TheOriginalSE
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- Website
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* Husani Dakarai character development RP.
Husani Dakarai was out. . .of. . .control.
If he wasn’t notorious for his egotistical sense of entitlement and his child-like (yet dangerous) fits of rage before. . .he sure as hell was now. He had recently been fired from a big name promotion and suspended from another. Once a hot commodity for federations that needed a huge, intimidating monster to set up shop, wreck the joint and then leave it in flames (and rolling in money), his cell phone no longer rang off the hook. He had turned into a pariah. . .an outcast from the business that he loved. Known for having a wealth of potential, his name was now reduced to being whispered ear to ear and his story served as a warning to all young, big headed rookies that stepped foot backstage in any company that had ever employed the Madman.
Don’t turn out like the Madman. . .
Don’t let your ego get in the way of your success. . .
You too could easily go from fame and fortune to rags and infamy in just the blink of an eye. . .
He once drove a nice truck and lived in a nice condo. The son of two African immigrants who slaved day in and day out to provide for their one and only son. The son who finally seemed to be making something of himself.
Now he was basically homeless.
He was a connoisseur of the public transportation system and everything he needed on a day-to-day basis he carried around on his shoulder. The duffel bag which once held his tights, his boots and the rest of his gear now only held the few remaining, ratty articles of clothing he possessed along with various bottles of alcohol and possibly a drug or two.
All his “friends” had turned their backs on him when they got tired of his endless couch surfing and free loading. Now he was reduced to finding ugly, fat women with kids and low self-esteem that he could manipulate into a night out of the cold. Some let him crash on the couch, telling him he had to be out by the time their ex-husbands brought their kids back from their weekend visits. . .but most were more than welcome to let him share their bed. He’d caught every form of non-lethal STD under the sun and he didn’t give a flying fuck. . .he was damn near dead inside.
His alcohol consumption had nearly tripled in the last three months. He drank whatever he could get his hands on, and high volumes of it at that.
Rum.
Vodka.
Scotch.
Gin.
Grain alcohol.
Cheap malt liquor that rotted his gut.
Anything and everything was fair game. To Husani, “forty ounces to freedom” weren’t just lyrics from a song by a band. . .he adopted them as his own personal credo.
Wallowing in his own pity he self-destructed little by little each day.
He hung out with bums. He hung out with whores. He hung out with pimps. Burglars. Drug addicts. Alcoholics like himself. He hung out with murderers. The very scum of the Earth. . .and he fit right in.
In fact. . .he played his part to the T.
Strong-arm robbery.
Armed robbery.
Breaking and entering.
Trespassing.
Drunk and disorderly.
Solicitation.
Husani was an all around menace and it finally caught up with him.
On a warm summer night he was caught breaking into the back of a liquor store. He needed to feed his addiction. With no money he resorted to the only way he knew how to get the toxic elixir that would cease the shaking in his hands and the pounding in his head. He kicked down the door and filled his duffel bag with the fiery liquid that would extinguish the anguish in his heart. . .if only for a few hours.
They found him a block away, passed out in an alleyway mumbling incoherently to himself.
The cops were tired of him.
The city was tired of him.
He was notorious for his antics and now they would throw the book at him.
Three years in prison.
Three years locked in a cage forced to face his demons.
But prison made him angrier.
Prison made him paranoid.
Prison made him even more animalistic than he already was.
The only difference was that now he was thinking with a clear head. . .and that made him even more dangerous.
Three years behind bars can do awful things to the psyche of an already fractured and fragile individual. And now he was back on the street. . .determined never to go back this time but still craving an outlet where he could beat his demons into submission instead of drinking them away.
Pro wrestling was his calling.
It always had been.
Husani Dakarai. . .the Terror of Tanzania was looking to make a return. More violent and dangerous than ever. . .
The Madman was once more on the loose.
Beware.
Husani Dakarai was out. . .of. . .control.
If he wasn’t notorious for his egotistical sense of entitlement and his child-like (yet dangerous) fits of rage before. . .he sure as hell was now. He had recently been fired from a big name promotion and suspended from another. Once a hot commodity for federations that needed a huge, intimidating monster to set up shop, wreck the joint and then leave it in flames (and rolling in money), his cell phone no longer rang off the hook. He had turned into a pariah. . .an outcast from the business that he loved. Known for having a wealth of potential, his name was now reduced to being whispered ear to ear and his story served as a warning to all young, big headed rookies that stepped foot backstage in any company that had ever employed the Madman.
Don’t turn out like the Madman. . .
Don’t let your ego get in the way of your success. . .
You too could easily go from fame and fortune to rags and infamy in just the blink of an eye. . .
He once drove a nice truck and lived in a nice condo. The son of two African immigrants who slaved day in and day out to provide for their one and only son. The son who finally seemed to be making something of himself.
Now he was basically homeless.
He was a connoisseur of the public transportation system and everything he needed on a day-to-day basis he carried around on his shoulder. The duffel bag which once held his tights, his boots and the rest of his gear now only held the few remaining, ratty articles of clothing he possessed along with various bottles of alcohol and possibly a drug or two.
All his “friends” had turned their backs on him when they got tired of his endless couch surfing and free loading. Now he was reduced to finding ugly, fat women with kids and low self-esteem that he could manipulate into a night out of the cold. Some let him crash on the couch, telling him he had to be out by the time their ex-husbands brought their kids back from their weekend visits. . .but most were more than welcome to let him share their bed. He’d caught every form of non-lethal STD under the sun and he didn’t give a flying fuck. . .he was damn near dead inside.
His alcohol consumption had nearly tripled in the last three months. He drank whatever he could get his hands on, and high volumes of it at that.
Rum.
Vodka.
Scotch.
Gin.
Grain alcohol.
Cheap malt liquor that rotted his gut.
Anything and everything was fair game. To Husani, “forty ounces to freedom” weren’t just lyrics from a song by a band. . .he adopted them as his own personal credo.
Wallowing in his own pity he self-destructed little by little each day.
He hung out with bums. He hung out with whores. He hung out with pimps. Burglars. Drug addicts. Alcoholics like himself. He hung out with murderers. The very scum of the Earth. . .and he fit right in.
In fact. . .he played his part to the T.
Strong-arm robbery.
Armed robbery.
Breaking and entering.
Trespassing.
Drunk and disorderly.
Solicitation.
Husani was an all around menace and it finally caught up with him.
On a warm summer night he was caught breaking into the back of a liquor store. He needed to feed his addiction. With no money he resorted to the only way he knew how to get the toxic elixir that would cease the shaking in his hands and the pounding in his head. He kicked down the door and filled his duffel bag with the fiery liquid that would extinguish the anguish in his heart. . .if only for a few hours.
They found him a block away, passed out in an alleyway mumbling incoherently to himself.
The cops were tired of him.
The city was tired of him.
He was notorious for his antics and now they would throw the book at him.
Three years in prison.
Three years locked in a cage forced to face his demons.
But prison made him angrier.
Prison made him paranoid.
Prison made him even more animalistic than he already was.
The only difference was that now he was thinking with a clear head. . .and that made him even more dangerous.
Three years behind bars can do awful things to the psyche of an already fractured and fragile individual. And now he was back on the street. . .determined never to go back this time but still craving an outlet where he could beat his demons into submission instead of drinking them away.
Pro wrestling was his calling.
It always had been.
Husani Dakarai. . .the Terror of Tanzania was looking to make a return. More violent and dangerous than ever. . .
The Madman was once more on the loose.
Beware.