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Charlie Bishop

"Oi, what the fuck you lookin' at, bitch?!"

0 · 250 views · located in Li'l ol' planet Earth: 1990s

a character in “Good Evening, Monsters.”, as played by Averagebear





Full name: Nadia "Charlie" Charlotte Bishop
Race: One fine and dandy human dudette, mother fucker.
Age: 31


Height and Weight: I'm a shot little shit, standing at an oh-so ferocious 5 foot even. I eat like a fatass, a diet consisting of mostly cheetos, beer, poptarts, pizza rolls, and cocacola. Now, listen, you can't expect a woman of my age to eat the way I do and it not to show up- that's just not fair. I'm just about thirty, so in my opinion, I'm allowed to wither away into a fat lard hole. I'm 131 pounds, alright? Is that a problem?! Baby got back, bitch. My doctor says that my weight is on the larger scale of average which is peaches and flowers with me. Call me fat and I'll laugh in your face before spitting on it, because I'm not. Goddamn... -mumble mumble grumble burp-

Complexion: Mildly dark, I guess. I'm mixed, complete with a light brown skin tone

Body Type/Health: Jesus fucking Christ, what is this? The Spanish Inquisition? I never claimed to be Little Miss Perfect Pretty Pipping Riding Locks, did I? 'Cos I don't recall that. I've got long arms and legs, toned and muscular from all the work I do- very smooth, very sexy- but I've got pudge on my stomach and... a rather large ass. I'm on the itty bitty titty committee, too; still an A cup. Mum still claims I'll "grow into my figure". Still. After 20 years of waiting, I'm pretty sure I'll have the boobs of a 12 year old boy for life. It doesn't matter though; I'm a mechanic, not a fuckin' model. "Pear shaped" is what they call it. Furthermore, I've got a partially prosthetic leg. Caughtcha with that one, didn't I? Most people don't even notice it's there.

Facial features: "You could be so beautiful, Nadia" mum always says. My response? "It's Charlie, mum. Charlie." I guess I have an alright face. It's too feminine for my liking, because it always meant being underestimated or taken as "girly". I've got naturally refined eyebrows (I'd kill myself before I plucked 'em) and a squarish jaw. Tiny ears, I got. Something considerably more flashy is the gap between my two front teeth. A lot of people recommend me to dentist who could fix it up for cheap, as if it's some disgusting trait, but I like it. I like it a lot, actually. It really screams "CHARLIE'S HERE!", ya know? I like to show off my gap, but I'm rarely friendly enough to smile, so it's a pretty big dilemma. My eyebrows are black 'cause that's my natural hair color and they never match the hair atop my head anymore since I dye it so much.

Distinguishing marks: My hands are all scratched up from burns and cuts through my profession. I've got a little chunk of my left ear missing, too, from a time I was snipping away at my hair and accidentally cut it.

Apparent Temperament: Bad ass as shit, man. I'm reaaal casual, slouchy and loose in the joints- like I really don't give a fuck- 'cause I don't. I'm usually smacking on chewing gum or anything else I can find to keep my mouth runnin' when I ain't blabberin'. I kinda stomp around rather than tip toe like a princess, showin' who's in charge from the first sight of me. This might also have something to do with my prosthetic leg, but I like to think it doesn't. I'm confident. My boyfriend says cocky, but maybe that's just because he's lackin' a little from that department, knowwhatI'msayin'? Hahahaha, bloody hell, I'm hilarious. Naw, I'm kiddin'. He's got a huge dick.

Everyone tells me my face looks mad, like I'm ready to pounce on ya' at any given moment. Maybe I am. It's like my default expression is "For the love of God, don't fuck around with me right now." but it can easily switch from that to "Nanny nanny boo boo, I just called you a pussy and I bet you're not gonna fight me back because you are one." Impish. Matches my height. Sometimes I like to pretend I'm a little demon, prodding at people with a searing hot poker and laughin' about it.

Hair and eyes: My eyes are hazel. It's pretty common so don't get your panties in a bunch about how "rare" they are. The only thing that might make them a little bit special is the fact that my skin's so dark to match it. I just hate it when people walk up to me all like "Your eyes are so gorgeous" 'cause I don't like to lie and I don't like when others lie to me. Too much bullshit in this world we live in. At the moment, my hair is a bright teal color. It may be partial to change.

Casual wardrobe: Oversize flannel shirts (typically Mark's - he's the boyfriend with the big dick I was talking about) conceal my figure perfectly, but when I'm working in the garage I've been known to tear them off once they're sweat drenched and I'm ready to faint, stripping into a sports bra or tank top.. I usually tuck the shirts into grease stained denim shorts- perhaps a bit too short to be appropriate but, ah, to hell with it. I wear longish socks underneath my signature black combat boots which stop mid calf. They're the only shoes I own (and I've had 'em for years now) so it's either that or barefoot. I have an average wardrobe, all grungy and boyish. Sometimes fishnets. Sometimes jeans. Sometimes a leather jacket. Sometimes scarves. It depends on the weather and my mood. I don't know. Perhaps the only choosably girly thing about me are my nails, which I paint and file and decorate as if they're my religion. Picked up the habit from my mum. You break my nail and I swear to god, you'll regret it.

ACTION TIME wardrobe: Welp, the same, I guess. I'm only one girl. I ain't gotta alter ego or somethin'. No Superman to this Clark Kent, I'm afraid. When doing more... seedier jobs, if you will, I'll wear black pants and a black shirt instead of the usual spark of color I got goin' on, but that's about it.

Etc: I've got a butt-ton of piercings. While I've done just about everything you can get pierced before, what I have studded or ringed depends on the day. Ask me if it hurt and I guarantee I'll punchya and ask you right back. I like to stand out in a crowd and I'm pretty sure I do. My mum hates the way I dress- says I should be wearin' baby mama dresses by my age- that all my friends are going on their second and third children by now (not to mention that it might finally get me some knockers). 'Tells me I should "grow up". That's somethin' I'll never do, let me tell you right this instant. Growing up means getting boring and getting boring means being bad at whatcha do. I happen to be an expert in my class, thankyouverymuch. I don't plan on that changing. I pay my bills, I wash my clothes and dishes (for the most part), I have a steady (...for the most part) relationship, I'd say that's just about as "adult" as I'll ever get.


I'm Jesus reincarnated, no fuckin' joke. Too much? No such thing. In case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly the most conventional of gals. I'm loud, rude, aggressive, cynical, and obnoxious. It's like I don't know what manners are, I'm told- like I've never heard of decency. I'm the type of girl to devour chicken wing after chicken wing and guzzle down soda like some sort of savage beast, smacking my lips and belching like a man. I'm the type of girl you'd try to steer clear from if you saw me walking down the isle in the grocery store. Bad news. That's all I am. I'm hard to please and even harder to get to be serious, my assholish sarcasm dripping from every orifice in my body constantly. One positive (potentially) thing about me is that I'm very consistent in my douchebaggery- fuck, that's gross. No, but seriously. What you're getting from me is the same thing everyone else is getting from me. I don't contain my award winning personality for no one, not my boss, not my mum, not an old lady, not a baby, not my boyfriend- it doesn't matter. Why should I change myself for your benefit, ya know? Perhaps that's another thing to be noted: I'm really self involved. Conceited, though not quite vein and not exactly oblivious, I will easily praise myself while still leaving in room for a good deal of self loathing too. Funny how that works, huh?

I don't know, man. I didn't ask to be this way. I didn't wake up and say, "You know what, Charlie. You should be a huge, dykey bitch to everyone today. Yeah, that's a really good idea." I just am. It's like where everyone else is filtered, clean bottled water, I'm the stuff that comes outta the hose, rust and dirt and all. I'd like to think I was authentic, but I'm just kiddin' myself. I know how awful I am, I really do. I'd apologize for it if I gave a shit about other people's feelings. I hurt someone? My response is, "Stop being a pussy." I see everything through weed tinted glasses. Not, like, the stuff you smoke. The stuff you pull out of gardens. The antonym for roses. What I'm trying to say is I'm a real Debbie Downer. My attitude sucks, and I'm never very happy. I see it as realism. Others see it as cynicism. Perhaps it's all the same.

I'm attention seeking but in the worst way possible- the violent, crude way. I just love to have eyes crawling all over me, but it's almost like I'd rather them be judging me than admiring. I love to push other people's buttons and making people mad. Gluttonous, too. I can never have enough of somethin' I like. This mixed with my stubbornness is one hell of a nasty mix. It's almost impossible to get me to stop doin' something once I've started. If I were to do drugs- not bud, but like, hardcore drugs- I'd be a goner for sure. I've got one of those "addictive" personalities. Even to people, sometimes. Like Mark, my boyfriend. When he's away from me, I get realll grouchy. I don't mind leavin' him, say when I go off on a mission, but I cannot stand to think of him ditchin' me for somethin' better. I always gotta win, I guess. Even when there's no competition, I always gotta win. I'm a thrill seeker. There's always gotta be something happening, and hopefully something interesting, or else I'll go insane.

I'm anything but forgettable, and I'm never shy. I can't think of a single time in my lifetime I've stammered out a reply, downcast my eyes with nervousness. I've never really had that inhibition everyone else seems to. If I want something, I work for it with every drop of energy I have. If I think something, I say it. I might hold onto the truth sometime, or keep in unnecessary feelings, but I ain't a liar. That's another thing you know for sure, I try to live with honesty. I'm honest to myself and those around me. Of course, there are some things I just can't say. Like, I'm not gonna tell a five year old about his birthday party in my quest to be truthful, and if I'm contractually obliged to zip my lips, I'll find a way to avoid answering tricky questions, but I'm not gonna straight lie to you. Especially if I don't got a good reason for it. Boy scout's honor.

I am pretty smart, but you wouldn't guess it. Well, I'm smart when it comes to what I do. Ask me about math or science, even about Moby Dick and I'd probably think you were coming on to me. I mean, I'm not entirely emotionless and hard. I cry how a normal person would- real tears from real eyes. I worry. I spend nights staring at the stars and thinking, "I love him so damn much." I'm only human, right? I might be a little bit different, but I'm still mostly the same.

Speech: In Grenada, they speak English. Rather quaint English, actually, infused with a bit of French, British, and African accentuation. My mum was straight from London, so the other two are much more diluted in my case. Furthermore, I live in Canada (and have for 20 years now) so I'm afraid to say that's rubbed off on me, too. God, who knows what my accent is. It's about as messy as I am. One thing's for sure, I'm especially fluent in profanity. I may sound like the princess of England, but damnshittits, I swear like an American sailor. My voice is husky and noticeably so. It's from years upon years of smoking. Smoke, smoke, smoke. Can't stop, doubt I ever will. Everything I say usually sounds like a complaint, accusation, or insult in tonation. This is because that's mostly everything I say period. -cheeky grin-

Pet Peeves: This'd be a long one if I really went through with it. Uhhh, mass genocide. What? That's too big of an offense to count as a "pet peeve"? Oy, well... fuck you. It bugs the shit outta me when someone sings with the radio. Actually, when anybody does. It's like, just let me hear the damn artist sing it, you know? I don't need to hear your interpretation of it. Oh, this is a big one- calling me Nadia. If ya ain't my mum (who refuses to call me Charlie like every other schmuck on the planet), I'll knock your teeth out. Even Charlotte is pushing it. If I've ever told you my name, I've told you to call me Charlie. Calling me anything else is like walkin' all over me. No one walks over me. How about this lil doozy! Leavin' cans of perfectly good beverages goods just sprawling about, half emptied. What the fuck is that? Who drinks half a beer and then leaves it? I'll tell you who- Mark Lange. I swear I'm gonna kill him one day. Don't waste my money, how about that as a pet peeve?! Oh yeah, and never insult my work. So much as criticize any of my mechanical concoctions and then you'll really get to know me personally. In the worst way possible. Fuckin' bastards, man...


Pager: Nifty lil' piece of shit, ain't it? I swear, I could come up with so many better ways to contact a person than a pager. I have to have one outta necessity, though.
Guns: That's right ladies and gentlemen, I just so happen to be rather savvy with a deadly hunk of metal, and I'm very precise with its exploding shrapnel. -charming smile- I'm a machine gun kinda gal (the best kind there are), plain and simple. I have been known to dabble in grenade launchers here and there, but that's the extent of my aptitude. Shall I go down the list? Take a look at my wares. I took your average joe guns and vamped- well, not vamped... hate those bloodsuckers- pimped them out myself. They're all perfectly unique.
QBB-95: This here's my newborn baby and preferred weapon of choice. Just thinkin' about her brings an invisible tear to my eye. She's a super lightweight machine gun and just came out a couple years ago so she's brrraaand new. Fuck yeah.

Spectre M4: Got him back in the eighties. He's gettin' old, but as a submachine gun, I'd like to think he's still got this groove. Joy to use, really. Lots of good memories with 'im.

SAW 19AA Grenade Launcher Tactical Machine Gun: WIth this, I combined two great things to make it greater. It's like fried dough and oreos. It just works. Don't use her so much since she's so heavy but when the right time comes, she's big with her effects too.

Of course I got more to show, but I'll stop the tour here so you can drag yourself outta here within this millennium. I never have one of my guns too far from me, with me on every trip I take.
Cars: Maybe I shoulda said somethin' about this sooner, but my ride is kinda... intense. A rusty, red pick up truck on the outside, a high tech killin' and luxury machine on the inside. I've got a ton of extra features back into Betty - that's her name- such as... retractable machine guns. Did you expect anything less? I mean, really? I even got a spritzer button for the hotter days. There's only room for three in the front, but then there's a back seat that can hold another three and THEN there's the whole back of the truck for any cargo/people who can't fit/I won't let in my ride. I've also got a ton of other nifty cars, but I prefer Betty.


Favorite color: Amber's a nice color. I like it. It's warm and inviting. I can smell cinnamon and orange zest when I look at it. It's gotta sound weird to you, but then again, you're probably a dickhole sooo...

Hobbies: Being a BAMF, being awesome, looking cool, doing cool things, kicking ass, ass kickery... Yeah. Of course, I like to fix things- like, machines and things. From household repairs to automobile problems to automatic weaponry to computers... I like usin' my hands to make things come to life, ya know? I also like veggin' on the couch and watchin' TV but who doesn't?

  • being a mechanic
  • cigarettes
  • myself
  • instigating
  • guns
  • junk food
  • horror movies
  • my gap
  • thrills
  • Grenada
  • Mark

  • my prosthetic leg
  • orders/commands
  • myself
  • being called Nadia or Charlotte
  • wasting money
  • you
  • vampires
  • boredom
  • Mark
  • sweat

Fears: I ain't afraid of nothin'. I mean, I got this teensy lil' problem with... er... you know... vampires. Alright, don't wet your trousers with excitement, thinkin' "Oh, messin' with her'll be fun! Hiss, hiss, I'm a blood sucker of the night!" I have to deal with them relatively frequently, so it's not like I shake with terror or run away when I see them or even acknowledge my fear at all. They just... unsettle me. Come on, don't act like they're not weird. And they smell like shit! How does everyone seem to miss that part? S-H-I-T, guys.

Agenda: A hunger for adventure and excitement motivates me. I need thrill to survive. Without it, I start witherin' away. I get antsy when things stay normal for too long. I'm not normal in the least, so I try to surround myself with things that make me at least feel like I am. Of course, there's also my loved ones but perhaps they're not my main motive 'cause I've sure done a lot in my lifetime to hurt them. I'll easily sacrifice them for the feeling of unpredictability- like a quick fix. I'm selfish that way. I'm selfish in a lot of ways. I'm sorry for it, but I don't' aim to change it. Again- selfishness. My spontaneity will be the death of me, I swear.

What guarantees the fact that you'll stick around?: Ok, this is gonna sound stupid as hell, but Ebenezer, bodily voice that he is, has ... kinda become a father figure to me. Yeah, fuck you! See, this is why I don't say shit like this, fuckin' looking at me like that. Jesus fucking Christ, it's not like I said somethin' really crazy... -mumbles obscenities- I've been workin' with Eb for a couple years now, and one day in a drunken stupor when Mark was off on "business" (he's a fedex guy- how romantic), I called him up. I mostly called to holler "Fuck you, old man! You aint even gotta body! I mean, maybe you do, but... you never show it ta no one... so ... FUCK YOU!" which I look back on and laugh at. But to my surprise, Abe just... talked to me. Just listened. Ain't that quaint, huh? Inevitably, he filled up that daddy gap that had been empty for years now right quick. It kinda makes sense that Eb would, being that my dad was a dictator, he's a... what the fuck is he? I stick to calling him a boss man but all I know is that he, like, runs things. He's a nice guy. I'm faithfully loyal to him. Remember that "addictive" personality thing I was talkin' about earlier?? Yeah.

Day job: Damn right I have a job! I'm a mechanic, and a damned good one. I used to work for a guy named Bert and "Cars n Things", but now I'm able to run my own little shop from the money I saved up. It's called Get Sht Fixed. Can you believe I got away with that name? Hahaha.

Where they hail from: Originally from Grenada, now situated in Bumfuck Nowhere, Canada.

How they became what they are: I am the daughter of Maurice Bishop and Angela Redhead. Doesn't ring a bell? It figures. My father was only the Prime Minister of Grenada. What? Never heard of Grenada before? Oh, you know, it's the island country the United States imperialised in the 1980's? Just north of Venezuela? No takers?! Still doesn't ring a bell, does it? I'd expect not. They like to keep the blissful ignorant. Or is it the other way around? Who fucking cares. In any case, my story inevitably starts before my time, back to my ancestors before me. My father was born and raised in Grenada, but he moved to London to get his degree in law where he began to fight for the black power movement. It was in this time that he met one Angela Redhead- a poised white woman who was fighting ferociously for the same movement despite her skin tone. They were soon married and popping children. In fact, nine months after their marriage they birthed Nadia Charlotte Bishop, who would later name herself Charlie (That's me! Smile for the camera, baby Charlie!) The two "love struck activists", my mother's words, not mine, moved back to Grenada where my father got deeply involved in politics.

In 1979 when I was but the wee, tender age of 13, my father started a revolution in the absence of the former ruler or constitution, raised together an armed force, and claimed himself the Prime Minister of Grenada without any elections or party. Yep, you gotcha. He was a dictator. A part of the socialist movement, too. Nothing like the taste of NPR in the mornin', huh? I know what you're thinking, and let me very promptly respond to you with a decided fuck you. My father was a great man. He may have claimed power, but only with good intentions. The island-country was happy under his rule. If you would have seen the way he smiled down at my brother and I (he's three years younger than I- a doctor now), you would've seen the love pouring from his soul. He did what he had to for the good of his people. It was liberation, not entrapment!

In the midst of all this political commotion and turmoil, there I was, the Prime Minister's awkward daughter who was having a hard time transitioning in between dolls and boys, that awful stage between childhood and teenageship. I was a handful, even then. I'd go ripping through the streets at night, climbing through my window to escape the security that insisted on "protecting me". I'd wear too little clothing, too many piercings, too few smiles. I was grumpy. I was young. I was rubbing myself raw in attempts to find freedom. Who gives a fuck, right? Right. The matter of the fact was, while I was testing out the waters, unaware that the political feuding and warfare surrounding me was any different from the average child's playground, I was putting myself in grave danger. I got involved in a gang- trust me, it was hard to prove I was tough with the reputation I had as the daughter of the dictator- and liked to pretend that I was poor so I could fit in. I didn't want the lavish things they provided me or the coddling and pushiness that this new life offered me. Call it an Ariel complex if you will. You always want what you don't got, simple as that. Well, one day, in the ruff-n-tuff streets of Grenada where poverty and street crimes raged, I was involved in a shoot out- a rebellion against my dad and a cry out for anarchy. I was only shot in the foot, which I would have been more than happy to deal with by myself, ya know? But my mom, such a nag, said that she'd had enough. In a final fit of desperation in 1981, she took my brother and I to Canada, as far away from Grenada and Maurice as she could. She said she didn't know who he was anymore. The man she'd met in London had been such a free spirit, fighting for independence. Now he shackled others down- blah, blah, blah. You get it.

Let me tell you something, at 15 years of age, I was majorly pissed. So pissed I wouldn't even talk to my mum for three months straight. Fucking Canada?! Of all places. Why? Canada? Home of the turds, let me tell you. Here I was, this awkward, racially mixed girl who acted like a dude with a British-Grenadian accent and need to be as grungey as rebellious as can be while coming from a proper background... Basically, I was majorly fucked up in regard to identity. I didn't know who the fuck I was supposed to be, you know? I was strange, weird, odd, idiosyncratic... Oh, teenage angst.

Welp, I moped around and stuck to being a pain in the ass for two years until in 1983 when a man by the name of Bernard Coard, deemed my father's methods to socialism- being slow and steady, not rushed, peaceful- insufficient. He demanded my father back down or die. He was instead put under house arrest. The people were outraged! They all loved Bishop! They demanded he be freed from his containment, massive support and rebellions spouting up for his sake. When he attempted to resume power, he was captured and executed by soldiers along with seven others, including government cabinet ministers. The Coard regime then put the island under martial law. Horrified and 18 years of age now, I fled back to Grenada, ignoring my harpy of a mother when she told me I wasn't allowed. I was a grown adult now! Grenada was slipping down the drain and with this man who'd killed my father ruling! I couldn't stand it. I had to do something, anything for my country. In my haste, I joined the military that very same day and they eagerly propped me up and used me because of the upcoming war with the US. Without any training or any confidence, they sent me on the battlefield like a sack of meat. I didn't seem to care as long as I was helping my country. For, even if The Coard had killed my father, I felt that being in the military didn't mean working for him. I felt I was working directly for Grenada- for my deceased father. I don't fuckin' know. Grief does crazy things to your mind. Anyway, The Coard for the next four days as Prime Minister ordered all of its civilians to stay indoors or else get shot. Everything was on lock down. The US troops came marching in to kill their people- or "diffuse the situation". Is it sad that I'd rather have Board than the US stepping on top of my people in that moment? During the invasion, I felt nothing but blind rage for the Americans. I killed people. Lots of them. They falsely claimed to have discovered a mass grave of 100 bodies of islanders, killed by our Communist government. This was not so.

We put up stubborn resistance, forcing the US to bring in two battalions of reinforcements later. For an island as small as ours, we held up our own. 19 US men were killed, 116 wounded. 25 Cuban soldiers were killed, 59 wounded. But the Grenadians... 45 were killed, 358 wounded. I was one of the wounded, but I wish I would have died. I'd seen brother and sister fall, civilians killed in front of my eyes. Friends. With a major wound- I'd been shot in the stomach and the bottom half of my left leg had been blown to pieces- I was lucky to be alive. I was also dispelled from the military, since I was useless as a sack of shit from that point on. A month or so later, I was out of the hospital but not out of the war. I'd never be out of the war. I'm still not. I had a prosthetic leg that reminded me everyday of the horrors I'd seen. They call it post war depression. I went to my old home in Grenada, but it wasn't what it should have been. I had no father here. I had no one here, really. My mom and brother were up in Canada. Even my dad's mistress/secretary and his bastard child were gone.

I decided to go back to my real roots, ones that went farther than family and houses. I dabbled in what I knew I was blessed with- my natural talents. I started to fix things again, like I had when I was little with my dad. I made myself a better prosthetic leg- better than the gay ass pole they gave me at the hospital. I worked on the guns that had littered the streets for a while after the invasion and were available at pawn shops. I just started... doing- making- creating- fixing. It was like I was honoring the fallen through my work. I'd seen some therapists and they told me what I was experiencing was obsessive compulsive tendencies to cope with my trauma. They also insisted I was a "savant" of sorts for it. Yeah, yeah, load of shit, I know. I went back to Canada to my weeping mum. I remember tellin' her that aside from my leg, I was still the same ol' Charlie. Truth is, I wasn't. I was just a chitin' when I got myself involved in death. I guess I shoulda known I was never going back. A year or so later, I regained my spunk and was able to press depressed Charlie into a tuperware and store her for times when I was alone. In a streak of independence, I moved out, got a job as a mechanic - it was pretty easy with how good I was with it- and met Mark Lange, my boyfriend of seven years now. We met at the premiere of Child's Play 3. Love at first sight, it was. He's moved in with me. My mum hates him, which makes me love him even more. He's a good deal older than me, which I adored at the time.

I gained a healthy business. My costumers call me magic; they say I can fix anything. It's not true, and I damn well know it but it still was nice to feel so stable. After a couple years, stable became awful borin'. I was sick of the mundane, even if I had little things to make me happy. So when Abe contacted me and asked me to work for him, ... I just said yes. I guiltily needed, craved the havoc I'd tasted all those years ago. Sick, isn't it? How being in the war affected me so awfully and I still keep going back for more. I am kinda into S&M stuff, I guess. He'd heard of my prestige- who hasn't, really?- and thought I'd be useful for get away missions and things of that nature. Plus, it gives me a ton of cash. I mean, I am still kinda creeped out by the whole thing. I've always found vampires a bit... hard to work with. Oh yeah, and also the thing about me dying if I act out of line? That's also kinda unnerving. But when I rev up Betty's engine and Mark saunters up to the window, kisses me lazily and asks me, "Where ya goin', babes?", and I respond "A job. I'll be back in a bit." I can't help but to feel excitement zipping through my veins. I like living on the edge. I always have, you know? It's a thrill.

ImageNotable experiences since then: (optional, believe it or not!)

Opinion of the others: Fuck everybody. Fuck 'em all. Ebenezer is alright, for a boss guy. He's chill. My costumers are okay too, I guess. My boyfriend as well... and my mum... and brother. I have just a couple soft spots, alright? But other than that, fuck them all. Especially vampires. Goddamn. I actually have a sort of hidden respect for witches, but we'll keep that tucked neatly under the rug of unsaid commendations.

Criminal Record: Hell no I'm not a clean slate, hahaha! I'm sure I've painted a big "fuck you" on just about every race there is at some point or another, whether knowing it or not. As far as police work goes, you got possession of drugs/alcohol as a minor, possession of illegal drugs as an adult, possessions of unauthorized weapons, DUIs, vandalism, harassment (sexual and violent- can you believe some son of a bitch tried me for sexual harassment. Goddamn my exes.)... just about everything.

Etc:: I really love Alfred Hitchcock films. And Carey Grant. And Judy Garland. And Audrey Hepburn. You know, the whole shebang? I romanticize the past. That's actually what Mark and I talked about on our first date- after we decided we'd go on one after the Child's Play 3 premiere. Classy. As. Shit.

Specialty: Guns, guns, guns. I'm a good shot and I don't hesitate. Machine guns. Furthermore, cars. While my main car is Betty- the pick up truck we've talked about earlier- I'm also capable of driving/ operating/ fixing just about any other one you can find. I've got a couple really fancy lookin' sports cars with snazzy attachments (and by snazzy I meant deadly) but I prefer Betty. I can guarantee a quick and speedy escape as well as a on-the-job-repair-woman. I'm handy, is all. AIn't got no supernatural shit going on, but I do my best.

The supernatural: I only know what I've learned from workin' with Abe. I know vampires exist, that they're awful, and I hate them. I know about witches, too. I met one once who was super badass. I don't know about history or clans or... you know, stuff. I just know they're there. -shrugs- I'm hesitant but I do what I gotta do to get the job done.

Social standing: I'm acclaimed for my work, but despised for my attitude. You can't have the best of both worlds. At least not without being a fraud. People treat me either timidly (if they're the scarable type), with exasperation (if they ain't scared but ain't amused) , or jokingly (if they happen to get a kick out of rudeness). I'm not exactly approachable, but I am necessary if you want a good job done.

Social stealth: OOOOH, did I forget to mention I'm a fuckin' LEPRECHAUN y'all!? Hid that from ya' real well, didn't I? Didn't even talk about it in my app. Explains the shortness, don't it? I threw you off with my color, huh? When's the last time you've seen a black leprechaun? Ultra stealthy, bitches.

  • experience from war: I mean, obviously this helps. I know my way around a battle field, alright?
  • guns n shit: Yeah, yeah, you get it. I'm good with a gun.
  • ferocity: I'm vicious little shit, man.

  • my prosthetic leg: This is such a big issue in my life. It's probably one of the only things I'm self conscious of. My and socks cover it so it's not visible to the public eye, but it makes me clump around and is definitely a hindrance in mobility. Luckily with a machine gun you don't exactly have to be the most agile.
  • ~feelings: Specifically for Mark, I mean. I may be rough around the edges and I might have a problem with expressing myself, but goddammit, I'm in love with him! If he were ever put in danger because of all this sneaky shit I do, I'd go ballistic. If he were to die, I'd probably off myself after a mass shooting. Just bein' honest.
  • brashness: I'm a tad bit hasty- just a bit. I bite off more than I can chew and then it all goes downhill from there. More than once I've pulled out a gun or decked out a punch when it wasn't necessary. It gets me into trouble quite frequently
  • provokability: This kinda goes hand in hand with brashness in some cases. Let's say someone says sumfin' that really pisses me off- makes fun of me or some shit- I lose it, man. I'm definitely not known for my rock solid composure.

So begins...

Charlie Bishop's Story