Post by Emmanuel Perez on Oct 29, 2011 1:39:31 GMT -5
ninjatweek (1:15:32 AM):
Name: Emmanuel Perez
Street Name: Beaner
Age: 19
Bitch or Homie: Homie
Even my ma'ma thinks that my mind is gone[/font][/size][/b]
Where you from?: Mexico D.F., Mexico (Mexico City)
Whatchoo do?: Drug addict, Thief
Who you be reppin?: N/A
How you do: (Personality)
[/li][li] Scared
[/li][li] Lonely
[/li][li] Loyal
[/li][li] Foolish
[/li][li] Patriotic
[/li][li] Nostalgic
[/color]
You better watch how you talkin, and where you walkin
Your thing: (likes)
[/li][li] Reading
[/li][li] Family
[/li][li] Being Warm
[/li][li] Drugs
[/li][li] Hot Showers
[/li][li] Anything Mexico Related
[/color]
As they grew I see myself in the pistol smoke, fool
Not your thing: (dislikes)
[/li][li] Police (Any Type Of Authority)
[/li][li] Traitors
[/li][li] Loud Noises
[/li][li] Detoxing
[/li][li] Cold Baths
[/li][li] Racists
[/color]
What you been through: Emmanuel was born in Mexico City and lived there until the age of twelve, where he and his family crossed the Texas border illegally into the U.S. to find a better future.It was only when his father was the victim of police discrimination and brutality and subsequently died from his wounds that he realized what it really meant to be an illegal alien:it meant Fear. The fear to go to school, to walk down a street, to even step out of his house just on the off chance he'd get caught. He dropped out freshman year to help his ailing mother, who was slowly spiralling into a deep depression after the murder of her husband. He learned to steal to make money, being unable to get a job, and eventually found himself trying out drugs in the hopes of an escape...or at the least some time where he couldn't remember his reality. After his mother died however, it was just him alone on the streets, trapped in a country with no shelter, no help, no friends, and no way out except stealing and drugs.
On my knees in the night
Other shit:
He likes to read, when he can get his hands on a good book, but is very slow at reading.
He won't drink alcohol, because his mother drank a lot in her depression and he doesn't want to end up like she did.
His father taught him how to play a tiny bit of guitar, and the only songs he can play are by Juan Gabriel. After he started living on the streets, he didn't have the time or money to continue practicing.
The only dances he was taught were by his mami, so he could 'pick up a pretty girl one day', and are the kumbia, and northeno.
What he wants more than anything else in the world is some peace and security...or just another hit of whatever drug's he's on at the moment.
The only person he knows in the city is Lars, his drug dealer.
Show us what you got: (RP sample)
You want to tell me what this is all about?
Name: Emmanuel Perez
Street Name: Beaner
As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death
I take a look at my life and realize there's not much left
I take a look at my life and realize there's not much left
Age: 19
Bitch or Homie: Homie
Cause I've been blastin' and laughin so long that
Even my ma'ma thinks that my mind is gone[/font][/size][/b]
Where you from?: Mexico D.F., Mexico (Mexico City)
Whatchoo do?: Drug addict, Thief
Who you be reppin?: N/A
But I ain't never crossed a man that didn't deserve it
Me, be treated like a punk, you know that's unheard of
Me, be treated like a punk, you know that's unheard of
How you do: (Personality)
[/li][li] Scared
[/li][li] Lonely
[/li][li] Loyal
[/li][li] Foolish
[/li][li] Patriotic
[/li][li] Nostalgic
[/color]
You better watch how you talkin, and where you walkin
Or you and your homies might be lined in chalk
Your thing: (likes)
[/li][li] Reading
[/li][li] Family
[/li][li] Being Warm
[/li][li] Drugs
[/li][li] Hot Showers
[/li][li] Anything Mexico Related
[/color]
I really hate to trip, but I gotta loc'-
As they grew I see myself in the pistol smoke, fool
Not your thing: (dislikes)
[/li][li] Police (Any Type Of Authority)
[/li][li] Traitors
[/li][li] Loud Noises
[/li][li] Detoxing
[/li][li] Cold Baths
[/li][li] Racists
[/color]
I'm the kinda G the little homies wanna be like
What you been through: Emmanuel was born in Mexico City and lived there until the age of twelve, where he and his family crossed the Texas border illegally into the U.S. to find a better future.It was only when his father was the victim of police discrimination and brutality and subsequently died from his wounds that he realized what it really meant to be an illegal alien:it meant Fear. The fear to go to school, to walk down a street, to even step out of his house just on the off chance he'd get caught. He dropped out freshman year to help his ailing mother, who was slowly spiralling into a deep depression after the murder of her husband. He learned to steal to make money, being unable to get a job, and eventually found himself trying out drugs in the hopes of an escape...or at the least some time where he couldn't remember his reality. After his mother died however, it was just him alone on the streets, trapped in a country with no shelter, no help, no friends, and no way out except stealing and drugs.
On my knees in the night
Other shit:
He likes to read, when he can get his hands on a good book, but is very slow at reading.
He won't drink alcohol, because his mother drank a lot in her depression and he doesn't want to end up like she did.
His father taught him how to play a tiny bit of guitar, and the only songs he can play are by Juan Gabriel. After he started living on the streets, he didn't have the time or money to continue practicing.
The only dances he was taught were by his mami, so he could 'pick up a pretty girl one day', and are the kumbia, and northeno.
What he wants more than anything else in the world is some peace and security...or just another hit of whatever drug's he's on at the moment.
The only person he knows in the city is Lars, his drug dealer.
Sayin prayers in the street light
Show us what you got: (RP sample)
Walking on quickly, he almost didn't hear it above his own footsteps; the small, thudding 'whump' in the background. Stan paused. A scuffling noise sounded, and some scraping.
What was that?
He looked around. The only thing to his left was some houses, but to his right, there was some kind of park, and a couple of tall, clumped pines. The scraping sound stopped, then again,
whump
Stan frowned. It was coming from the right. What the hell was that?
sccrt, sccrt, whump
Now, Stan was a little thing he liked to call 'retard-intolerant'. All things retarded and idiotic irritated him, as well as anybody idiot enough to go along with them. So, naturally, he knew instinctively that it would be the epitome of foolish retardedness to go alone, in the middle of the night, to a dark park to see what it was.
Yup, only an idiot would do it...
Still, he found himself moving forward toward the right. He cursed.
"Goddammit."
Stan approached the lonely park, following the scraping noises. As he neared a set of bushes, the noise stopped, and he did too, peering around nervously.
However, nothing jumped out at him, and he had heard enough to know that the source of the sounds was right beyond those bushes. He started forward again, pushing branches and leaves out of the way, fighting through the thick plant, finally making it to the other side-
and falling down a very large hole.
Stan made a very unmanly startled squeal noise as he fell, dropped on his butt, rolled down a dirty slope, and finally stopped with one last faceplant into the ground. He groaned.
"Goddammit."
Something sharp and freezing cold poked the back of his neck, and a dry chuckle came from the dark.
" 'Ave a nice treep?"
The voice was clearly male, gravelly, the accent thick but perfectly understandable. Stan repressed another groan, recognizing the object on his neck as clearly metal. Great, he'd fallen into some crazy guy's pit.
"Yeah, not so much." He groused, spitting out little flecks of dirt on his tongue. Stan could hear the obvious smirk in the other guy's voice.
" Ah, maybe next fall, zen."
Jesus, what an accent what was he, French or something? Stan made an effort to get up, stopping only when the metal object didn't lessen its pressure on him, digging into his skin. "Dude, you gonna let me up or not?"
Another one of those damned voice-smirks, this time smug. "But ze ground, eet looks so comfortable."
Stan couldn't help but snap back, irate. "Then how about you try it?"
The mysterious person laughed, giving only the cryptic statement, "Maybe I 'ave."
What was that?
He looked around. The only thing to his left was some houses, but to his right, there was some kind of park, and a couple of tall, clumped pines. The scraping sound stopped, then again,
whump
Stan frowned. It was coming from the right. What the hell was that?
sccrt, sccrt, whump
Now, Stan was a little thing he liked to call 'retard-intolerant'. All things retarded and idiotic irritated him, as well as anybody idiot enough to go along with them. So, naturally, he knew instinctively that it would be the epitome of foolish retardedness to go alone, in the middle of the night, to a dark park to see what it was.
Yup, only an idiot would do it...
Still, he found himself moving forward toward the right. He cursed.
"Goddammit."
Stan approached the lonely park, following the scraping noises. As he neared a set of bushes, the noise stopped, and he did too, peering around nervously.
However, nothing jumped out at him, and he had heard enough to know that the source of the sounds was right beyond those bushes. He started forward again, pushing branches and leaves out of the way, fighting through the thick plant, finally making it to the other side-
and falling down a very large hole.
Stan made a very unmanly startled squeal noise as he fell, dropped on his butt, rolled down a dirty slope, and finally stopped with one last faceplant into the ground. He groaned.
"Goddammit."
Something sharp and freezing cold poked the back of his neck, and a dry chuckle came from the dark.
" 'Ave a nice treep?"
The voice was clearly male, gravelly, the accent thick but perfectly understandable. Stan repressed another groan, recognizing the object on his neck as clearly metal. Great, he'd fallen into some crazy guy's pit.
"Yeah, not so much." He groused, spitting out little flecks of dirt on his tongue. Stan could hear the obvious smirk in the other guy's voice.
" Ah, maybe next fall, zen."
Jesus, what an accent what was he, French or something? Stan made an effort to get up, stopping only when the metal object didn't lessen its pressure on him, digging into his skin. "Dude, you gonna let me up or not?"
Another one of those damned voice-smirks, this time smug. "But ze ground, eet looks so comfortable."
Stan couldn't help but snap back, irate. "Then how about you try it?"
The mysterious person laughed, giving only the cryptic statement, "Maybe I 'ave."
Been spending most our lives living in the Gangsta's Paradise