(Ladies and gents, if you use IE you're missing out on half this page)
You are about to embark on five pertinent lessons I learned during my run with The Pack. They apply to my art mostly, but if you open your mind they can be bent to apply to your life; and aren't we always looking for ways to improve ourselves? Before I start to carve the meat of this lecture though, I'd like to open with something small-- an appetizer of sorts. It's quote that I've recently learned, from spending too many heated hours picking at the back of my brain:
The incident that stole that kids life wasn't my doing alone--oh no. I was turned into an aggressive weapon at the hand of another, very talented man. Credit is given where credit is due, and to you Dear Saint Pryce, you showed me how to do exactly what you do (its how I fell in love with you).You deserve nothing less than a round of applause for your tireless work on this abhorrent "killer" but it's so like you to be "humble"--you not only deny getting your style immortalized by me, but that I was even your student. Remember dear reader that arrogance is not only within pride, but dismissive modesty as well! Credit your creators, and acknowledge your creations.
(We're in this together Saint John, want me dead all you want.)
May 21st, 1983; Chicago, Illinois. Seven thirty-five PM.
The daytime heat that collected along a murky line of atmosphere between Saint Paul and Des Moines, collided South Eastward into a front of unseasonably cold air. Severe weather specialists were on high alert, instructing their special spotters to keep an "eye on the sky" for the Western Lake Michigan region; however even as squall lines formed along the projected 'danger zones', nothing became organized enough to reach severe limits. With idle moans of displeasure, the National Weather Service canceled out the severe thunderstorm watch that covered nearly all of Wisconsin and Northern Illinois, and broadcast meteorologists updated the viewing public that "sometimes the sky changes its mood." Give or take a few developing showers in the area, the front line was quiet...That is until one of the southernmost rain storms began to tango with the upper level low.
Around five o'clock, the clouds were said to have been 'sparkling' outside of Madison, Wisconsin. Cauliflower cumulonimbus built up into a silent mountain, dyed delicate peach at their crests by the hand of the sun, only to gradiate into an eerie black within their feathery bases. Not more than five minutes later the wind held its breath, as if to prevent the charred scud bursts from soiling its lungs. At five-fifteen, the tornado sirens sounded and a confirmed F-3 scribbled a trail about seven miles south of town. Warnings were issued but without much grace, stumbling head over heels to catch up with the track the storm had taken. Breathless news anchors scurried to their desks, peeling through lists of cities and counties under the line of fire like dusty paint. The storm simply drudged on in all its vehement glory, and the sparkle of its shape on the map flourished as it began to veer South East towards the city of Chicago. Projected time of impact: forty-five minutes.
When it actually did hit the windy city, the main threat revolved more around the lightening aspect than the dangerous winds. The supercell became too much for itself around Rockford and, in all its decadent glory, collapsed into an electrical fury. Chicago's skyline was brilliant, a masterpiece which proved that mother nature's palette was indeed able to waltz with the darker venues of art. From seven-thirty to seven-fifty, the storm ravaged the streets; littered with the ghosts of life that hung in the air like high-tension wires. Seven thirty four was the time documented by several electrical businesses and state officials, for five forks of lightening all simultaneously ripped through the city grid causing a big black spot in the satellite picture. The city was in the hands of candle and battery powered light for several house, save the outlets that required backup generators such as hospitals and prisons; both of which came cracking to life with booming roars.
For a single moment, Mona-li LeGarte was left in the dark during her struggling labor, but as the lights within the O-B unit flickered back on she sighed a breath of relief. The roll of thunder that followed the five forks was beyond any realistic sound, it shattered the city,rattled the windows, tore the pavement apart. Mona-li was concerned, for during the roll her son had slipped into the hands of her doctor, crying but not making a single sound. Husband Haden Sutherlan chastised her fears though, he stood with stars in his eyes behind the doctor; and despite the vicious sky he heard his son's first noises.
The child was one of several born in Chicago during that outrageous release of Nature, but he was the only one to be named after the event. Mona-li wanted to remember the details of that miraculous moment, because she claimed that the thunderclap was 'Gods way of greeting his newest child.' Haden wasn't particularly engaged in the name she chose, but he wouldn't disagree with her reasoning. It really did feel like the Good Lord had summoned a choir of angel's trumpets to sing a fanfare for their blessing. So he went along with it, no questions asked outside of a peculiar look on his face, as he imagined how their son would take to the name when he was old enough to fully realize it.
Stormy Sutherlan was a gift from God, and people had great expectations for him....
That is correct, no need to blink twice you didn't misread. My name is Stormy, and no I never got ridiculed for it when I was growing up. I know, I know it's odd. With a name like that, you'd probably think that kids would jump all over it; In fact, I can give you quite a few examples of what they could have said! **This does not give you the right to call me any of these things. I am a VERY SENSITIVE BOY OKAY? OKAY.**
- 1.) Look at that Stormy Sky!
- 2.) You knocked out power out last night..
- 3.) There's a severe you watch right now!
- 4.) What were your parents on when they named you... **I actually get this one a lot**
- 5.) Do you have a brother named Tornado/Hurricane/NATURAL DISASTER?
- 6.) Storm Cloud
As a matter of fact the name that did get ripped on was my middle name: Olson. Right around the time that show "Full House" was popular, everyone would ask me if I was "named after the Olsen Twins."
....
....
Talk about missing the forest for the trees...
Annnyways--I was born and raised in Chicago Illinois. Southeast side, sort of lake front but not really (meaning, I could see it but it took about 7 years to get to it.) My folks, my sister, and I lived in a boarding house with about six other families, top floor, and in-between a flourescent car dealership and a smokey nightclub. Parents and I got along alright, but my sister was a terror. Every chance she got she'd wail on me, sometimes to the point where I was hospitalized for very 'unusual' (too graphic to share here) reasons. When I was six I learned that she actually had a mental illness that made her act out so horribly, but I don't remember what it was (care cup is empty concerning Mit). She was in and out of institutions a lot but they didn't really do much--or rather weren't allowed to on account of the fact that my parents believed 'faith would heal her' more than heavy medicine and psychiatric attention.
Riiiight. Back to me now.
I went to a parochial school (surprise surprise) for eighteen years, the type where you stay with the same kids your entire life pretty much. Even if you never got to know them there was always the security that they'd return next fall, the only reason they wouldn't is because their family either moved or sadly lost faith. I willingly wanted to become a priest until I turned sixteen, when I attended a mass after a funeral that left me less than satisfied with the whole--'Good Book' thing. Don't confuse this disatisfaction with a loss of faith, no way. I still have faith but it's more or less--realistic. Philosophical versus fantastical. Went through a good two years questioning and finding myself, and when I turned eighteen I graduated and moved out to attend the University of Philadelphia, which I promptly flunked out of. Not because I was stupid, but because my interest was commandeered by an "art school" that practices without any tools but the human body. There you have it, the Sparks Notes of my childhood. No one wants the details, no one CARES about the details (heck even I find myself boring.) They're just good to establish where I came from and what I did until I grew up. Now, we can slow down just a breeze.
That's the face of a true nobody, bleary eyed and full of discontent. Someone who knows "it all" from the back of a cereal box, and is satisfied with mediocrity. He thinks society is doomed because he was a selfish child that expected time to nurse him forever, and never change. What? Me? Yeah this guy was me about six years ago, most recent and the only picture of me that I'm still aware of. Now before you even think it, no. I am not Japanese. I am not Chinese, Korean, Laotian, Thai, Taiwanese, Singaporean, Malaysian, Filipino, Cambodian or Vietnamese. The "Asian" curve in my eyes was a gift from my mother: who is in fact (dun dun dun) Hawaiian. In conclusion: you may think I look like I've got lines from the far East, but I'm really just a sludge pile of Western Europe and Hawaiian.
I am the definition of unpredictability, "practice makes perfect", and a fantastic example of how not all college flunk-outs end up flipping burgers for the rest of their lives. Could have been something amazing but instead I became a starving combat artist, with a degrading side job not worth mentioning. This type of artist is denoted as someone who specializes in the beauty of fluid senses, notarized by their ability to literally squeak out of the tightest places and send you on your back. After I flunked out of U of Philly, I enrolled myself as a full time student at the Philadelphia Institute of Physical Arts--or informally known as The Pack. Have you ever seen the film Fight Club? Well that's sort of what we're like, except we see combat in a more refined manner, and aren't out to make a social statement.
If you see fighting as a form of tangible art versus gratuitous violence then hey--The Pack'll love you. I probably would've had fun giving you a run for your money but--those days are over and done. This Aggressor left the building after an initiation match I was nominated to prepare, went sour. It's a little funny how it worked out. I was one of the top fighters in the school thanks to the teachings of senior Saint John Pryce, then in two seconds--bam. I'm tossed into a violent whirlwind that my mind can't wrap around, then I awake as an annoying little gnat wandering around Arizona. Thousands of miles away from Philadelphia, with my reputation (and head) being hunted down. Once an accomplished artist, then a nobody; Prince then pauper.
But...that's how 'fame' goes.
How exactly did I get into the pack? Well its really not much different than a lot of the stories you'll find from a member of these establishments: I was beat up as a kid, and wanted to find some sort of outlet for self defense when I got older; pretty much anyone's natural reaction. Between college courses and work though, I found it pretty hard to give myself the time to research Philadelphia's advertised schools for self defense. Until of course, I decided to take one less lit class and enroll in a martial arts seminar. It met twice a week, didn't hurt my major, plus I knew that I needed Phys. Ed to graduate anyways.
It's funny when I think about it now because back then, I was probably the worst person in the class. I never once thought of myself as push over growing up, heck living with my sister forced me to develop resistance against most childhood fears--but the first time I stepped foot into Professor Darren Scott's class. HA HA HA!! I was on my back, my head splintering from an epicenter above my neck, and my eyes were being torn by copious amounts of halogen knives. Didn't hear the tiny breeze of snickers--heck, I barely realized that a 98-pound fifteen year old was straddling my stomach and holding me down. I'm honestly only aware of what happened on that day because Darren always brought it up when we crossed paths at The Institute, and nearly every new student of his would find me after his orientation, gawk with slippery eyes, then say:
So you're the star aggressor that got owned by a fifteen year old?! Oh man...look how awesome you are now...I hope I get as lucky.
Long story short, I pretty much failed out of his class at the "U'--I was terrible at keeping up with the techniques and everything else he taught. My only saving grace was the fact that Professor Scott liked me, and as you know, in every class there is typically one student that the professor favors. Doesn't necessarily mean he's the best of the bunch, don't think that for a second; the class pet just has something in his personality that draws in the attention. Halfway through the semester Scott told me that I was in danger of losing my P.E credit, but before I could panic and fear that I would become "that one person who failed gym", he offered me a little extra credit course. He told me that outside of the University, he worked with a private Institute that specialized in the physical arts. A Fight School so to speak--something that was becoming quite popular around the nation. It ran like a normal college or university, but revolved around every detail, history, and practice of combat known. and to be known to man.
If I attended one of his private seminars at his Institute, then he would give me extra credit. I figured it was because it showed that I was putting effort into the class, but the reality was that Scott "saw some talent in me" and wanted to test me in a more diverse setting...
So that's how it goes. I went to a few extra classes at the factory building Gym that he and six other guys owned and ran, fell in love with the world I came into, and started coming back for more classes. He gave me my promised extra credit, and I passed P.E--but it pretty much went to waste. As we already know I completely fell in love with the art, and spent more time training with The Pack than at The University, which ultimately lead to my expulsion.
Years slipped by like water drops, dedicated to the most visceral and raw training I'd ever experienced in my entire life. I became a legend, a combative god that very few mere students could hold up against. I climbed from the intermediate ring to the Rising Star track due to my dedication, and took the name John Pryce with me due to his stylization that I bathed in. Fourteen time National champion, Creme De la Creme of the "Aggressive evasion" tactic...and when I couldn't rise up any higher within the school's curriculum? I volunteered to be an "instigator" on call for applicant's initiation matches; all to show the world that I was not arrogant with my accomplishments. All to expose my raw, developed style into an unrefined generation.
All to watch my years of hard work shatter on the, soft, springy, floor, and come to an end...
How do you feel about the higher power?
No,no no, no no no...that's not the question I wanted to ask. What an innapropriate subject--I'm sorry. It's just that lately...I've had a lot of free time dedicated to thinking, dreaming, and retracing old foot steps. I was so indifferent about the big man after the accident, that all I could do was desperately race around looking for someone else's opinion to grapple onto. Faith shaken, even when it's as abstract as my own, feels like the emptiest wind billowing trough the loneliest plane.
I killed a sixteen year old kid who lied about his age on the application. There's no beautiful, or even poetic way to convey what's blunt and searing. He built himself a house of cards through an inked list of lies, and the initiation committee paired him up with me. My style is best matched by the quick and observant, the breed of fighter who can take advantage of any pockets of wasted time I leave behind and use it against me. Not--amateurs. Long story short, the kid tripped over his feet due to my momentum and broke his neck. Died instantly, beneath the false prophet lights humming above. Never before had The Pack lost a member, or even potential members in the ultimate fashion--and I stained it's reputation. It wasn't my fault he was clumsy, it wasn't my fault that he lied, it wasn't even my fault that he stumbled more when I tried to catch him, but to many I murdered him. Because when you're on that blue tennis-ball mat, you're responsible for every move you make.
John Pryce, my master, shared my pain. For it was his unique style that I bathed in, and his style that I immortalized Fourteen times. On that night he saw that it was his style that turned me into the deadly weapon, and ended the life of the kid (oh how terrible it must be to see your own creation gone wrong). He shared my pain--but in an attempt to save his precious name. For losing fame once in a life time. but gaining it back, teaches the wisest of men the best kinds of back stabs.
He went from proudly wearing me on his sleeve to denying my existence; spin-doctor trying to pick up the mess left behind a bumbling politician. He would look at me, but no longer see me--those steely blue eyes were already oh so cold to begin with too. The news spread on and people were growing angry--but not only at me. John Pryce was lavished with hatred and spits for his "deadly art form." Questions arose on our relationship even: Was Pryce a "sleeper cell"? A terrorist against the establishment of Physical Arts? had I been a secret weapon of his, awaiting the right time to "show the world" how dangerous these Fight Institutes were? John didn't like questions to begin with, even back when I first began training with him--if you didn't get what he said, you were royally you-know-what'ed over; and these questions wanted an answer that his honesty wouldn't suffice. I was the cause of this infection on his name and naturally to overcome any infection, one needs the antidote.
John publicly announced that he wanted me dead. If not to exercise "vengeance" on the child, to cleanse his name of me. Start over, I, Stormy Sutherlan, never existed. I didn't know about this intent to hunt my head until a month after the declaration was made. It came to me from the mouth of my last living reserve of solace, out in the cold, cold, cold deserts of Arizona.
Yeah I left my home, my comforts, and my reputation pretty quick. Two days after the incident. The last thing I saw out East was that unforgiving cringe in Pryce's eyes; that was all it took to tell me I needed to leave. Faith alone wouldn't save me from the waking giant, when he was oh-so close.
And that was that. Granted my time with The Pack ended in a very shameful manner, it made me who I am today. I feel the need to stress that I am not a natural talent at all, I worked hard at mastering what I was taught and it became an immense success. Of course I willingly apply credit where it's needed, and my lessons were created by Mr. Aggressor himself.
I am an artist, I have a lot to say. For some this'll be trivial and boring, for others (and I hope there are more of you) this section may inspire you. Regardless I put a lot of time into recovering bittersweet memories, in order to relay the lessons I've learned through my training, so please--do enjoy these philosophies. Make something from them.
Do you know how much of a stranger you are in this world? Probably not, though not because you're dumb, I just doubt you've ever really given it much thought. Admittedly it's not the most uplighting thing to ponder, but in a way it's an oddly comforting thing to realize. Have you ever said something along the lines of your friends/family/general elders not "understanding you?" Well you're as right as rain. No one is going to fully understand you, probably not even you. Either you're more talented than you give yourself credit or you're not nearly as good as that little ego inside believes, you don't understand you. It's not societies fault or our parents, it's just the human way. We're given a gift to think, to ponder and pine, we don't like it when things are settled and set in stone because our minds need to pick and piece. Why else is the single-most man made creation, mathematics, so abstract and undefined? We don't LIKE definitions. Numbers don't exist but we want them to because they keep ourselves focused; running like dogs towards the rabbit we'll never touch. Step number one in The Pryce-Style Physical Arts:
Accept that everyone in your life is a stranger.
Be more concerned on defining yourself.
[1]
It's hard. It's rough, it's grueling, it's just plain out and out painful...but it pays in the end. Practice makes perfect after all, and I didn't get to where I am by skipping over a good deal of hard work. Don't confuse definition with association, because they're two entirely different deals. For example, you may associate a--uhh--uhhh--a Monet painting with the word beautiful, but does it really define the word? Think about the meaning to definition--it's the absolute root to everything. Still not getting it? Well here, let me define myself for you.
I'm a..a.... a
A virus that effects the most visceral regions of your emotions; the lobe of the brain where the spark for everything is conceived.
I'm the feeling writers try to capture in fancy prose about love, and that curl of fire in your stomach right before you suddenly delve into a "hateful mood.
I've burrowed under your skin, I've become a part of you with no consent. You hate me, you love me, I'm the greatest thing to ever happen to you and then seconds later, I'm a knife being driven into the back of your thigh.
People tend to...associate me with the word "intense" for a lack of poetic terms, and I really can't blame them. I've trained myself to be freakishly aware of every little detail that I've become every little detail; including the junk you guys forget about. I use no formal weapon but myself. If I need to, I can usually grab hold of whatever is on the ground and figure out how to use it in a matter of seconds. It's not because I'm some prodigy that's a master with every form of weapon, I've honestly had to learn how to think fast. Yeah trust me, I've had a good share of failed experiments which tore me away from valuable time, and cost me a match. I am by all means imperfect, but that doesn't mean I'm not fantastic at what I do. I really, honestly am. You can go ahead and call me egotistic, I don't give a flip. Modesty isn't a virtue, it's something that those lacking in talent decided to condemn on we who excel. Why shouldn't you be proud of yourself if you're great at something? Embrace it, love it, show it off.
Before I was thrown into the unfriendly deserts of Arizona, I loved Philadelphia, can't tell you why. It's like--one of those "gotta see it to believe it" deals, if I were there right now I'm sure I'd be able to explain. That's safe to say about just any place though, where ever you are it's like you're directly linked to its vibrations. The minute you leave it, everything just kind of....fades. Sure the mind can fabricate continuity and relive the moments but it's not the same as being it--which is why step number two in my group is so hard to follow through with:
Become your surroundings
[2]
I used to struggle with this one like you wouldn't believe, until I found my style. What it simply means is break yourself out of the lazy level of observation, and explore new dimensions of reality. Pick up the finest details of where you are and literally become one with them. You've heard that old saying "take time to smell the roses"? That's about capturing the details of course...but at a slower pace. See I don't know about you but, I don't work at a slow pace, I've learned it in the opposite direction; that the faster you are the better defined the world becomes. You catch up to the spin of the planet, lose yourself in a void of space where your ribcage deflates, and the blood rush to your head fills the details around you like breakers in footprints. Ever been on a roller coaster? You don't remember the wait in line (unless you're a wimp), you remember the absolute RUSH of gravity punishing you for attempting to defy it. The twists, the turns, the feeling of your life being at the very whim of a heartless machine....the speed. Well, I've never been on a roller coaster, I hate them; but you know what? I know what the thrill is like. I'm a fighter for an unpaid living, a starving artist of sorts specializing in the beauty of decadence. I've defied gravity in my work, I've had my fair share of twists and turns, and every person you are matched with isn't supposed to be seen as a human being; he is just a thing. Above all though, keeping track of your details while upholding speed is pertinent if you want to survive. Like all artists, the dividing line between amateur and professional is attention to detail. Becoming your surroundings
I would still be in Philadelphia if it weren't for a mix of two conflicts. If one had turned out differently I would have definitely stayed in place but, life deals you the wrong cards sometimes. Oh sure I could rattle on about the sad little details of each (even if one of the reasons isn't sad but more aggravating) but who really does that? No matter how much something seriously hurts you, it takes forever to get the strength to open it up to BELOVED members of your life let alone a stranger.
Do you know the reason why? I mean, I already said the word out loud. It's strength. You have the strength to keep to yourself until the right time. Step number three is wrapped around this idea (naturally):
Only display weakness to those you trust
[3]
Don't cry, don't frown, don't complain, don't sweat, don't sigh, don't hesitate unless you're COMPLETELY POSITIVE you're surrounded in good company. Otherwise you better put on an act for the rest of the world. Philosophers will argue that such an act is placing evil upon the soul, but what do they know in all reality? Their ideas are still simply that of a man, and man (no matter what) knows little to nothing about what can't be seen.
It falls entirely on belief and faith. Doesn't have to be ecclesiastical faith, it can be self imposed, self created, scientific, or any number of different ideas. Everyone has faith in something, even those who claim they lack it. I sound like I fall into that category I know, but I have very strong virtues. My faith is ecclesiastic but obviously a little more skewed; you don't hear many fathers preaching my ideals.
Saint John was my preacher, better known as Jonathan Pryce: founder of 'The Art' I've been preaching. He's the freestyle head of The Philly Institute of Physical Arts, and the formula that my own practices followed after one of his more potent 'sermons.' Pryce was all about the grandiose geneses of the five senses; exposure so thorough that it physically hurt to hear him talk about it sometimes. He would always say that combat was only worthwhile when all the senses were enticed, but when I first attended one of his pool table masses I was too proud of myself to listen. My sister taught me everything I needed to know in offensive combat when she'd gang up on me, I thought I was a natural talent, I didn't need to be critiqued. John gave me a false smile when I told him I was doing fine with my matches, then laughed when I told him that I figured I was one of the best because I never instigated. Others wanted to fight me.
So you've got respect. Congratulations--that's something a lot of the kids forget about." said the smoke that curled in between his teeth, my head swelled from the ego that developed from the bland compliment. Then the tone of his voice shifted as chubby fingers scouted his next move on the billiards table; " Of course, what does respect hold other than surface-level control? It's good you've got people who want to play with you but, doesn't that mean that they're the ones who are initiating it? Maybe they go to you because they know they'll have the upper-hand right away. Why are you giving them that? " Here he paused to take a taste of his vice, and with another smokey smile his electric eyes tore into my essence.
You get more respect from others when being an aggressor.
Step four:
Be an aggressor
[4]
Start something with passion, be an instigator. Doesn't have to be by the literal definition of the word, use it metaphorically if you want. While I still remained a little too proud to listen to him for years to come, that tiny lesson helped me realize that the only memorable figures in history started something. You know the Holy Son? If you think about it he was one of the biggest aggressors ever; I mean people are still talking about what he instigated you know? This is my favorite and probably the most important step in The Art, because it doesn't only reflect physical combat but life. If you follow any of these, be the most passionate about this one .
In a fast-paced world it's hard to realize that your instincts are talking. Have you ever been driving a car (or been a passenger) and completely zoned out, only to find yourself safely at your destination? (Give me yo license plate digits son, I ain't gonna be driving behind YOU anytime soon...) Some people like to give the award to super natural elements for this amazing phenomenon, but those people....ahhhhhh. I won't get into it (they're the ones who called me Ashley Olsen anyways).
Whatever was clouding your mind from paying attention wasn't powerful enough to outsmart instinct. They're your friend, give them more credit in life. I can guarantee that every regret in your life stems from you denying that "voice of reason" inside, and do you know what that voice of reason really is?
Say it with me ya'll...
INSTINCT
Shortly before I changed scenes from Liberty Bell to Arid Arizona, I attended another one of Saint John's pool-table masses that taught me something so stupidly simple that it was absolute genius. Ladies and gentlemen, let me present the last but definitely not least step in The Art. Step five:
No matter what position you're in, if you're facing danger instinct will find a means of escape.
[5]
Even if you're an INFINITESIMAL fraction of a second away from any form of defeat, you'll find a way out. Release all thoughts, let your mind feel the fog; If you want to live you'll live. True warriors may fight to the end, but a real warrior'll escape when he needs to and come back with the upper hand. Its what immortalized me in The Pack, made me a physical god, and why I'm where I am today.
...It also sold me two powerful enemies, created a train of black marks on my presence, cost a life, and preserved the feeling of nails down my back like a tiger in a cage but those are stories for another day.
Long, boring stories that you'll experience first hand someday, if you follow my five life lessons.
Name: Stormy Olson Sutherlan
Nickname: See above
Age: 26
D.O.B: May 21st
Living Relatives: Michelle Sutherlan (sister) Mona-Li & Haden Sutherlan (parents), Hannah Shadowlier (daughter)
Hair color/style: The mystery between black and brown (blonde highlights but they ain't natural bro.) longish and "hip" (yeah...maybe in the early 90's)
Eye color: He wants them to be gold. They want to be brown.
Stature: Runner's build. Keeps himself slightly underweight for more "evacuation" space
Heritage: Hawaiian and pretty much all of Europe.
Residency: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania (or scraping around the West)
Occupation: Bouncer at a 'Lounge' called Diamond's | 'Muscle' for G.O.D INC (Philadelphia and Edenburgh) | "Body Guard" for Morgan Villaneau and Amil Grey.
Schooling: Our Lady of Sacred Blessings, Chicago. University of Philadelphia -- flunked/dropped out. The Philadelphia Institute of Physical Arts
Spirituality: Wayward
Philosophy: "Create something, make a revolution, cause a riot. No one lives forever without reinventing something, and causing a scene.
Surface level personality: Exuberant, philosophically aggressive, preachy, hot headed, very healthy sense of humor, outgoing, arrogant but backs it up well. Rest is up to you
Enjoys: Reading, instigation, freestyle fighting, talking...a lot, strange forms of altruism, being talked about, competitions, Charlie's yacht, dry comedy, music of all forms, long walks on the beach...candle lit dinners...oh wait...
Dislikes: Thunderstorms, humidity, cab drivers, people who think he's asian, people who think they're better than him and can't back it up, when people don't help him out and he "helps" them, the words moist and rotten.
Status: Ah does it really matter?
Prefers: The norm.
- Up until two weeks ago, I used to have an iPod literally ATTACHED to me unless I was practicing, or in a match. Loud music keeps me charged and full of energy, it's my battery! It's actually ironic that I say that because what broke me away from my headphones was my inability to keep the thing charged. I've been kicked out of so many hotels for instigating what I define as fun, that I haven't been able to find a place to plug in the charger for more than ten minutes.
- I'm unnaturally ambidextrous. When I was six my sister broke my right arm forcing me to develop the skill at a young age. I would have lost the ability if I didn't keep practicing it; which I only did to 'impress' other people. Very useful with playing cat and mouse during fight matches though, adds the unpredictability label slapped on me.
- Contrary to my name, I don't like thunderstorms unless they occur at night. 
- I've never owned a cat or a dog, nor do I really want to. If I HAD to or else I'd die, I'd go for a cat.
- Just because I flunked out of school doesn't mean I'm stupid. I was a great student when I was younger--just kind of lost the drive. I've learned everything I know now from heavy reading. Fiction, Non-Fiction, Reference, Biographies, Essays...anything I can get my hands on pretty much. Only reason college didn't work was because I got way too involved with my art.
- I probably couldn't stand up to someone with training but, I'm a pretty accomplished amateur gymnast. The Pack's personal gym has one entire level that's built like a gymnastics facility and I like to unwind there. I'm great at floor tumbling and playing on those uneven bars. Can't do epic flexibility tricks, but I can flip around like a circus poodle. Bendy spines are so insanely important to have with my style...
- I could live off noodles if it didn't violate about four zillion health codes.
- ....THE SAME GOES FOR HOT DOGS AS WELL D: There used to be a dog vendor about seven blocks away from my old apartment complex, and every day from noon to five it was all I could smell.
- I'm the father of a famous, aristocrat's grandkid.
-
One of my wallet chains connects to an old pocket watch that doesn't work anymore. The reason I keep it is not because it was a "family heirloom" or it has "nostalgial value', but because of the time it's now eternally frozen on: 3:04. A mere five seconds away from being 3:05. It's just one of those little details...
- You and I probably have a ton in common, but I bet you won't be able to stand me.
Let us now move onto the "guilty pleasure" section that every page inevitably has! The one, the only:
Ohhh god Get The You-know what Off. It took me three tries to find someone who I think is my permanent. Doesn't sound like a lot, but when I get attached, it takes me years to untangle myself completely.
First there was Adrienne Shadowlier. Yes that is correct; the daughter of Mirage Shadowlier. I freelanced my talents for his co-owner Vitaly Vaussman for a while, and am currently still employed by them in all technicality; but that's not how I met Adrienne. No, I met her before I got involved with G.O.D INC, and even The Pack.
Adrienne was a film student who went to Penn, the prestigious, the proud, and just a few skips away from The U of Philly. We had our good times and our fun, then out of nowhere, we sort of just simmered down into a very close friendship. Not a bad ending you could say, in fact I know a variety of people who would be envious of such an outcome; however what turned us from lover to friend wasn't exactly--planned so to speak. She informed me about two weeks into our "new" relationship that she was carrying my child, and she didn't want to get too attached to me on the account that she knew she couldn't keep either of us "because of her father." Well-- HA...That wasn't exactly what I wanted to hear--that "either of us" bit. So she wanted to be friends with me, fine, I could do with this; but I wouldn't stand to let her "do that" to my child.
So after a good, long, conversation she decided against any rash decisions. We spent the next few days conspiring excruciatingly detailed ways to keep me under wraps from her father. First, we would use a "good friend" of his as the messenger--a man she said was nearly as skilled at laying out the english language as he. She promised me that her father would erupt over the news no matter what, but certain degrees wouldn't be reached with the right people. Secondly she would blame "an old flame" as being the father, and if that didn't go over well, she would stab her reputation entirely by stating that she'd had a "meaningless fling". The only flaw we saw in that back up, was the fact that her father would most likely impose a D.N.A test on the child--thus I'd be discovered (and prooobably killed). Thankfully, all went well on my behalf. Adrienne delivered our daughter Hannah in Boston, Massachusetts on June 5th 2003. Father Mirage still has no clue that I am the father after six years (or if he does, he hasn't sent his goons after me quite yet). I support her as much as I can despite Adrienne's constant reminders that I "really don't have to", but I'm old fashioned with this. She and I are still quite good friends (tried to fall in love, just didn't work) and every few months, Hannah comes to visit me and Charlie (since he talked me into moving into his place after my apartment complex went under).
Miss D" as she wanted me to know her, is probably the worst thing to happen to me, and probably the most beautiful woman I've ever met (oh aren't they all). Not because she looked good but because she was smart, like smart-smart. She wasn't the kind that simply flipped through a few pages of Descartes and recited some of his more famous quotes to me, oh no. She made up her own pages of wisdom between those gracious lips.
We met somewhere in Philly, inside a bar that I very well could be making up to fabricate continuity. What I do remember in detail was my mood that night; I was with my best friend Charlie, and ranting about something the mayor was imposing upon the city. As you have probably learned through out this page, I tend to get long winded and very passionate when I have something on my mind; not to mention the fact that I get very loud as well (thunderstorm here duh). The room was a prisoner to my voice, either customers listened in with an occasional nod in agreement or they tried to mask me over by talking over me, while shooting silent bullets my way. My stranger was sitting in the booth behind me, and I would have never noticed her if Charlie's eyes hadn't started to climb over my shoulder. I paused from my sermon with the single arch of an eyebrow and looked back to see what had stolen Char's attention from me, only to find my face being caressed by soft, silent, blue.
She was a modern Mona Lisa, offering us a barely there smile that I completely overlooked until my breath found where my heart was hiding. Sheets of pristine mahogany flourished over her shoulders, then curled in towards her body as if to stroke a flame of jealousy in me over the very fact that it could touch her, and I couldn't. Charlie didn't seem to be as drawn to her as I was, he calmly looked away from her once he noticed his refill coming his way. Naturally I had no problem with that, it meant there would be more of her for me; however, I did find it quite difficult to remember that specific phrase people used when they wanted to alleviate internal guilt. Once I did remember it, she simply smiled, offered me an empty shrug, and said
Don't stop, I liked what I was hearing.
We were so passionate for about a year but our connection was sadly surface level. The conversations we fell into were full of leagues of depth, but still they did very little to expose the real in us to each other. Miss D up and left one day, and I'm not saying she just broke up with me ha ha no. She literally left Philadelphia without a trace, leaving me behind with absolutely no parting words. Whatever though, I'm over it. Was over it pretty quick. She still pops up in my mind every now and then but it's attached to a very neutral emotion. That to me is worse than anger or depression because it's an empty space. Small yes, but still-an abandoned flat deep in the heart of Stormy City. Woulda done well without her in my life, strangers like her are the worst kind...little teases.
But then you always fall back in love when someone new comes along, and like magic, everything you learned from the past is forgotten.
Whatever.
...NO WAY I HAVE FRIENDS!?
One or two. But the majority of these guys and gals are people I merely know, that pose some level of significance in my life; whether it be good or bad. You can tell who means more to me based on the quality of the artwork as shown. The prettier the picture, the more you mean to me. Messier pictures belong to those who haven't quite met my standards of friendship (or trust).
Charlie you stinkin' rat, Missy was all your fault and you know it.
Despite introducing the 'fatal' into my life, Char's the only person who could actually recite the content of this page (and then some) to you without skipping a beat. He knows me as well as I know myself, and vice versa-which contradicts a few of my life lessons but eh, I'm more passionate towards some than others. Best friend, been that way since we first met, and the only member of The Pack that I can collaborate with beautifully. Everyone else gunks up my timing and style but him? He's like...my harmony (which is funny because his chosen style is my complete opposite and normally I hate my opposites). You should see how beautifully we fight together: any weakness or flaw we see in each other's work, we 'patch up'. Heck, it even extends outside of fighting. I rant and he listens, I instigate and he patiently waits, I know better and he challenges, we're pretty much the most awesome people to be around.
Ohhh my favorite playmate. Don't remember how we met, don't know a thing about you, and still...I'm drawn to you like a moth to a flame. He is the only fighter worthy of my time, and he actually gives me a true challenge. I love it. He's the fox I've hunted all my life and to be truly honest? I seriously go out of my way to start things with him. God hahaha he's such a sly old dog, he's the perfect adversary for this aggressor. I could go on for hours about how much I love to hate him, but oh. Nothing would do justice in describing how phenomenal a fighter he is...
The Messiah of my breed. Hated him as a person, loved him as a teacher. If you haven't gathered yet, St. John is the visionary of the freestyle world. This style of mine is inspired by his work and I am not ashamed to admit it. He's one of the founders of The Pack and it's institution--and as far as I know he was also an accomplished gymnast some 20 odd years ago. Like, Bronze metal team Olympics, 1980. That's part of the reason I've taken a little shine to gymnastics in the last five years: it adds to the Pryce Style. Before him I was just some punk with a big head trying to master "self-defense", and now (thanks to his specialized training) I am a god with a big head mastering the evasion of gravity.
...I still pronounce that "Villuh neo." Met him along with his dog and partner in some spit of a town in Arizona, where (as you know) I've been hiding since the whole--mess began back in Philly.
Gotta admit, this guy has one ridiculously nice voice to listen to. Don't care what he's saying--for all I know he's ripping into me (which is usually rather true) but he always has my attention. I don't know much about him, can't currently tell if he's good or bad for me, but he keeps to himself mostly and I respect that. I guess this is me trying to think positively about someone who I'm being forced to travel with though. In an ordinary world I probably would walk right past him on the street but--gotta make the best of this situation.
I save your stupid life, remove a bullet from your stupid arm, then you go psycho and try to kill me. Yeah, you're welcome--I totally love it when people who I altruistically give to, slap me in the face! My sister did more to me than she did to you and you don't see me complaining. (Yet I still like you more than the other bounty hunter though...I don't know why?)
Remember the time we looked straight at the sun?
We were picking the spots off our eyes for hours.
Maybe it was days--or even weeks.
Nothing ever felt so real.
I recall the time you gave me that flower; it was small but still so fragrant.
I found it an odd gesture I will admit, it should have been my gift to you....
but I didn't have a garden, you knew that well. (you wouldn't have liked mine any ways)
Still, I keep the little thing locked up tight. It's pressed between
the pages of chauvinism and pride in the good book.
Ha ha ha
Sometimes I wish you were nearer. I'd show it to you
(but you know its there.)
Ohhhh you were so pretty hanging like a curtain;
We were ticking like a clock.
A spider's shadow was all we saw....
In a mess of glistening web.
I could go in circles about it all,
and try to gap the distance with my screams.
But it wouldn't change a thing, you're afraid of it.
We could be a spider and still be 10,000 miles apart.
Baby we were a spider and still, 10,000 miles apart.
Dude. Kid. Seriously. Listen to me. A lot of words have been flyin' around about you lately, and I feel the need to clarify some things.
I'm not even going to waste a second breath on this. You're good, yeah. I'm glad Johnny likes your style (there have been a lot of you guys lately) but I'm not threatened mmkay? Every move of yours is like...hahaha its been done like, a billion times by me? I'm very glad you think you're the best, confidence is a nifty thing to have but--you're not in Pittsburgh anymore honey boy. You're in The Pack's territory, and you're still just a piece of meat to us seasoned guys. Everyone laughs when they hear you claim that "you invented such and such" in terms of moves by the way, y'miiight want to hold back on that yeah? You deserve a spot here because I don't like you, and you need to know it. You're blunt about being the top already, and I'm blunt by telling you that you've got a long way to go. Watch your freaking mouth around me, or else I'm not going to hold back anymore. You don't want to make an enemy of me.
Uh oh, here we go --ring number two on Stormy's Fame Ladder.
We hit it off behind the blue fog of a velvet rope club, where my name never appeared on the "In-list." The Jamaican socialite was flocked by an entourage, of New York's finest no-name models and inter-social "celebrities" pitching their pleas for her companies services behind all-too perfect smiles. I got to meet her when the sudden spaces that poked into the surrounding conversations, were filled up by Adrienne Shadowlier's fine, blue, blood. The real luminary of the crowd, and longtime friend of Exha: whose Pulse had done work for G.O.D INC's lavish parties, many times in the past.
Exha and I must have crossed paths in the cosmos before we were born, because the only differences between us consist of gender and class. Personality? Spot on. View points? You've got it. Code of life? Fame? Bingo. A second "Miss D" but far more tolerable, with more spunk and edge than anyone I possibly know. Coming in third to Charlie and Adrienne, Exha could probably throw back a good amount of this here content your way without skipping a beat. It took one night for us where it took Charlie months, and Adrienne years -- but when two people like us meet up, that's not surprising; we already knew each other the minute Adrienne introduced us.
Maybe if I were more fit to live the "bull run" of pop-culture fame, would I have been attracted to her romantically-but I can barely handle my own obscure 'celebrity'. Friendship works better anyhow, guaranteed to last longer (isn't it Charlie?)
So you know that evening we spent walking around town? You said some things that made more sense to me than anything else in the world; I don't even think you realized it. Thanks to you I have unsettled questions bubbling up inside, and so much turmoil about our topic that I feel slightly let down. I can't explain why, it's a maturity thing I guess...
You're right, maybe I have been looking too hard at something that isn't truly there. Or perhaps I'm just--eh. Nevermind.
You make me happy questioning things that I really shouldn't.
THE PACK LOGO HURR
The Pack is formally called The Philadelphia Institute for Physical Arts, was founded in 1985, and is obviously Philly's core fighters organization; one of the several dozen scattered around the country. We are pretty much an institution designed to mold, train, and compete talented fighters, while broadening every students horizons into different styles and levels of exposure. You know those Art Institutes that are scattered around the country? Well we're the exact same thing! If those AI's would include physical art in their curriculum we wouldn't need to exist, but clearly colleges tend to look at us as "advanced gym class." versus a true art form. Hey--if Olympians can go to special schools that revolve around their sport, how are we any different? Combat art is just as competitive after all.
There are six founders of the Philly Institute, and the six of them also double as full time instructors. Each guy is as different as the next, which means The Pack is offered a variety of different fighting styles that are bound to fit your individual need. The instructors are:
- Darren Scott: Works part time at the University of Philadelphia as a Brazillian Jiu jitsu professor. He is the Jiu Jistu and Kung fu expert of The pack.
-Jonathan Pryce: Ex-Gymnast who actually was so good, he made the Olympic team in 1980. Took home the Bronze medal, then became a nobody pretty much instantaneously. What he learned inspired his fighting style--which caused him to revolutionize the freestyle world. He is the Freestyle visionary of The Pack. Rely on the unpredictable, slippery, "no style" stylization.
-Jackson Mathow: Investigator with the Philadelphia Police Department. His time with the force taught him to observe the extreme details of every situation. Any little deviation can be used as leverage for cracking down on a case. He and John Pryce came up with the seventeen keys of evasion together, and used to actually teach their classes co-operatively. They're very similar but where John is aggressive, Jackson is passive. He is the defensive master of The Pack. Defy momentum.
-Doolie Jancoviack: ...Is very very German. Luckily his classes and style are better explained through physical demonstration than speech. Now don't hold me to this, but I think he may have been in the army at some point due to his style. He's very much into aggressive instigation, but unlike Scott and Pryce, he stresses weight and height as winning components. He is a grappler and is known as the Ground Fighting master of The Pack. I hate his students, they're always bulky and clumsy which easily tear down the slender and graceful when they catch 'em.
-Kevin Day: Like Darren, he also works at the University of Philly but--as a Professor of Ancient History. He only works with The Pack because John Pryce is his best friend, and he too wants to revolutionize the fighting world; however by using history as a tool. He has studied Greek Pankration to the point of rendering it meaningless. Pankration if you aren't aware, is argued as being the original martial art--and was heavily used in the original Olympic games. It's horrendously deadly and I'm surprised none of his students have killed each other--those choke holds are disgusting. He is the "Historian" of The Pack. Guess it's true when they say history repeats itself.
-Roman Jones: When in Rome! Ha ha ha. Roman's a great guy. He runs an aerobics school on the west side of town, working mostly with tae-bo and kick boxing. He adores boxing of all sorts so naturally, he's the Stand Up master of The Pack.
(Although Charlie Demmer doesn't show interest in being anything outside of a student, the above six have been making noise about adding him as the seventh instructor because his style is so--unique. The student body want to see me as a teacher but, I readily admit that Demmer is more original than I am.)
Admittance is strictly forbidden to those under the age of 18. No formal background is needed in any form of fighting, but it can help. As you know, my only experience was my sister and I've become one of the best in the entire group (helps to have inspiration). An application is simple: you put your name on a waiting list, leave any form of resume, one of the instructors sets you up with a student at random, and you fight him. Take as long as you want but the moment you or he are pinned for ten seconds, the match is over.
Bring it on baby. Think you're my kind of artist? Show it off to the world with one of these pixel stamps. we'll have it customized to your fighting style--passive, or aggressive. All you have to do is MAIL CAT (BY CLICKING THIS LINK) this form and abide the common rules:
- Don't take what isn't yours
- Don't enter in any contests
- Don't remove the watermark
- Don't manipulate the code
- KEEP ON SITE.
Waiting for that form? Look no further. Send this to Corbinww ONLY
- Name: (lupe's full name)
- Reference picture: (PLEASE post on site)
- Sample of your adoptables: (for trades)
- Single or Set: (this template is offered in a set thanks to the poses. You may have two adoptables if you so please.)
- ...If this is a set, would you like your lupes fighting eachother?: (Yes or No please. A fighting set is slightly smaller than two separate adoptables. Check out the sample above versus the already made adoptables below.)
- The Character of Cat's I will be doing for the trade: (please choose between me, Mirage, Ghost or Darrin. Our designs vary in difficulty. Don't ask Cat to choose, she already has chosen. You just gotta finalize)
...Oh yes and please be sure to title your neomail: Stormy I am Passive or Stormy I am Aggressive depending on what style you wish to be illustrated as.
Me - Aggressive
Charlie (Demur) - Passive
Rhist - Passive
Nherd - Passive
Aycis - Aggressive
Aya - Passive
Gelinah - Passive
Calebreto - Passive
Amil - Aggressive
Cain - Aggressive
Raminic - Passive
Sphinx_teleia_04 - Passive
Thunderfang_raikou - Passive
Yitk - Aggressive
DM - Aggressive
Jude - Passive
Shar - Passive
Blipzy - Passive
Sophixia - Passive
Tahymara - Aggressive
Rohiin - Passive
Vakrensho - Passive
Xaidriaan - Aggressive
Augury - Aggressive
Sacrafiice - Aggressive
Salkor - Aggressive
Caropeke - Aggressive
SilencetheLamhbs - Aggressive
Dunkan_ - Passive
Exha - Passive
Saebyll - Aggressive
Mirage numba 1 - Passive
Constantine - Passive
Ghostiel - Passive
Emsohl - Passive
NightJackal - Passive
Current Count: 6
Hahaha, I'm surprised you even got this thing working. None of the songs actually play but eh-- you can leaf through and check out my musical tastes if you want. Got a song you think I should listen to? Let me know, I like just about everything. You can request as many songs for me to list as you want.
DO I GET LOST HERE? I bet I do....NO WAY I DON'T?! HAHA...I bet I do on IE though....hmmmmmmmmm......I cant test it either *sad Cat*
I'm fairly confident we'll meet again, here. I'll give you my number. Wanna give me yours? Again, mail Cat.
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CREDITS
Credit is due where credit is due. Do not direct link this song off the page. I have hosted it on my own website (NOT a generic MP3 site mind you) and it costs me money for bandwidth when you steal. All art, stories, ideas, characters are (c) 2008 C. Asteri and The Indigo Violet Studios unless OTHERWISE NOTED AND/OR LINKED.
This has been a Roy G. BIV Production
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