Soul Of Vegas Character Thread

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"The moon? The moon's a government psyop. Real moon was destroyed in the secret war against Roswell years ago. They fooled you all into believing it doesn't exist no more. But not me. Not Tim. Tim knows. Tim remembers."


Timothy Sult


Human, 38

Appearance: Standing it at five ten, a hundred and fifty pounds, the first thing most people notice about Timothy Sult are his eyes. Wide, green, and constantly moving and searching, Sult is, at a glance, an unpredictable fellow. He has unkempt, frazzled brown hair that he runs through with long bony fingers. His general expression is a serious, mad accusative glare, often stands in stark dichotomy with his floral Hawaiian shirts and white tank top. When he rarely breaks his vigilant expression, it usually twists into an ugly grimace.

In the Vegas Underworld's Words...

"What'd I dig up on that recent buyer, the Sult guy? More than you'd believe. You sent me into a fucking house of crazy, man. I did some research about 'em, 38, single, no kids, the usual shit. Looked into his history? Get this- the guy's got like 17 degrees from University of Las Vegas. Mechanical Engineering, Aerospace, Electrical, all real technical shit, and some degree in interpretive dance. Yeah, I got no clue either. According to his classmates, the guy didn't become a nutjob until after he picked up most of his degrees. Apparently, Uncle Sam was coming for him, and the guy tried to dodge by acting insane with the help of some LSD. Apparently, the bastard nearly overdosed, and hasn't been the same since.

Now he's got more than a dozen degrees and this idiot decides to open a fucking scrapyard on the edge of town, in the worst fucking neighborhood he could. Crazy enough to keep even crack addicts and serial killers out of his fucking yard. I walk over, and decide to case out the place, see it myself, and the place is fucking massive. He must'ave bought and torn down a half dozen nearby lots to get a piece of real estate that size. There was some kind of machinery work going on inside, and I didn't want to get too close before talking to some of the locals, so I went home, ate at the diner across the street, hit the can and went to bed.

At three in the fucking morning Sult fucking prods me awake, in my own apartment, with the barrel of a fucking loaded .38. But not just any 38. MY 38. The one I keep in the safe under the desk. Somehow, this bastard figured out I was looking into him, and it took him from me standing outside his scrapyard at 5 P.M. to 3 A.M. to figure out where I live, disable the apartment cameras, pick the lock on the door, and cracked the safe within the span of 9 hours. It took one look at the guy from the barrel of my own gun to realize this bastard was even more insane than the fucking stories.

So he asks me what I was doing looking into him, and I tell him we were looking into the man that ordered a crate of military hardware. He found this reasonable, and then explained he was stockpiling weapons for doomsday, and needed a few weapons to round out his collection, as well as spare parts and spares for what he has. He offered to show me the collection, and of course, staring down my own 38, I didn't disagree.

So he drives me down back to his junkyard in some fucking creeper ass rape van, undoes about thirteen different bolts on his door, and brings me into his junkyard. A quick trip into the basement, and dear fucking christ, I think the loon has more guns than we do. Everything from flamethrowers to squad machine guns, hunting rifles and machine guns. I even saw a belt fed shotgun. Who the fuck even needs a belt fed shotgun? Fucking why? The moron even managed to get his hands on a couple bazookas and crates of plastic explosive. How? Not even we have that kind of muscle.

So we talk for a bit, and the whole damn time I'm trying not to get my head blown off by saying the wrong thing to this lunatic, and eventually, he sends me on the way. Wasn't about to ask the guy for a lift, so I took a cab back. Less time with that moron the better. Never gave me my gun back neither. Vinny, you cannot pay me enough to go back there. No way in hell do I want anything to do with that Sult guy ever again."
 
Name; Cheri Wild
Race: Human
Age: 19
Gender: Female
Appearance: She stands 5'3" with a slightly emaciated build. Her hair is naturally jet-black in tangled knots and of shoulder length but depending on the whims, desires, orders of her clients, customers, pimps or owner(s) she will dye it, cut it, grow it out or wear wigs. Her eyes are blue but she will wear contacts if requested/ to. Skin as pure ivory when no make-up is applied and no hands or implements have cut, bruised or burnt it. The athletic, lithe tones of her body arecan be revealed, teased or completely covered . On the rare times she operates by her own whims, she prefers comfortable, casual clothing that covers as much as possible.

Sexual Preference: If she is allowed the freedom to choose, she is bi-sexual otherwise whatever is decided for her.

In My Own Words

I don't know why you want to know anything about me, but it is you money and th I have been commanded to fulfill any of your requests. There is not much to say, my memories of my childhood are brief moments of happiness clouded by pain. I don't know why, I don't want to know. All I know is I foud myself alone on the streets, I thik I may have been ten or eleven. Discarded, abandoned, .clearly unworthy of even the love of those who were supposed to care for me., I survived at all costs, in alleways, under bridges, under the roof of a warehouse or the cellar of a shop. I begged, robbed, ran errands, gambled, danced and yes..g avve body up for a warm meal,a place to stay, or just to survive the night.

Don't waste the pity of that look on me and don't duck your head in shame either. I know my place in life. I soon realized that my body was my best commodity and my willingness to surrender it to the desires of others was my greatest strength. Letting others claim ownership of me, whether temporarily or for what they say is forever, is my only way to wake up another morning. I've been traded, sold, caged and left for dead more times than I can remember. I've even been housed by naive, welll-meaning fools who think they can nurture me into becoming "my own person", but it never lasts. Either they wisen up and realize why I exist, or their kindness and generosity strangles me and I escape back to my destiny.

Don't..don't try and trick me with some offer of comfort. You've wasted all your time listening to me when you could have used me however you wish. Sorry, next time spend your money more wisely.
 
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