Sign Up Mongoose Tom [M-VL]

[Juke Box Hero]

[center][size=4][b][u]Mongoose Tom[/size][/b][/u][/center]

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The sleepy town of Windfall, Massachusetts, is rarely interrupted by events of any interest or significance. Windfall has no police of its own, and when the need for an officer arises, they send for one from another town. The last such need was over thirty years ago. Nestled in the northernmost part of the state, pine forests and a small mountain make up the local geography. The children of Windfall are shipped over the mountain to Portersville everyday for school, one school bus is enough for all of the children, from kindergarten to senior high.

Only once in the history of the United States has Windfall ever had the nation?s attention. Some thirty years ago four mysterious strangers began to occupy old Doc Harmon?s house, high up on the mountain. Soon after they arrived, strangers began frequenting the town, and the FBI took an interest in the area. The locals were left much alone, thus they were not incredibly perturbed, but still harbored deep suspicion. On January 23rd of the fourth year the strangers made their residence in Windfall, a massive explosion rocked the peaceful New England wilderness. Soldiers, FBI Agents, men in dark suit coats, and even a U.S. Marshall flooded the town for nearly a month afterwards, claiming to be ?conducting an investigation into the death of a man of renown.? Then they were gone as quickly as they came.

The man on the video screen was nothing more than a silhouette behind what looked like an Asian paper screen. His voice was slightly muffled and sing-song, though very deep. Those gathered in front of the TV were enraptured by the charisma in his voice.

[i]?I am called [b]Toast Guy[/b] by my friends, and I was in the tenth grade at the time of the events in question. THE events I should say, as they were the only interesting things to ever happen in Windfall, Massachusetts. I remember, school was cancelled for nearly three weeks, as government officials shut down the roads leading to Portersville. My father was the preacher at the town?s only church, and he seemed to know something of the happenings at the time. Didn?t strike me to ask him then, but then again, I hadn?t received the message at that point.?[/i] The man on the video screen faltered for a second. The gathered strangers held their breath in curiosity, willing the video to continue. They had been summoned from across the United States by letters with First Class tickets to Boston, and cars waiting for them at the airport.

Each of the strangers had no idea others were being gathered until they finally met on that house upon the mountain, the panoramic view of Windfall among the wilderness surrounding them. The house that had purportedly been destroyed in an explosion was untouched, with fresh food piled high in the pantries, and a lived-in feeling that somehow did not belong. Upon entering the Great Room, a large television was set up with a VCR on the dining table. A large sign proclaimed: ?Play Me? in handwriting made poor by use of a large Sharpie pen.

[i]?We?ll get back to the message after a bit more background. You are all here for very specific reasons. Reasons you may or may not understand, but that is irrelevant. What is relevant is that Mongoose Tom left instructions that this group in front of the TV was the only group that could be do what must be done. I will be helping you, albeit from the mail for now, because the Crocodile seeks me even now. Our mission: To wake Mongoose Tom, find the Triad, and enter the Winds before the enemy.?[/i] Toast Guy continued, offering no explanation to what a Triad was, or the Winds, or even were and why Mongoose Tom must be woken. Let alone how.

Several of the gathered began grumbling about such things when Toast Guy interrupted again. [i]?Before you grumble and leave, know that I do not understand either. But what I do understand is that Mongoose Tom possesses knowledge of the Triad. And though I know not what the Triad is, I know that if they fall, three pillars of humanity will vanish: Restraint, Language, and Emotion. The world will fall into endless anarchistic war if we fail. I suspect that there may be clues in the house, but I had to flee before I could properly search. I pray that Hot Wire managed to keep the Crocodile from seeking answers there as well. Good luck, and fear not, I will be in touch.?[/i]

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Welcome to the adventures of Mongoose Tom! This is intended to be a serious RP with just enough humor to remind us of Dave Barry occasionally. The characters played will be the gathered strangers, I will play the NPC?s, and if we don?t have enough strangers, I?ll make one as well.

[center][b]Sign-Ups:[/b][/center]

[b]Name:[/b]
[b]Age:[/b]
[b]Sex:[/b]
[b]Occupation/Profession:[/b]
[b]Introduction:[/b] Give an introductory post regarding how and possibly why your character has been summoned to Windfall. Quality counts here, as does spelling and grammar.


PM or IM me (i255i) with any questions or comments!
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[Johnny Justjohnny]

[SIZE=1][COLOR=Gray]OOC: Cool idea, looks interesting, and I do so like comedy...

[B]Name[/B]: Marty Legwand

[B]Age[/B]: 27

[B]Profession[/B]: Student Teacher

[B]Introduction[/B]: Waking up is not something Marty Legwand ? Legs, as his oh-so-original friends like to call him, much to is annoyance ? is overly fond of. When he?s asleep, he?s a knight-in-shining-armour, saving dreamland from any number of vicious demons and villains, a true hero, with an electronic eye and a laser katana ? the kind of guy anyone would like to be. When he?s awake, he?s just a teacher-in-training, caught somewhere between the ?Wanting to make a Difference? and the ?Wanting to Kill the Kids? phase of becoming a teacher, living in a three-room apartment and struggling to pay the bills.

But he still finds a way to drag himself out of bed every morning ? on a morning such as this, for example, he awoke to the radio blaring ?Don?t Stop Me Now?, a song that Marty felt was rather inappropriate. He mused about this for a while, then pondered scatter-brainsedly about what the weather would be like that afternoon, and then, curiously, wandered into a rather heated self-debate over the importance of Smurfs in society. Eventually he realized he was simply being juvenile, decided this wasn?t such a bad thing, and reached up to silence his alarm. In doing this, Marty managed to roll himself over and off the edge of the bed, dragging the covers along with him, and causing his head to rather violently collide with the hardwood flooring.

Grumbling something about Mondays, Marty managed to lift himself off the ground and make the long journey to his feet, standing a few seconds before collapsing on the side of the bed again. He sat there for a few seconds, feeling generally sorry for himself and wishing he were back under the comforting covers of his bed, but quickly resigned himself to the waking world and trudged off to his apartment?s small bathroom. He splashed some water in his face and looked at himself in the mirror, groaning.

[B]?Hey, handsome,?[/B] Marty said to the face staring back at him, a face that was fronted an equally-attractive head, the composite of which was rather crudely grafted onto a similarly-dispositioned body via a scraggly neck, the whole mess of which was exactly that ?a mess. Marty groaned again, and reached for an idling comb to try and tame the mop atop his head that passed for his hair, a task that he failed at quite spectacularly. Abandoning this, he let the comb go back to idling and splashed some more water onto his face, and tried to wash the last remnants of sleep from his eyes.

More successful in this endeavour, Marty used this new-found confidence to attempt to take a shower, something he achieved with moderate difficulty, only slipping once and managing to keep the water from jumping hot-to-cold-to-hot. He exited the shower feeling refreshed and more excited about the day in general ? even if he did have to drag himself into school with the hangover he had earned at his favourite watering hole last night ? or had it been Saturday night? Marty wasn?t quite sure he wanted that question answered.
Marty navigated his way back into his bedroom and threw open his sparsely-populated dresser, picking a few pieces of clothing with little consideration to style or thereabouts, throwing them on and giving himself a parting-glance in the mirror, winking sarcastically and laughing weakly at his own lame attempt to be humorous. He picked a few things that he needed for work off his the small round table in his ?living room? (basically a closet with a TV and some potted plants) and rounding the corner to the door with an unusual bounce in his step ? he wasn?t usually this happy, especially considering the headache he had and the general dissatisfaction with life thing going on.

But it didn?t take long for this bounce to evaporate completely. For, you see, slid under the apartment?s door lay a collection of envelopes and letters. Marty had paid extra for the luxury of having his mail delivered to his door, but he had wondered why ever since ? it seemed that all he ever got were bills and tips on how to get a bigger penis, interspersed with the occasional letter from a distant relative or something of that ilk. So Marty wasn?t expecting very much as he picked the pile off the ground and sorted it slowly ? as he expected, bills, bills, and bills. He decided that he would just throw the pile aside, but then he came to a strange bill at the bottom of the pile ? no, it wasn?t a bill, it was bigger, thicker then that, with a strange envelope.

Cocking his eyebrow, Marty threw aside the rest of the pile and focused on the strange piece of postage. It had his name written on it neatly in an ink pen, with an assortment of strange stamps stuck to it helter-skelter ? it looked like the kind of thing you?d see on a terrorist-alert page. Throwing caution to the wind, Marty pealed back the envelope and removed the folded sheet of paper therein ? which was, like the envelope, old-timey feeling and looking, written on in neat ink ? and read it quietly to himself.

Two days later, Marty was on a plane to who-knows-where, questioning his sanity, and wondering if he?d left the stove on ? he then remembered that he didn?t, in fact, have a stove, thus making it a nonissue, and then ceased to remember anything as his sleeping pills kicked in.

Little did he know that his life was about to get a lot less generally-disappointing. [/COLOR][/SIZE]