RP Sample #1:

The cold made everything worse; blood crusted on his cracked lips and he couldn’t breathe through his nose. Couldn’t breathe at all without feeling it all over, like the air was anchored in his lungs and something outside tried dragging it out of him. A hot desert wind blowing by him on the street was the only way to recover from a beating like this, Johnny was convinced. At least he wouldn’t be shivering so damn hard, ill-prepared for a New York winter night in his old denim jacket, a gray hoodie and jeans. He’d managed an upright sitting position against the front of the building, but that was it. Getting back on his feet was a stupid experiment he’d tried about fifteen minutes ago, but his brain sloshed the world in front of his eyes and he took two steps before retching on the sidewalk. Concussion, right? And now he had to keep himself from passing out or something? Johnny closed his eyes anyway, tilted his head back against the window behind him, watched his cards fall on the table again and again. Full house, Jacks and sevens. Three of a kind, beaten by a straight. His good hands weren’t good enough, and he misread an opponent at a critical point in the game, calling a bluff that wasn’t really a bluff after all.

"I’ll have the money in a week, alright? I need one week, Billy. That’s all. I got the money to you last time." Well. Most of the money. He was short by $200 last time, and Billy hadn’t forgotten. Yanked Johnny right off the barstool and frog-marched him out the back door of The Lucky Strike as the bartender locked up for the night. A couple of the other assholes jumped him in the alley and pinned his arms while Billy worked him over like a punching bag. He was still a bit hazy on the head injury, guessing that he’d stumbled back against the dumpster at some point, then he was down, face grinded to the asphalt beneath a good size-14 combat boot while Billy continued the negotiation. "Tomorrow would be great, Johnny. Just fucking spectacular. But you know, I don’t think you can do it. And I’m a nice guy, Johnny. Raised Catholic, I was. You give me... let’s see. Three Hail-Marys and an Our Father, and I’ll give you two days instead of one. How about that?" His friends chuckled. The rubber sole of Billy’s boot rocked steadily forward on Johnny's jaw, applying more weight by agonizing ounces. He bit the inside of his own cheek trying to talk. "I don’t know any Hail Marys."

"Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. That’s a real fucking shame."

The scenery had changed a bit when he opened his eyes again; they’d dragged him around to the front of the bar and left him there. He coughed hard and felt the breast pocket of his jacket, praying for cigarettes and knowing that he hadn’t been able to afford a pack for weeks now.





RP Sample #2:

A New York evening, slowly burning the horizon through fields of street signs and skyscrapers, wouldn't usually find Jack in the quaint, textbook definition of a New York diner. Then again, the city streets wouldn't usually find Jack at all these days. Only a few years before, it was The Lucky Strike, every night, no exceptions. You ended your day with a beer, a pack of cigarettes, your boys all around and your girl under your arm. Tonight though, his surroundings barely registered in his mind... or at least, he ignored them completely. Just like he'd been ignoring his surroundings ever since he left his heart, slowly bleeding and barely beating, on the warm asphalt of his home streets. Cutting himself away from NYC was like losing a limb... could still feel it, although painfully aware of its absence. And Kit? Kit was everything -- his heart, the city, everything he'd walked away from, everything that hurt. But now, narcotized by someone else's eyes, lying and lost and amazingly at ease with the sickening charade, Jack sat across from Angela and traced the curve of her thumb idly, could smell the sweet aroma of her stylishly complicated cup of coffee.

The illusion was almost perfect -- at least, Jack couldn't see the cracks, until a hammer from outside swung through and shattered it to pieces around him. Kit walked in off the street, through the front door. Jack sat back in the booth and felt the diner swell and rise around him, walls moving in, that old sense of claustrophobia sucking him under. He couldn't speak when he saw her, couldn't place the words in time with the movement of her lips, but hung on to the sound of her voice as he realized it had never left his ears. "Kit..." He stood up and the movement of his body betrayed him, moving like Angela didn't even exist. He caught himself abruptly before stumbling out of the booth, smoothing out the edges of his disguise and regaining some semblance of grace and ease as he felt Angela's gaze flicker questioningly between them. "Kit, I... how've you been?" It was lame, the defeat ringing in his voice, hurting his own ears and making him want to lash out, pound a fist on the tabletop as hard as he could and shatter the illusion again.





RP Sample #3:

Raindrops fell like coins and bounced when they hit – the streets, the puddles, the hood of the truck. Slid down the windshield in liquid sheets so that the quiet neighborhood outside was a watercolor painting, shapes blurred and colors running together. The delivery truck was parked in the alley, across the street from the pub, Seth Ames behind the wheel for almost four hours now. Whenever his phone decided to ring, it’d be Dean Hollis on the other line, calling for the shipment to be delivered. Some address in Brooklyn, sometime before 6 am. The operation had been a fiasco, pulled off at the last minute, and the crew dispatched Seth to lay low with the truck while the rest of them got their shit together. Sleep was a joke at this point. Seth didn’t even bother closing his eyes now, accepting the dull roar of the storm outside with the onset of a headache, his temples throbbing with the steady metronome tick of his heart. Lifting his head from the headrest, he reached next to him on the seat, feeling around for his pack of Marlboros. The box was suspiciously light when he picked it up; confirmed empty when he raised it to eye-level. “Fuck.” He sighed, tossed the pack to the floor. In the back of the stolen truck, stolen cartons of cigarettes called his name, and Seth hitched up his leather jacket over his head, opened the door and ducked into the downpour.

The sound of a gunshot snapped in the air and it was pure instinct that drove Seth’s body into the side of the truck, flattening himself against it and blinking raindrops off his eyelashes as he watched the street. The wall of rain didn’t seem to part for the path of a bullet; Seth peered around the back of the truck, caught the bright muzzle-flash in the window of The Lucky Strike as another round went off. He felt cold metal in his hands and didn’t remember drawing his own pistol, didn’t give it a second thought anyway, spitting rain off his lips and dodging across the street. The Lucky Strike was home base for the Flahertys; Seth knew the place better by reputation than personal acquaintance. He was earning his stripes within the crime syndicate, still treading on the outskirts of an uneasy acceptance, though Dean seemed willing to put full trust in him thus far. And here he was now, betrayed by instinct – moving like a cop, thinking like a cop, surprised and disgusted that it came back to him this easy. He kept his gun down by his side and entered the bar through the back door, eyes adjusting to shapes and shadows as he followed the sound of a voice ahead. One voice. Female. Talking to no one. Seth caught the hard glint of the Colt .45 in her hand and watched from the wings – her booze-soaked soliloquy, the unsteady barefooted steps – she rolled her ankle once and damn near dropped off the ledge of the bar, wielding the gun as if she couldn’t feel its weight, or didn’t give a fuck. Returning his own weapon to his jacket, Seth stepped into the room as if the bar was open and crawling with customers, though his boots on the hardwood floor echoed in the silence. Dark amusement in his eyes as they roved over the tables and chairs, finding the marble chunks of the billiard ball littered across the green felt of the pool table. "Nice shot," he said, mimicking a gun with his hand, thumb cocked, index finger aimed at her prior target. He pulled the "barrel" up like the recoil from a gunshot, his gaze shifting over and up to where she stood. "Guess the shooting range isn’t open this late."