I just found me a brand new box of matches! Complete!
WHO: Harley Quinn, NPCs
WHERE: The City
WHEN: 4/16/2010 - 4/25/2010
WARNINGS: Drinking and drug references.
SUMMARY: More kidnapping. Harl is just following orders folks! Also, detectives and vigilantes are free to notice something strange is going on.
FORMAT: Solo.
Geoffrey McDonald was a mechanic on St. Mary Street in the City's ghetto. He was thirty-six years old and had been working in his best friend's uncle's shop since he dropped out of high school at fifteen. His parents didn't really care when he dropped out as they were busy mulling over their own dramas and crimes. Geoffrey didn't want to follow in their footsteps of drug dealing and gambling. He wanted to open up his own shop--he had been saving money for a few years now, but had been pulled back with Rose and the baby. His boss, like the father he never really had, was even supportive of Geoffrey's dreams. He knew he was good. Geoffrey knew his way around a hubcap and would even be doing repairs in his home. He was always tinkering. It kept his hands busy and away from deadly vices he picked up from his youth.
On April 16, Geoffrey went out to the bars with his friends from the shop and they got trashed. He called his girlfriend on his friend's cell and told her he was going to come in late. She was mad about the drinking and they got into a loud fight. Geoffrey almost broke his friend's phone in his muscled hands, but his friend, slightly more sober, called him off it. They stayed until closing team and Geoffrey rejected his friend's offers to give him a ride home. He waved them off and wobbled to his Toyota in the parking lot. He fumbled with the keys, dropped them once, and laughed it off. When he dropped his keys a second time, he swore loudly, and bent over to pick them up.
On April 17, Geoffrey McDonald (age 36, father of one) was reported missing.
--
Carlos Ferreira had insomnia, but did not trust pills enough to put him to sleep (they never worked any ways). To cope with the unexplainable energy late at night, he would go out every Saturday and catch the very last movie. He'd always buy the same big bag of popcorn and diet coke and sit in the very back as the previews began to roll. Carlos didn't always pick the same theater though. Sometimes he liked to add some spice to his life and attend a small Indie theater a few blocks from his apartment. Tonight he was watching a french foreign film about the criminal struggles between the Arabs and the Italians.
The movie ran long and he got out late. Most couples had cars or enough money for a taxi, but Carlos was between jobs. He stuffed his hands in his giant coat pockets and began to walk the few blocks home where he lived with his ailing mother.
He didn't make it.
--
Edward Osbourne's birthday was April 26, but he had a full day of classes. His friends took him out to the club the Saturday before to celebrate in style, but clubs weren't Edward's scene. He kept thinking about finals and how much he hated his major--law. He wanted to drop out and become a freelance illustrator and draw comic books about all the crazy super heroes and villains he had seen since enrolling in The City University the year prior. His friends called him nuts to be sympathetic towards those caped psychos, but Edward couldn't help it. He used to read Superman when he was a kid.
His glass of coke and rum was left alone all night and the girls dancing on stage weren't even attractive. Edward sighed and excused himself from his friends. He needed a cigarette and left in a hurry. Outside, it was cool and he just wanted to walk to a quieter, less crowded bar and draw the patrons in his notebook.
"Got a light?" Piped a bubbly voice and Edward turned to see a blond number in a black pea coat holding out a Newport. Edward stammered a response and thumbed his BIC lighter. It didn't light the first few times and the woman laughed, flicking her cigarette.
"It's OK, chum. I don't smoke any ways."
Before he could ask, he was suddenly being suffocated with a handkerchief to his mouth. Quickly, he lost consciousness.
--
"Yikes! You're a heavy one," Harley hauled the body to her car (well, technically it was some other guy's car, but still). She dumped him in the back seat and threw a plaid blanket over him that smelled vaguely of grease and oil. Harley had this car for nearly two weeks and she hadn't been able to spray the smell out.
She made a face and slid into the driver's seat. Harl turned the car engine, rolled down the windows, and blasted the radio to Nancy Sinatra's greatest hits. "These Boots Were Made For Walking" pepped her up considerably. Tapping the steering wheel, she sang over her shoulder at the limp body, "AN' ONE OF THESE DAYS THESE BOOTS ARE GONNA WALK ALL OVER YOU~"
WHERE: The City
WHEN: 4/16/2010 - 4/25/2010
WARNINGS: Drinking and drug references.
SUMMARY: More kidnapping. Harl is just following orders folks! Also, detectives and vigilantes are free to notice something strange is going on.
FORMAT: Solo.
Geoffrey McDonald was a mechanic on St. Mary Street in the City's ghetto. He was thirty-six years old and had been working in his best friend's uncle's shop since he dropped out of high school at fifteen. His parents didn't really care when he dropped out as they were busy mulling over their own dramas and crimes. Geoffrey didn't want to follow in their footsteps of drug dealing and gambling. He wanted to open up his own shop--he had been saving money for a few years now, but had been pulled back with Rose and the baby. His boss, like the father he never really had, was even supportive of Geoffrey's dreams. He knew he was good. Geoffrey knew his way around a hubcap and would even be doing repairs in his home. He was always tinkering. It kept his hands busy and away from deadly vices he picked up from his youth.
On April 16, Geoffrey went out to the bars with his friends from the shop and they got trashed. He called his girlfriend on his friend's cell and told her he was going to come in late. She was mad about the drinking and they got into a loud fight. Geoffrey almost broke his friend's phone in his muscled hands, but his friend, slightly more sober, called him off it. They stayed until closing team and Geoffrey rejected his friend's offers to give him a ride home. He waved them off and wobbled to his Toyota in the parking lot. He fumbled with the keys, dropped them once, and laughed it off. When he dropped his keys a second time, he swore loudly, and bent over to pick them up.
On April 17, Geoffrey McDonald (age 36, father of one) was reported missing.
--
Carlos Ferreira had insomnia, but did not trust pills enough to put him to sleep (they never worked any ways). To cope with the unexplainable energy late at night, he would go out every Saturday and catch the very last movie. He'd always buy the same big bag of popcorn and diet coke and sit in the very back as the previews began to roll. Carlos didn't always pick the same theater though. Sometimes he liked to add some spice to his life and attend a small Indie theater a few blocks from his apartment. Tonight he was watching a french foreign film about the criminal struggles between the Arabs and the Italians.
The movie ran long and he got out late. Most couples had cars or enough money for a taxi, but Carlos was between jobs. He stuffed his hands in his giant coat pockets and began to walk the few blocks home where he lived with his ailing mother.
He didn't make it.
--
Edward Osbourne's birthday was April 26, but he had a full day of classes. His friends took him out to the club the Saturday before to celebrate in style, but clubs weren't Edward's scene. He kept thinking about finals and how much he hated his major--law. He wanted to drop out and become a freelance illustrator and draw comic books about all the crazy super heroes and villains he had seen since enrolling in The City University the year prior. His friends called him nuts to be sympathetic towards those caped psychos, but Edward couldn't help it. He used to read Superman when he was a kid.
His glass of coke and rum was left alone all night and the girls dancing on stage weren't even attractive. Edward sighed and excused himself from his friends. He needed a cigarette and left in a hurry. Outside, it was cool and he just wanted to walk to a quieter, less crowded bar and draw the patrons in his notebook.
"Got a light?" Piped a bubbly voice and Edward turned to see a blond number in a black pea coat holding out a Newport. Edward stammered a response and thumbed his BIC lighter. It didn't light the first few times and the woman laughed, flicking her cigarette.
"It's OK, chum. I don't smoke any ways."
Before he could ask, he was suddenly being suffocated with a handkerchief to his mouth. Quickly, he lost consciousness.
--
"Yikes! You're a heavy one," Harley hauled the body to her car (well, technically it was some other guy's car, but still). She dumped him in the back seat and threw a plaid blanket over him that smelled vaguely of grease and oil. Harley had this car for nearly two weeks and she hadn't been able to spray the smell out.
She made a face and slid into the driver's seat. Harl turned the car engine, rolled down the windows, and blasted the radio to Nancy Sinatra's greatest hits. "These Boots Were Made For Walking" pepped her up considerably. Tapping the steering wheel, she sang over her shoulder at the limp body, "AN' ONE OF THESE DAYS THESE BOOTS ARE GONNA WALK ALL OVER YOU~"