G3TxJacked
Meteorite
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2022
Mafia: the year is 1947, the War is over and everyone is ready for celebration. The boom of the 50s is coming and parting is on everyone's mind. For the Mafia this is snatching up those hard hitters from the war and giving them a place.
So loud cars, new music, and the party scene is the perfect make up to smear over the war wounds of those who seem to be stains on everyone's good time. Suck it up. This was the case for Jullian Graves.
Jullian was the son of a dancer. Father unknown but mom had many canidates usually. Not that he got much fatherly live besides the back of a hand. So when the call came for war it was a way out of that peoce of shit place called Chicago.
Serving as an Italian in Italy taking out tanks in vineyards felt right. Jullian met the Bacavillies there. Later the Don and his inner circle when they fled that part of the world.
So a man with a chip on his shoulder and a life debt still being paid by the one and o KY head of the Chicago crime family was nice. But the work... she wasn't so nice.
Jullian earned a reputation of having a heavy hand. A loyalty to only the Don and his talents were often used to take out rats. Nicknaming him the Blood Hound.
At 1947 this king of the castle of crime held a pistol in his mouth. A click came as the hammer fell and he dropped his glass on the floor of this cheap motel on the highway. His toe hooked to the window sill as he leaned back in the chair listening to the radio. His eyes opened slowly then.
Leaning forward he snapped open the cylinder and let the round slide out. A dot on the primer. It was a light strike... fate had spared him. Jullian leaned forward then in his chair and cried. Passing out then on the floor.
Daylight came and a well dressed man in heavy black stepped into the cheap motel. Snow outside in the heavy Chicago winter. "Jesus fucking christ Jules... Mickie!?"
"Yes Don?"
"Let's get him in the shower. Get him dressed. We are taking him home."
Jullian remembered little flashed of cold water, complaining. Feeling the cold of the window on his face.
Waking up in the plush bed at the Chicago high rise Jullian felt dead inside. Watching the fan spin above his head.
The Don sat at a table with his family. It wasn't often he brought them in on his business but Jullian was like a son to him. He wasn't a problem that could just be dealt with. Not after the things he asked Jullian to do and he did. Feeling responsible he pushed him here.
Then man rose his hands to his wife and daughters. "I am at a loss. I have seen men break. Cry. Made people do things. But Jullian. I always felt he was like Iron!" He smacked a fist into his palm grinding it in to sink his point. "But now I think I may have pushed to hard. A man can only see so much."
He looked to his wife for mercy. For forgiveness. She was giving none. Refusing to look at her husband. Jullian was the blood hound and as such found her father stealing large amounts of money from the family. Jullian; though never said, had likely cut her father break lines. So mercy would not come from her and no pity for what her husband had created.
Jullian Graves
Don
Don's Wife, Martha
He turned to his daughters. My loves. My beauties. I ask for your wisdom. A man has to understand his limits. I am not a person of saving others. What would you have me do for this boy?"
[RP name, "Bacavillies Bloodhound", if interested just reply with the RP name and how you would like to enter into this world. This would be a crazy Mafia RP with deception, lies, death, and violence. Romance if required but only if it feels natural to take it that way. I also have a discord G3TxSquad#6814]
Iraq: A helicopter lands at an airfield. The air is hot to breath, the sand kicks up so hard it stings the skin. On the landing pad is two large green dufflebags and a ruck sack. Your entire world possessions. Being a medic this tour was suppose to mean staying on the FOB (forward operating base. A larger compound usually not attacked). However. As the pilot sets her down and the combat flight medic kicks some blood off her floor, it's clear their old Medoc didn't make it.
The door gunner and the medic help you grab your bags. With a bag each they no sooner set the bag in the bird before you are lerched up into the air flying low and fast. "Sup! Your the new medic assigned to Rampage?" The tiny little red head said behind her massive flight helmet covering her face like a storm trooper. She had "kitten" written in white Chalk on it. "Take care of them! They have been through it!"
The door gunner hits your arm with a helmet with a cord attached. It nulls out the sound of the bird and you hear Russian pop music. A them of the war so far has been playing upbeat out of place music. Keeps you from going insane by accepting the insanity of it all.
The bird leans North and the landscape looks like a tan moon. Almost featureless, covered in crates. Burn out cars, and the smell of a country with no public works. "They lost their Platoon Leader too. So it's just SSG Graves now. He is good people but he is in over his head." Said the door gunner. Getting his arm smacked by kitten.
"Hey, she doesn't need that. Look, just keep them drinking water, checking their feet, and play mom for a little while." She smiled.
"And lock your door." He added.
Kitten looked ready to hot him again but stopped. Giving her the well you know how it is girl. A sad reality for female soldiers. Some times the enemy is just men.
With that grim reality the brid suddenly dropped. Less crashing so much as organized falling as the tires hit hard outside a church courtyard that had been turned I to a make shift base no larger than 800 by 800 meters.
Almost from impact the bags were out and Kittwn slung her out with a hand shake. "Keep your wits about you!"
As the bird leaves her reception is... we're is everyone? Some silhouettes in guard towers made of sandbags and ply wood behind Machine guns nodded heads to their ipods or MP3s. Mostly not even looking her way. As the noise of the bird passes a man is asleep in a mostly broken lawn chair by the helicopter pad. No way he slept through that... he had Blues Brother shades on. His combat helmet with hegemonic hearing protection on, and looked horribly sun burnt. His abs leading down to rough looking fatigue pants and Jordan saddles.
Jullian Graves had been up for 36 hours and after sending off his medic a day after loosing his LT he choose to just wait here for her. Falling asleep and thus had been cooking in the sun for about 9 hours. The day Almost over at 1700 (5pm). Beside him his platoon made a cardboard sign that read, "hello, and welcome to COP Scorpion. My name is SSG Graves and I am Sooooooo excited to meet you. Please take a moment to familiarize yourself with the area by just looking 360°. Yep... that's it. Kick me to wake me up."
Behind him was a line of tanks men were working on along with some mostly broken humvees that were heavily modified. To her right was a white tent everyone stayed it. Two shower trailers next to that and a open air dinning area with came netting and Christmas lights. A single bu key with a make shift steel door and a pad lock read "female quarters." Inside was a floor of wooden pallets, a dresser, a body armor cross, a single cot, and a shotgun that had "no visitors" inscribed on it.
So loud cars, new music, and the party scene is the perfect make up to smear over the war wounds of those who seem to be stains on everyone's good time. Suck it up. This was the case for Jullian Graves.
Jullian was the son of a dancer. Father unknown but mom had many canidates usually. Not that he got much fatherly live besides the back of a hand. So when the call came for war it was a way out of that peoce of shit place called Chicago.
Serving as an Italian in Italy taking out tanks in vineyards felt right. Jullian met the Bacavillies there. Later the Don and his inner circle when they fled that part of the world.
So a man with a chip on his shoulder and a life debt still being paid by the one and o KY head of the Chicago crime family was nice. But the work... she wasn't so nice.
Jullian earned a reputation of having a heavy hand. A loyalty to only the Don and his talents were often used to take out rats. Nicknaming him the Blood Hound.
At 1947 this king of the castle of crime held a pistol in his mouth. A click came as the hammer fell and he dropped his glass on the floor of this cheap motel on the highway. His toe hooked to the window sill as he leaned back in the chair listening to the radio. His eyes opened slowly then.
Leaning forward he snapped open the cylinder and let the round slide out. A dot on the primer. It was a light strike... fate had spared him. Jullian leaned forward then in his chair and cried. Passing out then on the floor.
Daylight came and a well dressed man in heavy black stepped into the cheap motel. Snow outside in the heavy Chicago winter. "Jesus fucking christ Jules... Mickie!?"
"Yes Don?"
"Let's get him in the shower. Get him dressed. We are taking him home."
Jullian remembered little flashed of cold water, complaining. Feeling the cold of the window on his face.
Waking up in the plush bed at the Chicago high rise Jullian felt dead inside. Watching the fan spin above his head.
The Don sat at a table with his family. It wasn't often he brought them in on his business but Jullian was like a son to him. He wasn't a problem that could just be dealt with. Not after the things he asked Jullian to do and he did. Feeling responsible he pushed him here.
Then man rose his hands to his wife and daughters. "I am at a loss. I have seen men break. Cry. Made people do things. But Jullian. I always felt he was like Iron!" He smacked a fist into his palm grinding it in to sink his point. "But now I think I may have pushed to hard. A man can only see so much."
He looked to his wife for mercy. For forgiveness. She was giving none. Refusing to look at her husband. Jullian was the blood hound and as such found her father stealing large amounts of money from the family. Jullian; though never said, had likely cut her father break lines. So mercy would not come from her and no pity for what her husband had created.
Jullian Graves
Don
Don's Wife, Martha
He turned to his daughters. My loves. My beauties. I ask for your wisdom. A man has to understand his limits. I am not a person of saving others. What would you have me do for this boy?"
[RP name, "Bacavillies Bloodhound", if interested just reply with the RP name and how you would like to enter into this world. This would be a crazy Mafia RP with deception, lies, death, and violence. Romance if required but only if it feels natural to take it that way. I also have a discord G3TxSquad#6814]
Iraq: A helicopter lands at an airfield. The air is hot to breath, the sand kicks up so hard it stings the skin. On the landing pad is two large green dufflebags and a ruck sack. Your entire world possessions. Being a medic this tour was suppose to mean staying on the FOB (forward operating base. A larger compound usually not attacked). However. As the pilot sets her down and the combat flight medic kicks some blood off her floor, it's clear their old Medoc didn't make it.
The door gunner and the medic help you grab your bags. With a bag each they no sooner set the bag in the bird before you are lerched up into the air flying low and fast. "Sup! Your the new medic assigned to Rampage?" The tiny little red head said behind her massive flight helmet covering her face like a storm trooper. She had "kitten" written in white Chalk on it. "Take care of them! They have been through it!"
The door gunner hits your arm with a helmet with a cord attached. It nulls out the sound of the bird and you hear Russian pop music. A them of the war so far has been playing upbeat out of place music. Keeps you from going insane by accepting the insanity of it all.
The bird leans North and the landscape looks like a tan moon. Almost featureless, covered in crates. Burn out cars, and the smell of a country with no public works. "They lost their Platoon Leader too. So it's just SSG Graves now. He is good people but he is in over his head." Said the door gunner. Getting his arm smacked by kitten.
"Hey, she doesn't need that. Look, just keep them drinking water, checking their feet, and play mom for a little while." She smiled.
"And lock your door." He added.
Kitten looked ready to hot him again but stopped. Giving her the well you know how it is girl. A sad reality for female soldiers. Some times the enemy is just men.
With that grim reality the brid suddenly dropped. Less crashing so much as organized falling as the tires hit hard outside a church courtyard that had been turned I to a make shift base no larger than 800 by 800 meters.
Almost from impact the bags were out and Kittwn slung her out with a hand shake. "Keep your wits about you!"
As the bird leaves her reception is... we're is everyone? Some silhouettes in guard towers made of sandbags and ply wood behind Machine guns nodded heads to their ipods or MP3s. Mostly not even looking her way. As the noise of the bird passes a man is asleep in a mostly broken lawn chair by the helicopter pad. No way he slept through that... he had Blues Brother shades on. His combat helmet with hegemonic hearing protection on, and looked horribly sun burnt. His abs leading down to rough looking fatigue pants and Jordan saddles.
Jullian Graves had been up for 36 hours and after sending off his medic a day after loosing his LT he choose to just wait here for her. Falling asleep and thus had been cooking in the sun for about 9 hours. The day Almost over at 1700 (5pm). Beside him his platoon made a cardboard sign that read, "hello, and welcome to COP Scorpion. My name is SSG Graves and I am Sooooooo excited to meet you. Please take a moment to familiarize yourself with the area by just looking 360°. Yep... that's it. Kick me to wake me up."
Behind him was a line of tanks men were working on along with some mostly broken humvees that were heavily modified. To her right was a white tent everyone stayed it. Two shower trailers next to that and a open air dinning area with came netting and Christmas lights. A single bu key with a make shift steel door and a pad lock read "female quarters." Inside was a floor of wooden pallets, a dresser, a body armor cross, a single cot, and a shotgun that had "no visitors" inscribed on it.