Application
Name: Simone
LJ: sim_sima
E-Mail: simmichan@gmail.com
IM: BluePeterLadyboy
Characters Played at Discedo:
Reno | nomakothx
Raiden | lightninreborn
Tomokai Yoshida | tomoyoshida
Hwoarang | awol_sowi
Character Name: The Narrator/Tyler Durden
Series: Fight Club
Timeline: End of chapter 20
Canon Resource Link: And a wiki there was
What your character can offer:
Well, um. The Narrator can bring his sparkling dry wit, dependence on an alter-ego and fantastic inner monologue?
Tyler, on the other hand, is the archetype of the Charismatic Leader, he is charming, charismatic and has a way with words that the Everyman cannot resist. He's also a handy little wealth of knowledge of all those little facts you never thought you'd need and the personification of the Anarchists' Cookbook. A modern Jesus for the dissolute.
What items will they be bringing with them? A wallet, a change of clothes for Tyler and a handgun.
Third-Person Sample:
Oh god why did I ask chat for a prompt. But, uh, "lobsters, in your bed."
Some days, he couldn't sleep.
Being an insomniac, that was generally the norm. Nights spent staring at the ceiling and then suddenly waking up somewhere entirely different. Aching and feeling like he hadn't slept a wink.
Only tonight, he couldn't sleep because there were lobsters in his bed.
"Tyler?!"
He tries to clear them out, only they're about as responsive to him as a bear with a knapsack. Yogi Bear in the bushes, unmovable now he's got his hands on the smoked salmon with cream cheese and red onion on ciabatta.
He shakes his head when there's no response from within the house. He already knows what he expects Tyler to say, "These lobsters are on the path to freedom, my friend. True enlightenment." Only that's absurd, even for Tyler and he almost wants him to come down the hall and say it just to add a cherry on top of the madness icing.
What he doesn't expect, is Tyler to walk down the hall, nonchalant as ever, to just peer in the doorway, murmur, "just cook 'em." And keep on walking. So he runs out and catches him up, falls into a panicked-but-not-really walk beside him, attempting to reason it out.
"There's at least thirty lobsters in my bed!" He says.
And Tyler just shrugs, as if that was nothing new and continues down the stairs that creak and moan and sway a bit if you lean just a little to far to the left. Because. This is insane and why didn't he think so and did he put the lobsters there?
Looks at the puffed out scar of Tyler's kiss on the back of his hand.
"Tyler, why would you put lobsters in my bed?"
Tyler shrugs, and continues down the stairs, and he can't decipher whether that shrug means, 'I was bored.' Or, 'figure it out yourself.'
Knowing Tyler, it was probably equal sharings of both.
First-Person Sample:
You pound your fists raw into some guy's face, the raw burn creeping up through your joints. Like a maggot up the trail to the slaughterhouse.
Wriggling.
For ten minutes, you were both gods under one light. Better people for it.
"What happened to you this weekend?"
Same question every monday. Less and less people ask, more and more come to work with the same black eyes and plastered noses.
At the copy machine, some kid can't change the toner quick enough because his hands are bandaged up from taking down a guy three times his size that Saturday.
Ask his girlfriend, and he was mugged coming home from the bar.
Tyler Durden is becoming a household name, and no one notices.
That's how it begins.