The Big Damn Original Characters ApplicationYour ‘Real’ Name:
JoeHow Often You Can Post:
Every dayTell Us About Your Roleplay Past/Abilities:
I’ve got so many characters that they keep spilling into the Shoutbox.How Familiar Are You With The Firefly 'Verse?:
FairlyHow Did You Hear About The BDV Site?:
Google, I think.
____________________________________________________________________In your mind, you can picture your Original Character...now let us 'see' them.If you could 'cast' the role of your OC, who would play the part:
)What BDV ship/location do want to be assigned to:
Route 66 for nowCharacter Name:
Gordon “Gordy” BenningCharacter Occupation:
Poet and philosopher, troubadour and troublemaker, Crazyface McGeeGender:
22Detailed Physical Description:
One of the first tings one might notice about Gordie are his eyes, which are a very vibrant blue. A scruffy beard, generally unstyled hair, and sometimes melancholy smile round out his face. He’s in fairly decent shape for a young man of his age, mostly due to his sometimes frantic activity. He can usually be found in t-shirts and jeans that smell like coffee, stale alcohol, and cigarette smoke from his time in coffee houses and bars. Other than that, he’s a pretty average kind of guy.
Oh, except that he only speaks in poetic forms....Detailed Personality:
Gordon is a relatively average guy when it comes to temperament. His speech patterns work only in poetic forms (rhymes quite Seussian, and dances Watussian), and so he is most often described as thoughtful and succinct, but that’s only because his brain has to take just a little extra time to make sure that his speech is correctly patterned (rhymed, sung [yes, he bursts into song for no apparent reason], rapped, or haiku’d for now, though he’s increasingly interested in spoken word poetry, for obvious reasons) in order for it to pass his lips.
He does have his moments where his frustration at being unable to communicate normally shine through with abandon. He’s prone to fits of grunting rage and storming out when his point isn’t made, or, more especially, when folks are being intentionally obtuse and misconstruing his words. He’s also has absolutely no use for people who don’t (as opposed to can’t) spell. He just wants to punch them in their non-spelling faces. He loves laughter, though, and is a sucker for a joke, even if it’s a dumb joke he’s heard hundreds of times. He’s a smiley kind of guy like that. Detailed History:
Gordy grew up on Londinium, the son of a nurse and a writer and a surrogate mother that he’s never met. Both of his fathers encouraged his artistic talents, which were in the musical arena. He learned to sing first, naturally, and then moved on to piano, and guitar, though drums have always baffled him. Something about making more than two limbs move in different rhythms completely throws him off.
When he was sixteen, he was selected from a planet-wide pool of candidates to participate in a pilot program for gifted youngsters funded by Blue Sun, to try and analyze what made them so special. The company put him through a battery of tests, and just when it seemed that they’d learned all they could of him, all contact from the outside ceased.
Unbeknownst to his family, his friends, and to the majority of the Alliance, he was placed into a mental facility that specialized in neurosurgical techniques for repairing damaged brain tissue. He was experimented on by a (quite mad) neurosurgeon who was involved in the early stages of the research into the kinds of experimental surgery that were eventually performed on various operatives and potential operatives at the Alliance's "Academy" program. The neurosurgeon's initial task wasn't specific. He was just set to action in order to find out "what could be".
The language processing parts of Gordon’s brain were altered to try and make him a natural polyglot, but in the process, which was still in the experimental stages, his brain healed wrong, and some of his brain tissue was damaged in the process, resulting in expressive aphasia. He speaks multiple languages, but is relatively unable to communicate, outside of speaking in what his brain perceives as poetry. This mostly comes in the form of rhymes, song, and haikus, since that’s what he was brought up with, but has begun the study of spoken word poetry to try and force his brain to recognize it as poetry.
After the neurosurgeon’s mistake was made known to the higher ups of Blue Sun, they tried (sort of) to do the right thing, and a few Blue Sun funded mercenaries eliminated the doctor and his embarrassing research, which unfortunately included destroying all records of Gordy ever being operated upon. The company turned a slightly sympathetic eye towards Gordy, and used their influence to put several high visibility scandals involving him in the Cortex Newswaves, thus destroying any chance he had at becoming the superstar he might have been.
In his book, it’s still a win, since he’s not dead.
For now, he works as a singer in whatever bar he can find work in, and just recently made his way to Route 66. Strengths:
His vocabulary is capacious, and he has a natural gift for rhyme (“Yes, yes. Some of the time.”). He speaks four languages (English, Mandarin, Spanish, and French), though has to rhyme in them all. He’s a talented singer, and was once well on his way to a career as a musical megastar. He plays the piano well, and the guitar with acceptable aptitude. He’s got a high alcohol tolerance, and is patient, which means that he fairly thrives in a bar environment, which is where most of his work is found anyway, so he’s rarely hurting for money. Weaknesses:
Besides his language barrier? He’s got a serious problem with doctors, in general, and anybody who has anything to do with brains in particular. He's also not a fan of those who pick on the disabled or disadvantaged, and will often take it upon himself to insert himself into such situations, making himself the target of such bullies. Sample Post:
Cigarette smoke curled upwards to form blue-gray pools on the ceiling, causing the audience to seem like a ghostly crowd huddled just on the other side of the stage lights as Gordy pressed the play button on his Corpad, starting the electronic finale to his performance.
The banjo began slowly, plucking twangy notes into the darkness as the bass slowly rose, followed by the speedy mandolin and the woeful fiddle, raising the tempo. They were followed by the thumping kicks of the beat, and Gordy closed his eyes, nodding along as the backing choral track slipped into place like a room full of ninjas.
As the intro climbed higher and higher, he felt himself growing lighter. He felt the room around him closing in, the energy almost crackling on his skin, the air growing thin.
And then he let his lips open, and let the words go.“My pen on blank paper, no inspired words flow, I don't know, where my muse has to go, to get right back, in my head, and on track, I feel dead in, my bed.”
he sang, because the words he spoke couldn’t really be considered speech, as rhythmic and melodic as they were. “I should write, my rhymes tight, coiled up just right, up the leg of my desk, feel grotesque, across the oak table, feel unstable, watch some cable, no help, I'm unable.”
He paced across the stage, bouncing to the beat as he moved, savoring the energy feeding back on him from the crowd in a never ending loop. “As the words tie me to the chair, pulling out my hair, trying to put words there, on the paper page, takes an Age, or an Aeon. Like the Flux, I'm a peon, trying to see on, to my destiny, with the rest of me, still stuck abreast of me, making no progress, towards congress, or anything upwards, just cuss words, flow like a blue river from my lips, with the occasional distracting dip in my girl's hips.”
he grinned at a few of the crowd’s more attractive members, winking here, nodding there.
As the song launched into its thudding, chugging, thunderous refrain, he took a deep breath. “Blue rivers are all that flow, ink so slow, it could be stone, in my bones, for all the good it does. Paper's still blank not because, there's a lack of trying or crying or screaming or dying. The words are there, just right in my throat, but I choke, can't think of what I wrote, the last time, it's a crime that this is such a climb through the grime, can't make a dime with these rhymes. I just do it, and push through it, because everyone knew it, one day I'd just explode and blow my lyrical load all over the face of the pages tossed around my abode.”
The music suddenly cut out, leaving only the backing vocals beneath his own voice. “My house ain't a home, I'm alone, with no phone ringing, or birds singing, or people kinging me for my literary works, how it hurts, I'll go first, and pull this trigger, there's no figure in my bank, so I'll thank, all you people for my rigor. Mortis, can't take more Cortis. Zone, not at home with this itch in my stitches from the cuts of you bitches hurtful verbal barbs in your cars and your bars. It's over, can't adapt, I'm entrapped and I'm apt to have my brain mapped where it's sapped so when the pen goes boom and I've snapped I don't come uncapped.”
With that, he dropped the mic and walked off stage with the crowd roaring at his back. After so many years of song, he might could get used to this spoken word stuff. It'd certainly make conversations easier.
He moved through the backstage area, over to the table where all the food and drink were kept, politely accepting pats on the back and congratulations on a good set from the other performers. He found himself two bottles of water, and downed the first one in a single go. He began sipping the second one, and took several deep breaths, trying to slow his racing heartbeat. As he stood there, listening to the next band ramp up the crowd for their set, a young man approached with a small hovering camera at his shoulder. "Mister Benning? I'm Alex from CorSet. We run a music show in my college. Would you mind a couple of questions for out viewers?"
Gordy shrugged. "Sure, if they're pure."
he said. "I don't mind, not for today."
He reached out and grabbed the young man's sleeve, pulling him out of the path of an oncoming roadie shoving a heavy box of...something. "Watch your behind, and fire away."
The young man smiled, and glanced at the camera. "How do you come up with your rhymes?"
Gordy smiled his best smile. "It's all sort of loose, rattling around in my brain. Listen here you silly goose, I'll try hard not to complain."
he said, taking another sip of water. "My rhymes are a way to cope, with the damage in my head. I try really hard not to mope, because hey, I could be dead."
Alex gave him a bit of a quizzical look, and nodded. "Okay. And how long have you been performing?"
Gordy put a thoughtful finger to his chin, glancing at the ceiling in thought. "At the age of five, I began to write my songs. A kid prodigy."
Gordy said, nodding.
Alex leaned in and spoke softly, so that the camera wouldn't pick it up. "You don't have to keep rhyming, dude. You're not on stage anymore."
Gordy shook his head. "There's damage in my cranium, problems, I keep explainin' 'em. I can't speak without the rhyme, because it comes out garbled the rest of the time."
Alex sighed and shook his head. "Look, if you're not going to take this seriously, I'm leaving"
Gordy opened his mouth to reply, but in the half second that it took his brain to format his speech properly, the young man stormed off, his camera in tow. Gordy sighed, and exchanged his water for a beer. It was probably going to be a long night. This post has been edited by Just Joe on Jul 20 2012, 11:13 AM