Vinny
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Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Feb 10, 2013 14:15:46 GMT -5
I'm on my tablet so excuse the brevity and the lack on usual disclaimer.
I just read through all the Blayze RPs after going through this thread. Here's my thoughts:
- I like the idea of a not-so serious character who thinks he's God's gift to women. It's a gimmick with s lot of legs.
- My only problem is that in reading the RPs sequentially it seems like that sort of carefree attitude got lost. Blayze seems to be getting more and more serious.
- He also seems to be becoming more of a heel. He swears. A lot. He refers to women as "bitches," and his ladykiller gimmick seems to be edging more and more towards outright misogyny.
- There's not a lot of variety to the RPs. Blayze is always being shot from the waist up and there's not a lot of depth to his surroundings. He doesn't need to be a deep, multidimensional character, but it would help to give him some real surroundings or situations to interact with to avoid getting stale.
That's all I got so far. Sorry that I can't go into more depth, especially on the positives, because I think the character has a lot of potential.
- V
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Vinny
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Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Feb 10, 2013 12:17:51 GMT -5
Fuckin aye, man. I've missed reading your stuff. I feel like this Malcolm Drake character is some of your best writing, and I'm liking him more than Patrick McCarthy. Drake definitely comes across as a heel. Your writing is excellent. I wish you never left the game, you big jerkface. Your character is legitimately one of the few I look forward to reading each time something new is posted. I can't say anything bad, save for the fact that your stuff is too short for me. I want more. Won't be long until you're atop the Mountain, mang. Thanks, Bondo! I've very much become a booster for "less is more." I try to limit what I say so I don't run out of shit to say. Quality over quantity, like we all like to say (and used to pretend was true).
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Vinny
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Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Feb 9, 2013 0:10:35 GMT -5
Like I said in the other thread, the only issue I have with Corella is his lack of conviction and focus. He needs to stick to something and ride it out instead of changing himself and his gimmick every five minutes
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Vinny
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Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Feb 8, 2013 23:26:45 GMT -5
I liked it, but I wanted more. I've been out of the loop on account of dropping off the grid and all so I didn't know Pooler was facing Bomber until I read Ry-Guy's comment above. I didn't know who Oliver was. It might just be me, but I like each RP/promo to stand on its own if possible. I thought it was good at explaining the back story but I didn't really get any full sense of who Bob is or why he is so pissed at Oliver.
I think Bob has his voice down, but I don't think we have enough idea of who Bob is yet.
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Vinny
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Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Feb 8, 2013 22:59:53 GMT -5
Just caught up on all my Dom Harter reading. My suspicions were confirmed: Ben is the best writer in this game. Period.
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Vinny
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Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Feb 8, 2013 18:41:36 GMT -5
Better late than never, right? My RP, Everything In Its Time and Place, is FINALLY up. I want to thank Terr and Ryan again for the extended deadline. This fucking Nemo storm has fucked up everything for me. I'm glad I could manage to squeeze this RP in. Thanks again, all. - Vinny
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Vinny
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Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Feb 8, 2013 18:39:02 GMT -5
OOC: Huge thanks to Terr and to Ryan Kidd for letting me have an extended deadline. I was in Colorado with my dad and brother for vacation and all of sudden Boston is about to get hit with a huge storm, so I'm stranded in Denver for the foreseeable future. I'm only able to type this because my dad and bro went for a walk and I have my brother's computer for a moment. Thanks again to everyone for being so understanding. Peace - Vinny
A light snow begins to fall over 62 Pier St. in New York City, New York as the first vestiges of Winter Storm Nemo make themselves known. At 62 Pier St., surrounded and sequesterd by an eight-foot-high chain-link fence, is the 62 Pier Skateboard Park. The park is empty save for the unoccupied quarter-pipes, ramps and rails, all slowly donning a thin layer of bright white snow.
From along Pier St. a man in a black trenchcoat, that ends just past his knees, approaches the skatepark. A dark grey hood from a concealed sweatshirt covers his head and hangs down over his brow. His heavy black combat boots scrape and scuttle along the snowy pavement, kicking flecks of new-fallen snow onto the lower hem of his jeans. As the man approaches the fence around the park, he removes his hands from his pockets and intertwines his fingers through the cold metal of the chain-link fence. As the wind picks up, strands of dirty blond hair wisp around the hooded man's cloaked face. A thin smile draws across the man's lips as he watches the snow trickle down, slowly burying the skatepark in pristine white.
"Everything," his voice croaks in a slightly-above-hushed tone, "... has its time and its place."
Malcolm Drake pushes the hood back off his face and runs a hand through his matted hair before returning it to the fence.
"In warmer, happier days this... skatepark would be full of youthful EXURBERANCE and care-free 'adrenaline junkies' looking... for their next high. I'm no stranger to junkies... But the winter storms have come, and the time for skater punks has ended. YOUR time has ended, Ryan Kidd. Your little reign as the golden boy of FGA is approaching its twilight. Your winter... is coming. And with it comes DESTITUTION and DECAY and DEATH. The storms will steal the life from you and leave only bones to be PICKED by those horrible crows you have grown to fear."
Drake shakes his head violently, like a dog, ridding his hair of its thin coating of snow.
"For it is in the time of winter that the creatures of darkness reign supreme, and COWARDS... like you... flee back to their sunny So-Cal sanctuaries. You cower and run like the fakes and frauds that you are and all that remains of you..."
Drake removes a hand from the fence and indicates the empty skatepark with a wide sweeping gesticulation.
"...are testaments to your cowardice and fleeting grandeur. You, Ryan Kidd, are EVERYTHING that I despise. You are a mirror of all that is wrong with professional wrestling and all that is wrong with society. You are everything the Murder seeks to - and will soon - eradicate. You court danger and never expect the CONSEQUENCES to catch up with you. Oh... but they have."
"You are a sun-kissed maggot who FEASTS on the impressionable minds of idiotic youth. You spawn legions of lemmings looking to be the next Tony Hawk or Ryan Kidd. You infect the world with your ilk. You are shamelessly fake. You treat men... or rather BOYS... like AJ Fairchild as your friend until they no longer serve your purpose. Then you cower and hide your failures behind your paper-thin excuses and your plastic-filled slut. You are a fake idol. A golden idolatry. Your the kind of counter-culture rebellion they sell at Hot Topic and Walmart under flashing banners. Ryan Kidd: HERO, ICON, FRAUD."
Drake slams his open palm against the chain-link fence causing it to rattle and shake off the accumulated snow.
"Can't you feel the end approaching, Ryan? You've already lost your previous UWL International title. You'll soon lose any shot you ever had at the FGA Heavyweight championship. And when that happens what will you have left? What is left of the false god when all his followers have deserted him? NOTHING. You are NOTHING more than another VICTIM, another sacrificial lamb, another phony god left as an offering before the Godkiller."
Drake pulls his hands from the fence, now red and raw from the cold metal and begins tugging at his hair with seemingly gleeful disregard.
"You know the Truth. You know that I bring the Truth. That creeping feeling in the pit of your stomach; that nagging thought in the back of your mind; the voice that says you can't do it, that you suck, that you're washed up... That's not self-doubt, Ryan. No. It's the Truth. You know it and you cannot bring yourself to ACCEPT IT!"
His shoulders start shuttering and Drake breaks into a fit of hysterical laughter, falling to his knees in the snow. He clutches at his ribs before eventually stopping. Drake slowly crawls forward leaving a trail of black pavement in the pure white snow.
"The Truth is inescapable, Ryan. You can run to Orlando, you can run to Long Beach, you can run anywhere... but the Truth will hunt you down. Hide all you want behind your SLUT and hide all you want behind your FALSE bravado. It makes no difference to me. It makes no difference to me that I am being USED as Fairchild's golem, because when the history is written no one will say that it was AJ Fairchuld that ended Ryan Kidd's career. No one will say it was Gunner Hughes that broke Ryan Kidd's spirit. No... To use the Latin phrase you mocking co-opted they will say of Ryan Kidd: 'venit,' he came; 'vidit,' he saw; 'victus,' he WAS conquered. All that is left now... is to make it so..."
Drake pulls himself to his feet, dripping and covered in snow, with a slithering path left behind him through the blank, pure white canvas of snow.
"Memento MORI."
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Vinny
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Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Jan 25, 2013 13:38:09 GMT -5
there's a little Crow standing where he sat, which flies off into the sky. I may need to steal that. It's a little more supernatural than I usually do but I like the image.
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Vinny
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Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Jan 24, 2013 20:41:54 GMT -5
It's shorter than a midget with his legs cut off, but Apotheosis is up. So if you feel inclined to read it and have any comments, please have at. Thanks as always, - Vinny
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Vinny
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Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Jan 24, 2013 20:40:18 GMT -5
OOC: Sorry about the brevity/shittiness of this RP. I got stuck at work and actually PMed Terr saying I was gonna no show. I made it back to my hotel room in time to post SOMETHING. Unfortunately, it's not up to my usual standards and for that I apologize.
The the wind howls and bites into exposed flesh like a ravenous animal hungry for its next meal. The New England winter is mercilessly cold. Those who can take shelter where they can, ducking into alcoves, slipping into buildings, and pulling up any piece of fabric that can cover them.
Amidst the huddled, frigid masses waiting at a bus stop in Plymouth, Massachusetts is Malcolm Drake. Those around him tuck expensive scarves into expensive overcoats and slide expensive gloves into the pockets of expensive pants. But Drake sits in the corner of the bus stop, his arms wrapped around his knees and his face buried into his thighs with a woolen blanket draped over his body. The only visible part of him is his eyes, which cast darting, hateful glances at the commuters that load on and off the buses.
In a puff of steam from his mouth, Drake speaks.
"Apotheosis," he says, "is the idea that an individual can be raised to godlike stature. When Hercules completed his labors he became a demigod. An immortal mortal. A God among men."
Drake smirks that the moniker that once belonged to Alistair Mangold.
"There is another famous myth from antiquity. That of Icarus, who flew to close to the sun out of arrogance and hubris and DIED because of it. Apotheosis is the idea of a man becoming immortal... Do you know what they call it when a God becomes mortal? When a God is slain?"
Drake pauses for a long moment as if awaiting an answer.
"No. You don't. Because such a concept DOESN'T exist. Because no GOD has ever DIED. Until... until two weeks ago when I, Malcolm Drake, KILLED the God Among Men. I, alone, ended the career of Alistair Mangold. I did something so unprecedented there isn't even a WORD in our language to describe it. Hmmmm. Well that is just the first in a long line of unprecedented feats that I intend to accomplish. The next of which... is becoming the precious PURE wrestling champion of FGA. And I take my next step toward that goal as part of the double-shot weekend when I take on Tony Edison and Bob Pooler."
Drake shivers against the cold and temporarily covers himself up to shield himself from the wind.
"Do you know what I have to say to Edison and Pooler, hmmm? Nothing. NOTHING. Because there is nothing I NEED to say, and despite what pundits and critics might say about me I don't just talk, talk, TALK, talk, talk to hear the sound of my own voice. No. The Murder only makes noise when noise needs making. This week, in Plymouth, Massachusetts, I will do my speaking in the ring. I will EVISCERATE Tony Edison and Bob Pooler and move one step closer towards cementing myself as the very best in FGA. ME. Not Akrista O'Hare, not precious Pat Gordon, Jr. None of your false heroes... Me."
"Memento Mori."
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Vinny
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Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Jan 12, 2013 1:25:06 GMT -5
Bad writing is the only unacceptable form of writing Fixed that for ya. I really have been enjoying the Harter character so far. I'm interested to see how you're going to bridge the gap from repentant prodigal son to sidekick to a lunatic. The side-story with Elsie, if I know you and I do, is also going to be really intriguing. I love the way you write sympathetic heels. There's always just enough hope that they'll do the right thing before they inevitably don't. Good stuff as always, Ben. PS. This is the placeholder for the obligatory "please use moar colors" comment. - V
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Vinny
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Post by Vinny on Jan 9, 2013 11:34:28 GMT -5
Thanks, Aki!
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Vinny
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Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Jan 9, 2013 1:39:44 GMT -5
I can't take credit for the feedback thread; a few other folks had them before me.
I'll try to remember to feedback this tomorrow if I get a break at work.
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Vinny
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Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Jan 8, 2013 21:57:39 GMT -5
And to think I actually proof-read this, too! Derp. Thanks!
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Vinny
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Posts: 683
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Post by Vinny on Jan 8, 2013 21:33:01 GMT -5
The latest (and possibly greatest?) RP from me is up: To Watch Your World Burn. I'm actually very interested to hear what people think of this RP. I think it is my best since coming back and possibly one of the best I've ever written, which is funny to me because I started off not wanting to write it at all tonight. ;D Thanks in advance to anyone who reads it and/or leaves some feedback. - V
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