Application - Marla Singer, from 'Fight Club'
((God, oh God, stop me, really. Nine characters. I'm in for it. For reference, I'm playing a combination of movie and book!Marla, just because they both have their own kind of batshit insane tendencies. This is also Marla before, you know, insert large spoiler here at the end of Fight Club, so Captain Blankity Blank is not dead, in her eyes. She's also operating circa the late 90's, so try not to break her head TOO much.))
Four walls of stone, a table piled with yellowed parchment and a single quill poised on the heap, just waiting for somebody to get it writing, and Marla Singer had to wonder just what in the world she had taken before she'd stepped out of her shitty little apartment that morning. Brief check, from her rat's nest of a hairdo, tied into haphazard ponytails in various locations across her head, down to bone white legs shoved into a ratty pair of black combat boots and, nah. She wasn't on anything. She wouldn't be standing right now, then, would she?
"Fucking piece of bullshit excuse for a lighter, I swear to God," she hissed crossly to the small piece of plastic in her hand as she plopped down, rather unceremoniously, onto a seat on the table of applications, eyebrow arched behind a pair of dark, black sunglasses, cleverly engineered to disguise any hangover. Not that she had one at the moment, but, well, she imagined they were. "FUCKING LIGHT."
Her thumb furiously clicked down on the tiny wheel of the lighter until sparks finally turned into one, long flame. One she promptly used to light a cigarette, agitatedly blowing out a stream of smoke once she'd finally succeeded. And then, of course, proceeded to toss over her shoulder, sending the thing skittering across stones into a wall. It was a piece of shit anyway, about to get sent off to the metaphorical lighter graveyard, a structure that strongly resembled a trash can.
Even with the rather sizable fur coat... crossing her legs in such a short skirt, it was probably quite simple to see a pair of flowered panties as Marla snatched at a piece of paper beside her on the table, but, well, she'd never exactly been one to class. Besides, she was otherwise distracted, and panties were certainly not a concern to her at the moment. "Hello, pretty," she commented, cocking an eyebrow and scanning the sheet. "So just what the hell are you?"
An application? Christ, she hadn't filled out one of these since she'd gotten garbage man for a job, way back when on Career Day in grade school. "Well, shit," she smirked, tapping a bit of ash onto the floor and idly swinging her foot around in a circle. "Pass the time, shall we?"
---
1. What is your favorite cheese? Why is it your favorite?
At least it was damn entertainment. "Who the fuck asks about cheese for the first question on some application?" she asked in an estranged sort of voice, finally removing her glasses in order to see the paper, revealing dark, hooded eyes set on whites that were almost too bleached to be human. The quill automatically jumped into action on one of the applications beside her, and not even batting an eye towards an inanimate object that was seemingly moving around all on its own, she waved a vague hand as ink automatically started striking out her last statement. "Don't write that."
Cheese. What the hell could she say about cheese? "Oh, you know, I think a nice brie would do great!" she added brightly, voice laced with sarcasm. "With a fantastic wine. I can even wear my littlest cocktail dress!" Okay, dropping the act. "Or, you know, that watery shit they melt over hot dogs. I don't fucking care, for Christ's sake, it's cheese."
2. Who would you kill first, Barney or Carrottop?
"Now, see, that one I can answer," she said aloud, jabbing a finger at the parchment and generally splashing a waterfall of ashes all down the sheet in front of her. "Carrottop. That hair? Those jokes? Oh, yeah, he's down the fuckin' tubes. Like to riddle him full of something, I swear. Probably something sharp. With lots of twisting for emphasis."
3. What time is it where you are?
Right. Like she even knew what day it was. With an odd sort of eye roll and a wrinkled nose of disgust, she just entertained herself for a few long seconds by burning holes through the paper. Heh. Neat.
4. If you were Albus Dumbledore returned from the dead, which member of the Order of the Phoenix would you sexually harass? How would you harass them?
...The hell was The Order of the Phoenix? Was that some movie she didn't know about? "Christ, I don't know," she mumbled dryly, taking a drag off her cigarette and letting long, wafting tendrils of smoke escape from her lips. "Is that Brad What's-His-Name guy in that? He's in everything nowadays, fucking honestly. Ass like steel, though, I gotta say." Sure. Whatever. She chose him. Yes.
5. If you are pushing to be in:
A. Slytherin - please state the clever, witty name of the bar in which you bartend, in the dark.
"What is this? Some survey for Hot Topic Wannabes Anonymous?" she asked nobody in particular with an odd sort of smirk tugging at her mouth. "I'd really rather not do the bartending, you know, what with the whiny businessmen, weaving a horrid tale of lies and deceit when, in the end, all they really want is in your knickers." She rolled her eyes, flicking the butt of her cigarette idly behind her. "Thanks, but, really, no thanks."
B. Gryffindor - Debate whether Harry should ultimately end up married to Fred or George. Use examples from a variety of world mythologies to bolster your argument.
Fred, George and Harry, eh? Sounded like some kind of wildly homoerotic love triangle. Hot. "By all means, boys, fuck wherever you'd like, I mean it," she commented amusedly to the piece of paper, a wicked grin starting in on her face. "But I'm pretty sure that shit's illegal. No marriage for you." Beat. "Unless, of course, you wanna dress Harry up like a chick, George can be Fred's best man, and, what the hell, you can all have some wild, tequila-induced grope-fest in Hawaii. Be my guest."
C. Ravenclaw - You guys are supposed to be smart. Explain why my desk is inundated with paperwork at all times, even though I’m constantly disposing of it.
Marla? Paperwork? Were those even allowed within the vicinity of each other? "Tragically, you're suffering from an ailment that some people refer to as a 'job'," she suggested, propping up her chin in the heel of a hand and letting her eyes gaze around the room. This place was pretty drab, in retrospect. "Luckily, it's no lupus, and there actually is a cure. How droll. Quit, get your unemployment, and voila. Paperwork no more. It's some other fucknut's job now."
D. Hufflepuff - Prove you are not useless.
Considering if Marla ends up anywhere NEAR Hufflepuff, I'm going to be severely confusedMarla really couldn't offer any sort of insight into how she wasn't useless, because, well, asking so would have just prompted her into a large, psychological rant about how much her life sucked and, yet, horrifyingly enough, she wasn't dead yet, yet another question was left blank, only this time she idled with her time by tearing off strips of the parchment. Was she done? Fuck, one more thing.
6. Offer a bribe to the members of this community so that they will not squib you.
A bribe? A fucking bribe? Were they shitting her? "There's always a fuck," she commented with a smirk and a wink, only, God, she really hadn't seen anybody here - watch them all be fat and ridiculously elderly. "Nothing wrinkly or over two-fifty, thanks."
What did she even have? "Pack of smokes, which you're not getting," she muttered, more to herself than anything. "You can have the lighter, I suppose. It's over there." She waved a hand vaguely in the opposite direction she'd thrown the thing, uncrossing her legs and switching knees before her thigh went completely numb. "There's short little midgets with huge fucking ears walking around here too," she added thoughtfully. "Maybe I can start dealing in those. You never know."
I have read the hogwarts_hocus faq, and understand it is a crazy, cracktastic sorting community and RPG. Multiple SclerosisMS
I have read the hogwarts_hocus rules and agree to abide by each and every one of them.they can shove themselves up their asses, anal lubricants aside. MS
I agree to be a good sport and not get my knickers in a bunch. Hah. I don't wear any knickers. Their loss. MS.
One day, marmalade will rule the world. In all its fruit reserving glory, I'm sure. Smuckers will be fucking thrilled. MS.
Four walls of stone, a table piled with yellowed parchment and a single quill poised on the heap, just waiting for somebody to get it writing, and Marla Singer had to wonder just what in the world she had taken before she'd stepped out of her shitty little apartment that morning. Brief check, from her rat's nest of a hairdo, tied into haphazard ponytails in various locations across her head, down to bone white legs shoved into a ratty pair of black combat boots and, nah. She wasn't on anything. She wouldn't be standing right now, then, would she?
"Fucking piece of bullshit excuse for a lighter, I swear to God," she hissed crossly to the small piece of plastic in her hand as she plopped down, rather unceremoniously, onto a seat on the table of applications, eyebrow arched behind a pair of dark, black sunglasses, cleverly engineered to disguise any hangover. Not that she had one at the moment, but, well, she imagined they were. "FUCKING LIGHT."
Her thumb furiously clicked down on the tiny wheel of the lighter until sparks finally turned into one, long flame. One she promptly used to light a cigarette, agitatedly blowing out a stream of smoke once she'd finally succeeded. And then, of course, proceeded to toss over her shoulder, sending the thing skittering across stones into a wall. It was a piece of shit anyway, about to get sent off to the metaphorical lighter graveyard, a structure that strongly resembled a trash can.
Even with the rather sizable fur coat... crossing her legs in such a short skirt, it was probably quite simple to see a pair of flowered panties as Marla snatched at a piece of paper beside her on the table, but, well, she'd never exactly been one to class. Besides, she was otherwise distracted, and panties were certainly not a concern to her at the moment. "Hello, pretty," she commented, cocking an eyebrow and scanning the sheet. "So just what the hell are you?"
An application? Christ, she hadn't filled out one of these since she'd gotten garbage man for a job, way back when on Career Day in grade school. "Well, shit," she smirked, tapping a bit of ash onto the floor and idly swinging her foot around in a circle. "Pass the time, shall we?"
---
1. What is your favorite cheese? Why is it your favorite?
At least it was damn entertainment. "Who the fuck asks about cheese for the first question on some application?" she asked in an estranged sort of voice, finally removing her glasses in order to see the paper, revealing dark, hooded eyes set on whites that were almost too bleached to be human. The quill automatically jumped into action on one of the applications beside her, and not even batting an eye towards an inanimate object that was seemingly moving around all on its own, she waved a vague hand as ink automatically started striking out her last statement. "Don't write that."
Cheese. What the hell could she say about cheese? "Oh, you know, I think a nice brie would do great!" she added brightly, voice laced with sarcasm. "With a fantastic wine. I can even wear my littlest cocktail dress!" Okay, dropping the act. "Or, you know, that watery shit they melt over hot dogs. I don't fucking care, for Christ's sake, it's cheese."
2. Who would you kill first, Barney or Carrottop?
"Now, see, that one I can answer," she said aloud, jabbing a finger at the parchment and generally splashing a waterfall of ashes all down the sheet in front of her. "Carrottop. That hair? Those jokes? Oh, yeah, he's down the fuckin' tubes. Like to riddle him full of something, I swear. Probably something sharp. With lots of twisting for emphasis."
3. What time is it where you are?
Right. Like she even knew what day it was. With an odd sort of eye roll and a wrinkled nose of disgust, she just entertained herself for a few long seconds by burning holes through the paper. Heh. Neat.
4. If you were Albus Dumbledore returned from the dead, which member of the Order of the Phoenix would you sexually harass? How would you harass them?
...The hell was The Order of the Phoenix? Was that some movie she didn't know about? "Christ, I don't know," she mumbled dryly, taking a drag off her cigarette and letting long, wafting tendrils of smoke escape from her lips. "Is that Brad What's-His-Name guy in that? He's in everything nowadays, fucking honestly. Ass like steel, though, I gotta say." Sure. Whatever. She chose him. Yes.
5. If you are pushing to be in:
A. Slytherin - please state the clever, witty name of the bar in which you bartend, in the dark.
"What is this? Some survey for Hot Topic Wannabes Anonymous?" she asked nobody in particular with an odd sort of smirk tugging at her mouth. "I'd really rather not do the bartending, you know, what with the whiny businessmen, weaving a horrid tale of lies and deceit when, in the end, all they really want is in your knickers." She rolled her eyes, flicking the butt of her cigarette idly behind her. "Thanks, but, really, no thanks."
B. Gryffindor - Debate whether Harry should ultimately end up married to Fred or George. Use examples from a variety of world mythologies to bolster your argument.
Fred, George and Harry, eh? Sounded like some kind of wildly homoerotic love triangle. Hot. "By all means, boys, fuck wherever you'd like, I mean it," she commented amusedly to the piece of paper, a wicked grin starting in on her face. "But I'm pretty sure that shit's illegal. No marriage for you." Beat. "Unless, of course, you wanna dress Harry up like a chick, George can be Fred's best man, and, what the hell, you can all have some wild, tequila-induced grope-fest in Hawaii. Be my guest."
C. Ravenclaw - You guys are supposed to be smart. Explain why my desk is inundated with paperwork at all times, even though I’m constantly disposing of it.
Marla? Paperwork? Were those even allowed within the vicinity of each other? "Tragically, you're suffering from an ailment that some people refer to as a 'job'," she suggested, propping up her chin in the heel of a hand and letting her eyes gaze around the room. This place was pretty drab, in retrospect. "Luckily, it's no lupus, and there actually is a cure. How droll. Quit, get your unemployment, and voila. Paperwork no more. It's some other fucknut's job now."
D. Hufflepuff - Prove you are not useless.
Considering if Marla ends up anywhere NEAR Hufflepuff, I'm going to be severely confusedMarla really couldn't offer any sort of insight into how she wasn't useless, because, well, asking so would have just prompted her into a large, psychological rant about how much her life sucked and, yet, horrifyingly enough, she wasn't dead yet, yet another question was left blank, only this time she idled with her time by tearing off strips of the parchment. Was she done? Fuck, one more thing.
6. Offer a bribe to the members of this community so that they will not squib you.
A bribe? A fucking bribe? Were they shitting her? "There's always a fuck," she commented with a smirk and a wink, only, God, she really hadn't seen anybody here - watch them all be fat and ridiculously elderly. "Nothing wrinkly or over two-fifty, thanks."
What did she even have? "Pack of smokes, which you're not getting," she muttered, more to herself than anything. "You can have the lighter, I suppose. It's over there." She waved a hand vaguely in the opposite direction she'd thrown the thing, uncrossing her legs and switching knees before her thigh went completely numb. "There's short little midgets with huge fucking ears walking around here too," she added thoughtfully. "Maybe I can start dealing in those. You never know."
I have read the hogwarts_hocus faq, and understand it is a crazy, cracktastic sorting community and RPG. Multiple SclerosisMS
I have read the hogwarts_hocus rules and agree to abide by each and every one of them.they can shove themselves up their asses, anal lubricants aside. MS
I agree to be a good sport and not get my knickers in a bunch. Hah. I don't wear any knickers. Their loss. MS.
One day, marmalade will rule the world. In all its fruit reserving glory, I'm sure. Smuckers will be fucking thrilled. MS.