ForsakenGods:Doc Saturday

Created for the Forsaken Gods pbp by Rip van Mason

BARON SAMEDI

Doc Saturday

"My regards to Mr. Flemming, right between the eyes"

King of the Crossroads 5 (Samedi can greatly influence matters of pure chance and risky decisions, or force a decision to come upon a person, though in such circumstances, he has less control over what they pick.)

Stylish gent-about-town 4

Nzambi Witch King 3

Service 1 (At the end of the day, Samedi is not a petro loa. He reluctantly serves le Bon Deux [the Catholic God, except lazier, essentially absent and wierder]. This means he can't force a decision on someone who hasn't summoned him, can't enter a church, can't rape a virgin, must perform last rites for the dying, all that and more. Even he doesn't know if it is because he is essentially a force for good or if he is just too cowardly to rebel against his absentee landlord]

Belief: 5

Occupation: Drug-dealer. Only in the modern age can the Baron really come into his own- each time you take drugs is a crossroad, they're illegal and they're both debauched and potentially fatal. Of course, his ambitious nature is dooming him, as he moves too high up the chain on criminal enterprise, becoming distant from the aspects of the trade that realla ppeal to him. Of course, he tells the police he is a humble gravedigger, and in his get-up, what else could he be?

Realm: The House by the Crossroads. Shotgun on the wall, swamp out the back, rocking chair out the front, shrunken heads hanging off the railings, giant ominous crossroads out the front. It's always 11.59 pm Saturday there. Can be reached at that time, or from New Orleans.

Recouperating: Samedi recouperates through the morbid celebration. Why this is most perfectly found in New Orleans jazz funerals and the Mexican day of the dead, it can be anything that mixes revelry and the darkness. A drunken loud Irish wake, visiting a goth bar, watching a petro hougans rites, sex in a graveyard, cheesy cliched commercial Haloween or even joining a group of people laughing at or M3TKing a horror movie would do.

Description: I'm happy with something akin to Geoffrey Holder from Live or Let Die, really. That guy fits the classic description and looks snazzy to boot.

Motivation: Samedi only exists to help take you to the next step. He is the Devils Advocate always suggesting whats cool about the road less taken and will do anything he can to drive you into the places you wouldn't otherwise go- he offers darkness so those who chose the light can matter. That said, it doesn't mean he likes the light. It's just his job. He'll fiddle for your soul, sell you magic knives, let you raise the dead, anything to stave off your redemption by le Bon Deux or that smug snakey bastard, Damballa. Of course, he doesn't give a toss whether thats a missed turn, a divorce or an unmarked grave. Hell, he actually prefers it when it is- he is just a prick that way.

Myth: This one remembers a day, some years ago, before I got roped into da syndicate with North [Hel], South [Anubis] and East [Kali], there was this fella, Big President Borno. There suddenly appeared in the streets of Port-au-Prince a crowd of wanna-be Ghedes, looking for a bit of possession by yours truly. They were all dressed right and lordly- the tall top-hats, long black tail-coats, smoked glasses, cigarettes or cigars, and canes. An enormous crowd naturally collected about them, and joined them in their march to the National Palace. There man-magic was so good they walked right outside my place. My place! So I join the walk, though my feet be tired, and we get to the big boss house. We take the guards by surprise, and, singing, swerve throught the gates and up the drive and to the door itself, where this big fella, who was so Samedi it wasn't funny right them, demanded money of the President.

"The President is at the crossroads," he says, "it's one death or the other for him!" President Borno, he knows them words are right and true 'cause I'd crawled up his drainpipe and into his room, and was lookig right at him with my skull-eyes. Even still, he was a-scared of another godman, the Bourgeois Opinion. He fretted and umed and awed, so I leaned in and whispered thee of his past sins to him, three of his present sins to him and finally, three pieces of absolute tripe about what sins he'd commit if he didn't give up. Get two out of three right, they always buy it.

So, he finally gives in, ostensibly merely to quiet the mob, and the Ghedes with their supporters left the grounds. But the La Croix, we ahd made our point. Good ole' Doc Saturday- that's me, y'mind-, who has consumed so many heroes, bows before none and will remind even the most illustrious that one day he too will be consumed. So the Ghede all cough up some notes into a top hate, and I go off to gorge myself on cocain and rum, singing about a fiddler and his wife...