VULPINI, Franklin Edward

[FRANKIE VULPINI]

...Franklin Edward Vulpini*
*Blessed by a bitch from a bastard seed,
Pleasure to meet you but better to bleed,
Skinned her alive , ripped her apart
Scattered her ashes, buried her heart*

[/size]

...basics*

name
Franklin Edward Vulpini, Jr.
nickname
Frankie. Frank, if you want a cap in your ass. Franklin, if you’d rather lose your balls.
age
26
gender
Male
grade
N/A
hometown
Chicago, Illinois
sexuality
Heterosexual. Most definitely.
personification
The Fox from The Lion, The Fox, and The Ass
status
AWAKE
face claim
Jared Leto

...appearance*

hair color
Brownish-black and, at the moment, rather shaggy. As far as facial hair goes, he’s almost always got some sort of stubble going.
eye color
Intense, light gray-blue
build
Muscular, although not beefy. He used to be a bit bigger, but…well, Heroin isn’t exactly a steroid.
height
Five feet, nine inches
clothing style
Relatively average, for a twenty-six year old male. He can afford nice clothes, so he buys them, but he doesn’t always look dapper or anything like that—expensive doesn’t necessarily mean clean-cut. Lots of long sleeves can be found in his closet, even in the summer time. Lots of them. He’s also a fan of leather jackets, truth be told.
distinctive traits
His eyes are incredibly expressive.
Track marks are very prominent on his arms, though he doesn’t expose them enough for people to really see.

...personal*

personality
Frankie Vulpini is broken.

Now, we’re not talking the “Whoops, I dropped my iPhone and now the screen is scratched” sort of broken. It’s more of a “I crashed my car into a cement wall and when I did, it crumpled into an accordion and burst into flames two minutes later, taking with it every single living person inside except me, who managed to crawl out and watch them burn, then laughed and didn’t know why,” sort of broken. So…unfixable, truth be told.

One could blame the drugs. A fierce Heroin addict, Frankie has been on the drug for just over nine months, and doesn’t intend to stop any time soon. In a way, one could say he started because he craved a sense of escapism. That is, if one had the mind of offer pity. He says he started because it would be fun; and it was, and is, even after all that. One could say he kept with it because he was “chasing the high,” and perhaps he was, though it hardly matters anymore, as he’s a slave to the drug. If he goes a day without, he gets the shakes. That only happened once, though, and never again—he has the money, after all, to keep up the habit. There’s a light in his eyes that’s been dulled over the past few years (naturally, he didn’t just jump right on in to smack and start swimming), and anyone who knew him before he started drugs would be able to see it. Of course, that’s not to say he’s a good person.

One could blame his family. Frankie grew up, although not unwanted by any means as his brother was, without affection; sometimes, they say it’s worse to have nothing at all than to have it bad. He was never the favorite—that was Hannah, at least in his father’s eye—and he was never sick, lost, or confused—that was Joel, with whom Frankie would not have traded places for all the riches in the world—he was simply there. An heir. That was what he was. And although his father might have paid him more mind because he was destined to become rich, wealthy, successful, smart, and charming (all of which he most certainly had the potential to be) he was not a perfect son, and therefore received no perfect marks. He grew up loathing Hannah for all the spoils she received, and over time became firm in the belief that perhaps it would be best to take out said anger in two ways—butting heads and kicking shins, both out of his father’s sight.

Frankie was, and is, nothing less than a bully. More than that, he’s a sick fuck. Sadistic, one could almost say, although there isn’t much fondness for blood so much as tears. Almost indiscriminately, he picked on his brother, Joel. Frankie learned—with the sickly younger boy as a lab rat—that people react in wonderful ways when you pull their hair, throw punches and say nasty things, and ever better when you threaten to do worse if they tell. He hates his brother with a passion unlike any other. Still, when asked flat out why, he’ll never give a straight answer. Frankie isn’t a fan of responding to things he can’t get anything out of. The man is twisted, manipulative, and cruel. He’s very much used to getting his way whether with words or weapons, and has no qualms with using both, so long as he meets his ends.

That being said, he’s much more twisted than he lets on. Drugs, after all, are not the only thing he’s addicted to. As much as he loves watching people (or more specifically, Joel, but that can be ignored for the time being) burn, Frankie loathes having what’s rightfully his taken from him—particularly by means of deception. He can’t stand treachery, just as he abhors taunting when directed at him. The greatest example of this is the fact that, over the years, he’s come under the conclusion that his sister is sexually taunting him.

Yes. Sexually. Frankie is attracted to Hannah, and he doesn’t hate himself for it in the slightest. What he hates instead is the fact that all her life, she’s been teasing him. It’s obvious, in the way she used to walk around the house (even when they were just reaching puberty—he’s always been old enough, you see, to have felt such things before her), and how she butt heads with him just for the sake of egging him on, how she always loved Joel more. Yes, perhaps that’s why his brother—or Rat, as he took to calling him once he’d reached the tender age of four—was always at the top of Frankie’s hit list. Even Joel—sickly, disgusting, pathetic, useless, unwanted, filthy Joel—got more love than he did, and when he saw that, he became jealous. Frankie gets dangerous when he’s jealous. He also, more often than not, gets turned on.

Sick, yes. Twisted, yes. Disgusting, yes. Does Frankie notice any of this? No. He’s in complete denial about his…affections. About everything, really. Frankie spends his life weaving around things, manipulating with a meaningless kind word or a blatant threat until he gets his way and when he does, he’s hardly ever satisfied. Frankie doesn’t drop things, however. Rather, he holds onto them tighter. He pushes ideas further, becomes more and more addicted to whatever it is he’s got in his hands that he becomes dangerous, and nastier even than he was when he was grumpy about not having it in the first place. Frankie Vulpini doesn’t have friends. He has buddies and he has people with uses and he has people he hates and people he never wants to see again in his life and people he’s attracted to and people who’s faces he wants to shove in the dirt with his most worn-out pair of shoes, but he doesn’t have friends. He probably never will, truth be told. It’s a lonely existence that Frankie leads, but not at all one he doesn’t bring upon himself. His attitude, his spoiled background, his addiction and his hated for everything he can’t have just don’t go well together. At all. In the end, all you get is a mix of bad qualities boiling in a well of tar until one day, the cauldron tips and not only does he break himself, but he burns, too.
past
Frankie Vulpini had it easy.

And how could he not? He was the first born son. The heir. The strong, smart, cheeky one with the charming little smile and his father’s eyes. He was the normal one. The non-defective. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth and gilded diapers shielding his precious, perfect ass.

Even as a child, that was how Frankie saw it. He was the important one. From the moment he learned to speak, he made sure to express it, as well. Frankie picked on his younger, sickly brother Joel incessantly, using both physical and verbal tactics to cause maximum damage even when the boys were mere toddlers. A particular fan of telling his younger brother how unwanted he was (it was a phrase he’d overheard one night from his father—something about him wanting a daughter that had ended in what Frankie could only assume were his mother’s tears), Frankie made a point of pointing out what a sickly freak Joel was, and how absolutely wonderful he, the elder of the two, could be. He kicked, pinched, bit, punched, tugged, scratched, and clawed at his brother whenever his parents weren’t looking. When they did, he smiled and stepped on Joel’s feet. The minute they turned away, he was back to pulling his hair, rubbing his face in the dirt and calling him nasty names meant to sting and bite. Eventually, “Rat” stuck. He’s still fond of it.

When Frankie was four years old, his Uncle Marlin and his wife, Felicia, came to stay with them. Frankie didn’t care much for either, for they paid him little more attention than Joel, and thus were stupid, dense people. Obviously they were too dumb to see what a sickly wretch his brother was. Frankie disliked them so much, in fact, that he didn’t bother to question what was happening when he uncle grew sick—he mocked the man, in as much of a way as a four-year-old could mock someone that much older than he. Needless to say, the words didn’t have quite the same effect as they did on Joel. He was scolded slightly for his mean words, then shoved back aside to “go play” with his brother. Frankie took his temper (large, even then) out on his brother incessantly until there came an announcement that the family was to grow by one.

Frankie hated the idea. He hated the girl before she even had a name, and hated her when she was born and his father looked at her like he couldn’t ever look at the five year old boy, no matter how many times he tugged on his pant leg or stuck his head through his office door. Frankie hated the name. “Hannah’s a stupid name,” he grumbled to his mother one day, kicking up dirt as she pleaded with him to stop, telling him he was ruining his new pair of shoes. He looked up at her, eyes bright and mirthful, and asked in the sweetest five year-old voice he could muster, “If I do, will you throw the baby out the window?”

She didn’t. Still, Frankie grew a bit glad for it, over time. He and his sister didn’t get along, and he resented her for her father’s love more than he ever hated the man who picked favorites so blatantly, but he couldn’t help but like that there was someone now who would fight back.

Frankie grew up going to work with his father often. Franklin, who always called his son “Junior” and never Frankie, tried to teach his son the ins and outs of the family fishing business (a strict emphasis on the word business, as Franklin abhorred seafood almost as much as his second son), allowing him to skip school in order to “learn about the world.” Frankie was never much of a listener. He tried—a little—and found some of it interesting (a tiny bit) and absolutely hated when his father lectured him on the rides home from the office, but the truth of the matter was that Frankie was not made for desk jobs. Truly, he was not made for much of anything he didn’t discover on his own. Still, Franklin’s excuse for giving up when his son was fourteen was that he’d pick it up when he was an adult. Junior was the heir, after all, and would pick up the family business eventually—just not yet.

It wasn’t that Frankie minded being booted out of long, boring office hours he’d have rather spent on the school playground or out with friends. That wasn’t the issue at all. Rather, he once again found himself hating his sister, for she’d stolen his father’s affections simply by being born, and Frankie couldn’t possibly think of a worse crime than that. He never saw Hannah get yelled at once in her life. She was a perfect, decent little thing and he hated it, even if fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen were a bit too old for butting hears so often with someone that much younger than he. Still, Frankie was never one for doing as he was told behind his parents’ backs. When Joel tried to mediate between the two, it only ever angered him more, for he detested too the way his brother was favored by Hannah, whom he liked as much as he despised—a fact, he realized when she was about fourteen and he nineteen, that was not entirely brotherly.

When Frankie went away to college at the University of Illinois’ Business School (a move done more to please his father than anyone else), he found himself delighting in the many opportunities offered on such a large campus, and consequently began experimenting. He’d partied in high school, of course, but never like here. He didn’t smoke back home—only drank, as there was a certain subconscious fear of his father, should he happen to find his son’s room smelling of pot, even if Frankie managed to blame the whole thing on Joel (a feat he was fairly confident he could have managed, as he had the one time he accidentally got into an accident while his father was away at work). College, however, was a different story.

It started with pot at age eighteen, then Oxycodone at twenty. He met Jennifer at a party that year. They were high. They fucked. He really did like her, though, and after about six months (although he told his parents it had been a year, and she dressed and presented herself wonderfully for the two of them), he proposed. They were married just four months before Hannah left on her ridiculous trip to New York. He claimed he didn’t miss her.

When Joel left, it left Frankie with everything. Franklin Sr. felt no remorse in singing over the entirety (or at least the bits that had grudgingly been written for Joel) of his will to his first born, and rest assured Junior knew nothing but joy at the idea of never having to work a day in his life. Well, not really work, anyhow. At the rate his father was going, he wouldn’t have to pick up a pen if he didn’t want to, by the time the old fart kicked the bucket.

For the first eight months of marriage, it was all smooth sailing. Stuck in a perpetually drug-induced honeymoon stage, Frankie and his wife moved into a nice apartment in the Wrigleyville area of the city—just far enough away from Mom and Dad to be close to the drugs, and just near enough to live comfortably—where they lived relatively normal lives, for two people such as themselves. When the ninth month passed, however, Frankie grew bored. He felt like something was missing, something he could find elsewhere, if only he knew what to look for and where.

Consequently, he cheated. Frankie was subtle, careful to be home when Jennie was, not to go out every time she did, never to cheat with the same woman twice, because they were never quite right, either. It went on for months. Sex, drugs, sex with Jennie, drugs, sex, drugs…His life was nothing more than a (well hidden) downward spiral until his twenty-third birthday, when he came home early from a lunch with his parents to find Jennie in their bed—his bed—with none other than a man who certainly wasn’t him. Frankie didn’t even know the guy, and that, he claimed, made it all the worse. The result was a fight to end all fights. Frankie screamed, yelled, threw a book at the bedroom mirror, came incredibly close to clocking the intruder (whose name he later learned was John), who escaped far better off than Jennie. Still, he couldn’t hit her. He would have, had he been drunk. Had he not already been thinking about the consequences, and what a nice, shiny bruise would look like when she went to the lawyers she’d certainly need for the divorce he’d be filing.

Oh, the truth of it all came out soon enough. Jennie knew. Had known for the past six months, and had concocted her own little, treacherous scheme. She could tell when his clothes smelled like other girls, after all, and could taste it on the lips she’d kissed so often. He didn’t need to say a word.

Traitors may expect treachery.

present
Franklin Sr. of course hired the best lawyers possible, and when all was said and done, Frankie won everything. He even took his ex-wife’s beloved chiwawa, whom Frankie quite honestly hated more even than the person who’d dished out exactly what he deserved. It was a spiteful victory, but a victory nonetheless. Still, it was only after coming home to the empty (save for that retarded excuse for a throw pillow) apartment a week after he turned twenty-four, when the whole thing was over with, and settling down into the empty bed and getting high all on his lonesome, duped by a D-cupped devil, that Frankie woke up.

At first, he thought he was just high. Naturally. Chances are, he actually was. When it happened again, however, and then one more time, and each time the immeasurable pain was the same, Frankie realized there was probably a bit of truth to it all. The fox thing. Once he figured out how to control it, Frankie explored Chicago endlessly in his new, bright white and four-legged form in literally every way he could imagine; that is, drunk, high, and sober. Each time, it grew more exciting. Addicting, almost more so than the little pills he was so fond of popping. The world was brighter when one was so close to the ground, and yet it all seemed so much more his. He was special. Important and obviously different from anyone else he’d ever met, and instantly he knew that Jennie had never deserved him in the first place, that fucking two-faced skank. Naturally, Frankie refused to admit the divorce could have been his fault.

Three months after he discovered his unnatural ability, Frankie started on smack. The pills were boring. Not nearly as warm and fuzzy as they’d once been, and heroin offered something new, different and dangerous in the form of burnt, crumpled gum wrappers and needles shinier than diamonds.

When Frankie was twenty-five, he decided to move. To Jersey, he told his parents, although the real destination was New York City. He’d have told them flat out, only the response probably wouldn’t have been to set up yet another hefty bank account for his use. He was, essentially, the only child. The family fuck-up, perhaps, but the only family left, and they had to love him for it. Like him, at the very least.

New York was boring too—or would have been, had it not brought possibility with it. It was far too like Chicago, save for one thing; it wasn’t missing anything. He could find what he was looking for in New York, if only he looked hard enough.

family
Franklin Vulpini, Sr.—Father, businessman.
Frankie takes after his dad quite a bit. They spent quite a bit of time together, growing up, but it’s not as though they’re chums.
Olivia Vulpini—Mother, housewife.
He’s not a fan. She always liked Joel better, and he can’t help but get the feeling that sometimes, she sees straight through him.
Joel “Rat” Vulpini—Brother, 25.
Growing up, Frankie lived to make Rat’s life a living hell. He’d make it a dead one, too, if he could manage it without having to cut off the merciless taunting. They haven’t spoken in almost five years—it would have been more than that, but Frankie can’t resist the urge to push buttons.
Hannah Vulpini—Sister, 21.
…Hannah. What’s there to say about her? Absolutely nothing. They never got along. Hasn’t spoken to her since she moved to New York.
Felicia Carter—Aunt.
He doesn’t remember her much. She was a bit boring, to be honest. Never paid him much attention.
Marlin Vulpini—Uncle.
Never liked him, either. He gave Rat candy and shit. Probably better off dead anyhow, the bastard.

Jennifer Thomas (nee Vulpini)—Ex-wife, 25
Frankie married Jennie when he was 21 and she was 19. She had dark hair and bright blue eyes with thick black lashes and a killer grin. He divorced her two years later—or, rather, she divorced him, though he won’t tell it that way—and they haven’t spoken since. His choice, he says. There were no kids involved, so the whole thing wasn’t too difficult.
likes
1) Heroin. Though this is rather obvious.
2) Torturing Joel. He’d still do it, if he knew where to find him. It’s not like his life is all that interesting, really. Besides, the reactions are priceless.
3) The fact that, if all goes to plan, he’ll never have to work a day in his life.
4) Himself. Quite a bit, actually. Frankie believes he has no personal problems—there are only worldly issues that dare cross into his personal bubble.
5) Hannah. Not really. A little. Nope. She’s a bitch—or was, at least, when he last saw her. Probably hasn’t changed.
6) His alternate, fox-ish form. It makes him feel unique. And besides, there’s something ridiculously useful about being a small canine at times.
dislikes
1) Jennie. Fucking skank.
2) Not getting what he wants. Not in the sort of bitchy, whiny way, either. The dangerous, “You better watch your back, front, and sides now, or else” sort of way.
3) Hannah. See Jennie.
4) Joel. No one likes Rats.
5) Being ignored in any way, shape, or form. Bad attention is always better than none at all. In fact, it’s usually more satisfying.
6) The shakes. Never again will he have them. He’s got the money not to, so why put himself through that?
7) Lake Michigan. It reeks of shit and fish guts.
8) Mr. Bojangles. Or Bo, as he prefers to call the goddamn flea matt.
other notes TEXT HERE

...literature*

book title TEXT HERE
backstory
An Ass and a Fox had become close comrades, and were constantly in each other's company. While the Ass cropped a fresh bit of greens, the Fox would devour a chicken from the neighboring farmyard or a bit of cheese filched from the dairy. One day the pair unexpectedly met a Lion. The Ass was very much frightened, but the Fox calmed his fears.

"I will talk to him," he said.

So the Fox walked boldly up to the Lion.

"Your highness," he said in an undertone, so the Ass could not hear him, "I've got a fine scheme in my head. If you promise not to hurt me, I will lead that foolish creature yonder into a pit where he can't get out, and you can feast at your pleasure."

The Lion agreed and the Fox returned to the Ass.

"I made him promise not to hurt us," said the Fox. "But come, I know a good place to hide till he is gone."

So the Fox led the Ass into a deep pit. But when the Lion saw that the Ass was his for the taking, he first of all struck down the traitor Fox.

Traitors may expect treachery.

...roleplayer*

name Scout
age is
gender disturbed
rp experience by
how you found ouac this
rp sample brainchild. O___o

[MOLLY]

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