Post by Frank on Aug 18, 2010 14:27:06 GMT -5
Welcome to the game; you are the Unctuous Plastic Surgeon
ALIGNMENT: Town
GENERIC: Vanilla
WIN CONDITION: All Scum and malicious third-parties (if any) have been vanquished.
BACKGROUND:
If Smarm were a superpower, you'd have your own comic book. You have made yourself a tidy fortune providing cosmetic upgrades to a steady stream of Hollywood hopefuls in your sunny West Coast adopted hometown. It's never hard to convince an aspiring famewhore that all he or she really needs to achieve glory is a reconfigured chassis or a restructured rear bumper. You're an expert at convincing your patients that you genuinely care for them, even though you haven't called patient by his or her actual name in fifteen years.
But for all your achievement, you want to believe there is something more. You thirst to find that elusive Holy Grail - your Jocelyn Wildenstein, your Michael Jackson, your Pamela Anderson - a person so desperate to be unique and famous that they will allow you to transform them, bit by painstaking bit, into a freakish hybrid of human and polymerized siloxane. Even an unctuous plastic surgeon needs a dream.
You can't be sure, but you had to think a reality show in which the participants get eaten alive by Demons from Hell might attract a few particularly desperate individuals. So this is really your wheelhouse. Unfortunately, then there was the killing and the screaming and the conveniently collapsed bridge out of town, and suddenly you're trapped among the cannon fodder with no useful skills.
Of course, the Demons aren't so pretty to look at, if the head in the wood chipper is any indication. Maybe they'll be open to negotiation.
But we wouldn't bet on it.
POWERS:
1. Unless Captain Six-Pack over there decides he wants to do something about that tragic proboscis, you have no special powers, abilities, or information.
ALIGNMENT: Town
GENERIC: Vanilla
WIN CONDITION: All Scum and malicious third-parties (if any) have been vanquished.
BACKGROUND:
If Smarm were a superpower, you'd have your own comic book. You have made yourself a tidy fortune providing cosmetic upgrades to a steady stream of Hollywood hopefuls in your sunny West Coast adopted hometown. It's never hard to convince an aspiring famewhore that all he or she really needs to achieve glory is a reconfigured chassis or a restructured rear bumper. You're an expert at convincing your patients that you genuinely care for them, even though you haven't called patient by his or her actual name in fifteen years.
But for all your achievement, you want to believe there is something more. You thirst to find that elusive Holy Grail - your Jocelyn Wildenstein, your Michael Jackson, your Pamela Anderson - a person so desperate to be unique and famous that they will allow you to transform them, bit by painstaking bit, into a freakish hybrid of human and polymerized siloxane. Even an unctuous plastic surgeon needs a dream.
You can't be sure, but you had to think a reality show in which the participants get eaten alive by Demons from Hell might attract a few particularly desperate individuals. So this is really your wheelhouse. Unfortunately, then there was the killing and the screaming and the conveniently collapsed bridge out of town, and suddenly you're trapped among the cannon fodder with no useful skills.
Of course, the Demons aren't so pretty to look at, if the head in the wood chipper is any indication. Maybe they'll be open to negotiation.
But we wouldn't bet on it.
POWERS:
1. Unless Captain Six-Pack over there decides he wants to do something about that tragic proboscis, you have no special powers, abilities, or information.