It was the same night of drinking at some dive, with $1 shots, $2 rails, and a bartender named Cletus. The same night they fucked in the backseat of their woody station-wagon; the same night the after party was at Erla Mae's, a toothless pothead who somehow made enough of a living to shack up in a trailer. It would all be in vain.

Then again, when are these done outside of one's own, disgusting vanity? Constant intoxication! Mindless sex! Passing the Dutch! Who else would one do those for?

Their son at home? The one who was cooking his own dinner that night from the scraps left in the refrigerator. The one who aced all his classes, led the groups he was a member of, and was the high school's track star.

No. Fuck him, right? He's seventeen, he can handle life on his own, especially when there's alcohol to drown in and pills to swallow.

They stumbled into their dark kitchen, around 4AM as usual. The refrigator's hum was shallow, but the only sound to resonate the seemingly empty home. "Lights off if your not in the room or awake." Mommy dearest, the drunken slob, would say. Tiptoeing across the house, though they were ten times louder than they imagined, they took off their smoke filtered coats.

Dad went upstairs, mumbling something about "women's inability to be whores past blah blah blah..." While my mother, though intoxicated with all the poisons one could legally take (and, some, illegally), was still maternal enough to check on her baby. Her son.

The one that was left to do his laundry that night. The one who did the dishes. The one who passed Calculus, on his way to be valedictorian.

The crack under her son's bedroom door allowed a dim light to saturate the wooden floor before it.

Lights on?! At this hour?

"Marc..." She whispered and slurred as she turned the knob, pushing her way through the door frame.

That's when I was found in my closet. A jump rope was my braided nylon necklace, hanging securely from the ceiling. My eyes bulged and I reeked of postmortem shit. My feet dangled half a foot above the floor. It's funny how close you can be to life, but still die.

I suppose you have to have the correct humor to find that hilarious.


It's only been a couple weeks after I offed myself, and I took up a job as a gas station clerk. The scar around my neck is purple and obvious, but I have no turtlenecks. There are people with worse scars than mine, so I find myself fortunate...in a way. Most everyone I run into, since barely anyone drives here, are drunken lowlifes that are on the prowl for midnight munchies.

The convenient store of purgatory.

How dull.

They say there's a certain place for people who commit suicide. I suppose this is an appropriate punishment. It's the closest you can get to your old life, just a little worse. No one can smile. I've tried. It's like trying to wiggle your ears or curl your tongue though you just can't do it. The only people here are the one's that already had it figured out they didn't want to live any more. Depressing S.O.B.s.

I would off myself again, but I fear the next place will just be worse.

Instead, the life of gray skies, gray people and gray attitudes is what I'll "live" with.
[/spoiler]



A group of seemingly unrelated people, in this God forsaken place, are looking for answers. Looking for help. Looking for...shit, something to do. The nice thing about a place like this is that, in the most obvious ways, everyone has something in common. They all killed themselves.

Offed themselves before God, or anyone else, could do it.

News comes about the supposed "King", whom no one has met, will debut a 'miracle'. This obviously draws an interest in most, as others are looking to find the people in charge for the help they so desperately need in this place that lacks hope.

So tell me. How did you OFF yourself?!



Even in a land where no one seems to give a flying fuck anymore, there's still some laws that need to be lain on you.

• No godmodding, blah blah blah. But, as GM, I hold the right to dabble in the possible arts of godmodding.
• There is a limit of ONE character per player in this RP. Death is, surprisingly, a possibility here. Once your character is dead, you may create another character SHEET.
• All story characters are pending my approval.
• Constructive criticism, questions, and suggestions are allowed and encouraged! However, per Forum Rules, flaming ("criticisim" without substance) is never permitted.
• Literacy is key in this RP. Spelling! Grammar! Punctuation! Oh my! A minimum post length of two paragraphs is HIGHLY preferred. I also encourage reading, and re-reading, each potential post.
• As always, the most important rule: Be open-minded and Have fun!!

Impress me, please. :D Replace all parenthesized sections with your character's information.




(Idea borrowed from a guy I knew as Puck, who borrowed it from "Wristcutters: A Love Story. <3)