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About James LaHaye

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    Supporting Character

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  1. As I let Dawn know today, I'll be pulling out of HEX. Not, I want to stress, because of or due to any of the recent drama, but because I keep getting the dreaded block when trying to write for him. Dawn OOC is free to make whatever use of LaHaye she wishes as GM fodder.
  2. "Plenty more - and try not to get everyone shot!" LaHaye said over the sounds of screeching spiders, shouting Nazi's, screaming people and gunshots. It was a testament to the extremity of the situation that he didn't even stop to smile charmingly at the pretty girl, instead grabbing a second pickaxe and running back over to his embattled comrades-in-chains. "Juno!" he yelled, and the pantherish Latina looked up in time to grab the handle of the pickaxe that LaHaye extended to her as he charged past, swiping at the spider menacing the group of prisoners with the one in his other hand. Cussing in Cajun French at the disgusting beast, LaHaye's wild swing was good enough to make the thing scuttle sideways on it's hairy legs, letting out a chittering whistle of outrage as it avoided the makeshift weapon. "More tools in that wagon!" LaHaye called to the other prisoners, waving them towards where Teagan currently stood.
  3. Greeeeeat! It had to be spiders. LaHaye managed to mentally snark even through his instinctive reflexive terror. He hated spiders. Snakes were fine. Snakes he was comfortable around. But spiders, especially big spiders, freaked him the fuck out. And these spiders were goddamn huge. Still, there was no way he was going to sit back and watch as Graham got his insides liquified and sucked out through a straw (he really hated spiders), and he damned sure wasn't going to sit back while Juno threw rocks like an star pitcher for the Yankees on crack. There had to be something he could do to help, here. Rocks. Broken up rocks. Why would they be hauling rocks? For construction, probably. Grind them up to make aggregate, or maybe the rocks had some ore in them. But what else was in the wagons. If anyone was paying attention, they'd have noticed Jimmy LaHaye being decidedly un-dashing and unheroic as he turned and ran past the rock-wagon to the next one in line, lifting the tarp and peering under. There had to be something useful - tools, weapons, a spare F-16 Viper with air-to-ground payload... Right now he'd take anything over trying to fight giant arachnids with frickin' rocks.
  4. Initiative: # 10 Details:[7d2 (1 1 2 2 1 1 2)] 3 succs
  5. Exchanging a glance with Juno, Jimmy likewise scooped up the manacles and clicked them into place around his wrists. Wherever they were, whatever these Nazis wanted, the presence of shackles at least meant that they would prefer living captives, even if it was only a slight preference. He helped Graham to stand, clicking manacles into place around the veteran's wrists with the same meaningful glance he had given Juno. Right now, they were out of options, so survival was the primary goal. The longer they lived, the greater the chance of turning the tables. He loaned Graham a shoulder to lean on. "C'mon, ol' timer. We ain't leavin' even a ground pounder behind, eh?"
  6. "Temporarily." LaHaye nodded in return, his voice also low. "Right now, so long as we're not too much trouble, we live. And they live." He nodded to the others, then gave Juno a look filled with fellow-feeling. "Endurance is going to be our strongest weapon right now. Stay strong, stay alert, and be ready for a real opportunity." He gave her a crooked smile, though his eyes were grave. "And then we use it, belle lionne."
  7. "I was stupid." LaHaye murmured back, his gaze somber as he regarded the wounded Graham. "Who'd a thought they'd shoot like that? Who the fuck even bothers to cage people then shoot them?" "Nazis, dumbass." muttered Graham, his eyes still closed. "Don't take it too hard. I went along with the plan." LaHaye wiped the blood off his face, then glanced at Juno. "They'll be alert for something now. We need to fly low and slow, 'kay? These cochons are just itchin' to shoot more of us."
  8. "Not only widows, but well-comforted widows." LaHaye promised Graham solemnly in a low tone, ignoring the man's blood on his face. "You relax, soldier. Let the not-doc work, and we can extract some payback together, hey?" Graham grabbed his hand, nodding. "Just promise me the next plan will be better." "Ah, mon ami, I cannot make promises like dat. Word would get out if I became responsible." Jimmy replied with a small smile. Graham echoed the smile, then closed his eyes and rested.
  9. "Whaddya mean, share the water?!" Jimmy said loudly, staring at Juno in a reasonable facsimile of disbelief as he jabbed an offensive thumb at Graham. "This trop mal cochon took the last of the meat, and you want me to share water with him?" "What th' fuck did you call me, gumbo?" Graham near-bellowed as he squared up to LaHaye, who in turn faced off right back to the man half a head taller than himself. A glint in the homeless vet's eye showed he was on top of the plan. "You better hand over that bottle before I shove it up your ass." The answer was a torrent of gutter Cajun French that would have made LaHaye's mother slap him, then wash his mouth out, then slap him again. Graham went red in the face and pushed LaHaye against the cage wall with a two-handed shove, only for the bantam-like aviator to bound right back into him, flailing ineffectually. LaHaye had done stunt work, and knew how to pull a punch and fake being hit, and though Graham might not have had the same experience, the vet was more than eager to play along. The two of them roistered back and forth across the cage, grappling, swearing, shoving each other and now and then landing a punch which looked, in the moving light, to be painful. The other occupants of the cage shouted imprecations, scrambling out of the way of the two brawlers, backing up and alternately jeering at the fight or imploring the two of them to stop, depending on the individual. Through it all, Juno kept half an eye on the guards, waiting for her chance...
  10. As Juno passed him some water and food Jimmy muttered "Same place as you, but a few thousand feet further up and movin' way faster, chere. But I can handle a gun if need be." She nodded as she divined his meaning, then went back to assessing their surroundings. LaHaye, for his part, stood up and got feeling back into his legs and arms before helping Graham do likewise. "You an aviator?" Graham murmured, stamping his feet a little in a 'hobo shuffle' to get warmer. "F-16s." LaHaye nodded, taking a drink of water. Graham regarded him from under bushy brows. "That'll be great if we need some precision bombing, man." he remarked sardonically. LaHaye shot him a grin. "I'd say we need it now, hey?" he looked around, then back at Juno. "We follow belle lionne's lead, back her play." He glanced down at Carl. "You dealin' in on dis?"
  11. "This is crazy." Thong-girl stammered, cuddling her twin who was weeping quietly. Strawberry, seeing the occupants of the cage were nearly all awake, shoved the cooler closer to the bars. LaHaye, head still aching, squinted at the twins as the Latina woman and the guards had their back and forth. "What's your name, chere?" he asked quietly, trying to keep his voice calm. She blinked once or twice to hold back her own tears and looked at him. "Jenny. And this is Jeanie." she replied, her own voice quieter. He nodded. "I'm Jimmy." he said with a small smile. "Leastways, dat is what my friends call me. And your name?" he asked the young black guy beside him, offering him a hand. "Carl, man." said the younger fellow, giving his hand a quick shake and appraising him. "You sound like you're from swamp country. My uncle on my dad's side, he's lived in Baton Rouge most his life - he sounds like that." "A man of taste, to move to a good place like dat." LaHaye smiled carefully - his lip was still sore - but genuinely. He turned an eye on the pacing Juno as she came near. "And how 'bout you, belle lionne?"
  12. "Ow." LaHaye didn't so much say as groan as he opened his eyes. The uncomfortable travelling arrangements were nothing compared to the pain of bruised ribs, black eye and yes, a split lip that caused him to wince from wincing. Gingerly, he felt the back of his head and side, hissing in pain as his fingers brushed the swollen knots there. The aviator blinked several times, working his head slowly side to side and forward and back, then focused on his fingers and the guards in the space outside the cell alternately. He didn't seem to have a concussion, though the headache was going nowhere soon. Then he took stock of his surroundings. Homeless dude on his left, young dude on his right, pair of Asian twins across his lap... "Din't I be at dis partay once afore?" he muttered, his accent stronger in his dazed state. Then he forced his aching head to focus on the actual uniforms of the guards beyond the door. The two girls across his legs stirred, for which he was grateful - he could feel his legs had fallen asleep while he'd been out cold. One twin raised her head with a moan, then looked up at him in alarm. "Hi." he grinned at her, then regretted it instantly. The girl was cute, but the pain in his lip was not worth it at all. She shook her sister awake and the two of them scrambled off his legs and against the bars of the cage, gazing around wildly. "Where are we?" the one who was definitely wearing the thong gasped. Her sister clung to her and stared around in silence. "A box car of a train." LaHaye said with a shrug, his eyes still on the guards in their black uniforms. "And I t'ink those gentlemen be the reason. We've been kidnapped by... Nazis?" Either that or this is the preamble for a really weird kind of New Years party. "Y'know, when I imagined a party like dis, I thought the pretty girls would be wearing the uniforms." he said aloud in answer to his own thoughts, still a little out of it. "And de 'party room' would not be stinking of shit."
  13. “Pardon me, herr?” Not a phrase that should trigger alarm in the 21st century, even in New York, he would reflect later. Crossroads of the world, greatest of all cities – at least if you were a New Yorker, LaHaye supposed. Personally, he preferred New Orleans or Savannah, but then he supposed he’d spent too long in warm climes and was spoiled for the balmy winters in his native Louisiana. “Ve are vondering if perhaps you can assist us, ja?” asked the bespectacled man with the tourist map and the moth-eaten suit. “Zis map, it is gut, but does not give ze local eye.” He should have known something was up. Really, really should have known. Not because of the accents – decades had passed since German accents were a warning sign to the once-Allied powers. But because why, out of all the thronging residents of Times Square on New Years Eve, would a pair of German tourists approach an American currently with a beer in his hand and trying to bump notables with a pair of girls who were dancing at an impromptu street-meet sort of affair. With a sigh, the pilot had given up on the two ladies – who were probably unaware he’d even been trying in the press of the mob, and focused on the two gents. Himself dressed in a fleece-lined leather coat and white scarf against the New York winter, he felt that their clothing was threadbare, to say the least. Poor bastards must be freezing. “Ve are trying to find our hotel before the – how it is said – ze ball drops, ja?” Spectacles asked. He was a tall, thin sort with pale grey eyes behind the steel-rimmed glasses. His companion, similarly tall with a bulkier frame under the coat, had remained silent with his blue eyes fixed on the shorter, slighter aviator. “Sure t’ing, man.” LaHaye had drawled with just a trace of his birthplace in a voice that flight school and the Air Force had been unable to smooth away. It mostly came out when he was drunk, or angry, or turning up the charm, but right now he was just a little buzzed and, nice though the two German fellas seemed, they were not the kind of person he turned up the charm for. He remembered finding the spot on the map they were looking for, and ingrained courtesy (they were guests in his country, and that was practically the same as guests in his house, as his mama would say) had led him to offer to act as a guide. And so he was hustling ahead of the two German fellas, away from the main thoroughfare and down a side street, when the small party had turned a corner and been confronted with three bulky thugs who, he recollected, had been wearing the same slightly out-of-date clothing as his companions. Even so, he didn’t see the cosh coming in time, before it filled his vision with starbursts and dropped him to one knee. As the five men had moved in, he’d popped up and smashed his bottle full into the face of Spectacles, who’d screamed and cupped his face in his hands, and then his feet were kicked out from under him. They weren’t that good at working a man over, he recalled. They kept getting in each other’s way a lot, cussing up a storm in German in between grunts as their boots kicked the fight out of him. An single Army Ranger he'd gotten into a fight with once had put him out in half the time. Still, it was four on one and only a minute or two of beating before Spectacles’ companion, the big fella, had bent down with the cosh raised and turned the lights all the way out...
  14. Jim LaHaye Capsule: In another era, Jimmy LaHaye would have been one of the legends of the skies - or else an honorable grave-filler. Great-grandson of a WW2 aviator, grandson of a Vietnam F-4 Phantom pilot, son of a Bird Colonel and himself a talented F-16 jockey, aviation fuel runs in his blood. Sadly, he bears more in common with his maverick great-grandfather than with the more disciplined, peacetime Air Force of his father's time. Irrepressible, fearless and someone who in another age would be a flying ace dogfighting the Luftwaffe over London, in a modern peacetime Air Force he is as out of place as a P-47 Thunderbolt. That would have been bad enough, but his gambling problem got him into a lot of trouble. The problem isn't that he's bad at poker, it's that he's terrible at picking people to play with, tending to pick rich or high ranking people with no sense of humor, who know other people with even less of a sense of humor. This, together with his terrible penchant for skirt chasing even those skirts he shouldn't be chasing (coughWing Commander's wifecough) is what led to his discharge and disgrace and subsequent disowning by his family after only one tour in the Middle East. He tends to see the humor in everything short of atrocity or truly dark matters, and usually has a one-liner, a quick-thinking improvisation, or an infuriating smirk to throw at a situation. He's almost as clever and charming as he thinks he is, which makes him somewhat of a pain in the ass to deal with. He makes a living as a daredevil and stuntman specialising in stunt driving and flying for air shows, TV and movies. His ability to pilot anything with wings and quite a lot of vehicles without them too provides him with a steady flow of work. He loves to fly, to show off, and to make pretty women either laugh or blush - both if he can manage it. Physically he is a roguishly handsome man, appearing to be no older than his mid twenties with bright, laughing green eyes and shoulder-length brown hair swept back rakishly . His voice, though educated, has a definite Louisiana French lilt, especially when he is being charming - or thinks he is being charming at any rate. YMMV.
  15. Tentatively proposing Jim LaHaye. Disgraced Navy pilot, daredevil, stuntman specialising in stunt driving and flying for air shows, tv and movies. Can pilot anything with wings and quite a lot of vehicles without them too. He's a golden-hearted scoundrel who in another age would be a flying ace dogfighting the Luftwaffe over London, but his gambling problem gets him into a lot of trouble. The problem isn't that he's bad at poker, it's that he's terrible at picking people to play with, tending to pick rich people with no sense of humor, who know other people with even less of a sense of humor. This, together with his terrible penchant for skirt chasing even those skirts he shouldn't be chasing (coughWing Commander's wifecough) is what led to his discharge. He tends to see the humor in everything short of atrocity or truly dark matters, and usually has a one-liner, a quick-thinking improvisation, or an infuriating smirk to throw at a situation. He's almost as clever and charming as he thinks he is, which makes him somewhat of a pain in the ass to deal with.
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