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St. Francisville
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Doug Whitford Offline
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(boring as fuck; promos act as sleeping medicine; never recognized in public)

Post: #1
05-30-2020 11:56 PM

OOC: I wanted to put a better effort into this RP but the riots in the city were getting awfully close to home. Sorry team.

Name's Daquon. Few days ago this poor lil' white boy took something that belonged to me. And now he's mine.

Shit probably doesn't make the most sense right now, so let me tell y'all a story.

August 12th, 1850. St. Francisville, Louisiana.

"I'm tired Betty. Every day they work me 'til I can't work no more. And they beat me for it. Every night, I pray the lord takes me away from this place. And he don't listen. My body is broke. I just can't do it."

With his head in his hands the man fights through tears. The woman, Betty, sits behind him firmly pressing a damp cloth against the gaping, bloody wounds on his back. With every touch he shudders in pain as his sobs grow louder. His body is frail and scarred, caked in dirt from long hours in the field. His slight frame is not suited for the grueling labor he endures daily, much less the brutal punishments he endures when it inevitably gives out on him.

"I wonder every day if I'd mind much if they just killed me instead, Betty."

"Oh you hush now. You got to be strong."

"But I ain't strong! I ain't one of these negro bulls that's built for this."

"You sure ain't." Betty removes the cloth from his back and places her finger to the back of his head. "You got to be strong up here then."

"Why won't he listen to me? Every day I ask God to save me. He don't ever listen."

Betty furls her brow and retracts her hand. "Maybe you asking the wrong one?"

His head turns slowly back, the tears running down his face seem to stick in place to his gaunt cheeks. "What you mean?"

Betty sits back and crosses her arms in front of her, then looks blankly upwards. "You think a man up there who been looking down on you your entire life care about what happens to you? You just another to him, he got white folks' problems to listen to first."

"Then let 'em kill me then. If God wont help me then I'm better off."

"He won't." Betty says with a snap. She then leans in and says with a whisper, "But he will."


She looks down with a slight grin. "Him."

"Betty you lost your damn mind? They breaking my body but I still got my soul. I can't give that away."

Annoyed, Betty forcefully presses the cloth against the man's wound, causing him to yelp out in pain. "You quit your listening to Ms. Addy's stories. Beside, one soul ain't no deal worth making. You don't give him yours, you promise him your kin and Mr. Devil's horns gonna perk right up."

"I ain't got no kin."

"You will. You get yourself out of here with his help and he gonna make sure you live a real nice life. He gotta protect his investment."

"I can't sell what ain't mine to sell."

"And you can't get your back all whipped up day-after-day neither. Way I see it you can either ride that high horse of yours right to the grave, or you can have yourself the life you deserved in the first place. Free from all the pain, the beatings, working your damn hands to the bone. All you gotta do is give him something that ain't even yours."


"You sleep it on it, you damn stubborn fool."

But that night he couldn't sleep. Her words, while cold and emotionless, couldn't escape his head. Every snap of the whip against his bare flesh replayed in his head. Every scar began to ache. Each cut and scrape on his worn hands felt fresh and painful. His back ached. It was as if he was reliving every trauma from his entire life, all at once. His skin burned and his head pounded. He couldn't take it anymore. He slowly rises from his bed, throws his legs over the side and drops his head in shame. "Betty..."

"I know. I know." The voice comes from the corner of the dark room. There is no silhouette of Betty, however, just a pair of fiery red eyes staring back at him.

His name was Everett Gibson. He was my great, great, granddad. And that night? That night he sold my soul to the devil. Cursed his whole goddamn lineage to get outta them fields. Can't lie, I respect the hustle. Don't much have a need for a soul and if I had one I'm sure the destination would be the same either way.

But it didn't sit right with my momma. Her stubborn ol' ass really believed she could outwit the fuckin' devil himself. But when she put her mind to something, there wasn't any stopping her. She turned to the church first and all they did was treat her like a crazy old bitch. She tried cleansing rituals, exorcisms, every hokey gimmick she heard. But nothing ever happened, not that you'd really know when you'd reclaim something you can't see or feel right? So what could a desperate, old woman from Louisiana turn to? Yeah you guessed it, voodoo. Seemed like she spent weeks holed up in the basement, on the rare occasions we would see her she'd just mutter some nonsense and disappear back down into her cave. Sometimes I'd wake up and find a chicken's skull under my pillow, or a message in French written in what looked like blood next to my bed. I was young and I didn't understand, it never occurred to me that she was working that hard to save her only child.

And then one night she burst into my room, she had the craziest ass look on her face. She spoke so quickly I could barely make out what she was saying. It was a level of excitement I'd never seen before, her eyes were wide and wild. She grabbed my favorite silver chain off my nightstand. I didn't know what those words she strarted chanting meant, but she quickly explained what they did: They turned my necklace into a token that trapped my soul inside it. Devil couldn't get it there. Should anyone wear the necklace after I pass then my soul would join to theirs. A nice gesture but I outgrew that damn thing once the 90's ended. I knew I needed something a little more with the times, so before my momma passed I had her teach me how make my own token. Chains and jewelery goes out of style, but a credit card? You can always count on people's greed.

And that's how I found Doug.


"What's left to say about our matchup at War Games? Chris Chaos is running around cosplaying as as Satan's favorite fleshlight while Tula is blander than boiled chicken and white rice. Centurion likes to think I'm just some asshole off the street looking to come in, make a quick splash and then dip? Hell maybe I am, doesn't sound too different than what Tula is doing. And even if I do, the only problem he has with it is that he can't do the same. I can come in, make a splash and disappear with no regrets.

He can't. He's been toiling away at this for damn near 20 years and still hasn't figured out how to make a splash, and he can't leave because he's too committed to toiling away in mediocrity that he's afraid to see what else is out there for him. You wanna hold yourself back Centurion? Fine, but don't try to mount some high horse because not all of us are interested in having a career that mirrors 'Frasier'--you got the longevity but Jesus Christ are you fucking dull. You're like a tortoise that's too old to fuck so he serves no other purpose than to have people disinterestedly exclaiming 'Gee, he's been around a while.'
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