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casual rping for the rest of us

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Time to work... [Monday
July 25th, 2005

Ayame was staring to get impatient as she waited for the bus, checking her watch ever couple of minutes or so. It was bad enough that she had to work in the slums during the day but staying there for longer than she had to was not her idea of fun. She just wanted to get back to her apartment in the cleaner part of town before the stench of the bums on the streets made her puke. She could smell all the bums even from miles away, with her over sensitive nose. She started getting overly jumping as well as she stood there, the sun setting in the distance. Staying after dark was also not something she wanted to do. She could easily take care of herself if something was to happen, but she just really hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Ayame checked her watch again, 6:30 p.m. A whole fucking hour late, I can't believe it! She thought. I might as well just walk home. Damn! I can't stop at home now I have to get to my next job. Ayame sighed heavily and started walking. It's only 30 blocks and if I don't get attacked I should be there by time my shift starts. It's a good thing I had to wash my "uniform" during my lunch break today. As she walked along she kept her senses clear, just in case. A couple times she thought some one was fallowing her but it they would turn to go into buildings and Ayame would stop worrying for the time being. She had to be careful, being who, and what she was.

At a cross walk Ayame had to stop and she was able to put her red hair into pigtails, one of the rules for her night job.
"Hair must be up, girl." The boss had said on her first day, "And dress, well it's a bar and you want the men to get hot and hot men are thirsty men." He added looking Ayame up and down with a smirk, "You'll bring in a lot of customers, you will." He was reaching out his hand but before he could grab her anywhere she had his hand bent backwards. "Don't ever touch me or I will break your arm." He nodded and whimpered lightly, so she released him. "A tough one... this ought to be good." Ayame glared at the man, "I'm just a bartender so keep your dirty hands off me." He nodded again sensing something about this girl that told him she was serious. "Right, so anyway..."

The memory faded as the light changed and she was able to cross the street. She only had ten more blocks to go and half an hour to get there. She was lucky this time, she'd be able to relax for a minute when she reached the bar before she had to change into "uniform." She prayed to the gods that it wouldn't be a busy night, but every night was a busy one. She sighed at she reached the bar and walked in the back entrance hearing her boss yelled that he need her out there now. Throwing down her bag she headed to the employee bathroom where she changed her outfit. She walked out, put her stuff in a safe place and walked though the door the lead to behind the counter ready to start serving the scummy men there liquor and beer for the next eight hours.
Wake up

How long has it been? [Friday
June 24th, 2005

[ mood | crappy ]

That smell…I wonder what the hell it is?

No matter how clean I keep this shitty one bedroom apartment, that rotten meat stench still lingers. I think there’s…something here…in the walls maybe, but I never checked.

How long has it been? Has it been four months since I assembled all my Ikea modern-deco furniture and moved into this garbage-hole?

I woke up around 7 pm today, the sun wasn’t that bad…it was no more than a few lines of russet orange that had leaked through the vertical blinds of my “living room”, giving the cracked plaster on my ceiling an appearance of pulsating blood veins that had branched from the air ducts and bleed shadows down the gray drywall.

I scratched the stubble on my face and reached blindly into a drawer of unlabeled pill bottles full of stimulants, downers, narcotics and “medicinal marijuana”, until the tips of my fingers brushed against the eight ball of devil’s dandruff that I needed to feel alive. I ripped open the plastic lunch bag, made three bumps of cocaine on the glass surface of my dresser, rolled an old grocery receipt into a straw and inhaled all of them in under ten seconds.

And I didn’t even flinch.

Now it was time to greet what was left of my day, a day that would involve three hours of staring at a dim computer monitor to design an animated menu of a girl lifting her skirt, links to various smut related affiliates spread across her lacey underwear. It was another one of those sleazy-teenage-porn sites that had hired me to make them look more professional than a company that taped erotic material in cheap hotels on the outskirts of the city, promising the 16 year old girls starring in their films “lucrative acting careers” and 10,000 Yen apiece.

To put it brusquely, I wasn’t proud of designing that website. Even more, I wasn’t proud of where I lived, in this urine soaked cesspool, the only reasoning behind me staying here, the solitude…

And that someone like me didn’t deserve better.

There’s an old drag queen living next door in apartment 108. I’m not condemning him for his life choice of wearing prom dresses and false eyelashes….but if the man wanted to be convincing, he would at least shave the five inch-handlebar-mustache that forms two symmetrical curly Q’s on each side of his face.

Aside from him being a flamboyantly, and somewhat eccentrically dressed transvestite, he’s also the undisclosed boyfriend of my Landlord.

Raptophilia is an interesting disorder, where the person suffering from it must be “raped” forcefully with random articles in order to climax. Sometimes the objects used to sodomize the Raptophilic are run-of-the-mill household items….cucumbers, umbrella handles, remote controls and cellular phones. My Landlord, Fusao Kojima, has a severe case of this.

I no longer need to set an alarm for 2:30 in the morning.

Fusao slithers out of his marriage bed, fails to wake his wife of 25 years, and always finds himself at the cross dresser’s apartment, eager to have arbitrary objects thrusted into his rectum. The shouting as they do this continues for hours, and it ricochets through the 40 foot perimeter of my living room.

I’ll stop my bitching and start working on this website, or else I won’t get that miniscule paycheck for pasting advertisement slogans on the ass of a 14 year old girl. It’d be easier if they’d send me guidelines for what they wanted, which is what they said they would do…but then again, the “company” that requested my services isn’t known for it’s reliability.

*Someone begins knocking on the door to apartment 109 frequently, as though they're in a hurry to leave*

Whoever that is, must be suffering from Parkinson’s Disease…I can’t think of a better explanation for knocking on my door 150 times a nanosecond unless they have rigorous and involuntary muscle spasms.

*He rises from his computer chair and sheepishly drags his feet to the door, unhinging the chain locks without looking through the eye hole*

And if that isn’t the case, they will have them when I chop them in the neck for being such a pain in the ass.
opened their eyes(5)Wake up

A journey must start with one step [Thursday
June 16th, 2005

[ mood | anxious ]

"Yep...uh huh....yeah yeah, Fine, I'll be there in 10."

Amaya sighed as she flipped off her cell phone, vowing that one of these days she was just going to slice it apart and toss it in the garbage. Adjusting the messenger bag to her shoulder, she stood up from the park bench where she was enjoying the somewhat decent weather before headquarters called up for another delivery. She'd been working at the place for roughly 5 months now. Riding her bike all over Tokyo delivering random packages to random buisnesses. It wasn't the greatest job in the world, but it had to do since her father's money wasn't going to last forever, and she hated having to rely on just that.

She gave the kickstand to her bike a swift kick and hopped on and made her way down one of the busy Tokyo streets. After this delivery, she'll head home..

..Home...what was home to her? A small one bedroom apartment in central Tokyo that has the occasional roach as a roomie? Atleast her cat can keep those in check. That wasn't home. That was just a place she slept and washed in. No. Home was where ever he was. No matter what conditions, as long as he was there, it was home. But he's not around anymore. She lost her home one year ago, and the pain is still as sharp in her chest as it was the day that the hands of fate pulled her life apart.

After a few minutes, she finally arrived at the grungy head quarters that almost reminded her of the one that was in those old Dark Angel episodes. She took the package from the fat man behind the counter who wore a stained white tank top...basically your typical fat slob. Amaya wrinkled her nose and held back a grimace from the stench the man gave off as she leaned over and scribbled down the address, which just so happend be a couple of doors down from her. Great, I'll drop off the package, go back to the apartment, feed Rakki and crash..

Jumping back onto her bike, she rode for the next 30 minutes back to the aparment building. After fighting between the door and bike, she entered the dimly lit lobby of the apartment building and trudged down the hall, stopping at apartment 109. She set her bike up against the wall and raised her hand, giving the door a few knocks.....

Wake up

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