Eddie Brock
Golden Domer
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- Jul 24, 2006
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This is a Gotham RPG, not a Flash RPG! 



This is the story of Chato Santana, the Robin Hoodiest gangster ever known to Coast City. This is the sort of vato that would use one hand to popping off bullets and the other to help a little old lady cross the street. But we'll get to his good deeds later.
Our boy's name rung out early on the streets. He'd grown up in the lap of one of Opal's most notorious players, Big Chico and by the time his face was popping with zits and his voice started dropping an octave or two, Chato was running his own crew.
But all that was just kid's play. Things really started going our man's way - or not, depending on your point of view - a few weeks before his thirtieth birthday. Together with two of his accomplices, he was down in the El Barrio, taking a personal hand in matters concerning a drug shipment of his that had been misplaced.
One of his boys went by the name of Hector, but his friends knew him better as the Nerd King of the Barrio. “The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides,” he started reciting as he held a gun to a man's head, but Chato cut that bull*&^% right quick with a wave of his own piece. “Ain't no time for that *&^%, man.”
<BLAM!> and next thing anyone knew, Jorge was no more. His head was blown open and dripping blood, it sliding past the curb and down into a sewer drain. Yeah, Chato liked to keep his streets clean.
Now, just in case you're wondering on the how's and why's that allow anyone to shoot a man in an alley off of the busiest street in the whole neighbourhood - at night, but still - without being bothered by witnesses or cops, I should tell you something about El Barrio. Around there witnesses don't witness *&^% and cops like their donuts with a filling coloured money green.
But back to Chato and the man on the ground, sitting on his knees next to the lifeless body of his cousin, his hermano, his best friend, his accomplice. Crying and with a big piss-stain on the front of his cheap-ass pants. Wearing bargain bin bling across his neck and on his hands, which he now held clasped before him.
“Mios dio, please,” and all that *&^%. Yeah, Trey was begging.
Chato, who was already a big man, was now towering over him. At this point, I'd like to point out how our man was dressed, taking Trey as the Barrio standard. Chato wore none of that typical ghetto crap. This boy came correct. Mostly. Timberlands, jeans that he actually wore with the crotch in place and a simple white T. No fake jewellery or a bunch of loud tattoos. Ink stitches across his right wrist: the hand they'd cut off if he ever betrayed Los Reyes Locos. But that was it. Bald head, little goatee.
“I ain't gonna kill ya. Just get word out. You don't #$@% with me,” he said and he didn't need to say it twice. Trey got up and ran out of the alley without even looking back once at his dearly departed compadre. Which is when Chato turned to Hector and we actually get to the starting point of our story. Hector's phone started ringing and just after he had flipped it open and put it to his ear, his mouth dropped open. Ending the call, he turned to Chato.
“The ministers got Poot.”


