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Individual
Character's full name: Thomas Regal
Alias/ Nickname/ Code name: Alexander Crowne
Gender: M
Age: 30
Date of Birth: (4/12/82)
Nationality/ Ethnicity: White Caucasian American
Birthplace/ Home/ Place of origin: New Jersey
Appearance
Hair color and style: Short cut brown hair
Eyes: Gold
Height: 6’3”
Build: 215 lbs. Thin and wiry.
Visible mutation: Has two relatively small lumps (sticking out half an inch) on either side of his neck just below his ears. Gold eyes.
Scars/ Tattoos/ Piercings:
He has a bunch of small scars. Most are faded enough that in a bathing suit from a distance, one doesn't see anything. Has a large gash across his upper back and three bullet scars in his left upper arm. A 101st Airborne tattoo on the shoulder facing out. A band of razor wire on his left bicep. No piercings.
Other features:
Tall, thin and athletic. Looks more like a cyclist than a bodybuilder, he’s lanky and wiry. His eyebrows are slightly too large for his face. His right pinky is crooked due to a break that never healed quite right.
Everyday clothing style: Nice suits.
Uniform: Very nice Suits
Sleepwear: Models, preferably red heads and blondes.
Miscellaneous clothing: If he’s not wearing a nice suit, he’s wearing a swim suit on his yacht.
Character
Personality: He is cocky, the kind of cocky that makes your skin crawl. He grew up poor and abused, became violent and now wears high class as a thin veneer to hide the poor and violent upbringing that has become a source of embarrassment.
He is very bright, often bored. He originally started stealing for money when he was 11. Now he steals as a challenge. The bigger the crime, and the more dangerous, the better. He's mildly paranoid. He thinks everyone is out to get him and steal from him. Many are.
Hobbies/ Interests: Art, politics, theatre, travel, sports cars, fine wine, super models, and diamond studded gold watches.
Job or part time job and description:
Owner and President of Regal Consulting. Regal consulting is a high-end bounty hunting service. They don't get involved with any case unless the pay off is more than fifty thousand dollars. Thomas doesn't get involved with anything paying less than than a hundred thousand. They track down and retrieve dangerous criminals, stolen art and jewels, witnesses in certain cases, and missing persons.
Unofficially, Thomas also keeps some of the stolen artwork for his personal collection, as it's easier to steal from a thief than a museum. He keeps some of the cash and jewels to better his income. Current official net worth: 2 million dollars.
Actual net worth: 6 million.
Fears/ phobias/ concerns:
He's afraid of being poor and anonymous, afraid of getting caught and afraid of his past. He doesn't trust anyone who works for him and spies on his employees constantly.
Special talents:
He was in the military for several years mainly the 101st Airborne Division. He's trained in special forces skill sets including hand to hand, firearms, vehicle and explosives, as well as survival, sabotage, and gorilla warfare training. The 101st Airborne's training is founded on parachuting or helicoptering into enemy territory with limited resources and confronting far larger surrounding forces. He excelled in that field.
He also has several 'thief-type' skills. But not 'super-thief'. He can pick most doors, and can hot-wire older cars. Speaks fluent Maori and French. His Spanish is usable, his German poor, and his Arabic mostly consists of a few dozen useful phrases. Is licensed to fly fixed wing double engine aircraft. Is proficient at producing certain street pharmaceuticals.
Morality
Good/ bad/ neutral/ other:
Bad. He isn't evil, and takes no pleasure killing people, but he has little empathy for other people. He is amoral, choosing to live happily and not caring much for the negative consequences of others. He is generally in a good mood, very shallow, very opportunistic, and materialistic.
Mutations
Mutation description:
Retrocognition.
Retrocognition is a sixth sense that let's him experience the past visually and audibly. It is always on, he's had to train himself to remain fixed in the present. He sees and hears the history of the place he is at, if he wants to see the history of something that moves he needs to follow it.
He can see the past passively or actively, similar to the difference between hearing and listening. The hard part for him is focusing on just the present instead of being overwhelmed by the past.
Passively he sees all the events of the past 30-some years all at once. When he was younger this was very painful and it took him several years to fully understand what he was seeing and how to focus on the present and not have failed interactions with the past. It was several more years before he learned to focus on the past and control his focus. This could be compared to looking at a forest, but not seeing the leaves. Certain actions might jump out at him, like violent murders, but for the most part it's all just a fast moving blur.
His active vision would (to continue the analogy) be like walking into the forest to examine the leaves. He can only focus on one point in time at a time. For every minute he's looking into the past, only one second passes in the present. While doing this his focus on the present is nearly completely reduced making him more vulnerable in the present. If he's looking at a wall safe he can see the last time it was opened, what was put in and what the combination was.
He can look back up to the day he was born. Anything that occurred before his birth is hidden to him.
He can not interact with the past (no time travel). If he's looking at a safe that was moved, he can not see the combination.
Strengths:
He can view events that have happened in the past, know who's guilty and who's innocent, and what exactly happened and where they went. Unknowable information is very valuable.
Weaknesses:
He can't touch an object and see everywhere it has been, which would be psychometry.
The Retrocognition is powered by his internal body temperature constantly sapping his warmth. The result is he's almost always cold and regularly dresses for weather conditions colder than it is. This does not provide any extra ability to handle the cold. In winter he's often rather miserable (his powers still work fine). His body partially compensates by requiring extra calories.
Has no defensive or offensive powers.
Secondary mutation description:
Strengths:
Weaknesses:
Fighting Style
Explanation:
US special forces. Most of the methods he knows to kick ass are classified.
Pros for fighting style:
Nearly as good as a Navy Seal.
Cons for fighting style:
Not as good as a Navy Seal.
Faction Allegiance
None yet.
History Of Your Character
He was born in New Jersey. Was birthed to a duo of randomly violent nobodies. His mother died of an overdose when he was 6 and his father went to jail when he was 10. His strongest memory of his father was being taught to shoplift.
He hasn't tried to find the grave of the former, or the current situation of the latter. He then spent most of his childhood moving from one ghetto foster home to the next.
His late childhood was one of minor thuggery and a rotating scene of courtrooms. He's had his powers since he was 12, but had very little control and considered his powers useless, so he hid them. He committed his first felony at the age of 13, breaking and entering. Stole his first car at fourteen and was carrying a gun everyday by 15. When he was 16 he was sentenced to two years in juvenile hall for drug possession with intent to sell. He claimed to have been framed, he was guilty. The fellow juveniles learned he was a mutant when he'd finally realized he could see the past. For years he'd thought he was crazy and seeing things, but when he saw some of the past clearly, he got excited and told people of his power. That's when the beatings began.
It was there than Thomas gained most of his paranoia. He willed himself to stop sleeping, and for the most part, didn’t. Half through his stubborn pride, and half through determination, he began sleeping only 3-4 hours or a day, so as to avoid being jumped at night. During this time he fought almost daily, sometimes multiple times a day. He did not learn any real fighting techniques, but it did toughen him up.
When he turned 18, he was released from juvenile hall and his record quashed. He joined the military as he had no money, no family and no options. He eventually served in the 101st Airborne Division and excelled with them. It was in the 101st that he learned to focus both his mind, body, and mutant powers. The toughness he’d grown as a kid was leveraged into his actual combat training. There too he learned the value of actionable intelligence.
He was in the military for a total of 5 years. He spent two years serving in New Zealand with the 101st, and a year each in Iraq and Afghanistan. Over the years he gained in rank. He was smart in the field and had the instinct of a killer. He served in several black ops missions in Somalia. During a night of heavy drinking and argument he lost his temper and got in a fight with a fellow officer and broke the other's nose, arm and two ribs. He was convicted of assault. He was court-martialed and sentenced to 1 year in the brig, of which he served 2 years for poor behavior.
When he left the military prison, he was 25 with no career experience besides the minor thuggery of his youth, and his killing skills in the military attached to a dishonorable discharge. So he got a job with the mob. He was good, too good. He made enemies with a powerful family and was nearly killed a year and a half ago. His paranoia got worse.
He moved into New York after that and opened a bounty hunting company that was (at first) legitimate. After a few months he broadened to recovery of stolen goods ranging from artwork to bonds, bank heists and kidnappings. That too got boring so he has recently started keeping some of the goods he was supposed to recover. He's finally enjoying a successful career as a criminal and living utterly extravagantly.
Roleplay
Where did you learn about this site?: Google.
Do you have any other characters on MRO, if so who:nope
Sample RP:
Late morning.
North Jersey
Eighteen months ago.
Thomas' knuckles against the door twice. He waited. Though the sun was high in the air, the day was thick with cloud and heavy with moisture. Though the air was almost warm, the light breeze carried an uncomfortable chill. He looked to his right, up the road and into the breeze. Gray, dank, poor. Old unpainted homes with old rusted cars parked on streets in need of repaving. He shoved his light brown leather-gloved hands deeper into his pockets. And the street smelled. He hated New Jersey.
With an annoyed sigh he shook his head and looked back to the door. Outside was mildly depressing. Inside, was wholly insane. He should have come with at least two others. That though, would have required trusting his guys to stay smart. He was better on his own. Three of his guys were in the car loaded for bare if negotiations went north. He inhaled then, deep and fully. Pausing, with his lungs full, he considered in full all the reasons this was stupid, and then he exhaled, and pushed all those concerns from his mind. He clinked his head to the left slightly, stretching the neck muscle. It was show time.
The door opened, and a very large man looked out. Thomas was tall. This guy stood nearly three inches taller. Thomas was big. This guy looked to weigh a hundred more pounds. Only a bit of it fat. The guy looked like a Buick on legs. The Buick of a man scowled. “Tommy. Haven’t seen you since that day in that field with that guy.” The man leaned out the door a bit, and looked around. “You’re alone?”
Thomas didn’t know the large man’s name. They’d met three times. The last time was in a field and he’d thrown a man into a tree. The second time he was throwing a man into traffic. The first time the man had lifted Thomas and thrown him at a Buick’s windshield. Thomas still had a scar from where some of the glass cut into his shoulder. Since then he’d taken to calling the large man Buick within his own thoughts. Despite the pain, he’d never blamed the guy. Thomas had killed the son Buick’s boss. He’d been lucky to talk his way out of that situation. Or rather threaten as the case was.
“No, my guys will wait for me in the car." Don't kill me or my guys fill this trailer with holes. "Got something for your boss.” In Thomas’ right hand he held a rather large briefcase. Black snake leather. Very expensive. “He’ll like it.”
The Buick stepped back, allowing Thomas to enter. Stepping forward he was very careful not to bang the briefcase into the doorway. Only one step in, the door was shut and large hands patted him down. As everyone knew, Thomas would be carrying. One in a shoulder holster and a second at his ankle. He made no effort to resist as they were taken. “Cigarettes Tommy? Don’t you know these’ll kill you?” The guy laughed at his own poor joke after feeling the pack in the front pocket of his jacket. As the Buick continued checking for any other guns, he suddenly grinned, “So, whatever happened to that guy? You seemed pissed with him when we left.”
“The short one?” Thomas asked, not immediately sure who he meant. He kept where he stood. It was always a bit awkward when another man felt him up. When the Buick was done, he straightened his black suit jacket and tucked his buttoned dark maroon shirt back into his pants. His clothing was expensive, and as much as he disliked a man’s hands frisking him, he hated the Buick’s dirty hands on his italian suit. He adjusted the white and blue french tie at his collar from where it’d shifted.
“Yeah, the guy you had me throw at the tree.”
The short guy was an accountant stealing money from someone Thomas worked with. It was a very bad decision on his part. “Oh him. He’s um, still there.” Parts of him at least.
He continued small talk with the man, but his focus was on his surroundings. Thomas took in the room with a slow level gaze moving carefully right to left.
The trailer was poorly decorated with Walmart fixtures and blue-light-special art. It probably belonged to some poor schmuck who owed them money. The smell of cigarettes bit the room.Yellow walls, two gray couches. A flat screen tv nearly covered the wall. Poor people did love their big tvs. An ash tray and a bag of McDonalds was on the rectangle wood coffee table. It had burn marks like he'd seen in crack houses. He'd been wrong, trailer belonged to a dumb schmuck.
His look though was mostly redundant. He was more concerned with watching the past, their actions just before letting him in. His retrocognition gave him neither the ability to fly, the power to lift cement trucks or shatter minds. But it did show him knew what he wasn't supposed to know.
There were four armed men in the room, and one in the room to the right. He knew that despite the calm manner of the Buick, he was nervous. The other three men in the room were all paid muscle. They were all also acting nonchalantly, but when he knocked they'd all gone quiet and stiff. With the second of his two knocks, he’d seen an impressive total of fifteen guns being tapped and various safeties switched off. There was no lack of pride for the impact he was already having. They'd said nothing to each other, which was a shame. Before that they'd been drinking beer and playing cards with a hooker. He looked back a bit further, the woman owned the place, her boyfriend left the burns.
Standing there, in the center of the room without a weapon, knowing the others had at least two each, he felt a faint prick of fear. He also wasn’t one of those mutants immune to gunfire. No healing factor, no force field, no teleportation. One of the thugs, a black guy with stubble made some joke, and so Thomas chuckled. Not at the joke, he was laughing at himself and his long-going internal bitch fest. He really wished he had a different power. Something more flashy and violent. He opened the briefcase and pulled out a extra wide thick folder. “I’ve got seventy-five thousand that says your boss is gonna be happy with my visit.” Small talked bored him quickly. He put the briefcase down carefully in the middle of the coffee table.
Upon opening the contents the Buick whistled, and placed the file to the far side of the table. A few seconds later a thin guy came in carrying two glasses of Vodka. This man’s name Thomas did know. Joseph Lues. This guy he actually liked. They’d crossed paths a few times and always to a positive end. Well, except for that first time with the Buick. “Joe! So glad you could meet me today.” Two short steps, an acceptance of drink, and a quick handshake. “How’s your mother?”
“Good Thomas, real good. She got through the surgery just fine. Thanks for asking. Sorry about them taking your guns. You understand.”
Thomas nodded slightly. “No worries mate. Hell I could kick the big guy’s ass with just the briefcase.” With that, he indicated the briefcase and indicated the Buick. “You don’t know it, but I got a black belt in briefcase.” Thomas chuckled at his own joke, the others laughed a bit too. The Buick thought it was really funny, laughed loudly and slapped Thomas on the back really hard. It was like being slapped with an GoodYear tire.
"I remember you fighting that black guy six months ago, him and his short brother."
"I won, didn't I?"
"You cheated. You brought a gun, they didn't."
Thomas nodded and he didn't disagree.
Still wearing a bit of a grin, Joseph looked to the thick file, but didn’t move to open it. There was a certain level of trust between them. One simply didn’t go into the other’s house claiming to bare cash he didn’t. “Seventy five thousand Thomas? That’s a mighty kind house warming gift.” He shifted his drink motioning towards the table and the folder atop it, “Bonds?”
A grin. Thomas' eyes met those of one of the four thugs. A Latino man with all sorts of Latino tats. The Latino had moved a bit to the side, and suddenly he was standing in the center of a circle. Of the four of the thugs, only the Latino would look him in the eye. The Latino looked anxious for a fight. He’d seen that look in the eyes of kids throughout his whole childhood and then into his adulthood in the military. He’d had that look many times himself. To his credit he’d learned to control that feeling in himself, and so in others he saw it not as a threat but a weakness.
He turned back to Joseph, who had gotten right to the point. Good. This was the hard part of his job. There were all sorts of pawns working for his boss who could be trusted to bust skulls and grunt. He’d done that for a while, enjoyed his work too. But he’d moved on. Now he dealt with the more serious negotiations. Joseph’s father had recently begun infringing on the gambling circuit in Northern Jersey. Thomas' boss made a lot of money from that area. He didn’t want competition. Someone needed to make Joseph back off, someone with enough reputation and weight to prevent a war. Diplomacy was required, any two-bit thug could go about barking orders and starting wars. Someone had to walk the thin line between not insulting Joseph and his family, but putting them in their place.
“Not so much a house warming gift, as much as a gift of friendship. Your father and my boss have been friends for a while.” Thomas stiffened slightly. His eyes returned to match hard with Joseph’s. “He sent me to politely suggest some more fruitful territory.” Another pause. No, a pawn simply wouldn’t suffice. A stronger move was needed. A bolder, smarter move. Hence Thomas, sitting surrounded by a half dozen soldier-wanna-bes. “He figure’s the seventy-five would be enough to cover any losses from having to move.” The black rook was in play.
There it was. The board was set and pieces in motion, the game begun. The cash was just a token, a way of face-saving for Joseph and his people. Wasnt much of a token either, Thomas had suggested either one dead Buick or two hundred thousand. His boss insisted, Thomas was now involved; this was the true message. Peace or war. As Thomas waited for some sort of response, he held his posture and gaze strong. Now was not the time to show uncertainty or fear. Weakness in any form could get him killed.
After a few tense moments, Joseph laughed. He lifted his hand and offered a silent toast. “You’re a good man Thomas. You should know I’ve always liked you. I’ll tell you what. We’ll leave the area to your boss.” And here Joseph paused. Only briefly. “By tonight, we’ll have everything we wanted anyway.”
Bad.
Thomas was known in his circles. The darker sadder less happy and angrier circles. His world. In his world people died freely and mercy was rarely asked, even rarer given. People knew to fear him. He liked his world. In his world people did not just leave a profitable area without at least some fighting. Something very wrong was going on. There were machinations at work, schemes and plotting. Lies were abound and secrets veiled. Murder was tolling in his ear for the situation had just shifted. In a word, all was now bad.
“Mind if I have a seat?” Thomas indicated the old and stained leather couch set between the TV and a dying fern. Most nights the hooker cried into a glass of cheap pinot grigio curled up in the corner of the couch, most mornings her three year old watched Sesame Street from the middle.
With Joseph’s nod he took two steps and sat in the middle. He brought the good Goose to his lips and finished it. This was that moment in life where everyone held their breath. Everything was about to end really good, or really bad. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it up. He kept the box in his left hand.
He looked into the empty glass and shook the cubes. “That is, very sensible of you.” Perhaps, he cautioned himself, he should leave. Once more he looked to the eyes of those around him. Again, only the Latino and Joseph would look him in the eye. The Latino’s eyes begged for a fight. “Though you’ve stoked my curiosity. What is it you plan on getting tonight?”
Joseph didn’t answer at first. As if in argument with himself, he shifted from grinning to frowning, and back again. Finally settling on a thin sneer he withdrew his gun. The other five all did the same. “Revenge. You killed my cousin Thomas. My blood.”
S***.
Thomas nodded, all sorts of little realities fitting into place. Turns out he was just another pawn with delusions of granduer. He was being traded for a more valuable piece at least. Most of his inward strength sagged. He’d been set up. The seventy-five was just a token. Thomas though, he was a fine payment in full. Those who had been his friends just that morning were now his enemies. He felt a cold shudder along his spine, but pushed it down and away. There’d be plenty of time for remorse when he was dead.
With a careful hand he slowly put the glass down atop the table. “I came here as a friend Joseph. I can still walk out the same. You need to fully understand what you’re risking.” Thomas leaned forward. “I am a good friend to have Joseph. A good soldier. Don’t do this.”
Joseph said nothing. Then he raised his gun and aimed it at Thomas.
“Give me a second. I saved your life once, that time in Harlem. You owe me this.” He lifted his cigarette and took a slow deep puff. He nodded towards the Buick. “Hey, what’s your name anyway?”
“Cooper.”
Thomas laughed a sad little laugh. “Like the car? The little foreign one with stripes?"
“Yeah, what’s it to ya?”
“Nothing, nothing.” He took another puff on his cigarette, and blew out the smoke. “About your cousin Joseph, I’m sorry. But he didn‘t give me a choice.” The dark smoke filled his nostrils, itching at the back of his throat. His eyes closed tightly, allowing his mind to focus past the chaos of the moment. The room was warm and, despite the guns aimed at him, rather cozy.
“Me too Thomas. You wanna finish it?”
“Actually, no. I hate cigarettes. They make my throat itch.” Joseph didn’t have time to consider the response. Thomas pressed a button hidden in the pack of Camels and the briefcase exploded. Or more precisely, the particles of aluminum and potassium perchlorate spat out through custom bored holes along the sides, top and bottom of the briefcase exploded. In the 101st Airborne Thomas had come to love flash bang grenades. As the aerosol driven explosives mixed with the oxygen in the air, a bright white flash with an equally loud pop resonated through the room. Thomas' eyes were closed against the flash, he was prepared for the bang .
He’d built the device into the briefcase himself from blueprints from the Internet. The flash bang was absolutely deafening. They screamed in pain, made blind and deaf by the sudden pop/flash, made panicked by their own incompetence. He was off the seat and leaping into Cooper before any of them could reopen their eyes.
Copper fell back. The large man carried a traditional Colt 45. It fit really well in Thomas' hand. It had six bullets. He only needed five. Every man in that room began firing their guns. Thomas was the only one to aim. So he shot Joseph twice for good measure.
Cooper was dying, but not dead. "You cheated," he sputtered through bloody lips.
Thomas nodded and didn't disagree. "You knew that about me mate. Shouldn't have forgotten."
He retrieved both of his guns and put them back where they belonged. He then took two others he liked, checked them for rounds and the safety switches and put them in his jacket pocket. The bonds went back into the briefcase, a bit darker than before, but otherwise okay. With a disgusted, disgruntled and rejected exhale, he straightened his shoulders and walked out the front door.
The car with his three friends, his back up, we're gone. It was not the first time he’d been alone in the world. Once on the stoop he paused and looked around. There weren’t many options. As always they got down to fight or flight. The black pawn had taken the center of the board, but both Kings remained, and the black army was in full force. If he wanted revenge, he’d need help, but he had no one left to go to. On the other hand, if he wanted to live through the month he’d need help too.
That’s when he looked to his briefcase and smiled. Seventy-five thousand was a nice start for a new life, and it might even buy him the help he needed. Then he frowned and shook his head. “Black belt in briefcase?” he mumbled aloud before walking off down the street unsure where life would now take him. “God that was lame.”
Today.
An old man in a tattered suit awoke to find himself bound and gagged in the corner of an Algerian hotel room. The room was hot with sun and smelled of sweat. His white hat was worn and greyed. The pink shirt faded and brown belt pulled in a few notches. The eyes terrified.
His name was Henry Zambas, and the day before he'd been on the run. He'd been a captain in a New Jersey mob. He'd been wealthy, feared and respected. He'd been Thomas' boss.
Thomas intruded upon.
"Hey boss," he said as he pulled a chair over and sat down across from Mr. Zambas. "I've been looking for you."
Henry almost stood, he looked behind him, then looked back at Thomas. His left had moved towards his jacket pocket, but the gun he always carried was gone. Gagged as he was, he stayed silent. Behind the terror, Thomas could see the gears spinning.
Two weeks previous several of his best men disappeared the same day the F.B.I . crashed through his front door with lots of evidence. He hadn't been home at the time. Or since. He'd thought they'd turned witness on him. He went on the run and disappeared into the slums of Algeria. He had plenty of money to hide out.
"So, yeah I got a question. Just one." Thomas leaned in, placed a pistol to the the man's chin. The handle was cool and smooth. He cocked it, pulled the trigger back a tiny quester of an inch and felt the ridges on the trigger pinching his skin. "Answer it right, and I don't kill you . Answer it wrong, and I do." He looked the older man in the eyes. Gold met pale blue. "You sold me out. Now, yes, I know we made peace about that, but truth be known, I hold grudges when betrayed. Here's the question. Why? Why did you turn on me? I was a loyal soldier, why'd you burn me?" He pulled the gag out.
"This is crazy Thomas, crazy! That was water under the bridge, you said so! Years ago!"
Thomas regagged him and punched him once in the gut. "Listen up, focus Zambas, focus. Answer the question. Was it because you found out I was a mutant." He pulled the gag out again, but had his answer before the man spoke.
"A mutant? You're one of them?" His eyes were wide with shock, then they fluttered about as realization struck. "That's how you could find people so quick!"
Thomas nodded. "So what was it then, just money?"
Zambas looked away. He looked down, he looked at his feet, he looked everywhere but at Thomas. For the first time he looked to the far wall. Along the wall were two guys. Both looked like steroid pumping guidos in imitation Gucci. They were both armed. One had a bottle of vodka. The other had a morbid sense of humor.
His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
"It's okay, relax. Just tell me the truth and I'll only kill you if the reason was me being a mutant."
"I had no idea," Zambas blurted out suddenly. "It was money yes, but, mainly, you knew too much. You could have put my whole organization away, and you weren't blood. You had no wife or kids, you weren't family. If you were pinched, there was nothing keeping you from flipping. Nothing to do with being a mutant. I wish I did know, never woulda done it if I knew."
Thomas laughed. A short laugh, kinda hollow, but real. "Well that's irony. I think it's irony. That song still has me confused on the matter. But yeah, we'll go with irony. That's why I'm here. You know too much. I forgave you for trying to kill me. But I have plans and can't risk the cops ever rolling you." Thomas got up and walked away. As he walked away he adjusted his custom tailored silver Gucci suit. His shirt was smooth white silk with thin blue lines, his tie thin, patterned and almost reflective. A silver fedora with a gray blue band on his head, a cocky grin on his face. "Sorry boss. You have to die."
Behind him Zambas whined and bitched about promises and children and wanting to live. "But you promised! I have children!" he whined. "Don't kill me! I want to live!"
"Quit bitching. Listen, I'll make you a deal."
He waved them forward. "You sent me into a room unarmed against five guys. I'm going to give you just two. Guys, wait ten minutes, give him as much vodka as he wants, then kill him. If you live, we're even. Best I can do."
"Hey boss, this doesn't seem fair to me," one of the cheap suits said. "The old fart doesn't have the right belt." He took off his own belt, black Italian, and tossed it to the man bound and sobbing in the corner. "There, now you both got black belts."
Thomas shook his head, he'd told them the full story of course. "Gah, really, a black belt joke? Really?" He went to the hotel room door shaking his head.
(Edited a bit to fix a few typos and clean it up a bit. Did not change the power section.)
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Look forward to meeting some of you IC.
