NationStates

Posted: **Thu Jul 08, 2021 11:50 am**

■ Welcome to Springfield ■

The whole 1950s notion was find the right girl, get married, move to the suburbs, then hang out with the guys while she stayed home with the babies.

- Hugh Hefner

OOC Thread

Premise

■ The year is 1955. The air is fresh, the mood is jubilant, and the food is weird. Welcome to Springfield, my friend. A comical parody of a generic, 1950's American town where anything goes, and nothing is as it seems. You will cook up your own unique character, and guide them through daily life in Springfield. Maneuvering around obstacles such as the Red Scare, racial prejudice, and much more, you'll attempt to lead yourself to the American Dream - and make friends along the way. In order to accurately simulate the daily climate of this era, there will be some offensive and what might be considered today as unacceptable topics, but I trust that we can all be mature and try and limit these, and not receive them as intentional, OOC comments or actions. ■

■ A few things to make clear;

A) Please, realistic characters only.

B) While this will be a somewhat comedic and lighthearted rp, please keep things somewhat serious as well. ■

PLEASE READ

Heyo! Me here. If you're new to RP, here's a coupla tips that ought to help you through this adventure. This is required unless I say otherwise.

How to RP

Well, the title is pretty straightforward. Alright, let's see. Hmmmm.....

Perfect!

Okay. You're a young woman, taking a stroll along your neighborhood street when suddenly, a man pops up behind you! Oh no! He has a gun! Well, most newcomers to RP would usually get stuck on the first sentence. So let's get to the tips.

One of the most frustrating things about RP is how time-consuming it is. Usually, P2TM rps require at least a paragraph or two to properly Rp, and in the OP it usually says "no one-liners". A one-liner would be something like this:

"I hit the man in the face, take his gun, and shoot him dead and then I walk home."

No. Just no. You don't want to do this. In order to right a detailed, nicely-written RP post, it takes a while. Getting a cramp in your hand from typing? Good. Hard work does that. Sure, it might take an hour, but that's the beauty of RP. Learn some patience, and you'll be good to go.

Write out the details you usually wouldn't care about. Did your character accidentally bite their tongue while chewing gum? Write it! Do your shoes have red stripes on them? Awesome! When RPing, you have to incorporate details. Take this bit for example.

"I woke up and got out of bed. I walked into the kitchen and made some scrambled eggs. I ate them. Then I took a shower. Then I got dressed. Then I went outisde, got in my car, and went to work."

Not very much substance, right? Take this improved version.

"I woke up, a bit groggy from last night's party. But it was Monday, so I had to go to work. I didn't bother making my bed, and I strolled into the kitchen without a care in the world. What sounds good for breakfast? I thought. MmMmMmM. Scrambled eggs... I got a pan, and I cracked two eggs onto it. The sweet aroma of the sizzling eggs filled the small house. Ah, what a wonderful time to be alive. Once the eggs were finished, I sat down and ate them. Slowly. Ever so slowly. They were delicious! I quickly washed up the plate and fork, and then went into the bathroom. I undressed myself from my pajamas, and hopped into the shower. Baaah! Hot water! I warmed up to it after a while, and it was pretty relaxing. When I was done, I got out. I searched through my closet, and found a nice brown polo shirt to put on. I put on some khakis, and was ready to go! I went out in the hall and put on some Timberlands. Then, I went outside and got into my brand new, jet-black Land Rover. I drove to work, happy with my morning."

See? Much, much better. Would you rather have a plain, bland sentence, or a richly-detailed paragraph? I'd choose the latter, but I dunno about you.

Okay, now you should know the basics. This tab will be a list of links you could go to if you'd like to learn more! And remember, you can always contact me via TG.

Links

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There! Now you're ready to go!

THE RULES

[-] 1. No metagaming, godmodding, and the like. If you've participated in RPs before, you know what we're talking about. Newbies, go here or here

[-] 2. OP's and Co-OP's word is final. You can argue, and if determined an OP is overreaching I'll step in. Obey or you get the ban hammah!

[-] 3. Be realistic. No, you can't have star lasers and know the Soviet nuclear codes. This rule will be fairly lax, to an extent.

[-] 4. Your posts may be as long as you'd like, as long as they're more than a paragraph or so.

[-] 5. No magic, no fairies, none of it. Remember what I said about being realistic? Keep that in mind. Always.

[-] 6. Respect your fellow players. If you have a problem with someone, keep it civil and don't let it spill over ICly.

[-] 7. ABSOLUTELY NONE OF THE FOLLOWING; Killing off characters without permission, changing historical events without permission, cyberbullying, NSFW content, virgins (ha-ha), and/or Elvis hating.

APPLICATION

**Please apply in the OOC thread linked above, thank you.**

LIST OF NPC'S
**You may apply as these characters, subject to change

Jack Richards | Mayor Polizzi's Pal, Owns the Springfield Diner
Claudette Richards | Jack's Wife, PTA President
Troy Martin | Mayor Polizzi's Favorite [insert racial term] to pick on

ROSTER

Example Character | Example Occupation | Example Player
Frank "Big Frankie" Polizzi | Mayor of Springfield | Esekistan
Abraham Mortimer Stone | Journalist | Voxija
Bill Williams | Milkman | Talychon

SPRINGFIELD, USA
POPULATION 1,443

Monday
July 11, 1955
6:44 a.m.

By this time every morning, Frank was usually driving into town in his freshly-waxed Cadillac Fleetwood. However, today was not usual. Today was Monday, and every Monday he went down to Jack Richard's place for some booze and poker to start the day. He grabbed his keys, and kissed his wife good-bye. He strolled out along the stone pathway in front of their home, and got into his car. He very much enjoyed flaunting his wealth in front of the townsfolk, and he ensured they saw him. He stuck the key in the ignition, and turned it.

Chuk chuk chuk....

"Goddamn it!" Frank exclaimed, slamming his fist down on the steering wheel. Trying thrice more, he gave up and decided to walk. The sun was steadily rising as many neighbors began to awake. As he walked, he evoked waves from men mowing their lawns, and in turn he snuck a few looks at some of the women. Once he arrived at Richards', he rapped on the door. After a few moments, Jack came to the door.

"You're late, Frank!" Jack said, slapping him on the back as he walked inside.

"My godforsaken car wouldn't fucking start!" Frank said, clearly still seething.

Jack gave him an apathetic look as they walked over to the poker table. He went and retrieved a few beers for the two, and began a game of Texas Hold 'Em. About a quarter way through, there was a knock at the front door. Jack got up to answer it, and came back with a surprised look on his face.

"It's for you, Jack. Said it's an emergency" he said.

Frank frowned, and proceeded to the door.

Standing front and center were three FBI agents.

"Hello, Mayor Polizzi. We've been wanting to speak with you."

Posted: **Fri Jul 09, 2021 2:31 pm**

Abraham M. Stone, the shack

Abraham woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Wishing he was still asleep, he shuffled his way over to the broken mirror and observed his eye bags and reddish face. Groaning, Abraham washed his face with a wet rag, and then blinked twice. He looked presentable. More presentable than a man in Abraham's state should look like, anyway.

Abraham Stone was a journalist from the big city, except he never got any jobs in the big city. The only place that was hiring was a small-town newspaper called the Springfield Dispatch, so he dropped everything and moved here. That was partially a mistake. The only things the Springfield Dispatch was willing to send Abraham to report on were quilting bees, lost pets, and other yawn-worthy local events. The excuse was that those were the only things that happened in this town, but Abraham knew better. Any town had to have its dark secret.

The mayor was probably part of it all. He owned a hardware business as well as being the mayor, which was just suspicious. That was the only logical reason Abraham had for suspecting him, but the journalist had lived through World War II, and thus immediately distrusted all authority. Abraham would get his interview with Mayor Polizzi someday.

Abraham stared at his reflection in the mirror. The inner self-hating Jew in him snarked at his dark looks, but he suppressed his inner voice. Abraham Mortimer Stone was a proud seeker of truth, an oppressed artist, and better than these conservative folks in this small town. Abraham combed his hair and muttered some words to get himself ready to face the day.

"I'm going to get out of here someday. I know it. And then people will get their dues and realize what I mean by justice."

Posted: **Mon Jul 12, 2021 7:03 am**

Monday morning. Bright and early.
William "Bill" Williams, certified milkman

With a big smile on his slow-comprehending face, and a tuneless whistle whistling out noisily (or was that a noisy whistle whistling out tunelessly?), the cheerful milkman laid out the latest delivery. Another six pack of skim milk. Bill Williams shook his head. Who knew that people would like skim? Not him. Give him old fashioned whole milk. In fact, he'd be content just drinking from a cow straight. Only problem was, he didn't have a cow. Bill Williams was a milkman. Not a dairy farmer.

Of course, his dad and mom had cows. Lots of cows. They were dairy farmers, had been all their lives. If ever Bill wanted to try the freshest whole milk possible, he knew where to go. But not right now. He had work to do.

Bill ambled back to the milk truck, still whistling. To the casual observer, it might have sounded like discordant noise, but the classically trained ear might be able to pick out the rarest of combinations - a medley of a microtonal, 12 tone-scaled, motet with the opening prelude themes from the opera La Traviata. Not that the milkman knew music. He knew milk.

Getting to the next house, Bill stopped the truck and looked at the list. He tilted his head in puzzlement and the whistling din stopped. "What in tarnation?", he asked himself. Not that he expected an answer. Bill's conversations with himself were often one-sided. Still puzzled, Bill read the order out loud on the list. "She wants a double-grande latte with 1/2 skim milk, 1/2 non-fat dairy creamer with peppermint flavorings and whipped cream on top? I don't think I got those..." He looked at the back of his truck - not like he could see the contents from the drivers' seat looking through the wall that separated the refrigerated section from the cab, but it helped him imagine if he might find the whatever it was the person had ordered. He looked back at the list. He looked back at the back of the truck. He shrugged. Getting out, still twisted from looking behind him, Bill's legs turned around to match his head and neck. He went to the back, opened the truck, and pulled out what he hoped would suffice.

Another six-pack. Of skim. At least he understood the skim part. As for the rest, Bill took out a notepad from his pocket with a pen, and started writing. "Sorry about the rest. We're all out." He hoped it would be enough. But who knew?

The next house was a great house. The mayor's. Bill felt a wave of civic pride go through his chest as he drove up. To deliver milk to the mayor! Why, that made him proud to be an American! So the milkman got out, saw the mayor just walk off, feeling a little disappointed he hadn't gotten to speak to the local celebrity. Instead, Mrs. Mayor was still out. Bill could deliver her her milk and have a nice chat.

"Why, mornin', Mrs. Mayor! Beautiful day, ain't it? Shore looks like a fine one. Maybe we'll get some nice weather today too."

Posted: **Tue Jul 13, 2021 12:35 pm**

Talchyon wrote:Monday morning. Bright and early.
William "Bill" Williams, certified milkman

With a big smile on his slow-comprehending face, and a tuneless whistle whistling out noisily (or was that a noisy whistle whistling out tunelessly?), the cheerful milkman laid out the latest delivery. Another six pack of skim milk. Bill Williams shook his head. Who knew that people would like skim? Not him. Give him old fashioned whole milk. In fact, he'd be content just drinking from a cow straight. Only problem was, he didn't have a cow. Bill Williams was a milkman. Not a dairy farmer.

Of course, his dad and mom had cows. Lots of cows. They were dairy farmers, had been all their lives. If ever Bill wanted to try the freshest whole milk possible, he knew where to go. But not right now. He had work to do.

Bill ambled back to the milk truck, still whistling. To the casual observer, it might have sounded like discordant noise, but the classically trained ear might be able to pick out the rarest of combinations - a medley of a microtonal, 12 tone-scaled, motet with the opening prelude themes from the opera La Traviata. Not that the milkman knew music. He knew milk.

Getting to the next house, Bill stopped the truck and looked at the list. He tilted his head in puzzlement and the whistling din stopped. "What in tarnation?", he asked himself. Not that he expected an answer. Bill's conversations with himself were often one-sided. Still puzzled, Bill read the order out loud on the list. "She wants a double-grande latte with 1/2 skim milk, 1/2 non-fat dairy creamer with peppermint flavorings and whipped cream on top? I don't think I got those..." He looked at the back of his truck - not like he could see the contents from the drivers' seat looking through the wall that separated the refrigerated section from the cab, but it helped him imagine if he might find the whatever it was the person had ordered. He looked back at the list. He looked back at the back of the truck. He shrugged. Getting out, still twisted from looking behind him, Bill's legs turned around to match his head and neck. He went to the back, opened the truck, and pulled out what he hoped would suffice.

Another six-pack. Of skim. At least he understood the skim part. As for the rest, Bill took out a notepad from his pocket with a pen, and started writing. "Sorry about the rest. We're all out." He hoped it would be enough. But who knew?

The next house was a great house. The mayor's. Bill felt a wave of civic pride go through his chest as he drove up. To deliver milk to the mayor! Why, that made him proud to be an American! So the milkman got out, saw the mayor just walk off, feeling a little disappointed he hadn't gotten to speak to the local celebrity. Instead, Mrs. Mayor was still out. Bill could deliver her her milk and have a nice chat.

"Why, mornin', Mrs. Mayor! Beautiful day, ain't it? Shore looks like a fine one. Maybe we'll get some nice weather today too."

Patricia Polizzi, just getting breakfast started, came to the door. She swung it open, and snickered.

She looked the milkman up and down. "Yes, I suppose" she said passively. The smell of bacon frying swept outside into the morning air, crawling up their noses.

"Oh, that must be my bacon burning! I'm so sorry, I can't afford to chat at the moment!" she said, hurriedly running inside to take it off the oven, before slipping face-first onto the ground, the pan of sizzling bacon landing atop the back of her head.

A scream followed, as the neighbors peered out of their windows curiously.

Back at Jack's, Frank stood at the door stunned. The two FBI agents looked behind him for a moment, before glancing back at the mayor. Frank had to come up with an excuse quickly, before the FBI took him away. He knew he was caught, and he would be locked up forever if he didn't get out of there fast.

"Just a moment, my good sirs. I'll have to get my...coffee!" he said, rushing back out of sight into the kitchen. Once off to the side, he opened a back window and dove out of it, expecting to hit the ground and run through the yard and jump the fence, instead he went flying down a deep, dark, pit before finally landing at the bottom.

"Shit!" he shouted. He wasn't running from the FBI, he was in the sewer system. Now, instead of being a mafia rat, he's a sewer rat.

As long as he got away from the Feds, he pondered. So he started walking.

Posted: **Mon Aug 02, 2021 1:18 pm**

Monday July 11, 1959 - Morning
David Sissons, Fire Chief of Springfield

It was another Monday Morning in Springfield and it was a day when the Fire Chief would wake up at home. David Sissons was an aging and tiring man, he could keep up with the demands of his job, and frankly his life. He hadn't been the most talented man by any means at any point in his life, but his age certainly wasn't helping to alleviate these issues. But what was he without his his job? What kind of a person was he to be? Who was he and what would he be? These were question that he knew had to be answered, but he wasn't quite ready to answer them yet, so he held on to his job to avoid this kind of mid-to-late-life crisis. He showed to his job, but he didn't really do it, but that wouldn't though as his job wasn't really demanding these days anyway. There hadn't been a fire for over a year now and that only happened because of some folks from out of town, and in the rare instance that firemen were needed he could just send one of his subordinates. And so he grew evermore incompetent as his time as Fire Chief progressed, he drank often in his office often falling asleep and staying the night there. His wife Carla didn't see him all too much and certainly not as much as she would have liked. So she always savored whenever he was home, such as on Monday Mornings when he would wake up at home after spending the weekend with her before going to 'work'.

David woke up that morning tired and feeling a little sick, but he powered through and got himself ready for the day. He ate some sausages that Carla had prepared with her before heading out for the Fire Department, he walking the 15 minute long route their, before heading straight for his office. Some firemen greeted him saying "Hey, Mr. Fire Chief." But David ignored them heading to his office and downing the remainder of a bottle of beer from the previous week and sinking into his seat.

Posted: **Wed Aug 04, 2021 4:06 pm**

Monday morning, mayor's house
William "Bill" Williams

As eager as Bill Williams the milkman had been to give early morning greetings and shoot the breeze with the mayor's esteemed wife, she hadn't returned the favor. Taking her cue at the smell of bacon frying, Mrs. Mayor ran back into her house leaving Bill feeling a little disappointed. "Is it my breath?" he wondered. Hopefully she didn't think he was being rude. Bill didn't want to be considered rude by anyone. Still, his shoulders slumped a bit on his way back to his truck.

And then, suddenly, there was a scream. Preceded by a few thunk sounds before, that Bill may or may not have heard. (If a frying pan falls and conks a mayor's wife on her head and a milkman doesn't hear it, does it make a sound?) The scream wasn't good. It couldn't mean anything good. Bill was shock-frozen for a moment, and then bounded up back to the mayor's front door.

Calling inside, he said, "Is everything alright Mrs. Mayor?" He didn't hear an answer. But his nose began to smell smoke...

"Uh oh..."

Bill ran into the mayor's home, both focusing on trying to find his way to the kitchen where he assumed the scream came from, and admiring the mayor's exquisite taste in home décor. The artwork! That Oriental looking rug! The statue of former Vice President Schuyler Colfax out of base marble! That smoke smell, though, was beginning to get a little thicker. Finding the kitchen, Bill saw the scene in all its pig-greased gory details. The hot frying pan had bonked the mayor's wife on the head and had fallen away to the side. But hot grease from the pan had caught on the wall, and it was there that a small fire had begun!

"uh oh..."

Bill wondered what to do. Who knew where the telephone was in the mayor's house? But even if Bill knew where the phone was, he didn't remember the number for the fire department. He knew his number, which was also the same as his wife's number, and then a few other scattered numbers here and there. But if only there was a simple way to call the fire department in an emergency! Say, a three-digit number that was easy to remember! But alas,

So Bill did his best to try to put out the fire himself. Knowing that water was bad for grease fires, Bill grabbed some butter from the fridge and tried to blot out the fire with the stick of butter. And, since that is a pretty stupid way of fighting a fire, it only melted the butter and kept spreading.

"Uh oh..."

Giving up, Bill decided to try to get the mayor's wife out of there. Picking her up, he struggled to carry her weight and he staggered out the door with a small trickle of smoke in his nostrils. Putting her down on the lawn, Bill ran like a crazy man to the neighbor's house, knocked on the door as many times as he could until someone answered. And when the door opened, Bill insisted that they call the fire department right away! And maybe, help him put out a fire in the mayor's house!

(But, not to bring butter for firefighting because that doesn't seem to work).

NationStates

Welcome to Springfield [IC-OPEN][PSUEDO-COMEDY]

Welcome to Springfield [IC-OPEN][PSUEDO-COMEDY]