Dedalus Connor Yeats [done?]

[dedalus]

DEDALUS CONNOR YEATS,

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ALL AROUND ME ARE FAMILIAR FACE, WORN OUT PLACES, WORN OUT FACES

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BRIGHT AND EARLY FOR THEIR DAILY RACES, GOING NOWHERE, GOING NOWHERE!
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WHAT IS YOUR FULL NAME?
Dedalus Connor Yeats
DO YOU HAVE ANY NICKNAMES?
Connor, and Connor only. Call me Dedalus if ya want ta lose a fuckin tooth.
WHERE IS BIRTH PLACE?
Mayo, Ireland
THAT MAKES YOUR NATIONALITY...
Irish.
WHEN IS YOUR BIRTH DATE
October 2nd, 1991
HOW OLD DOES THAT MAKE YOU?
19
WHAT IS YOUR RELIGION?
Ya already know I’m from Ireland, that gives ya a 95% chance of guessin right.
(Catholic)
WHAT IS YOUR SEXUALITY?
Is me mum going ta see this? Straight if she is. Whatever ya call tha “fuck anything attractive enough” one if she isn’t.
WHAT CRIME SENT YOU HERE?
Murder (attempted)
HOW LONG IS YOUR SENTENCE?
One year, then retrial.
WHO DO YOU BEST RESEMBLE?
Norman Reedus.

IT'S A VERY, VERY, MAD WORLD!
THEIR TEARS ARE FILLING UP THEIR GLASSES, NO EXPRESSION, NO EXPRESSION.
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WHAT DO YOU ENJOY?
~Makin people think I’m a fuckin crazy
~Folk songs
~Flirtin
~Lootin
~Brawlin
~Guns
~Arcade Games
~Cigs
~Chaos
~Passion
~Adreneline rushes
~Driving
~Me da
~Mates
~Drinkin with mates, for that matter
~Scarves
~Pea coats
~Skyscrapers
~Celebrations
~Kathleen Ni Houlihan
~Catholicism
WHAT DO YOU NOT ENJOY?
~Self-Help books
~Therapists
~Pussies (As they say: Don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t drive fast—kiss my ass)
~Hippies. Y’know, the free lovers, peace on Earth bullshit
~Pacifists
~Lazy assholes
~Elitists
~Real evil
~Talking about feelings
~Femininity
~Pop culture
~Emotional men
~Ay, the worst of the worst would be traitors. Backstabbers, betrayers, whatever ya want ta call the scum.
WHAT DO YOU FEAR MOST?
Oh let’s see. Da never gettin out of prison‘d be the biggest one. An then if he does, me keepin clear of the cops that’ll come askin questions.
And then probably STD’s.
..Family dyin somewhere in there too.
WHAT ARE YOUR GOALS IN LIFE?
Get da out of prison, strike down that which is wicked, and do acid at some point.
House and family sometime too.
WHAT ARE YOUR FLAWS?
Well, if there’s one thing the Irish are good at, it’s admittin they’re intolerable arseholes.
~I’m stubborn as a mule with a head just as thick.
~I don’t really listen to people, and I tend to tease anyone what sticks around me long enough.
~Hedonist, through and through. I do what makes me happy, an if ya get in the way o that? Well, I don’t have a problem cuttin ya short.
~Really prone to violence. I might not deck ya right away, but I’ll let ya know when ya bother me.
~Alcohol. Aye, it’s me vice.
~Cursin’s another. I wouldn’t consider it a flaw, but your mum might.
WHAT ARE YOUR TURN ONS?
~More ‘n anythin, someone tough. Mentally, physically, emotionally, all the fuckin ways.
~Jus something about dark eyes that I’ve always admired.
~Ya have ta have passion. I don’t care what for, jus something that makes ya excitin.
~Havin’ read a book or two doesn’t hurt.
WHAT ARE YOUR TURN OFFS?
~The second ya get emotional on me, ya’ve lost any appeal. Go put in another tampon and find a tit ta suck on, I’ll have nothin ta do with ya.
~Probably goes without sayin, but anyone unjust.
~Public affection. Yea I’ll hold your hand, want me ta carry your purse too?
~Gay gay gay flamboyantly gay lads.
WHAT IS YOUR BEST MEMORY?
Me birthday of 2008, won’t ever forget that! Me an the lads got a few too many in us toastin to me health and happiness, when ol Mick says we should go huntin. We all right jump on the notion and scatter from the bar ta our homes ta get our weapons. Course when we meet back up ta talk bout what we’re shootin for, anythin normal seemed too mundane. Someone belts out that we oughta find a unicorn, an tha o’course sounds like the best idea in the world ta the rest o us. Off we go inta the woods, where I swear fist ta God we wandered the bloody country for hours. Well, long story short, we find our unicorn, but decide she’s too beaut ta shoot. Instead I decide ta try n capture the thing. Jump on her back, hold on for dear life, fall off and knock me head out. Wake up the next mornin ta see I’m on ol’ Heathley’s farm, and she’s reprimandin me for spookin’ her mare.
…Well, either tha, or the first time I shot someone. Can’t ever forget tha.
WHAT IS YOUR WORST MEMORY?
No doubt here, when the Brit police came burstin inta me home an haul me da off. Couldn’ believe me eyes, just carted him off without a single word. Shiverin like a leaf I was! Mum just went silent, and Kitty…aye, poor Kitty couldn’t stop blubberin. Didn’t hear word for a few days, then suddenly all the papers in ol Irey are talkin about a murderer from Mayo who was sent to an American prison. Didn get ta talk ta him for another week, terrible time for a young lad.
TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF!
It's a bit o an awkward thing, talkin about yourslef, isn't it? I remember havin ta do it in primary school. My entire presentation was, "Me name is Connor, and I think Mrs. Caroline (that was the teacher) is a fat cow." So aye, not very good at playin therapist on meself, but we'll see how it goes.

Me name is Dedalus Connor Yeats, but just call me Connor. What kind of a name is Dedalus for a person? It's a fuckin surname from a goddamn Joyce book. I'm a sarcastic man, if ya haven't already guessed. A smart enough one at that. Not a book smart type, but I can hold me own in an arguement, and I've been called a witty son of a bitch more time than I can likely count.

More importantly, before I ramble off all me negative traits, know I'm a good man. Not a nice man, but a good one. The two rarely go hand in hand. I won't help ya through your emotional problems, but I'll punch a thug out if he bothers ya. I suppose ya could call me self-righteous in tha regard--ya wouldn't be the first.

But I guess the point still stands tha I kill people. And steal. And have been known ta start the occasional bar room brawl. Let's just use good subjectively then, aye? I'm no saint, no holy priest, but I'm no demon either. And the more I think about it, I'm a nice enough guy....ta friends and kin. Fun would probably be a better word. I may not care about the problems of every whiny little bitch, but I'll drink with 'em right as day. Aye, I may be self-centered and I can admit tha, but if ya can prove yourself ta be an interestin sort, I won't mind helpin ya out.

I'm sure there's arguments on both sides over what I am, but I do consider meself morally conscious. I just don't express it in the pacifist, bullshit hippie way most people do. Aye, I won't go out volunteerin for your mum's charity, but I have me own way.

Wild might be another word ya'd think of usin for me. Or crazy, though I guess the words can be used interchangeably, can't they? I like me fun, and the wilder the better as they say! It's all about passion for me. No matter what I do, I have fun with it--even if it gets me inta a spot o trouble. Life is about givin a big "Fuck It!" to the laws of man. There's only one rule book I've ever come anywhere remotely close ta followin, an tha's the bible. And not the preachy type too. Do unto your neighbor as they do unto you doesn't mean be a good neighbor--if he's being a twat, I get ta be a twat right back.

So aye, I can be an insufferable bastard. I can be your worst enemy or your best friend. Have thick skin if ya ever want ta spend time with me, 'cause I can be mean in good fun. If I tease me own mum for bein a whore, what makes ya think you'll be safe?

IT'S A VERY, VERY, MAD WORLD!
THE DREAMS IN WHICH IM DYING ARE THE BEST I HAVE EVER HAD.
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WHO IS YOUR MOTHER? HOW OLD IS SHE? WHAT DOES SHE DO?
Me mum? Brigid Dolores Yeats, forty…something years old. Used ta be a whore, now she’s a bartender. Ya can make fun of her for both, and she’ll laugh along with ya.
WHO IS YOUR FATHER? HOW OLD IS HE? WHAT DOES HE DO?
Michael Butler Yeats, I think an even fifty now. Good man he is, even as a hitman.
DO YOU HAVE ANY BROTHERS?
Two maybe-half brothers, assuming me da’s me real da. Sean and Donovan Yeats
DO YOU HAVE ANY SISTERS?
Little Katherine Yeats! She goes by Kitty, ten years old now.
ANY OTHER RELATIVES I SHOULD KNOW ABOUT?
Grand da Henry needs note. Great man, watched over me mum and us when me da was off on business.
TELL ME ABOUT YOUR PAST!
Only fair to ask.
I was born to me whore of a mum just over 19 years ago. Don't say that ta be mean, she just was. Smart one though, managed ta convince foive lads that I was their son. Had enough child support ta keep us comfortable, more than most in Dublin could say. Aye, an I was born in Dublin...did I already say that? Piece o piss, doesn't matter. Yeah, born in Dublin, but moved to fuckin backwater Mayo later. In case ya weren't aware, Ireland thrives from it's bloody tourist market. And since all the damn yanks and Brits want to see is the traditional Irish lifestyle, the Irish government started payin' us normal folk to go live in the wee little huts out in the middle of buttfuckin nowhere. Me family moved there when I was just a tiny thing.

I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't I?

Back up a pace then. First, I'll mention that me mum didn't stop her "career" on account of me. Right soon as I popped out, she was back workin. Tis only lucky for me tha one of the blokes what thought I was his son actually felt compelled to be me da. Ta this day, I don' know who me real father is, but I never will. Ya couldn't pay me ta get one o them DNA tests, not if it meant learning Michael isn't me real da. Best man in the world, I swear ta ya. Never coulda known if I was really his son, but he never once thought ta ask. Ta him, I was his son, and he was me da. Thanks the blarney stone me mum eventually had the sense ta marry him. Finally closed her legs an started actin' like a real mum. She spent most of me childhood makin sure I knew me culture and heritage, and drillin as much Irish literature into me head as I could handle. Oh aye, she would tell me, I'm related to a world famous poet, I ought to be proud--as if havin some dead man's DNA was the crux of me life.

We moved ta Mayo, me parents and two half brothas, when I was four. Moved from our nice little apartment to a fuckin stone hut. Da started tendin' a field, mum took up work in the local Tavern, an we lived like country bumpkins.

Had me fun, o'course! One thing about the open country side, is ya get a lot o room ta sneak and hide off in. Me mates and I made the best of a bad situation. Mayo didn't have a damn fun thing about it, but we had our share. Moonshine had a good hand in the process, but tha was a given around there. Da taught me the proper ways o doin shots before he taught me multiplication--and can ya guess which I use more today?

Along with shots, he taught me how ta fight and shoot when I was growin up too. Hand ta hand combat came first--your run o the mill bar room brawl fightin. Then came knives, then pistols, shotguns, an endin on rifles. Machine guns were comin after tha, but tha never quite happened.

Oi oi, what else can I say about me childhood? Wasn't too excitin', hand ta God. Fought a few surly louts, pinched a bum or two, but can't pull much ta mind in solid events. Held back me seventh year a school--spent most o the year drunk. Wasn't so bad really, me friends all stayed back too. Ah, mum spewed another kid too. Can't remember how old I was an don't feel like doin the math, but I was still young when Kitty was born. Only girl, and Christ did she have a temper! Little fuckin diva, I swear. Had ta beat up me fair share o little kids protectin her honor.

Blah fuckin blah quaint childhood memories, shit hit the fan when I was sixteen. Was a normal dinner like any other when some fuckin limey cops break our door in and start yellin at us. They grab me da and start draggin him out the door. Me n me brothers put up a fight and try to pull him free, but they had guns on em. A lot of fuckin guns pointed right in our faces. All they said was da was under arrest, and pulled him away. Mum stopped talkin for a good week while we waited. Me and Donovan went inta town ever fuckin day lookin for news. Drove across the country to Dublin eventually, and aye we got it. British police apprehend wanted hitman Michael Yeats. Was off to an American prison ta spend his sentence: 25 ta life. Wasn't long til da's business friends contacted us. Sorry they all said, snitch in the company sold da out. Nothin more they could do about it. I'm the first ta admit that I can get downright vicious, but I've never felt more angry at anyone than I did with them. They weren't going ta do a fuckin thing about it! Their friend, and accordin ta them, the best fuckin hitman come outta Ireland, was in peril an they couldn't bother ta do shit besides have a fuckin period.

Me da had one phone call in prison, and he asked for me. All he said was "No innocents, Connor my boy. No women, and no children." and then asked to speak to me mum. Damn puzzle it was for a good while!

An then I realized why da had been teachin me ta fight. He knew the day'dcome tha I'd join his side, or tha I'd have ta help him. He left me with his weapons and his moral code. It was damn religious work.

But I did just tha. Moved out tha same year and went back to ol Dublin. First on me list was a man convicted of rape and murder. Grimy, scum of a fellow. But he had money for a damn good lawyer, and he walked off scott free. Little Mary Cartredge was dead in a ditch, and he was goin' back home ta do it again. Couldn't have tha, now could I?
Thought it would be harder, killin a man. Thought me conscience would have itself a nice fight over morality. But you know? It just felt right. Every part o murderin that son of a bitch felt damn good.

Stayed local me first year. Moved ta England the next, livin' off shabby paychecks as I went. And finally, America. More than two years I'd spent practicin. Me flaw was thinkin I was finally good enough ta free me da. Arrogant fool, America was a whole different beast. Killin' was harder, first. More laws, less public support, and no cops willin ta turn a nose and ignore a case of a murdered rapist. Had ta leave cities more than a few times, but I still didn't catch the signs.

Gettin where this is goin? I tried to break into a fuckin maximum security prison. Shot a guard breakin' in, and despite plannin ahead, got surrounded by a sea of armed men in the end. Apparently I made quite the smash in the American paper the next day: "Troubled teen tries to free his father from prison" said most. "Irish youth shoots guard" said others, and a some even sympathized with me, "Lonely boy breaks into prison, just to see estranged father." Whatever way you paint it, I was bloody lucky the guard didn't die. The system pinned me on attempted murder, softened by me lawyer pleadin tha I just wanted to see me da. They ordered I be sent here for me remainin year of school.

An the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. I almost killed an innocent man just doin his job. I broke the only rule I had, and God punished me.

There's your fuckin story. I attempted to kill a man, an here I am.

IT'S A VERY, VERY, MAD WORLD!
HIDE MY HEAD I WANT TO DROWN MY SORROWS, NO TOMMOROW, NO TOMORROW
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THE ROLEPLAYER!

NAME/ALIAS
I’ll go by Connor :}
AGE
19
GENDER
Fem
EXPERIENCE
Buh, I haven’t been counting. I want to say somewhere around five to seven years?
CONTACT INFO
PM, please!
TIME ZONE
Pacific
RULE PHRASE
sanspron
(derp derp, forgot :{ )[/size]

IT'S A VERY, VERY, MAD WORLD!
CHILDREN WAITING FOR THE DAY THEY FEEL GOOD, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY
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okay, here is how it goes. this application letter is made by eunicegoesRAWR! @
caustion.2! lyrics are by gary jules and tears for fear. please so do not steal or claim it as yours.
i have a short temper and if i see it and see no credit or anything like that, i will have to hurt you, biatch!
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