THE WHO
HEARTLESS. EGOTISTICAL. NOTORIOUS. Maxwell David Heaton
AGE. 24
BIRTHDAY. June 7th
OCCUPATION. Board Member at Heaton Inc., & Stock Broker
BIRTH PLACE. Lampton Hill, England
NATIONALITY. English
ORIENTATION. Heterosexual
PREMADE TITLE. The Fiend
PLAYBY. Gaspard Ulliel
THE WHAT
HEARTLESS. He was a human. He was sure of it. Or atleast thats what the doctors said. Never mind the thousands of people who always wanted to crack open his heart and inspect for themselves. If one were to follow him and see his interaction with people, it was easy to see why there was so much contraversy on the subject. They wouldn't see a conversation - they' see a devaluation, a demise. A condescending flurry of words that could strip the paint off of a car with its volatility. And as for common respect? Ha. Please. Respect didn't exist unless it was in the form of praise (praise meaning the inflation of Maxwell's ego). The most important aspect that there was to realize about Max and other people was, well, just that. There was only Max. And than there were other people (...if you could even call them that).
The filter that fell between a persons mind and mouth was perhaps what got him in the most trouble. Or, at least in this case, the lack there of. FOR EXAMPLE: Unlike the millions in the nation who would ever so politely address an overtly obese woman in a shopping mart as "Hello Madame, would you mind simply moving to one side so I can get through, your cart is blocking my way", Max's address would go something along the lines of "Hey, you. Yes you, you fat fuck. Seeing as I'm a hundred and fifty pounds and you're toppin' six tons, and I'm in need of food, could you be ever so nice as to move out of my fuckin' way so that those of us who can't live off of our body lard for seven months can get some sustinance." His mouth was what nightmares were made of, and every time his thick lips seemed to unhinge themselves, it was guaranteed to be jam packed with an arsenal of nukes and ICBMs to take down an army.
EGOCENTRIC. Known for the pedestal at which he placed himself, people could barely even be recognized as human life forms at all. They were drones - mindless and backstabbing, idiotic drones just waiting for direction. They were easily moved and manipulated. Much like that of a chess player, he would push and play upon the strengths and weaknesses of the people he'd meet like some kind of game. A malevolent, self centered game at which he, the only one that truly mattered, would win every time, tossing him exactly where he liked to be. On top of it all. Max saw every person as either a beneficial opportunity or a complete waste--and trust me, it took less than a second to see which one you fell under. In majority, he found people useful. Friends were a good time, and if you weren't with him, than he was more than likely down your throat and trying to rip you apart from the inside out. There were only four ways that the young man interacted with people--friendly (if something was to be gained), aggressively (a hobby, to say the least), deceitfully (hello, ladies), or in no way at all (worthless).
NOTORIOUS. To the patrons of Lampton Hill, the Heaton name was well known way before the birth of Maxwell Heaton...and thanks to him, it was two syllables that would never fade for years to come. It was a well known fact that paths cleared upon his entrance, the young mans presence emulating the parting of the red sea when versed with a crowd. Who ever foolishly didn't get out of his way, was met with disbelief from the locals and a quick lesson as to why the town warped around this Heaton's will. It was almost ensured that, due to his womanizing nature, he had slept with at least one relative or friend of every one in the small town, and now that he was back from college in London - a few in the city as well. Although, when it came to women, he wasn't known just as a slag who slept around, more so than he was as the man you went out with if you wanted a night on the town. He was a fan of old fashioned romance, and if it lubricated the spreading of thighs, it was all the better. Women wanted him, men wanted to have his power. It was far from a tough life to life.
LIKES. sarcasm, wine, politics, debates, women, liquor, romance, spineless people, cigarettes, independence
DISLIKES. faggots, foreigners, chores, idiots, homeless, help-groups, AA, charities, needles, the ocean
THE WHY
BEST MEMORY. "It was late, I had decided not to drink that night. I guess I didn't have a reason to drink so much back then, so it's probably less of a coincidence than I'd like to believe it to be. I was just out of the shower and there was a knock on the door. My heart skipped, I cursed at myself as her name flashed through my head. It wasn't her. It couldn't be her. I grabbed some clothing and took some time to get to whom ever was on my porch, procrastinating the disappointment I knew would await me when I swung it open and it was just another one of my father's one night stands. The door handle was unlocked, I swung it open, and my heart beat echoed in the empty, marble foyer of my house. It was her. I raised an eyebrow, while rummaging for some line to play it off cool like I hadn't thought about this moment before in my dreams. But my heart stopped: she had been crying. I'm not sure if there were words exchanged, but all of a sudden there was flesh. I was so caught off guard, I almost had the urge to cry."
WORST MEMORY. "We're sorry, Max. She's gone."
Mr. and Mrs. Heaton were married in the usual manner. Usual manner meaning a price tag of over $800,000 dollars at the end total - not including two week get away to Bermuda on a secluded resort away from society. It was chump change so far as the Heaton's were concerned. The life style was hardly thwarted when the happy couple birthed their first and only child, Maxwell David, on June 7th, five years after the marriage. The ceremony seemed to fade away into just a memory as all married couples let it. Until 19 years after their nuptial agreement was put on the rocks by William's affair with a coworker, Linda. It was the beginning of the end for what ever hope the young Heaton had at some shred of a normal, happy, fully functional childhood.
It was almost exactly one year to the day that Lorraine passed away from a cancerous tumor in her skull; gone unnoticed for so long as its symptoms were passed off as stress due to her husbands infidelity. At the age of fourteen, even for the mature-for-his-age-Heaton was destroyed. She was beautiful and pure. And dead. Betrayed by his father unfaithfulness in his family at first, Max fed sympathy to his mother and nurtured himself under her supposed righteous wing. Now that she was gone, it was a moral breaker to return to the proverbial dark side. But being young and malleable, once he got used to the change, it felt great to be bad.
His father's presence wained, busy with work, woman, and things more relatable than his own son. Max turned to raise himself, a reckless choice seeing as he had an endless supply of money and the world in the palm of his hand. Cue: bitterness, sarcasm, and ego. Middle school came and left, as did High School, and college was on the rise. Leaving Lampton to solely get away from the bullshit small town drama, the esteemed Cambridge University was his selected choice. Within it's walls, the man came to three conclusions. Firstly, the only time he was truly happy with his life was when he was 13 and catching fireflies with Alyson Kent in the manor lawn. Secondly, that for what ever god forsaken reason it be, his sub-conscience felt the need to consciously remind him of this. And thirdly, and most importantly, for what ever happiness he couldn't find, there was an equal and appropriate amount of liquor that could solve it all for him.
But college was over, and he was back in town. Now a board member at Heaton Inc., Max dabbled in stocks and played the "hardly working" card every day on the job. It was far from something serious, no matter how many times his co-workers tried to assure him. This was just something temporary, after all. When he had enough of his own money that he had earned for himself, he would leave just as suddenly as he was forced to come back to this retched town, and all of it's retched memories.
THE HOW
RP SAMPLE.Just like a writer, he thought to himself, rolling his eyes as she mentioned shaking his hand - don't want to get dirty unless it meant brushing the dust off of their conventional keyboard. Primadonna's. He wiped his hands off-handedly onto his jeans once again, rubbing his calloused hands together as she spoke. Maybe they did need to be cleaned...but after. Anything that made this harpie find him revolting was necessary at this point. Wait. No. Dammit, Killian shut his eyes in frustration with himself. Be nice. She was a stranger, at this point, and nothing good ever came out of judging a book by it's cover. Or so, the saying went. Maybe she was something more than a pretentious fiction writer who gushed for Shakesperean writing and debated upon punctuation placement. Maybe she was an artist.
He laughed, lowly. Yeah. Ok. No.
"Killian," His irish accent was prominent as he used his introductory statement to cover his off-handed chuckle, "Killian Reagan. There's no need to tell me you're here for a story, by the way. I can tell you're a writer by your articulate stuttering." Maybe it was a little rough of an intro, but he plastered on a smile to hide what ever doubt he had in it. After all, he was joking...Kind of. Sort of. It wasn't like people hadn't given him shit for being an artist when out in public and covered in paint. Judging by the way her eyes widened as she turned around and the look on her face as she recognized him, she probably expected nothing less from him then some hurtful kind of remark, "Maybe you should get a dictionary, first though? Just a suggestion..."
He noticed how she tried to catch his eye, then brought it upon his work, his stomach some what fluttering and torquing itself at the same time. Was he really that intimidating that she couldn't look at him? Or was it something else? And why was she so interested in other people's work...Bloody writers. It was funny how they worked on a different level than actual artists...Always stealing from other people's work. As she mentioned "her," he turned instinctively towards his piece to eye it over, Kae's softer tone as she spoke satisfying him and reinteresting him in it once more. He scoured it over - half of the action being of a critic to inspect it once more for his own good, the other half a bit nervous to let her see it half done...almost as if he cared about what she thought of "her." Almost.
After what seemed like an eternity of staring into the eyes of the charcoaled woman, he scrambled to find the right words for a reply, "I don't know." It was the best he could come up with, Killian's voice lowered as well as he looked back at Kae to explain himself. Of course he knew what gave him the inspiration for it, but he wasn't about to tell some complete stranger about that, now was he? No. That's not what art was. The meaning of art was, well, that was the glorious thing. There was no meaning. It was all about the artists portrayal, and the viewers interpretation. With that in mind, he posed his next question on the obtrusive writer, "If you were me, what would be your inspiration for a piece like this?"
I,
TRENT AM
21 AND HAVE READ ALL THE REQUIRED INFORMATION. NOT TO MENTION THINK THIS SITE IS REALLY RAD. JUST SO YOU KNOW MY FAVOURITE THING IS
SARCASM AND I FOUND WWB
THROUGH ELLIE.
