░░░░░░
░░░░░░
░░░░░░
Username ⇒ Squalo
░░░░░░
░░░░░░
Name ⇒ Nails
[ Real name Alkalom ]
[ Hungarian | Opportunity ]
░░░░░░
░░░░░░
Gender ⇒ Male
░░░░░░
░░░░░░
Extra ⇒ Backstory
░░░░░░
░░░░░░
░░░░░░
Ｉ ＣＯＵＬＤ ＵＳＥ Ａ ＲＥＣＯＭＭＥＮＤＡＴＩＯＮ ＨＥＲＥ - [ Word Count 498 ]
The back alleys are no place for a fool. To survive one must be swift, cunning, and an evil too
necessary for the world to eradicate. At least, that’s the image Nails wants to project of himself
– a king atop a silicon throne waving around a toothpick might have been a better one. He was the
sort of Mako you would see wearing a trench coat two sizes too big and drowning it in a half-hearted
attempted to act out an old fifties film. Nails was classic. Cool, suave, and an absolutely terrible actor.
But he was a role that people put up with on the stage, the Bottom of this Midsummer Night’s Dream,
because at least he had some use.
Nails, by trade, was an informant. He dealt his dirty dealings to whoever threw up the cash and went
his merry way like a sewer rat. To many people it wasn’t a proud occupation, it was as low, dirty, and
deceiving as one could get. You weren’t anyone’s friend, you were everyone’s enemy, and every cent
you earned was probably stained. Nails wanted to suggest that he worked for kings, mafia bosses, and
occasionally sold their evils out to the police but in reality his pool of customers consisted of drunken
low class gangsters, nowhere near influential enough politicians, and the every day jealous housewife.
And they only took to him because was the only person around who they could butter up to be a slave.
It used to be a noble profession. It had been in his family for generations. But as the world grew
to rely on other sources, namely the ever-expanding worldwide web, slowly people of his stature
became obsolete and they had information only to offer to the lazy or technologically inept. And
that hurt, honestly. If Nails, no, if Alkalom were to peel back the vivid personality he worked up
for himself, he would admit to that. Seeing how great his parents had been, top of their game and
called on by all, he felt incomplete. There was something he was supposed to live up to, and he’d
failed that along the way. He was the only child, the last of a legacy, and he was a box office flop.
No matter how many films he tried to portray with even the slightest hint of accuracy no one would
buy a ticket.
It was discouraging, really. And most people would have dumped this soggy profession for another,
but there was pride in Alkalom. Pride enough to reverse the odds of the world, even if in the end he
was just going to have to fake it until he made it. And until then he would suck up to sorry women and
corrupt men, because at the very least they still asked for him. And on these empty Hungarian streets,
they were company enough. In the line of information, that is the one truth – the word of all people,
any people, had value.
