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Steam Name: Pew
Steam ID: STEAM_0:0:17659870
Why do you think you should get this whitelist?: I just think that I should get whitelist because I can give some people a good time in roleplay, maybe even develop some characters further in their story.
How long have you been roleplaying for?: I've been roleplaying since the later days of 2011 on TaconBanana's SRP and HL2RP.
Write the backstory of your character [No minimum or maximum length]:
It was a steamy and muggy afternoon in the dark streets of down-town Los Angeles. Derrick Mayweather stepped out of his apartment in search of something. His demeanor was lackadaisical. His shoes padded against the cracked concrete. A few meters down the street and Derrick found what he needed. The local ABC store. Inside was a wide assortment of liqours and booze. It was reeking all sorts of heavenly auras. Oh the staggering nights where he'd sit back on his couch, take massive slugs of his drinks and pass-out. Those type of nights where he woke up with a taste in his mouth that almost made him gag. Where he'd-- escort himself to the bathroom to hurl into the french drinking fountains. Those were his types of nights. His stomach gurgled.
Ding! Behind the counter was a male who probably had it better than Derrick. He was pale, with a slick over-coat. "Shop's closing in thirty minutes, " the clerk chided to Derrick. Derrick only nodded in acknowledgement and submerged himself into the back area. His hands gittered with the overall amount of drink. Ale, malt liquor. Everything cheap and expensive to knock him off his rear was a counter ways away. He scooped up a generic bottle of whiskey and escorted it over to the counter. Derrick dug through his pockets to pull out his wallet, where he'd slap down and twenty, nod to the clerk and receive the same ilk, and saunter out with a new friend.
Ding! The door closed and there Derrick was, back on the night-covered streets. Occasional honking and the hiss of restaurants tossing out their hot-messes against the cold concrete. He took a slug of his whiskey and continued down the road. He just wasn't quite ready yet to return back to his apartment. Faint laughter and children playing through the streets took over the side-walk as Derrick grimaced. The soccerball was launched un-aimed properly by the small boy, and as such, the ball rocketed over and slammed into the side of Derrick. He turned around and fumbled his hand into a flip-off, "Watch where you're kicking the ball you dip-shit!" The boy frowned and returned to his parents. He skittered down the street, particularly not wanting any confrontation in his shell-state.
Derrick bounded around the corner and headed way past the residence of the boy's. A flock of females was ahead, and Derrick wasn't the most sexually active guy around the block. He was fit and probably well enough to find the certain someone, but he just couldn't give a hoot. He approached and took another slug of his drink, "How much for the night?" All turned to face him, but only one spoke up. She was a petite female with a curvaceous frame to her. Her posterior is what set her off from the rest, and that he liked. "Hundred and fifty for the night, hon'." Derrick whopped out more than he could count and handed it to her.
Derrick cocked his head back to signal her to follow, and which she did. He led her back to his den, where it was tidy. Weird? He's a drunk but his place is cleaner than himself. His fingers wrapped around the lip of his shirt and yanked it off. He was relatively chiseled save for some fatty spots. But his chest was definitely tone. Probably because of the machine in the corner which looked to have been abused by an angry man. "Bedroom's in here, " he pointed and went to the bathroom. He popped a few pills while the hooker nestled in and stripped down. He moved back in and the door closed.
All that was left in the night was to the hooker. But for Derrick, it fucking sucked. Like, I mean, blew shit out of the water. He woke up with a killer-hangover. His wallet was gone, but that was okay for him. He didn't have much anyways. But something hurt like a mother-fucker for him. His tricep was all flared up. He rolled up his sleeve. Oh. Shit. Well, that sucks. It wasn't a tattoo, or some stupid shit he did in his drunken stupor. Nope. It was a full-fledged bite. Teeth sank in and all. It itched too. Oh but wait, he felt like tossing his gizzards up. "Hnnnnng...". He clenched his stomach and moved over to the couch where he'd cock an eye to the clock. 6:30. "How the fuck did I sleep that long?" Confused, he shrugged and went to fix himself something salty to help his hang-over. Or so he thought. A cheeseburger morelike. He woofed it down quick. Woof, get it? Ah, never mind. He laid back and watched TV.
It was closing down to midnight, and that fateful night, Derrick wouldn't forget in the slightest. His ailment turned worse. Ding. Ding. 12:00. Judgement time! He shot up like a gopher upon the stomach-stabbing pain. He cried out. His limbs started to ache. Hair became patchy, and otherwise covering his entire area. His nails dug through his skin, causing each cuticle to bleed. He teeth edged out into jags and his faced turned to a snout of a wolf. Ears turned canine and so did his feet. POP. A tail snapped out of his pelvis and waggled freely. He howled! Loud too. Into a fit of rage, he sent the table up into the air and smashed it into his television set.
And the rest was a blank.
Steam ID: STEAM_0:0:17659870
Why do you think you should get this whitelist?: I just think that I should get whitelist because I can give some people a good time in roleplay, maybe even develop some characters further in their story.
How long have you been roleplaying for?: I've been roleplaying since the later days of 2011 on TaconBanana's SRP and HL2RP.
Write the backstory of your character [No minimum or maximum length]:
It was a steamy and muggy afternoon in the dark streets of down-town Los Angeles. Derrick Mayweather stepped out of his apartment in search of something. His demeanor was lackadaisical. His shoes padded against the cracked concrete. A few meters down the street and Derrick found what he needed. The local ABC store. Inside was a wide assortment of liqours and booze. It was reeking all sorts of heavenly auras. Oh the staggering nights where he'd sit back on his couch, take massive slugs of his drinks and pass-out. Those type of nights where he woke up with a taste in his mouth that almost made him gag. Where he'd-- escort himself to the bathroom to hurl into the french drinking fountains. Those were his types of nights. His stomach gurgled.
Ding! Behind the counter was a male who probably had it better than Derrick. He was pale, with a slick over-coat. "Shop's closing in thirty minutes, " the clerk chided to Derrick. Derrick only nodded in acknowledgement and submerged himself into the back area. His hands gittered with the overall amount of drink. Ale, malt liquor. Everything cheap and expensive to knock him off his rear was a counter ways away. He scooped up a generic bottle of whiskey and escorted it over to the counter. Derrick dug through his pockets to pull out his wallet, where he'd slap down and twenty, nod to the clerk and receive the same ilk, and saunter out with a new friend.
Ding! The door closed and there Derrick was, back on the night-covered streets. Occasional honking and the hiss of restaurants tossing out their hot-messes against the cold concrete. He took a slug of his whiskey and continued down the road. He just wasn't quite ready yet to return back to his apartment. Faint laughter and children playing through the streets took over the side-walk as Derrick grimaced. The soccerball was launched un-aimed properly by the small boy, and as such, the ball rocketed over and slammed into the side of Derrick. He turned around and fumbled his hand into a flip-off, "Watch where you're kicking the ball you dip-shit!" The boy frowned and returned to his parents. He skittered down the street, particularly not wanting any confrontation in his shell-state.
Derrick bounded around the corner and headed way past the residence of the boy's. A flock of females was ahead, and Derrick wasn't the most sexually active guy around the block. He was fit and probably well enough to find the certain someone, but he just couldn't give a hoot. He approached and took another slug of his drink, "How much for the night?" All turned to face him, but only one spoke up. She was a petite female with a curvaceous frame to her. Her posterior is what set her off from the rest, and that he liked. "Hundred and fifty for the night, hon'." Derrick whopped out more than he could count and handed it to her.
Derrick cocked his head back to signal her to follow, and which she did. He led her back to his den, where it was tidy. Weird? He's a drunk but his place is cleaner than himself. His fingers wrapped around the lip of his shirt and yanked it off. He was relatively chiseled save for some fatty spots. But his chest was definitely tone. Probably because of the machine in the corner which looked to have been abused by an angry man. "Bedroom's in here, " he pointed and went to the bathroom. He popped a few pills while the hooker nestled in and stripped down. He moved back in and the door closed.
All that was left in the night was to the hooker. But for Derrick, it fucking sucked. Like, I mean, blew shit out of the water. He woke up with a killer-hangover. His wallet was gone, but that was okay for him. He didn't have much anyways. But something hurt like a mother-fucker for him. His tricep was all flared up. He rolled up his sleeve. Oh. Shit. Well, that sucks. It wasn't a tattoo, or some stupid shit he did in his drunken stupor. Nope. It was a full-fledged bite. Teeth sank in and all. It itched too. Oh but wait, he felt like tossing his gizzards up. "Hnnnnng...". He clenched his stomach and moved over to the couch where he'd cock an eye to the clock. 6:30. "How the fuck did I sleep that long?" Confused, he shrugged and went to fix himself something salty to help his hang-over. Or so he thought. A cheeseburger morelike. He woofed it down quick. Woof, get it? Ah, never mind. He laid back and watched TV.
It was closing down to midnight, and that fateful night, Derrick wouldn't forget in the slightest. His ailment turned worse. Ding. Ding. 12:00. Judgement time! He shot up like a gopher upon the stomach-stabbing pain. He cried out. His limbs started to ache. Hair became patchy, and otherwise covering his entire area. His nails dug through his skin, causing each cuticle to bleed. He teeth edged out into jags and his faced turned to a snout of a wolf. Ears turned canine and so did his feet. POP. A tail snapped out of his pelvis and waggled freely. He howled! Loud too. Into a fit of rage, he sent the table up into the air and smashed it into his television set.
And the rest was a blank.
