Post by Max Valentine on May 21, 2016 5:59:19 GMT
Screen Name: Sunday Leftovers
Full Name: Maxwell Valentine
Alias(s): Max
Age: 32
Birthplace: Miami, Florida
Years lived in Marathon: 10
Properties owned within city limits: Personal residence.
Properties owned outside the city limits: Familial residence.
Notable Family ( Played characters, or NPCs you utilize in your play ): N/A
Association: The Network
Weapons ( please list where they are kept as well ): Mossberg 500, home; Remington 870, Spellbound; M4, Spellbound; Colt 1911, Spellbound; Colt 1911, home; Colt 1911, The Woody; Taurus .38, Dodge Ram 1500; Brass knuckles (with skull caps over the knuckles), truck; Butterfly knife, pocket; switch blade, truck.
Occupation ( or however income is gained ): Owner of Valentine Charters as well as Captain of Spellbound; Head of the smugglers for The Network.
Special Talents ( sports, lock picking, juggling, etc ): Singing, swimming, boating, small mechanic, diving instructor
Special Training ( military, fighting, medical, etc ): Mechanic, street brawling.
Licenses & Certificates: PADI Certification; Charter License, Passenger Carrier License; Driver's License; Boater's License; Fishing License; Business License; Motorcyclist's License
Additonal images/gifs:
History:
Burden.
A word and a feeling, the ladder which carries more weight than the former can describe. Growing up with the knowledge that he did nothing for his mother but steal her youth trickled into his bones. But, she had been determined that he was raised knowing he was her son, not her brother, as would have been so easy. All the insults and slurs and looks and taunts that fell on her... and she soldiered through it with her chin held high. Molested, raped, and then the mother of her rapist's child at the age of thirteen.
Children rebel. Even as a child, knowing how difficult things had been for his mother, he acted out. A fight here, a theft there. Money was tight and his family tighter. Maxwell defended his mother's honor, though more often to her regret; but that was just the start of things.
By the time he reached thirteen, he had been in juvenile detention twice, a two month span and then eight months. The second time was for putting a kid two years his senior into a coma. Okay, officially it was for assault, but the other kid had been in a coma for almost two weeks. Three arrests, all of which were sealed away when he turned evidence over to the District Attorney against a drug dealer suspected in human trafficking. And, then he turned sixteen.
School had always been a complicated association; while he liked learning, he hated being surrounded by the others. Everyone knew his family's not-quite-secret. No embarrassment, no shame, but a source of pride others mocked or prodded. So, at sixteen, he left Florida's public school system and went to the docks.
Cabin boy, attendant, drug pusher, seafood cleaner and packager, muscle for hire, rough neck on an oil rig, body disposal, tourist guide, hitman, charter boat captain, drug smuggler, scuba instructor; the occupations he had taken on in the latter sixteen years shaped a man with good humor but a short temper. As quick to laugh as to throw a punch.
Professionally, he was a well-respected charter boat owner and operator for the up-scale community, residents and vacationers alike; however, that was just his part-time job while the real money came from his after-hours occupation. Officially, he worked for a man without even knowing his name. A burner phone had been dropped off for him one afternoon with little explanation. A promise of money and an offer to make it. Smuggle. Enforce. Burner, that was what Max called him. A voice that promised cash, and it delivered.
Picking up shipments dropped by plane, or in barrels in the water, or hidden in reefs; keeping the pushers supplied and in-line; delivering reminders to those who need them; terminating contracts. But, no one knew that. Not but the people he met with. Just a figure to be smiled at, given a wide berth, and not to be crossed.
Shit happens when you party naked.
