[howlinstack]

ROMANS 3:23: FOR ALL HAVE SINNED AND FALL SHORT OF THE GLORY OF GOD

THIS IS AN INDEPENDENT, SELECTIVE ELIAS STACK MOORE OF SINNERS (2025).

A TESTAMENT TO: SURVIVAL AT ALL COSTS, HOODOO AND CULTURAL ROOTS, THE CROSSROADS BARGAIN, THE BURDEN OF LOSS, RECKLESSNESS AS A SHIELD, RACISM, SYSTEMIC OPPRESSION, PROHIBITION-ERA BLACK RESILIENCE, PLAYING TO LOSE, AFRO-SOUTHERN GOTHIC, AND CONFLICTING IDENTITIES. WRITTEN BY KAI, SHE/HER, BLACK, ROLL TIDE. ICONLESS. 21+.

whiskey-stained regrets, a train pulling away, dice rolling against wood, a gun clicking empty, boots walking down a dusty road.

¹ DOSSIER. ² PINTEREST. ³ JUKE JOINT CONFESSIONS AND THE CREW @howlinsmoke, @conjurewoman, @pear1ine, @sraide

my name is kai. my pronouns are she/her. i’m of legal age / 33. central standard time. mun=/=muse, that typical statement.

01: mutuals. this space is reserved for mutuals who are 21+ only; please respect my boundaries and the intended audience for my content. personals, do not reblog. if you’re a personal blog, do not reblog my headcanons, writing, or any of my content—interracting outside these guidelines will result in being blocked. thank you for understanding!

002: additional. this muse is very plot-heavy, and this blog will reflect that focus. i’m deeply invested in character development, and my level of selectivity will reflect those priorities. i primarily follow blogs that post role-play content, headcanons, meta, and other writing-related material—i’m here to write and collaborate, first and foremost. i’m open to following both canons and ocs and welcome them with open arms.

003: blocking. i’d love to write with everyone immediately, but realistically, that’s not always possible. i’m a university professor (poli sci!) and preparing for law school, so i may be slow at times—but i will write with you! feel free to shoot me a message, and we can plot. mains get priority when it comes to replies and edits. please note that guilt trips won’t work for me. i don’t get involved in anyone’s drama—yours or others. if i don’t like something, i’ll simply unfollow or block. if it’s something genuinely horrifying or in violation of tumblr’s terms of service, i’ll report it. i fully participate in block culture, and it’s a two-way street. if you don’t like what i post, please feel free to unfollow and make yourself comfortable. simple as that.

004: banning. i don’t have any banned fandoms or faceclaims. however, i do have a personal preference not to roleplay with light-washed faceclaims, meaning i avoid canonically dark-skinned characters with faceclaims who have a lighter complexion. if a person has explicitly stated they are uncomfortable with their likeness being used in roleplay, fanfiction, or similar contexts, i will not interact with muses using their likeness. i am very mindful of the black characters i choose to follow because too often, roleplayers reduce them to harmful stereotypes or tokenistic representations. if i observe you using black face claims solely to fill a 'diversity quota' or perpetuate stereotypes, this will result in an instant block.

005: equitte roles. follow the basic roleplay rules—no godmodding, metagaming. my asks are always open if you want to chat or discuss anything. if you think my characterization is off, that’s your opinion, and i’m not here to cater to everyone’s interpretation.

[kingkravitz]

Outtakes

[deltagriot]

@howlinstack

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“ say, stack… ” i pushed through that door with my git’ar hangin loose in my hand, night air hittin' my face but ain’t doin nothin to cool me down. sweat still clung to me, but not from doing what i enjoyed doing most of all. it was from me bitin' back what i really wanted to say in there. my jaw worked like slow against my teeth, but i kept it movin'.

it was the best i could do.

i wouldn't do anything more than that because i refused to go back there and bark like some dog, just to be let in the house. fuck that.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“ we gotta find us somewhere else, man. they ain’t want no more nigga blues here. ”

[howlinstack]

the door swings back hard on its hinge when sammie pushes through. even from where he stands, stack can hear how the wood knock against the frame before it settles crooked. and stack’s already there to the side of it; his shoulder pressed into the trim like he been holdin that spot the whole time. one foot braced back against the wall, cigarette pinned loose between his fingers. he draws from it, inhales, exhales through the smoke; deep enough that the end flares bright, ember glowin sharp orange in the dark, then lets it sit in his mouth a second before pullin it back out, smoke filling the absence in the murky air.

his eyes move over sammie, noticing, eying that look in his gaze. he notices how his shirt sticks with sweat and the way his chest’s still moves as if he is holding something back. and then to his face. stack’s mouth pulls just a little at one side, something akin to rage settling in the pits of his stomach. he keeps it off his face, listens as sammie speaks.

perhaps, part of him knew how that room was gon go before sammie ever stepped in it. the kind of place it was, who stood behind that bar and the folks who got let in through the front and who didn’t, who they’d listen to and who they’d turn away once they saw you standin there holdin it yourself. stack takes another pull from the cigarette, deeper this time, holdin it in his lungs for a second before lettin it out slow through his nose, smoke curlin up past his face and stickin close. and he nods once, small in response.

but other parts, the ambitious pieces and desire for money uprooted all other thoughts and that ambition led him and sammie to this club on the outskirts of hind county. and it was dangerous too, placing sammie in that type of position. thinking before acting.

“ yeah, ” he says. “ i know. ”

he straightens off the door then, flickin what’s left of the cigarette down to the ground. he grinds it out under his boot. he twists his heel onto the tattered paper until it’s nothin but a dark smear against the concrete. his hand’s already movin before he’s fully stepped away. he reaches inside his coat and comes back with a bottle of liquor, half-finished, glass slick from the damp, the label is partially peeled. the liquor sloshes low inside when he shifts it in his grip.

his other hand dips into his pocket and comes up with a lighter, metal worn smooth at the edges. he flicks the flame on and he pulls his handkerchief from his coat and works the material down into the neck of the bottle with his fingers. he twists the fabric, so it holds tight in the glass. he glances once toward the window they just came through. the light from inside the place spills out from inside; from where he stands, he can hear the voices muffled behind the glass.

he turns then back to sammie. the fire catches quick, crawls up the fabric, and the light springs to life against the bottle. the red, orange reflects off the rings on his hand. stack does not hesitate in that aching moment, he never does. he swings high, like he throwing a damn baseball bat and lunges the bottle straight through the window. its near instantaneous, the fire spreading.

“ run, ” he is already moving ahead, anger dissolving into something catching, addictive, laughing as the sound of screams and panic vibrate through the night. he grabs catch of sammie and pulls him with him down the side of the building.

[howlinstack]

" why you lie an' tell me this git'ar charlie patton's ? smoke said it was my uncle's. "

his eyes settle on that guitar and stay there, longer than they need to. he takes in the worn edge of the body and the faint scratches along the face. he heeds the way the neck’s been held over and over again by the same hands before it ever made it to sammie. and for a second his jaw shifts, slow, like something old came up unprovoked and unexpected. he does not dwell in that emotion. he remembers it leaned up against a wall in their house; the wood was dulled from repeated use and the sound of it comin through a room that never stayed quiet long after the parties, the drunks, and the women in and out of the house.

his father’s hands on it, always rough, always careless when he wasn’t playin. always heavy and unyielding. but real careful when he was playing, like that instrument was the only thing he knew how to handle proper; only thing he cared about it. over his own sons. sometimes, he believed that. he smiles, leans back against the chair. the kind of grin that don’t slip even when he’s bendin the truth, eyes back on sammie like none of the memories, the stiffness in his limbs when he thinks too hard, passed through him at all. unbothered in the shift into the present.

smoke woulda said it plain, told sammie the damn truth. always do. couldn't hold ice water for a man with little words. “ smoke talk too damn much, ” he says, his voice was low, drawl sittin natural in the veins of his words, in the warmth and the musicality of the delta. “ man don’t know when to leave somethin be. ” he does not know how to explain why he lied, for a man who plucks words out of thin air and nothingness and makes shit happen time and time again; so he lies again. “ patton sound better, ” he goes on, easy off the tongue. “ ya tell folks it belong to him, folks want to listen. ” stack makes it sound like a business decisions.

@deltagriot

[howlinstack]

"elias."

the name settles in the back corners of his brain. yet, he don’t freeze on it. instead, he decides to lean into something else entirely, straightening up where he stands, rolls his shoulders back as if he is settling into a version of himself that always fits better when somebody tries to pull him somewhere he ain’t goin. the world is his stage. his hand comes up to smooth the front of his coat. he presses it flat over his chest, fingers brushes once along the chain there like it’s second-nature and not somethin he’s thinkin on. and by the time he looks at her proper that grin is already in place. the edges, corners of his mouth appear easy and practiced to the eyes. sittin’ just off to the side of his mouth like he’s been carryin it all day, dimple flashing.

smoke built himself different, one woman, one life, held tight and tied down, damn near pussy whipped if you asked stack. he never saw the point in lockin’ himself down like that. really never saw what you get outta it that you can’t get easier somewhere else, from the whores up and down the goddamn mississippi river, the married men hiding behind their secrets, and the women willing to spread their legs for the right phrase, a fun time.

he had never been the type to tie himself to one person and stay there, not when the world’s as wide as it is. but he knows annie. not just as smoke’s woman, but as herself, the way she stands her ground without raising her voice. and the way she don’t budge, quiver just because somebody else tries to take control of the room. the way she listens all the way through before she speaks and don’t let nobody rush her past what she’s already decided, and he respects that. imagine those are qualities his mother would have had.

but they ain’t always got along, butting heads and never meeting eye to eye. audible, knowledgeable even in how she’d look at him when @howlinsmoke made a choice she didn’t agree with, like some of it traced back to stack whether he had a hand in it or not (though most times he did). and he’d argue back, he never could control his mouth; does not intend to learn that ability anytime soon. because the longest he’d ever been away from his brother outside the womb was them years, stretches spent in the dust of arkansas. all that could be traced back to an argument, a fight, to put it mildly, that damn near torn them from the root. first time, his brother rose a hand to him.

“ sayin my gov’ment name all proper like, ” he says, that grin pulling a little wider, eyes on her, “ must mean i’m in trouble again. what are the charges, ms. annie? ”

@conjurewoman

[howlinsmoke]

@howlinstack | young smokestack.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“ boy, you cain't write fo' shit. who this for? a drunk? a redneck? i can understan' beau's chinese more than whatever the fuck you got on paper. how mama mattie suppose to read this if i cain't? ”

[howlinstack]

the rain leaks through the loose boards overhead. it drips down in uneven spots and hits the warped wood floor and leaves dark circles on the floor. the room smells like mildew and what mama mattie would describe as outside. there’s a single window, cracked just enough to let in a strip of gray light, delta dust sits thick along the sill. stack’s hunched over the table and has one hand holding the paper steady while the other moves the pencil, pressing hard, dragging it slow, graphite near ripping through the page.

the page is already worn, edges bent, lines crossing over each other where he didn’t bother erasing. fuck it. he looks up when his older brother starts in, lifts the pencil and taps it once against the page before leaning back a little, chair creaking under him. “ fuck you, nigga. she ain’t readin this no how. and maybeee, you just don't know howda read. ” he balls up the paper, smudging graphite and paper and all; and tosses it at smoke's head. it runs under everything he’s doin, in the way he writes too hard, talks too fast, like if he slow down even a second he might have to think too much.

[howlinstack]

11.     entry made discussing their fears and anxieties. 

ain’t been keepin’ up with writin’ like i said i would. don’t know who this for. maybe nobody gunna read it. if it ever do end the way they say it will. got my boots wet through and my socks too. can feel it in my bones now. like it done settled in an made a home in my body. i don’t like sleepin no more. every time i close my eyes it feel like i ain’t comin back out of it. like somethin gon happen the second i let go.

they call it fightin for they war but we signed up thinkin there was somethin better on the other side of it. somethin that ain’t look like what we left behind out here, all you see is mud and bodies and men that ain’t gettin back up.

i ain’t scared of dyin like that. out here.

i’m scared of smoke dyin and me still breathin after. what if i turn and he ain’t there no more

— stack

[nikredd]

I'mma need you to show some respect. - Cornbread

Yeah, well, fuck your wife, too. - Stack Moore

Sinners 2025 movie

[yearningforunity]

Chitterlings, fish and sugar cane on street in Negro Section, Clarksdale, Mississippi Delta; On a Saturday afternoon, November 1939.

Wolcott, Marion Post -- Photographer.

[howlinsmoke]

@howlinstack || unprompted.

ash flicked to the ground while the devil beat his wife somewhere earlier that afternoon. the light pitter of rain didn’t suit his habit, but smoke made do all the same. it was short-lived. he crushed what remained of the cigarette in his palm, turning his back to the street just as a truck eased into the alley behind him.

he was half-man in the light for a moment—then gone, swallowed whole by shadow as he stepped deeper between the storefront and the apartment building. damp brick pressed in on either side. no lights. stray cats slipping between refuse. the air carried nothing but old rain and the sour funk of somebody who used to call this place shelter.

the sooner this moved, the better. the truck settled. its engine died slow. when the back doors opened, silhouettes spilled into view—men he knew by their shape before their face. their own. but one stood apart. familiar. he knew that frame like he knew his own shadow.

stack. thought he might've caught a brief glint of his gold grill it was all darkness again. smoke gave him a brief nod, nothing, more, already looking past him—eyes landing on the crates stacked behind him, measuring weight, count, possibility. endless possibilities. that right there, if it was what he imagined, was their tools to accumulating power.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❝ i see the deal went through then. ❞ there wasn’t no pleasure in it. dealing with folks he ain’t know too well never sat right with him. stack had pushed for it—said it was better for the plan. maybe it was. smoke still ain’t like it. it took some doing to get him to step back. took more to let his brother handle it alone.

but here they was.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❝ you brought us enough pepper to season dem peckerwoods just right, i imagine. what we workin' wit'? ❞

[howlinstack]

the truck idles for a few seconds before he cuts the engine, leaving only the sound of the city bouncing in his ears. chicago is all brick and steel packed tight along the streets, no room to move, no room to breathe, no room to take a shit. he recalls asking his brother how it was possible for so many people to be living on one little block, packed in like sardines in a can.

the streetlamps cast light that barely reaches past the curb, everything is always dreary and dark, a stark difference to the delta he left miles back. the storefront windows on this side of the town are dark or shuttered from viewing. the smoke from factory stacks hangs low, making the air thick and muddled with the changes of time going through the city. but even underneath what they callin' industrialization in the papers, this place is just mississippi with taller buildings and more bodies, more deals, more deliveries in the dark. more trouble too. but for him and his twin, that just mean more dollars to make.

stack steps down from the truck with a smooth, effortlessly practiced ease, his boots hitting the ground clean, polished leather already catching the rain along the toe, water begins to gather along the edge before slipping off. the rest of him just as put together. he wears a dark wool overcoat cut that is close through the shoulders, the material was heavy, expensive, falls straight down his frame without pulling or bunching in excess. underneath it he dons a well-tailored suit in a deep charcoal, close enough to black it alters shading in the low light, the jacket fitted through the waist, sleeves ending right at the wrist to show a crisp white cuff, shirt pressed, collar open just enough to show a gold chain resting flat against his chest.

there are gold rings across his fingers, across both hands even, a few he stole off a white man back in oxford. he is never subtle about his image, his jewelry; one heavier than the others, catching light when his hand shifts under the streetlight. unlike his brother, he frequently talks with his hands. there is a confidence in his shoulders, bolstered and set, perhaps loud in the way he carries it, he looks like his brother but the frame of it etches differently to the eye of an observer. cocky in place of conviction, almost to a point where it oozes, slides off his demeanor in waves.

the crates behind him are stacked high against the brick, shoulder to shoulder, taller than a man when you look at them straight on. there are no hired extra hands out there, just the two of them because too many eyes meant too many damn mouths. inside them boxes, the packing was tightly wrapped, straw and cloth wrapped around pieces that were never designed and meant for this type of street work. the scent of metal and oil still apparent through the wrappings.

these were long rifles built for the trenches. back in the trenches with the bullets audible over overhead. cutting through air close enough to hear it pass, close enough to feel the heat and smell the death, his heart hitting hard against his ribs while he kept low as instructed, the dirt packed into his already tattered uniforms. caked german soil under his nails, so thick he felt like he was drowning in it and the vomit and the blood and the shit and the sick. there were rats darting along the edges of it, through the boards, so fat he wondered if they ate off the corpses of the men he met in training and the men on the other side of the no man's land. he hates the sight of em scurrying around now. and smoke was always there, right beside him, close enough that he didn’t have to look to know it, moving when he moved. like a mirror all backwards.

that infamous grin pulling just a little wider at the corner of his mouth, flashing a dimple or two, head tilted like smoke already knows the answer and just wants to hear him say it. “ i ain't come back light. we got all we need, plus mo. ” he says, that drawl sitting thick, words rolling slow like he got all the time in the world. “ long rifles, straight out what they was usin’ overseas, same make, ” he goes on, “ handguns, heavy ones too, not that cheap shit. ”

[0008753]

DEAR  DIARY          .    .    .

[  *  ]      writing prompt      )         :           send a number  1 - 20  to take a closer look inside this characters mind and life.        /        below you will find a series of various prompts offering a look inside what would be diary    /    journal entries from different moments throughout their life;       the good,       the bad,      and the ugly        these are meant to invoke character development     &     can also be altered as seen fit to better suit the character in question.         

01.     the first entry they ever made. 02.     entry made on the best night of their life. 03.     entry made on the worst night of their life. 04.     entry made after experiencing a nightmare. 05.     entry made after experiencing heartbreak. 06.     entry made discussing travel they’ve done or hope to do. 07.     entry made featuring an important moment in their life. 08.     entry made featuring their day    /    night at work. 09.     entry made discussing their school day(s). 10.     entry made featuring mention of death. 11.     entry made discussing their fears and anxieties.  12.     entry made discussing their hopes and dreams. 13.     entry made featuring mention of (sender’s) muse.  14.     entry made featuring mention of their parents. 15.     entry made featuring desire. 16.     entry made featuring anger. 17.     entry made featuring joy. 18.     entry made featuring sadness. 19.     entry made featuring pain. 20.     entry made discussing a childhood memory. 21.     entry made talking about a simple    /   normal day. 22.     the last entry they ever made.

[howlinstack]

♰  verse — modern  verse

he owns one of the largest record companies in the world, SMOKE ENTERTAINMENT, named after his brother; it's structured like a full entertainment umbrella, label, management, publishing, touring, brand deals, film placements, everything tied together so artists come in for music and end up tied into multiple streams of income and visibility, etc, etc.

the public face is a handful of executives and industry names who handle interviews and press, while the actual ownership is buried under layered things like contracts and legal structures that do not lead back to him on paper, even though he is the one at the top making final decisions. when stack is present in those spaces, it’s under other names, as someone who looks like he belongs there without being questioned.

the  roster  is  built  in  tiers,  major  artists  who  carry  the  brand  publicly,  charting  acts  who  stay  in  rotation,  and  even newer  artists  developed  over  time  through  features and curated  appearances.  there  are  rappers,  r&b  artists,  producers  tied  directly  to  the  label,  writers  who  shape  multiple  projects  behind  the  scenes.   

there  are  also  athletes  and  public  figures  tied  into  management  deals,  extending  the  company  beyond  music  into  sports  and  branding,  with  crossover  deals  that  keep  everything  connected  under  one  system.   the  conspiracy  talk  follows  the  company  constantly,  people  online  picking  apart  visuals,  lyrics,  branding,  looking  for  patterns,  claiming  industry  control,  hidden  leadership,  secret  influence  over  who  rises  and  who  disappears,  and  the  “illuminati”  label  gets  attached  to  it  the  same  way  it  does  to  any  entity  with  that  level  of  reach  and  coordination.  especially  after  the  collaboration  with  roc  nation  and  lebron  james, of all people. but also at the same time, the reddit and twitter conspiracy theories are not completely off basis. 

[howlinstack]

a slaughterhouse, a killing floor

basics legal  name:  elias  moore alias:  stack other  names:  baby  brother  (used  by  smoke only) gender:  cis-male  (he/him) sexuality:  bisexual;  attracted  to  all  genders,  no  preference.  best described as a very  sexual  person.   he  doesn’t  treat  attraction  differently  based  on  gender  and  doesn’t  limit  himself.  if  he’s  interested,  he  acts  on  it  without  hesitation.  attraction  comes  easy  for  him,  but  actual  attachment  is  a  lot  harder  for  him  to  form. parents: their  dad  was  a  blues  guitarist  out  of  clarksdale,  mississippi,  played  small  joints  and  back  rooms,  he never  really  stayed  in  one  place  too  long  unless  the  money  was there. never had too much of that.  their  mom  was  from  selma,  alabama. date  of  birth:  june 26th, 1932, verse dependent; gemini age:  early 30s  at  time  of  turning;  physically  unchanged  thereafter birthplace:  clarksdale, mississippi;  raised  in  an  environment  that was shaped by racial  violence,  and  control

family:  smoke  (twin  brother);  father  deceased  (killed  by  smoke);  adoptive  household  (mixed-race  woman, irene,   and  her  daughter  mary) military  service:  world  war  i  veteran occupation:  former  soldier;  bootlegger  and  enforcer  for  the  chicago  outfit  under  johnny  torrio  and  al  capone;  rogue  operator  post-departure;  co-owner  of  the  smokestack  juke  joint, pimp, selling ass in little rock

residents:  childhood  home  in  clarksdale, mississippi;  various  temporary  housing  during  chicago  years  tied  to  outfit  activity;  smokestack  juke  joint  (primary  base  of  operations);  post-turning  locations  transient,  he does  not  establish  permanence; arkansas for a bit but who wants to go to arkansas willingly; legal  status:  historically  tied  to  organized  crime  operations;  no  formal  record  reflecting  post-turning  existence affiliations:  smoke;  mary;  sammie;  chicago  outfit  (former);  remmick  (post-turning  influence)

physical  exam facial  features:  near-identical  resemblance  to  smoke,  though  expression  shifts  the  perception;  features  settle  into  something  more  open  at  rest,  which  allows  people  to  misread  him  on  first  contact. body  type:  lean  muscle,  built  through  labor  and  conflict; distinguishable  marks:  it varies  by  verse;  post-turning  presentation  remains  largely  preserved  from  time  of  death. height:  approx.  6’2” weight:  approx.  210  lbs

mental  evaluation mental  illnesses:  his behavioral  patterns  align  with  trauma-adapted  responses  formed  through  early  exposure  to  violence and  prolonged  engagement  in  criminal  environments.

psychological  profile:  he  lies  with  intention,  selecting  information  based  on  what  maintains  his  position,  and  withholds  just  enough  to  keep  control  of  the  interaction.  but also truth  is  used  the  same  way,  offered  when  it  benefits  him. period.

the  bond  between  the  brothers  is  built  through  shared  survival,  through  a  childhood  where  violence  was  CONSTANT,  and  that  shared  foundation  keeps  them  aligned  even  when  their  methods  tend  to  split  or  divide.  sometimes,  they  rely  on  each  other  in  a  way  that  limits  independence,  it  gives  toxic  co-dependency.  there  is  loyalty  present,  but  it  does  not  prevent  manipulation  or  conflict,  and  the  bond  between  them  often  reinforces  behavior  that  is  damaging  to  both  of  them  instead  of  challenging  it.

smoke  kind  of  put  himself  in  that  protector  role  early  on,    because  stack  was  the  one  taking  most  of  the  abuse  from  their  father. because their  mom  dies  giving  birth  to  stack,  and  their  father  blames  him  for  it,  which  is  where  that  split  starts,  where  stack  becomes  the  one  who  gets  targeted  and  smoke  becomes  the  one  who  steps  in.

so  from  the  beginning,  smoke  handles  things  directly,  steps  in  without  asking,  makes  decisions  fast,  because  to  him  that’s  what  keeping  stack  alive  looks  like,  and  he  doesn’t  question  it,  he  just  keeps  doing  it.

and  stack  grows  up  inside  that,  used  to  being  protected  but  also  used  to  being  controlled,  so  instead  of  pushing  back  outright,  he  learns  how  to  move  around  it,  how  to  get  what  he  wants  without  setting  smoke  off  or  forcing  a  confrontation.

habits  &  lifestyle daily  routine:  there’s  no  real  set  schedule for a daily routine,  his  days  before  the  juke  joint  move  around  whatever  work  needs  doing,  running  liquor,  handling  people,  showing  up  where  he’s  expected  and  leaving  when  he’s  not. diet  &  nutrition:  southern  cooking,  fried  catfish,  collard  greens  cooked  slow and turnips, cabbage,  cornbread,  pig-feet, pig-ears, smothered  pork  chops,  black-eyed  peas,  rice  and  gravy,  sweet  tea,  and  after  turning, ALL  of  that takes a backseat  and  gets  replaced  by  blood; exercise  habits:  stays  in  shape  through  work,  through  fighting.

grooming  habits:  he  cares  about  how  he  looks  and  puts  time  into  it. he  likes  dressing  up  when  the  setting  calls  for  it,  clean  lines,  well-fitted  pieces,  something  that  stands  out  without  looking  forced. this  carries  over  to  smoke,  who  he  regularly  steps  in  for,  picking  out  clothes,  fixing  details,  making  sure  he  looks  put  together,  because  left  on  his  own  smoke  would  not  put  the  same  care  into  it; would be raggedy, honey, without stack. substance  use:  drinks  when  he’s  in  it,  especially  around  music  and  crowds,  whiskey,  whatever’s  being  poured,  and  smokes  when  it’s  around,  weed.  none  of  any  of  that  does  anything  now  that  he  is  dead. sleep  patterns:  after  turning  his sleep  locks  into  daylight  hours,  with  full  activity  at  night.

personal  aesthetic:  flashy and well-dressed, puts real thought into what he wears and how it comes together, tailored pieces, clean fits, fabrics that look expensive without a label to say it but also does not give quiet wealth; we do not have time for that nonsense, jewelry that stands out in a crowd, rings, chains, watches, accessorizing to the gods. favorite  books:  not  something  he  spends  time  on,  more  likely  to  pick  things  up  from  people,  from  listening,  from  being  in  the  middle  of  it. favorite  music  genres:  blues,  early  jazz,  later  southern  soul,  rap,  hip  hop  as  different  genres  emerged.

[howlinstack]

WANTED, BY ORDER OF THE STATE OF MISSISSIPPI

this  is  a  dual  promo  for  independent,  private  portrayals  of  elijah  ‘smoke’  moore  and  elias  ‘stack’  moore.  twin  brothers,  gangsters,  WW1 war  veterans,  and  bootleggers  based  in  1930s  mississippi.  STACK  works  the  front;  smooth  talker,  con  man.  SMOKE  handles  the  back;  quiet,  calculating,  with  a  temper  that  burns  slow  and  deadly. promo template credit.

i  got  to  keep  movin’,  got  to  keep  movin’.  blues  fallin’  down  like  hail. heavy,  relentless,  won’t  let  up.  blues  fallin’  down  like  hail.  hmm-mmm.  it  don’t  stop.  it  don’t  ease.  the  days  keep  worryin’  me  like  a  dog  gnawin’  bone.  and  somewhere  just  behind  me,  always  close,  always  breathin’  down  my  neck; there’s  a  hellhound  on  my  trail.  hellhound  on  my  trail.  hellhound  on  my  trail.

REWARD: $500 FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO THEIR ARREST. ANONYMOUS TIPS ACCEPTED. CONTACT SHERIFF’S OFFICE, COAHOMA COUNTY.