In an effort to preserve some of my best RP starters/replies, I'm posting some of my junk. Anyone can read them if they like. This RP involved a retro style Vox meeting his beloved a lot later than intended. TW for some stuff going on here.
"ˢᵒᵐᵉᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ ᵃᵇᵒᵘᵗ ᵛᵉʳʸ ᵍᵒᵒᵈ ᵃᵈᵛⁱᶜᵉ?"
Advancement. He'd been born to it. Lived his life by it. Vincent Vaughn had heard it often enough in his youth, his mother's consistent caterwauling when he and his brother practically solicited for a ride to school. She had to walk to school in a blizzard in a skirt both ways. Why, in 1936, he'd pedaled just about every vacuum to every housewife in three different states and he'd sold every. Single. One. His knack for wit and word stretched to a wider audience when he'd discovered the magic of the silver screen. Sure, his pops took them all to the theatre now and then and that was fine, but the real magic was becoming a star.
Magic didn't always choose the right people. Hollywood greeted him with strong jawlines and a heap of white powder. Both of which simply were not meant to be mixed with booze the common folk couldn't have. He'd gotten married. He'd failed his dream. He'd found that his roots could help him grow. When one could not mine, one sold shovels and still received the gold. He accepted being stranded on Earth when eyes were not able to scrutinize his...proclivities. All he had to do was enjoy his success in now pedaling every little starlet who believed him when he told her she was too heavy or push out every dreamy-eyed lothario that fancied himself John Wayne. A few of them pushed back in the best way.
His mother, her shrill voice, the way she described Lot's wife, the woman who disobeyed and looked back. She'd turned to salt, and what a waste of a woman it had been. He scratched his jaw. One week. He'd been gone from his little suburban slice of Heaven for a week when he'd finally been informed of the misdeeds of his Government. Ten years he'd burdened himself with his bride's mumblings and became a smaller man when she shrunk away from him. Ten years she fought a war within herself and through it all? He'd still wanted her to touch him and felt it would be different than the other ways he'd been touched.
Ironically, stuck in the past through all of his advancement in technology...he turned the television on and flipped it to the Mickey Mouse Club. It didn't matter what someone watched when doing opioids, it hit right all the same. The man he'd been actually hanging with sat next to him, uncomfortably so. If there was an argument to be had about someone not fucking their dealer, this was it. Vincent plucked the nearby phone from the cradle and took a quick drink of Scotch. His house number would always be dialed at the same time and he always got a hold of her.
"...I'll be home tomorrow, honey...just having a-" He thought carefully over the words, 'Retirement party’ came to mind, "Nightcap with the fellows at the Agency. Kisses, sweetheart~ YES! I mean it- Tch! See you!" It would be harder to admit to her that he'd be coming home for a very long time, that their home income might be cut...that she damn sure wouldn't love him now for what he was going to do. After ten years, he'd sought reporters, hungry ones, not just the tabloid writers who may or may not be writing the truth. These reporters wanted blood and what better blood than his own? The American People would go down with him and he certainly would make sure they took his word as Gospel. Executive Order 9066, argued as a military necessity to the ass kissers of their country who were more than happy to give up cherries and stocking for the war, would be brought to light.
He let the phone fall back into its cradle and looked out to the great Hollywood sign from his agency building while he took a hit of various amphetamines and a drug that was not quite new to Hollywood but was new to him. This would be how the Golden Age of Hollywood would end. That little fucking mouse going about his antics on TV, full color like the world wasn't still black and white. He grew sleepy before long and gently sunk into the real leather couch of his office. The man near him placed his hand somewhere, but his body felt heavy. When his head lolled towards the window, he thought that maybe the W in the Hollywood sign might have been two Vs strung together . . .
Six feet under, or more than that, Hell welcomed Vox; however, he had not welcomed it. He'd have begged, had there been anyone to beg to. He'd have borrowed and stolen if it meant he might find a way to the surface, to finish just a few of his big projects, specifically the one that meant restitution to his spouse and those like her... He'd...had good intentions in the very end...
But, as his mother once said, only God could stop the Sun's path. He'd done it once and he wouldn't do it again until the end of time. His years in the pit consisted of bars and bodies, every territory he'd hidden away in had some sort of Overlord...At least until a few were picked off by the Angels. The longer he lived there, the more he knew he could do better than all of them. He had turned hoovering dirt into gold and made heads turn towards him with hands that longed to be plucked from the sands of mediocrity!
Vox felt himself swaying side to side as the drink jumbled his screen. That great, heavy head of his had the brains and the ideas to do it. He just needed the power. He'd considered it until he'd been stopped by an unknown who threatened him.
His smile appeared, startling white as far as the color tech went. "Well, hey there!" Friendly as ever, he followed the command to reach into his jacket for his wallet. "I'm afraid I don't have much, friend, but if you're looking to make some real-"
For the umpteenth time, his vision went black. He thought of the 'VV' in the Hollywood sign . . .
When he came to. He was nude but for what felt like muslin cloth played over his very vulnerable snack basket. Groggy, his screen became static for a few seconds until his face clicked on. As though someone were shifting channels, various colors danced on the screen. This repeated until he had his wits about him, enough to tug his hand up on instinct, hopeful to stabilize his head or feel his face, his darling face. No doubt, if that bastard got him in the face, he'd have to go through the trouble of replacing a few things again. It was best to dismantle and include a few improvements when able.
But when he thought he might feel his claws against his face, he only felt leather holding himself against...something? He turned his screen.
A table. He struggled and pulled. He'd seen these sorts of movies before, it never ended well.
Something, probably his heart leaped into his throat before he began to struggle harder. "Fuck!" More than being tied down, he did not want to be humiliated. "Ah! Hellooo?!" That never ended well for people in horror movies, either. "Listen, if you wanted to fuck me, it's not like I'd have asked for the altar...!" He called out and let out a resigned sigh before he lay his head flat.
He had some hope, at least. A golden tongue and a few seconds of eye contact? He'd get himself out of here, yet and might even have the poor bastard do a little dance! If he had it in him... He'd be a better Overlord, wouldn't he? He'd really sell it to all of them...to himself...to his possibly horny captor. It'd be alright.
Chin up, buddy! Vox thought, hopeful that hope was all he needed in Hell of all places.
