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Last Login:
December 20th, 2017

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Gender: Male

Age: 33
Country: United States

Signup Date:
October 09, 2017


10/11/2017 05:26 PM 



NAME:  Jonathan Holliday
SEX: Male
AGE: 32
ORIENTATION: Heterosexual 

PREVIOUS OCCUPATIONS: Military, Police Detective
HEIGHT: Six Foot, Five Inches
WEIGHT: Two-Hundred, Twenty Pounds
BODY TYPE: Broad and Muscular 
EYE COLOR: Pale Blue
ETHNICITY: Spanish / Italian
VOICE: Fred Tatasciore as Soldier 76
LOCATION: Redacted



ALIAS: Black Spade
COSTUME: Ghost Face Mask - Tactical Visor / Military Gear
WEAPONS: Leaded Knuckles, Custom Built .300 Win Mag Armalite Rifle, Micro Uzi, Twin Double Stacked M1911s 
GADGETS: High Tech Visors and Vision Gear
RECENT CRIMES: Grand Theft, Organized Crime, Assault with a Deadly Weapon, Grand Larceny, 3rd Degree Homicide, High Treason, Illegal Firearms 



TRAITS: Amoral, Clever, Cocky, Cynical, Greedy, Relentless 
ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Neutral - Good Natured but is Situational
LIKES: Drinking, Shooting, Excitement
DISLIKES: Weakness, His Past, Other Criminals
HABITS: Smoking, Spending Money, Fighting
MENTAL WEAKNESSES: Addiction Cigarettes, Hard Liquor, Sleeping Aids



FATHER: Robert Holliday (Deceased)
MOTHER: Sharon Holliday (Deceased)
WIFE: Bev Holliday (Deceased)
CHILDREN: Lisa Holliday (Deceased)

ORIENTATION: Heterosexual
STATUS: Single - Widower



"...I understand. I would have done the same..." A gruff, raspy voice cut through the darkness towards a man at his knees. The city was cold, windy, and lifeless at this ungodly hour in the onset of Winter. A trail of blood and destruction was left at his back, at his front was the last puzzle to complete his vengeance. 

So many lies and traitors were put into early graves to get to this place, this finality of truth he sought...was the only truth that suited him. These past three days were eventful. A Police Detective's family defiled and butchered in front of his very eyes, then shot and presumed dead, and an entire city aflame from their failure. 

The man at his knees he was speaking to was shivering in wet, black, dress pants. He had pissed himself from the uncontrollable fear weaving through his mind. The dead end alleyway offered no escape, the wind whistling from the only exit behind John's broad shoulders. John's pale blue eyes, cold as ice, stared past this man. Looking right through him. 

Jonathan's arm rose and his calloused hand extended towards the man. A once relaxed index finger that rested above the trigger curled around it and started to slowly tense around the mechanism. Two pounds of pressure was the only factor that decided life or death. His deep voice called out again, stoic and emotionless. His icy blue eyes stared on, past the man he once trusted. 

"...but...I would have shot me...here..." The firing pin in the handgun was released and collided with the premier of the hollow point .45 round in the chamber. An eruption of fire and metal ensued, the thunder of the percussion echoing all around them, dancing off the mildew ridden brick walls. The projectile propelled forward and collided flatly with the man's forehead in a sickening thud. The back of his head broke apart in pieces, sending skull and brain matter onto the pavement and bricked walls on either side of the man. 

John simply stared at his "friend" as he fell back, wide eyed and limp. His brown eyes, fear ridden and tear filled, were wide and lifeless. Blood rolled from his forehead and his mouth went agape. He just...laid there.

"...Yeah..." John spoke out with a sort of relief, his head lowered towards the ground. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and began smacking them with his index finger, taking one singular stick from the package, and lighting it with a flip lighter from his pocket. Sirens began to whine and echo, closing in on him. He took a drag, long and burning, the toxin filling both lungs. It was finally over. 

He never felt so empty in his life. His spite and rage were...numbness now. He realized that...that feeling of hatred was the only thing keeping the images of his family close to him, making him feel like they were still alive somehow. Now that it was gone, what was left of Jonathan Holliday? 

A tiny hand tugged on his sleeve from behind and a female child's voice called out softly, pitifully. 


His eyes grew wide, the cigarette falling from his lips as his eyes suddenly rose and he sharply turned to greet the voice of his daughter.


Cold sweat and the smell of smoke greeted him in the land of the living. He shot up in bed, a nameless woman sleeping in a drunken stupor next to him. He didn't pay her any mind. He was drenched and his heart was pounding his chest. A familiar sense of nostalgia was here, this recurring dream and ritual. The sudden feeling of burning broke this in him and he quickly swiped the orange ember of a cigarette off his chest that he must have fallen asleep with. He growled lowly and got out of bed, hitting his head gently. "...Get out of there..."

--- That Night ---

A bluegrass resophonic guitar played solo in the background of the run down dive bar near the oceanside of San Francisco. It was soon joined by a bass pedal and a tambourine, soothing the place in a way that not many types of music could. Not many people were present there, even less paid any mind to the regular playing his sweet tunes. With the smooth whiskey, the atmosphere was just what he needed after that dream plaguing him.

He wasn't looking for companionship, hell, he wasn't looking for anything. After his last job, John was just relaxing and trying to drown himself in some booze. Fate had a funny way of sneaking in when you didn't want it to. Seldom though, did it slide straight in through the bar entrance.


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