Jackson's Pad

Jackson Zakz wrote:A single floor, elevated cottage that is set upon Oneida Beach. Decorated with palms, cacti and a Ragnoot garden. The proprietor is that of one Jackson Zakz. It has a bedroom, a living area and an outdoor kitchen. A patio overlooking the beach has a Jacuzzi and lawn chairs. There is also a mini-bar in the living area of the single story building that is set at regulated height above the sea level.


His answering machine goes as follows:

"You've called Jackson Essentials etcetera etcetera etcetera. Leave your name, digits, height, weight and eye color so I MAY FIND YOU AND CUT OUT YOUR BLOODY HEART AND FORCE YOU TO SWALLOW IT BEFORE IT STOPS BEATING!-BECAUSE THANKS TO YOU, I'M NO LONGER RELAXED!...[heavy breathing with three heavy sighs]...*ahem* You can leave all that after the tone. Thanks for calling." BEEP

"You know... *sip*...ah. Perhaps I went a little too strong with that answering machine." Says the former hitman, Jackson Zakz over his old classic, favorite song playing in the background





He was sipping a nice cup of Joe, which always 'relaxed' Zakz, and the man had been 'very relaxed' for the past... 7 years? Has it been that long? He didn't know now, but he was regretting his decision on that lousy machine message now... well, to a degree. It had been so long since he'd had company, a message be it call or text, what was a man supposed to do in his retirement other than regret his decisions and wait to die?



"Its time for a soliloquy~" he says aloud, to the mirror inside his beach side condo, snapping his finger.

The light shined down on him as he sat there in his khaki shorts, pink floral shirt, green aviators. "Here is a man, who outlived many of his employers... was known by the names 'The Jackal', 'The Club' and if you wanted someone D-E-A-D- Killed, you'd come to yours truly~" he says, waving his hand to his chest, as he bowed his head and sighed deeply.

"But the world's changed. You got demons and monsters eating people left and right, incompetent politicians and Business execs mucking up their ancestor's centuries of work, the moon's fallin, and chicken diddle little has a fuckin' machinegun and is running around thinking they own everything, GODS damn I hate the CKB!" he grumbled, his face contorting to rage- the spot light faded... then lit up again, this time, Zakz was leaning against one of the bamboo shade things that irritate people in beach side homes, and was leaning against his forearm. "Sorry you saw that, I don't like getting... 'angry' anymore, I'm past that, above that but all I see are reasons to be angry... to be absolutely livid."

The spotlight goes dark again, then lights up once more as he's sitting on the shitter, shorts down, hairy legs- cigarette in hand as he lit up, took a puff and coughed. "Oh, *cough* right, I fuckin' quit...!"



The spotlight goes dark, relights as he's leaning in 'draw me like your Feniran girls' pose on the bed, with a rose between his lips. "You know how boring it gets, being retired? I've been so busy trying to stay alive my entire life, that the moment my life's not on the line, I get listless... I get crazy thoughts like, like... becoming the mayor of Breland City-" The light fades, then the light falls upon him walking apparently upside down on his ceiling...

"I mean, who would wanna do a stupid thing like that? I'm crazy, but not insane..." he sighed, bowing his head, the light fading again and then the room's lighting slowly dimmed back to normal. Jackson Zakz was sitting on his patio chair once more as his song faded away in the background. He sipped his cup of Joe, and sighed deeply. "...Maybe I need a hobby, other than killin'. Haven't tried fishing yet. What I wouldn't give to see a couple having dirty, sweaty sex on a couch upside down on a ceiling in a gara.. nah, factory... that'd be neat *sip*." He sighed.

...
...
...

"...Maybe I should change my voice mail? I think I went a little strong there." He repeats, unsure what to do with his retirement again. He looks in the mirror with a bored expression. "I think all this boredom and 'relaxing' has made me insane... what do you think, Zakz?"

You've called Jackson Essentials etcetera etcetera etcetera. Leave your name, digits, height, weight and eye color so I MAY FIND YOU AND

"Yop HOPPEEE BRO!"

And with that my attention wandered from the bulk of the message on the machine man and the music from the Tonberry Club drowning everything else out.

Sup brother, just making a business call here dude. Give me four, after five and I'll be right with ya!

You can leave all that after the tone. Thanks for calling.

Wow, you're awfully polite dude. Name's Hoppe Tale, eight digits, no sixteen, no no seventeen digits gotta count the tongue dude. Four foot nuts in and 34.0194 kilograms bro, orange yellow eyes. Man I'm not sure what all that is for, but seeing as you're a righteous dude on the V-mail, I'm cool with it bro. Anyway I'm in your Pond right now with a contract on your head dude. Figured I might as well hop on by and see about collecting on it... Catch ya soon dude, you'll be seeing red no time man!.

Hanging up the phone Hoppee shot up his left foot connecting with high five from the guy who interrupted his phone call.

Crisis Rocan wrote:You've called Jackson Essentials etcetera etcetera etcetera. Leave your name, digits, height, weight and eye color so I MAY FIND YOU AND

"Yop HOPPEEE BRO!"

And with that my attention wandered from the bulk of the message on the machine man and the music from the Tonberry Club drowning everything else out.

Sup brother, just making a business call here dude.  Give me four, after five and I'll be right with ya!

You can leave all that after the tone. Thanks for calling.

Wow, you're awfully polite dude.  Name's Hoppe Tale, eight digits, no sixteen, no no seventeen digits gotta count the tongue dude.  Four foot nuts in and 34.0194 kilograms bro, orange yellow eyes.  Man I'm not sure what all that is for, but seeing as you're a righteous dude on the V-mail, I'm cool with it bro.  Anyway I'm in your Pond right now with a contract on your head dude.  Figured I might as well hop on by and see about collecting on it...  Catch ya soon dude, you'll be seeing red no time man!.

Hanging up the phone Hoppee shot up his left foot connecting with high five from the guy who interrupted his phone call.

The phone call distracted him, causing Jackson to crane his head back, to look at the answering machine, the light began glowing after the message got relayed out loud to him. He blinked at this... perplexing revelation. "Hmm... so someone has the balls to tell me that they have a contract for my head... huh?" He hummed, looking over to the mirrors.



"Hmm... however, it seems odd. Who the heck names their kid 'Hoppe Tale'? Hmm..." He folded his arms and sat indian style on the couch. "...from the sound of the back beat, he's at a club... in my neck of the pond, which sounds like lingo for where I'm at... how did he get my number? Doesn't matter, lets see... calls me righteous, even that I'm polite despite my obvious threats made on my answering machine... perplexing dilemma I find myself in..." He humms, rubbing his chin.

"...Maybe its nothing. Maybe its a sign? Maybe... I should go to the club?" He asked himself....

Jackson had quite the conundrum... should he even respond to this? The old Zakz would have, likely, but this was the new... the new Zakz was 'relaxed' 'relieved' and 'reasonable'... also insane. "Hmm..." he hummed, wandering over to the hope chest he got on sale for the low price of 'he stole it' and flicked the lock hinges he had screwed onto it. "What... to... wear...?" He asked himself, opening the chest and gazed down upon his old suit...

Step one, about being a successful assassin in Archie's Mob... look right for the role. Get your nicest, darkest, zoot suit you can find like if you were goin' to a funeral because baby, chances are, its gonna be someones funeral when you get to the target zone. It may be theirs, some bystanders, yourself, or all of the above. Look nice for the occasion, but not to obvious. He told himself, and began to slip on the old suit, adjusted the crimson 'club' neck clasp over his tie and began combing his hair in the style he liked in the nearby mirror as his reflection spoke the words he told himself in his head moments prior.



Dressed to kill, or be killed, her walked over to closet and opened it up, humming as he glanced over the weapons on the racks or hanging from holsters.

Step two, always pick something appropriate for the job. If the client doesn't specify before hand, then its anyone's opera, take charge and be creative or as simple as you wish- but at least be graceful and somewhat entertaining, no one likes a third rate actor. He continued with the inner monologue, and began taking a bit of this and that, whatever he could fit under his coat.

Once finished, he closed the closet, and pulled up his aviators, walking out of his home...

(to here... eventually)