Post by MICHAEL ZOTTI on Nov 9, 2011 21:57:07 GMT -5
| [atrb=border, 0, true][atrb=style, border-left: #373e46 45px solid; border-right: #515c69 4px dashed; background: #d8d8d8; padding-top: 16px; padding-right: 16px; padding-left: 16px; padding-bottom: 12px; -moz-border-radius: 10px; width: 368px;] MICHAELBENJAMINZOTTI stoic, dominant, strong twenty, angelli, male,  bc || joshua delos { make yourself shine } If you could kill anybody in the world and get away with it, who would they be? |
I could kill anyone in the world and there is a very good chance I'd get away with it. Yes, I'm arrogant, I know. The law doesn't hold me back, I hold me back. But I don't have a personal vendetta against anyone, if that's what you're asking. If you go after Ashe, that changes. If I have to kill to defend her then its a last option and I've failed in someway if I find myself in that corner. If that happened, I'd kill without hesitation and I would take my punishment without hesitation. I would not want to get away with it.
If you had the choice to save a person's life, but in return yours ends; would you do it?[/color][/b]
Yes. For some people, in some circumstances.
What did you get up to last night?[/color][/b]
I trained. I followed Ashe while she hunted. I followed Ashe while she went out to clubs. And then I stood in the shadows, watching her on the dance floor. Someone tried to pull me out to dance. I think. Maybe they were trying to maul me. I'm not sure, it was dark and I was watching Ashe. A friend of mine came over later. Yes, I do have a few friends. Not everyone thinks I'm an arrogant asshole. Just Ashe. And maybe a few others.
Have you ever been in love? If not, do you want to be?
I've never been in love. I don't want to be in love and I never will be in love.
I hear you have quite a history. Care to share?
Not really. My history is nothing worth talking about. My Mother had me young. She was alone. Afraid. I guess because my father didn't want anything to do with us. That's what I've been told anyway. She gave me to an older friend of hers to raise. That friend had a family. A good family, so I know my mother was trying to do the right thing by me. They were good to each other. Good to me too, I can't complain. I grew up inside of a house I wasn't a part of is the only thing I can say about it. I was an outsider. They treated their own sons different. Bought them things, took them places. They sat on the couch and watched movies. I was always separate. I spent a lot of time alone. Walking and running, exploring the countryside off by myself. I was quiet. I tried to help out as much as I could and I wasn't in the way. Most times I didn't even sit with them at dinner, I'd come into the kitchen later and make myself a sandwich or something. I always felt too big in that house, like I was taking up too much space even though I was trying so hard to be invisible. I don't remember them ever asking me how I was doing. I didn't really learn how to ask them how they were doing either.
I used to lie in the cot at night, I slept on a cot in the den and I looked out of the window and I started thinking about things. About what was going on outside of the house, outside of this small part of the world I knew. There were big things happening, I knew that. I knew what I was, what my place was supposed to be in it, Angelli. But I saw all kinds of people around me that were like me and they weren't what I wanted to be like. They were good in name only, or so it seemed to me. I wanted to be more then good in name, more then the family I was living with, more then the parents I didn't know. More then what I was because I was supposed to be it. That seemed like bullshit. Good because of what you are and shades bad because of what they were. It made me think about people had inside of them and who decided what a person got to be, themselves or the people telling them what they were. I wanted to be good because of the things I do. I didn't know what that meant. I still don't. But I used to think a lot about it, about the things people were going through and why and how I could do something about anything.
I walked into Roebucks Academy when I was twelve because watching the guys fighting through the big windows made it seem like they were getting some kind of control over themselves, and I figured in order to something about anything, you have to start doing something about yourself. I want to fight. I told him, I am going to learn how to fight. I've always had this energy. And I was pretty arrogant, demanded to fight with the older boys who'd been training for years already.They let me get exactly what I'd asked for. Getting my ass kicked. I got my ass kicked a lot. But I kept training and I kept coming back. I think they thought I wanted to off myself, I let myself get beat up on so often. But I was learning. I learned how to handle pain and to keep on fighting. I learned how to be humiliated. I leaned how to endure. Learned a lot by getting my ass kicked. By punishing myself. I felt peaceful when I was fighting, winning or losing. Roebuck, who ran the school, took me under his wing finally, mainly to keep me from getting killed I think. He taught me a lot. I'd always liked reading too and I started to read about how to eat right, how to strengthen my mind. I became obsessed with discipline and focus. I knew I could beat everyone. And I started doing it. I won matches. Lots of matches, even against men who were a lot older or men who were bigger. I got some attention for it. From a lot of different people. Some of it good, some of it not so good. That's what got me where I am. Anyway. I've talked too much about nothing.
Geez, i hear the Council are being bitches these days. Your view on them?[/color][/b]
They are necessary. They are the hope we have. I don't understand how so many different members with so many different ideas are going to work together, but I think that is the whole point. It's difficult. But they will get things done. I hope. Maybe. Sometimes Ashe makes me think it's going to be impossible. She is not reasonable. She drives me a little crazy. She says I drive her crazy too, but I don't see how I could, when I'm just telling her what's best for her.
Idea of a perfect date?
I don't think about dating. But if I need to answer, then she'd kick my ass until the very end when I beat her. And then I'd laugh.
If your life had a slogan, what would it be?
I will try harder.
Your favorite meal?
I eat to help maintain energy and endurance and to speed my recovery time from exhaustion or injuries, not for pleasure. I guess, I like chicken. It's good protein.
So times are hard, aren't they? What can you do to protect yourself?[/color][/b]
I can fight, I'm trained in mixed martial arts, boxing, and wrestling. I have worked on being still for very long periods of time and staying vigilant, watching and waiting. I'm patient. I've been called fanatical about discipline. If that means I train constantly and hold myself to a high standard, then I guess I'm a fanatic.
Wow, you have quite a reputation around here. How'd you get it?[/color][/b]
Do I? I think you're being sarcastic. Ha. No? Hm. I suppose my reputation comes from my actions because I don't do small talk. I'm good at what I do, and I'm relentless in my determination to become even better. I guess some people might think I'm aloof, or arrogant. I'm not a good talker and I tend to be blunt and a little unforgiving, but I have my reasons and I'm not interested in winning a popularity contest. I think people respect my ability to do my job.
Do you like your family?
The studio where I trained was more like a home to me. My trainer was more like family. But sure, yeah, I like them fine, they are great people.
Good or evil? Which do you choose?[/color][/b]
Good.
So are your sheets being tousled or what?[/color][/b]
No tousling.
If you had to chose, what is your least favorite thing about yourself?[/font][/color]
I don't get along with most people easily, I don't trust them and I don't know how to do casual too well. I'm not gentle and I don't know how to talk people the way I sometimes want to. I say one thing and people act like I'm a jerk, but I think I'm just saying things wrong. I can be rigid, controlling, possessive and competitive. I don't think I can choose which of those things I dislike the most in myself.
[/blockquote]
{ introduce yourself }
holy shit, ben is that you? we haven't talked for 5 years! that is just ridiculous.
we should meet up sometime; pm ok?
{ show off those skills, baby }
The door was open.
Most doors in Winchester were left unlocked. Winchester wasn't the kind of town where people locked their doors against strangers; people in Winchester were not strangers to each other. Winchester was not a way station for drifters. It was not a place for anonymous strangers to pull in off the bypass and pump gas, buy donuts. If someone came to Winchester they were coming here in particular, whether they knew why or not. If something happened bad in Winchester, it happened between husbands and wives or between brothers and neighbors. Those weren't the kinds of people to lock your door against because they'd have the key or they'd know what time you left work and they'd be there, sitting in their pick-up truck out in the parking lot, waiting.
It was one of the reasons Winchester was so wary of them, the circus. They were strangers walking into their town, drifting in and out like apparitions to pick up groceries at the local store and waiting just outside of the city limits to entertain them at night when they didn't want to sit and watch their televisions. People drove in from other small nearby towns to see them too, and people like himself came to join and the numbers of the unknown swelled. Strangers brought more strangers, strangers brought more unknowns, more strangers brought more reasons to lock doors.
Maybe some of them had already started locking their doors at night. Maybe especially the ones who stayed at the circus later and later and kept coming back again. But not this someone. This someone's door wasn't only unlocked, it was propped wide open. From where he stood, he could see the stone statue propped against the bottom of the door, but he couldn't tell its shape.
He'd paused, stood, looked.
Standing on the wide, white sidewalk, Burt stood under a yellow drift of falling leaves. They fell slowly around him, a tide blown up and down the avenue of air in the inhale of the breeze, in the exhale of the limb lungs releasing. The leaves shuddered at the edge of holding on, they clung from the memory of clinging, because clinging was all they'd ever done. Then they fell. Majestically, without fear of falling.
They fell believing they could fly.
Burt watched them. Down softly they fell around him; downed still dreaming; let down easy from their fantasy. A quiet, drifting end. They couldn't fly. They were at his feet then lifted from resting with the breeze, sent to skitter against the ground with their edges crawling crab-like against the concrete and over and under and between the dark iron of the fence into the brown grassed yard of the house with its door wide open.
It was a small, neat looking house. Like most houses in Winchester, it wasn't a cookie cutter copy of the house next to it. Houses here were individual, they were older, they had character. He looked at their surfaces without looking past them because there was too much past to see, too much history to get lost in. Little girls on tire swings in the front yards and scraped knees and carved hearts into concrete, broken siding and climbing to hang Christmas lights and kisses on the front porch in the rain and black and white television and huddling around fire places and listening to radios and a whole century of lives lived ghosted under the present.
He didn't let himself look at the houses for too long but he was standing and looking at this one. The yellow afternoon light faded against the brick walkway, turning the edge of the day into yesterday. He stood, his arms cool in the breeze, alive under the cold. Looking. The light glinted, brighter against the brick, so bright it was dazzling; his eyes followed it to the open door and the statue hidden in the shadows. Maybe not a statue, maybe just a rock. He wanted to know. He walked, the leaves crunching under his boots as he moved from the sidewalk and up the stairs into the yard, down the walk. Laughter and chalk sketches lifted and faded, sounds from the past chased beside him, nipping at his sides. He smiled to himself at them, at the sad eyed and the bright eyed nostalgia the little house had for itself. And today too, earlier, someone had walked here, quiet and humming without sound; he liked the feeling of the nearest of the memories the house breathed out. A loud calm, a soothing quiet. He wasn't worried about trespassing, even though he'd been wrong many times and had misinterpreted the distant past for the more recent; the welcoming he felt could have nothing to do with whoever occupied the place now, and he knew it. It didn't stop him from walking up the front steps, to the shadow of the front door where he could see the small stone statue of a wolf that was being used to prop it wide; it didn't stop him from looking into the shadowed gray of the front hallway and calling out, "Hello." His eyes lingered on the wolf statue; he bent down at the waist and touched his fingers to its snout. A watchdog, sitting on mantles and then shelves and then at the foot of a door. A watchdog; he smiled at it, grinning at the chipped tip of its ear, a scar from thirty years ago when he'd been dropped by Tom. On Tom's foot, and Tom had shouted. Smiling, without waiting for a response to his called out greeting, Burt walked into the hallway. His gaze flicked down the shadowed recess into the small room ahead of him where the walls were lined with bookcases filled with old, beautiful things and none of them plastic, none of them mass produced, all of them talking at him, whispering in the warm afternoon quiet.
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