…
Death.
Puck’s eyes went wide and he jammed his foot desperately into the big red button.
All was shrouded in smoke, that was all Puck knew. His ears had been overthrown by white noise, his body had been thrusted backward. Newton’s third law; he knew that! He knew that one. He wasn’t stupid. People thought he was stupid; he wasn’t stupid (in fact he was incredibly smart; as smart as he was unwise). He’d failed his 11-plus because he couldn’t focus. Those subjects wouldn’t hold him! He was too big for that, he knew! He was too big for a school. It couldn’t hold him. It didn’t hold him. But apparently a circus could.
In a small window of sobriety, amongst the smog, and the temporary deafness, he asked himself. “Why am I a sideshow?”
He also answered himself. “Because everyone likes to see something blow up once in awhile.” Keywords: once in awhile.
His act was not the average circus act. You go to the circus, you expect clowns, jugglers, acrobats, stuntmen, animal tamers, unicyclists – not a literally explosive drum solo. Puck prided himself on that; that his act was unique, he had something that no one else had to offer to Mr. Fontaine; his act was placed under “Miscellaneous” and his chest had swelled; he was the only one there, he was the only person who could ever do what he was able to do! He knew how to throw knives incredibly accurately; he could have joined the circus with that more common talent. But no – he decided he wanted to play his drums. His heart. His substitute brain.
But now it made him shrink; the insignificant feeling creeping its clammy fingers up his body, regret swelling his throat, making it difficult to breathe; making him wish to Jesus that he could go back and have instead asked Mr. Fontaine if he could throw his bloody knives, be a normal circus act, to belong! He felt he didn’t belong! His act belonged in an amphitheater opening for a rock band, not in a traditional three-ring circus!
Other people felt that way to, he knew, he knew, he just knew it! They either ignored him or looked at him wondering why he was here; and Puck didn’t know what was worse! He resolved, he’d resolved it just then and there, next person he caught looking at him (which was anyone who wasn’t ignoring him, he knew) he’d ask them what they were looking at, why they were looking at him, what they were thinking about him, why they didn’t think he belonged there; what it was to them. He’d resolved.
60 seconds had passed since the explosion.
Puck hoisted himself up; dusted himself off, and with his hands sticking slightly to his unsurprisingly sweat-soaked t-shirt, he put on his happy face and strode up to his decimated drum set; put one foot on the rim of the toppled bass drum in Captain Morgan fashion, grabbed a cymbal and tossed it into the crowd like a Frisbee, and with his chin held high, he bellowed a slurred imitation of aristocracy: “THANK YOU MONTREAL.”
He knew damn well he was in Topeka.
