- █ █ B A S I C S
█ NAME ▬ Memphis Marshall
█ AGE ▬ 48
█ NICKNAME ▬ "I", Mommy
█ GENDER ▬ Male
█ RACE ▬ Incubus
█ ORIENTATION ▬ Pansexual, aromantic
█ OCCUPATION ▬ Proprietor of illegal brothel
█ PARTNER ▬ Married, but only technically (plot available for this)
█ SLAVE ▬ Everyone in his brothel. He frequently rotates out his 'favorites' as personal assistants.
█ █ A P P E A R A N C E
█ HAIR ▬ Blonde
█ EYES ▬ Blue
█ BUILD ▬ Wide, tall, Burly [6"7]
█ TATTOOS ▬ An eye on the back of both hands, wide open and staring.
█ SCARS ▬ Several scattered nicks. Most notably, he has multiple distinct, long gouges at his collarbone, and around his wrists. Desperate claw marks.
█ BIRTHMARKS ▬ no
█ █ P E R S O N A L I T Y
█ THEME SONGS
█ ▬ O1 In Hell I'll be in Good Company - The Dead South
█ ▬ O2 Listening to Freddie Mercury - Emery
█ ▬ O3 Memphis Exorcism - Squirrel Nut Zippers
█ ▬ O4 MOMMY - Eyeris
█ LIKES
█ ▬ The sound of crying
█ ▬ Piano music
█ ▬ Being in absolute control of those beneath him
█ ▬ Solitude
█ DISLIKES
█ ▬ Being told 'no.'
█ ▬ Other living beings in general, really
█ ▬ cheap s**t
█ PERSONALITY TRAITS
█ ▬ Controlling
█ ▬ Complete and utter sadist
█ ▬ Wrathful
█ ▬ Violent
█ ▬ Petulant
█ ▬ Controlling
█ ▬ Obsessive compulsive. Has odd routines and habits that he must comply to.
█ ▬ Controlling
█ ▬ Controlling
█ ▬ Did we mention controlling?
█ █ H I S T O R Y
█ BACKGROUND
Memphis Marshall came from a long and not-terribly-proud line of Incubus men who had nothing to do with the children they spawned, although he didn't know it. His life began as many of his forefathers' did - with a dead mother. He was only a few months old when the neighbor grew tired of listening to him cry, and came banging on the door to find the single mother dead on the floor of her apartment. The autopsy eventually came back that she overdosed on a strange concoction of chemicals. It would be a few years before the technology was developed that could assign a persons death to being fed on by an incubus too many times. At the time, Sandra Marshall was simply written off as another junkie to add to Saxons death toll statistics. She'd been mostly estranged from her family, and the members who remained declined taking in the child. His father never signed the birth certificate and was, naturally, long gone. So the infant was shuffled off into the system. Finding an appropriate foster system for the infant proved difficult, in a time where death rates were skyrocketing and the economy of the city was in shambles. As such, the baby moved from place to place frequently. On more than one occasion, he ended up with a family who only wanted the government aid checks that keeping him around would earn them, and ultimately paid about as much attention to him as his mothers corpse had. By the time he was old enough to be placed in a boys home, it had become evident that something, somewhere, had gone awfully wrong in the toddlers head.
He wasn't emotionless. Far from it. He would often weep and scream and rage for no discernible reason. He would catch little frogs and lizards and stab them on sticks. He caught birds and wrung their necks. He pushed other children down and didn't bat en eye when they cried. As he grew older, his abuse of the other boys in his home grew steadily worse. He kicked, bit, and pulled hair. He snuck into their beds at night to pinch and twist and hurt and frighten them into keeping quiet. When he stabbed another boy in the hand with a fork, he was finally taken to get looked at by a government professional. Dr.Edimure diagnosed the boy as having Reactive Attachment Disorder, stemming from being unable to form a bond with a primary caregiver in infancy. He might function normally one day, given enough time and help, but it would be a strenuous and tedious road to normalcy. Memphis was labeled as a special needs child, and his options grew ever slimmer. When puberty set in, and it became obvious what his parentage was, his chances of finding a good home vanished into thin air. Incubus. One who feeds off of the energy of others. Through sex. But Memphis figured out enough of the specifics of that before any caregiver had the need to explain it to him. It was when one of the smaller boys came crying to the house mother, sick as a dog, that they discovered Memphis had been abusing the younger child to satisfy his hunger for months.
At the age of thirteen, Memphis Marshall was placed in a mental institution. Shockingly, this did not help him. He would stay there for three years, listening to the infirms scream about what was under their skin as he drifted off to sleep at night, and learning what would become the most deadly skill anyone could have given him - how to fake it. He learned what answers he was expected to give. He learned how to keep the others quiet when he used them. He learned what marks he could leave and that, much as he wanted to, he couldn't brain them on the lunch table corners until they stopped moving, because then he could never leave. So he learned how to smile. Say please and thank you.
"Now, Marshall, what do you see?"
(Your skull, split wide open.)
"A flower, doctor."
"Mm-hmm. And this?"
(Dead bird, head twisted 'round.)
"A chariot, I think."
"Mm-hmm. I see."
At sixteen, he answered all the questions just right, and they let him go. All better. Reformed and happy and ready to contribute to society. Good boy. He was a good boy.
As a young man, Memphis went through phases, rotating through different 'types' to suit his tastes. As a teenager, he targeted older women. They were so receptive to a strapping, young, blonde angel paying them so much attention. They taught him a lot. Taught him to read the signs better. Because older women were willing, but they were cautious, too. They were smart, and knew the signs when someone was a little too interested. So he learned not to rush in like a prodded bull. He learned to tread carefully. Then, to dance. And not just dancing to get in to bed, either. Sure, once he'd taken a few of them, he had a nice little circle going, each of them coming back for more, needing him, craving him. He found that he really liked professional types. Liked ripping their stockings. Liked that they knew what they wanted, and how to move, and how eager they were to please him, to have him smile at them. But they were boring. Memphis liked to chase. Liked to find new ones and tease and dance and woo until they came to him. Once they were hooked, it wasn't fun. But some were desperate. They'd do anything. So he'd take them again, and he'd shut them up so they couldn't come squaking to him again. Some, wisely, left well enough alone, and rode out the withdrawal until they could live again. Thank god for the Saxon PD, right? Hehehe.
As he got a little older, he got more experimental. He tried younger men. Younger girls. Older adults. Much older adults. Married. Breaking in 'tough' types. He cycled through these with the mild curiosity of a kid deciding what treat to try next. He ran into trouble when, for fun, he tried prostitutes. It was kind of like eating the gross congealed bit at the bottom of the popcorn bag on a dare. Just out of curiosity. But he sampled one that turned out to be a desperate type. An annoying type. So he shut them up. It was always kind of relaxing. Like dessert. It was fun to watch their expressions change when he put his hands around their throats in the middle of it. Some liked it, at first. But their pleasure turned to panic when he kept squeezing. How they discolored and flailed and clawed and faded. It was such a pleasure to watch, to feel them go cold and stiff around him. He was cute, but he was cuter dead. Unfortunately, his 'manager' didn't feel the same way. He was strong, but not strong enough for the bull metamorphose that the pimp sicced on him when they tracked him down.
But, like some hilarious cosmic joke, their 'punishment?' It was selling him to an underground brothel. Cue the canned laughter. But, funny as it was, he still didn't like it. It reminded him too much of being in the institution. Being controlled didn't suit him. At all. It drove him mad. They almost dumped him off into one of the Nations Chop Shops after he bit out a clients tongue (and then - get this - he ******** swallowed it. Right? Wtf, dude??) because it was just too much damn trouble. But, naturally, their repeat customers kept coming back asking after him. It eventually came out that, no, he wasn't human, like he said he was. Yes, he was an incubus, and oh my, that did have some benefits, didn't it? Not just repeat clients, either. So he started earning 'privileges.' If he cooperated with them, did as they asked (which was pretty easy, because it was mostly ******** unruly cases) then the gave him more leash. and more. And more. And whoops, ******** the director. My bad. It really was just like the institution. He just had to answer the questions right. Leave the marks in the right places. Eventually, that particular location was raided. A lot of the illegals were torched by the ringleaders on their way out to cover their connections, but most of the staff themselves were caught. Marshall escaped along with the director. Because he needed him, dammit. Well. He escaped the cops, at least. Memphis had gotten everything he needed out of him. So. He shut him up, too.
But he learned that the brothel trade was a damn good one. And, honestly, just such a perfect setup for him. As long as he was in control, unlike last time, he could enjoy it plenty. And for someone like him, it was so easy to start. Just pick more specific targets. Don't play only to his own tastes, but to a... broader audience. Young. Lonely. Pretty, preferably. He started out with what he could get his hands on - the directors keys (a good new, temporary place of residence for him and his pets), the living bodies he could bring in as easy as breathing, and the directors name. That was all it took. He'd practically been a partner by the time of the raid, so he knew the right answers to the questions, and who to give them to. His operation started off as a small shanty, but with enough time, some of the regulars and the little info rats came sniffing about. Memphis wasn't on the product line himself this time, but he had such nice stock. Could get whatever you wanted, if you gave him time. He could keep them in line. Eventually, the old directors contacts became his own (after all, he was 'on vacation' for who knew how long, after the raid. probably just laying low, like a coward. Memphis was just carrying on business as usual.) He was a resource. So, eventually, when it was clear he knew what he was doing, he started getting some help. His little place grew. People like Crownless and the Nation who wanted pets kept quiet, kept still, punished, started using him as a kind of storage facility. They gave him drugs and muscle and pets, and he gave them cuts of the profits, in accordance with the resources and pets given to him. The more they contributed, the bigger piece of the pie they earned. In time, Memphis' little playhouse was a sprawling network of seedy brothels, equipped with aids and muscle that he could call upon, the right little baggies to keep his toys pliant and responsive. Jokingly, someone referenced him as the House-Mother, and he said 'Just call me Mommy.' They laughed, and it stuck. He got in the habit of saying 'Mommy knows best' and on occasion even referred to some of his cattle as his 'children.' On a few occasions, it was literally true. But what did it matter if the brats were his? They were just meat like the rest were.
█ ABILITIES
▬ STRENGTH TRAINING
Memphis must be in absolute control of everything he can. That especially means his body. He started conditioning and toning his muscles from a young age, to better overpower those around him. This habit followed him into adulthood, and has become a nearly obsessive routine. If he can't do his morning and evening routine, he goes a bit nuts. More nuts than usual. As such, he's got a lot of physical power to back him up, and a wide frame to go with it.
▬ ANIMAL MAGNETISM
As an incubus, he's naturally... desirable. You can't quite describe it. It isn't as if the bright blue eyes, blonde hair, chiseled jaw, and broad shoulders don't help. But people are naturally drawn to him, like moths to the flame. There's just something so strangely hypnotic about the way he talks, the way he moves and laughs. He almost seems angelic. Heh.
▬ SOOTHING TOUCH
Likely Memphis' favorite ability. Even fleeting skin to skin contact, like a pat on the shoulder, or a friendly handshake, leaves the victim wanting more. Wanting to be close, and press up against him. His touch makes people feel safe, and warm, and oh soooo comfortable. Plus, he just looks a little dadly, doesn't he? Overall, it usually gives people an overpowering sense of being safe. Which is really, really unfortunate for them.
▬ I WISH I COULD QUIT YOU!
Like all incubuses, Memphis excretions are incredibly addictive. When he releases inside of a person, the resulting feeling is... an incredible euphoria. A sensation that rocks the persons body to its core, makes every nerve tingle and makes their head swim. Afterwards, the victim will feel incredibly tired and empty. Soon, they'll crave reliving the experience, like mad. As bad as any addict with what they need right in front of them. Most people can't help themselves. They'll need it more than breath, more than living, more than anything.
█ EXTRA
-- Unbeknownst to either of them, Dane Hart is one of Memphis' oldest children. While he has not paid any particular attention to the artist, he does enjoy several of his more popular songs.
-- Memphis has several obsessive compulsive tendencies, such as his very specific workout routine. He has to wash his hands twice, lock his door seven times, and other little personal quirks that make him very, VERY manic if he can't perform them properly. His life is peppered with these odd little rituals.
-- Memphis insists that his cattle call him 'Mommy.' He, for some reason, seems to think it's hilarious. He derives an odd pleasure from it, and can frequently be heard saying things like "Be a good little girl for Mommy, and take your medicine!" ...to grown men in ball gags.
-- Memphis does not form attachments of any kind, to anyone. He sells his own children for ******** sake. The man is effectively incapable of love or companionship.
-- When sending information back and fourth, supply requests and the like, he always marks his info with a seal that resembles the letter 'I' inside of an eye. No one knows why, or where this came from, but it's come to be known as his alias by those he communicates with in the underworld. "I".
-- Voice claim is Sam Robson
