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Server time: 2018-07-21, 12:02 WE ARE RECRUITING


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About defil3d

  • Birthday 12/12/1990
  1. IGN:Jackson "Night Terror" Tarsiani Age: 49 Country: United States English skills: Fluent. DayZ Mod Experience: 2 years DayZ Standalone Experience: About 1 year Roleplaying Experience: 6 Months on DayZRP, Several years on American Online Role Playing chat. What kind of In Game role best describes you: Mafioso, Wiseguy, Business Mentality, Not afraid to get his hands dirty. Have you been in any clan/group previously: Second in Command Of the Black Sky Militia. Additional notes: IC recruitment reason: Looking for work with his diverse set of skills including kidnapping, extortion, torture, hired gun. OOC: I'm a college student so activity may be limited at times. Best way to contact you: Send me a message to my account on Day Z rp. Backstory: You can take a man out of Brooklyn, but you can't take the Brooklyn out of a man. While others aspired to an honest mans lifestyle, Jackson became a product of the Brooklyn Criminal underworld. His favorite American past times revolved around torture, extortion, kidnapping, and murder. As his work progressed, Brooklyn referred to this character as "Night Terror" from his signature trademark of creeping into the room of his unsuspecting victims and amputating or strangling them with the help of kitchen or various hardware appliances. It wasn't until accompanying a shipment of stolen items to South Zagoria that he saw the true primal instincts of mankind when survival was top priority.. and he enjoys every minute of it.
  2. defil3d

    Quote(s) To Describe Your Character?

    "The Edge... there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over." Hunter S Thompson
  3. When Dolina was still a settlement and our group and the trust were having issues after we took hostages. I was in sniper position when they took a high ranking officer of bsm. I debated for quite a long time whether to pull the trigger or not after initiation. I wonder if dolina would have still been a settlement after that... makes me think of an alternate reality where I didn't shoot.
  4. " It's the Wong fucking dahy' to be allied with that asshole."
  5. defil3d

    [ACTIVE] The Starved (Recruitment:Open)

    PANTERA!! \m/ 10/10
  6. "Four score, a fifth of bourbon, and.... a long fucking time ago..... shit... it's been that long?...Fuck... what was I dohin' again? Oh yeah, the story, right. I remember this shit like it was yesterday. I'm sitting down in Fat Sals deli shop in Crown Heights Brooklyn. You can imagine why he was called Fat Sal, but "Fat Sal" was a fuhkin' understatement. This prick couldn't walk through doorways like a normal human being. If this fat shit didn't look so ugly, I don't even think he would know he was a man; it didn't matter though I wasn't fuhkin' marryin' em'. Despite being horizontally challenged, Fat sal always took care of me and the boys; not at first though. At first he just thought we were a bunch of greasy goombas in expensive suits. It wasn't until after I solved a debt dispute between him and his landlord. After I paid him a little visit, lets just say if I asked if he wore woman's underwear he'd tell the truth. Ever since then, Fat Sal always had my pastrami on rye covered. I sat at the knights table with some of the boys, my boys, the boys I'd think I'd grow old withand tell stories in our rocking chairs while we awaited death. Problem is death doesn't make appointments; death shows. To the right of me was " Fast"eddy. Mother fuhker' ran track in highschool or some shit, fastest man alive in brooklyn, believe that shit. Problem was he talked too fucking fast too. It was real frustrating, especially with half a cannoli in his fucking septic manhole he called a mouth, the bastarhd' did everything fast. He counted money fast, he ate fast, he smoked fast, you get the fucking point. Across from me was Tony 7 fingers. If we wanted to be accurate, we would have called him Tony 7 fingers and 8 toes... but that shits too long. Tony was something fuhking' special though. You can't find hard loyalty like you can find it in Tony. Tony lost three fingers and two toes during an interrogation of another crime family. They wanted info, he refused. Let me tell you kihds', I've seen guys crack after being shown a pair of pliers. The guys who think they got balls go through the motions, but when that first digit is chopped, they are screaming for their fuhkin' mothers. Tony sat there through those motions, and they didn't get a peep out of him. I can arguably say Tony was the toughest bastard at that table. The mother fuhker' could crack a marble sink just by giving it a dirty look. Next to Tony stuffing his fat mouth was Maronni " Lunchbox" Conti. We called him lunch box cause if you opened his stomach, he'd have an assortment of different foods to feed an army. He was a smart fucker doe'. He set up the plans for most of our gigs and heists. He should have went to college, he was a god damn mastermind, instead he wanted the instant gratification of fast money, but with the gratification comes the instant consequences of those actions. We had a couple other boys who weren't with us that day. Donny "Haywire" Marcelli, obviously the craziest fuck I've met in my life, and Jersey Mike.... I really don't know why he was called Jersey mike... he wasn't from jersey... but he was the luckiest son of a bitch I've ever met in my life. Then... there was me. Jackson "Night Terror" Tarsiani. My specialty was getting people to tell me things I wanna know, and fuck was I ever good at it. I had a trademark though, I snuck into the rooms of people of interest and woke them up very unpleasantly while they were sleeping. Soon they started calling me "Night Terror", apparently it was one of the most horrific things to be woken up with your intestines wrapped around your neck like garrote wire. We sit at the table. Fast eddy yapping his fucking mouth about something, Tony 7 fingers checking out some dame walking in front of the shop while he nodded his head on auto pilot as his ears were being raped by eddy's verbal diarrhea, and Lunch box, amused and entertained by the annoyance of eddy. I sat there content, hand repeated the motion of delivering my cup of joe to my lips. I was about 35 years old at the time. My green into the family started to fade, I was close to being a made man. Years and years of committing unspeakable acts to other human beings was finally starting to pay off. You can tell the years of servitude just by looking into the eyes; they don't lie. Eddy was obviously new; he was greener than a buck. So far he did his job. Tony was seasoned and lunch box was going midway on the spectrum. Fat Sal eventually comes over and stands at a comfortable proximity from the table. " Refill jack? ..." . He responds, saliva coating the tissue of his throat, producing a vulgar gargling sound as he spoke. " Yeh' keep them coming sal" . Eddy then announced. " Load me up on anotha' cold cut... don't let it take like 15 fucking minutes sal.. I know you're fucking munching on them while you make em". Sals face frowned real quick and protested accordingly. " Maybe if you paid you're fucking tab you slimey fuck.. I'd make them for yah" . Sal wobbled away into the back. Eddy looked at me with this perplexed and frustrated look. " Is it so hard to orhder' a fucking sandwich around here?". I couldn't help but release a small chuckle. He continued. " That fat fuck always takes so long to make a fuhking' cold cut.. how hard is it?! Huh? How hard?! You put the fucking meat on bread, you slap some fuhking vegetable.. there you go... no wonder the fat fucks got no business in ere'.". I quickly protested rubbing the top of my eyebrow and nearly face palming chuckling. " Eddy... if fat sal made a sandwich as fast as you talked I'm pretty sure we'd be fuhking rich.". Eddy gave me a look and quickly shut his hole. Lunchbox laughed teasing eddy from his abnormalities. The fun and games quickly dwindled in my mind. The job date was coming close... the guys were here... setup in different hotel rooms. It was time to get into character......[To be continued]
  7. defil3d

    Jackals Media Thread

    If that is you in the video as the guy with the 'different' voice, then I was just watching you and your REALLY BIG gang not long ago. Will upload the audio of it soon from my side. No video, it looks like shit (got it in really low res) and I like my hiding spotRo Hahah I recognize that voice! The spanish dude or whatever that initiated on you. We killed him in novy when they tried to steal our red house.
  8. Gunpowder floated abundantly in the air. His nostrils filtering as best as they could. The odor gave a poignant cocktail of glory and death. Jackson stood, baseball bat in hand, back pressed against the remnants of a brick wall littered with bullet holes. His eye swollen shut from shrapnel striking him above the face. His brothers not far from him on the battlefield; however his mags were vacant of ammunition. He leaned against brick wall murmuring. " Bases loaded..... two outs.... " His bat rested between his legs, held with both hands. Nails penetrating the end on both sides . Crimson drops fell and splattered against the floor from the nails. A maniacal look appeared on his face as footsteps registered through his hearing. Pupils widened as a foreign voice overtook the radio waves , using the same frequency of the black sky. The man walking and clicking his radio, unaware that death lay behind a brick wall; a predator waiting patiently for his prey. The voice of the man was heard over the radio chatter. " Shark bait..this is red cloud over......no signs of the maniac with the bat... pretty sure he's out of rounds... keep on your toes.. he could be anyw-". Between the conjunction of words, he was cut off. During his report, he wandered too carelessly into the spiders trap. Jackson prepared himself as the footsteps drew closer. His nail bat flying upwards , piercing through the face of the soldier. The nails removing chunks of flesh from the mans visage. The impact heard over the radio as sounds of flesh ripped from the impact echo'ed over the frequency. The man's body fell to the floor. Digits still constricting the receiver of the radio as Jackson spoke. His voice loud enough to be heard through the wounded mans radio. " And Night Terror owns the plate! GOING GOING GOING GOOOONNNEE!!!..... Home fucking run!!!" He exclaimed with extra enthusiasm. " SHITHEAD! SHIT HEAD. SHIT HEAD SHITHEAD!!!" . Flustered in a episode of rage as his foot continued to smash the head of the corpse.
  9. [video=youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6GrBFiwnIF0 Whatchu' know about hip hop? [video=youtube] ^ probably the best underground punk band of the 80's.
  10. Attempting to sew a piece of his boot back together, his needle missed its mark as a stream of what he could only define as " Verbal Diarrhea" flooded the frequency. " What fucking assholes... they should really mind their own business" . Frustration ensued as a variation of voices continued one after another. Questioning their puberty transition. Missing his mark once more on his boot, he pierced his own finger. He retreated the needle back slowly. Annoyance and rage ensued. Grabbing his sawn off, he squeezed the trigger. Plastic shrapnel dispersed through the room. " Shut the fuck up!!!... Che cazzo Strunz!.... God fucking damnit.... can a mohther' fucker fix his shoe..." . " Fucking pricks.....". He gathered himself, sat down, attempting to pierce through the leather accurately.
  11. A perplexed brow archers. Increasing the proximity between him and the radio. He stares at the receiver , a look of disgust creeps across his face. A sigh expressing his disgust follows. " Fucking mediocre..." he responds to himself, tossing his radio on the table. His hand soaked with a thick crimson fluid, deeply sunk into his pores, slicked back dangling black follicles. " This is the problem with people now days...." His voice designated to a corner of the room. His fellow militia brother, one of questionable mental stability, sat in the corner. Chainsaw lay across his blood soaked jeans, his vision erratic through a smiling clown mask until laying eyes on jackson. " No respect... no respect at all " . His hand disappears into the void of his bag pulling out a chunk of meat. The pores of the skin tainted with an unrecognizable design or tattoo of some sort. He whistled tossing the piece of flesh on the floor, quickly caught and hunted by the strange lunatic with a clown mask. Jackson grinned, a lower limb crossed the other. Reaching into his leather jacket pulling out the last cigarette from his hometown. He lit it, inhaling a large drag, hearing the noises of cartilage being broken with the snaps of a jaw. " Plenty more where that came from chief..."
  12. " Sounds like you're the one trying to grab attention... replying to my radio frequency... " Not caring ".. if you don't care then why respond? Were you dropped on your head as a kid? Judging by your brother he's not too bright either... family of jackasses."
  13. " You sound like a pretty shitty brother.... none of my business buddy but when it comes to family... especially where I come from... I'd be on my high horse scouting for the unfortunate asshole who's responsible... Kids these days don't have values anymore"