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"Irish" Logan Joseph

A world-class boxer and gypsy.

0 · 510 views · located in New York City, The Apocalypse

a character in “Virus”, as played by Ninjasaur


Logan C. Joseph


27 / Male / Not Immune


A follower of whims, Logan is an individualist first and last. He acts as his conscious directs him with little regard for what others expect. He avoids authority, resents restrictions, and challenges tradition. His behavior may be unpredictable but is not totally random. Wanting to believe in goodness and right, he makes his own way while being benevolent and kind. In short: he does the best that a good person can do and is devoted to helping others.

He has little use for laws and regulations. To him they are mostly used for intimidation and he hates to see others being told what to do. He follows his own moral compass, which although good, doesn't agree with that of society. To him, “law” implies honor, trustworthiness, obedience to authority, and reliability-- none of which he found in the world. The lawfulness he saw included close mindedness, reactionary adherence to tradition, judgmentalness, and a lack of adaptability. He sees it as a tool that could create co-dependence and the faith and confidence that others will act as they should.

While he wants freedom and flexibility, this, he feels, can include recklessness, resentment towards legitimate authority, arbitrary actions, and irresponsibility. He sees being good as a conscious choice, but finds it hard to balance both law and freedom. Logan wanted to fix the world. Just not in this way.




[x]Needles [x]Rats [x]Fire


S&W Model 586 American .357 Magnum - Introduced in the early 80’s, this Smith and Wesson revolver quickly proved popular with police personnel for its dependability and stopping power. It features a solid frame, wooden grip (as opposed to its full stainless variant), swing-out cylinder, and double-action trigger. A heavy barrel lug reduces the effect of recoil. The location of this weapon is fastened to a concealed suspender-like holster under his right arm.

Busse Battle Mistress - It has a conventionally shaped 10-inch blade, but it is nearly 2 pounds, and quite literally as sharp as a razor. This combination of weight, strength, and extreme keenness makes it unique. Do you wish to behead a hippo? Would you like to chop down a telephone pole? Perhaps you yearn to slice a redwood into sections? If you have the Mistress and a strong arm, you can.

”Headknocker” - A Louisville Slugger. It’s a baseball bat because firing a gun is similar to ringing a big-ass dinner bell for zombies.

Wet wipes - For cleanup after an ooey-gooey zombie beatdown.
Bandanas - A few bandanas for handkerchiefs and incase the smell of rotting flesh is too much.
Rope, paracord (100 ft.) - You never know when you might need this.
Bedroll - To catch some zzz’s.
Crowbar - To break into shit without much problem.
Bullseye Lantern - An antique with a single-shutter. Highly polished inside to reflect the light in a single direction. It burns around 6 hours off of 1 pint of oil.
Athletic wrap - For injuries, used for grip and stabilization as well.
Two-way radio - Is anybody out there?

On Person
Wilson Leather, jacket and gloves - Try to bite a hole through that!
Belt pouch - Where he stores bullets.

Gor (Logan’s bull-mastiff)
Collar pouch - A hidden pouch on his collar containing 30, 80mg oxycontin.
Saddle bags - Two reasonably large pouches, connected by cloth and draped over his back. This holds: a small blanket, a custom wool sweater made for a dog, a tennis ball, steel wire, and duct tape.
Canteen - A useful tool for storing water.



As an amazing athlete, Logan concentrated on the power aspect of sports and excels in hand-to-hand combat and cardiovascular activity. He can push himself to make an extreme effort in serious situations. Because of his curious nature he has an innate talent for finding weaknesses. He’s very good at fixing objects, and not so good at fixing people.

He’s also not good with computers, or most things electronic (unless it has wheels). His biggest weakness by far is Gor, his dog. While a burden he refuses to let him succumb to the evils released on the world. Finally, the last weakness is that he’s a closet smoker, and often zones out when craving to channel his willpower away from the physical side-effects.

Born a pikey (or Irish gypsy), Logan had a lack of education. His tight-knit community was always on the move to evade the law or worse. As a child he was small and beat on by the bigger kids. This didn’t stop them from becoming almost brothers to him, however. Though normally sticking to themselves, sometimes they would drop by places where they could hustle a few dollars from the locals. At 18, when it was legal for him to enter bars, he became a pool-shark. While prosperous, the trade became volatile when he arrived in Britain and took a generous sum from a crime syndicate’s under-boss who proceeded to start a brawl inside the pub. Alone and outnumbered, Logan impressed the man by bringing down nearly all of them before getting hit in the head with a bar stool. Later he found a business card in his pocket and this is how he became a boxer.

As we know, boxing is politics. It wasn't many underground title-fights later that the 21-year-old had won enough money for his boss to earn a promotion to the professional league. He was consistently inconsistent with high peaks and long plateaus his first three years in when something clicked inside his head. The following year, at age 24, Logan went 14-0-1 (due to a majority draw) and earned a shot at his first title match. All bets were on him as the head contender-- exactly the reason he took a fall and fatal blow to his pride.

It was determined that he defrauded the match and intentionally took the fall, a penalty that would land him three years and prison with two years probation. Unbeknownst to him that he’d gotten rusty while doing time, he foolishly re-issued a challenge as a grudge match against his only defeat in his final year. The match ended in a T.K.O and he suffered severe trauma to his brain as a result of his stubbornness. At 27 years old, Logan woke up from a 6-month coma alone in a hospital bed to his dog attacking his face with love, and surrounded by zombies. Man's best friend just became man's only friend.


So begins...

"Irish" Logan Joseph's Story

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The skipping noise beat rhythmically, filling every second with a light slap against the cement floor. Beads of sweat hung in suspense on the warrior’s forehead too disciplined to dare slide down his face. Muscles bulged from his arms as his own elbows dug gently into his ribs to position his hands near the waist. His eyes, green and brown as a clover and the dirt where it grows, locked on the rising sun now barely peeking out from behind a cluster of mammoth buildings. An elevated throbbing in his chest could be heard inside his ears, drowning out the soft whirring sound the rope made as it repeatedly swung over his head. Each breath he took was hollow and calm.

In the next room, a large dog with short golden fur and a square face watched him jump mindlessly over a rope he held tightly in his palms. The memory of a large plank of wood lay in splinters as the fangs of the beast dug into the last chunk of its victim. Lazily, its massive paws propped its huge head up while laying belly-down on the cold floor, protecting a bag for a reason unknown to it. The sun pushed the shadows and reflected a ray of light off a worn tag dangling from a leather collar, reading: Gornormus.

Eventually he finished, though to Gor it seemed like an eternity later. Neatly he folded the rope and approached a nearby chair where he took off a pair of sweatpants. Being left in only tight briefs didn’t bother him. The community he was raised in paid little attention to social graces. Hardly any of the children he grew up with had even a swimsuit, so it wasn’t uncommon to find a group of boys and girls playing in only underwear.

“Bag.” he spoke only a single word, the vowel far too drawn out for the area in which he resided. When he talked it was mostly indistinguishable. Even the British, Scottish, and Irish had a hard time making out what he tried to say. The pikers had an accent of their own entirely; one that could prove frustrating to most people trying to converse with them. That was the point. They didn’t much care for outsiders and that was a definite way to keep them less than interested.

A powerful breath of protest that pushed flakes of wood sliding across the floor came from Gor’s nostrils before he snatched the pack in his jaws and toted it to his master. The dog was annoyed and watched as his master peeled back the final leg of his sweats and stuffed both items inside after retrieving more practical wear: jeans, a white tee, his leather. It was ritualistic by now. Getting dressed provided a connection and familiarity with the world he once knew. Everything from wrapping his hands to tying his shoes and feeling the tightness of his shirt as he put it on. It was serene. He purposely ignored his dog during this time. Not to be mean, but because the look on his face and strong wag to his tail after as he pulled out the tattered tennis ball and asked, “Wanna git outside, then?”

Of course they had to pack camp first and put items in their respective places. He was very neat and organized--a quality that made Gor impatient--but they’d eventually make it outside together to play and scavenge. While his boxing career was over, he was still an athlete with and had a monster appetite. Nothing prior to the apocalypse could satisfy his hunger and consequently this was made worse by the proceeding events.

Being in the open hardly threatened him as Gor’s breed was known for the lack of noise they make outside of being a brute. There was little the duo couldn’t handle away from a horde or the more dangerous mutations of the virus. He’d discovered wounds on his companion when he woke up, assumedly from a human, which led him to believe Gor was immune. However, he was unsure of himself because he had yet to sustain a transferral injury and was reluctant to find out. He pushed those thoughts away with a warrior mentality, knowing from experience that it would only make him weaker in a fight.

Their favorite place was a small park nearby; a place where he knew they would only be able to visit once more due to the dwindling supply of resources. When they arrived he sat on the last remaining swing on a broken playground after rocketing the tennis ball across the field with a thuggish throw. A small bloodstain pattern sprayed across the seat gave him plenty to think about as his dog enjoyed the small satisfaction he more than deserved while chasing the ball. It was time to move on.

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Character Portrait: "Irish" Logan Joseph Character Portrait: Cora Flynn
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The trunk of her jeep slammed shut as the last passenger unloaded all of his things. Cora was parked outside a nice white New England home in a New York suburb, where a troop of two children and their mother stood on the porch with loaded shotguns and on the look-out for undead. On closer inspection one could see the windows boarded up too. All the other houses surrounding it were the same. The whole neighborhood now seemed like a foreclosed ghetto rather than the affluent New England suburb that it was.

Her professor, Dr.Murry came out from the back of the jeep and stood in front of Cora. He had a grave look in his blue eyes and she suddenly noticed the wrinkles under them. His once brown hair was now overwhelmed with gray hairs too. She had never seen any of her professors as old before.

“You know Ms.Flynn, you could stay here with us.” He spoke suddenly, almost pleading.

Cora was surprised by her professor’s generous gesture because he hadn't made such an offer to any of the students they had dropped off before. He had worked closely with her though on her thesis and was her favorite professor. This didn’t change her mind though, her attachment and feelings to this one person would not stop her.

“Thank you for the offer professor, but I got to get home.” Cora replied, the expression in her ice blue eyes unmoved. His face seemed to sink more at her reply. This finally made her feel a little more empathetic and she stuck out her hand.

“It’s been a pleasure studying under you professor. I will miss you a lot.” She said, almost robotically.

Dr.Murphy took her hand and then unexpectedly pulled her in, giving her a hard squeeze.

“Good luck kiddo. And my name is Eugene.”

When he pulled away from her, Cora noticed the shotgun left in her arms. She looked from the gun to her professor with a puzzled look on her face.

“The ammo is in the backseat.” He said, “Take care.”
“Uh. Yes. You too, ‘Eugene’.”

She got into the blue jeep, turned on the engine, and put the gears into drive. A cold icy feeling pulsed through her veins as the jeep rolled forward. She stared at her professor and his family through the mirror. Possibly the last living people she would see for a very long time.

The drive into New York was uneventful, but she was preparing for the worst once she got into the city. The walls of buildings began to rise and rise as she got deeper into the metropolis. She moved her vehicle quietly through the avenues, trying her best not to disturb what lurked in the dark abandoned buildings. She felt like a mouse in a laboratory experiment, winding through the maze searching for a piece of cheese. Or any food in her case. Cheese didn’t sound so bad actually. She hadn’t eaten a substantial meal in so long her brain spun.

Half in a daze, the sound of a dog’s bark did not register to her as unusual. It echoed off the walls into the open window of her vehicle. It didn’t really occur to her what the noise was until quite literally it hit her.. Or, she hit it. A large golden beast came bounding in front of her vehicle and she slammed on her breaks, too hard for how slow she was going. Her breath caught in her throat and she grabbed the shotgun in the passenger’s seat beside her.

“A-a.. dog? Did I hit it?” she asked herself out loud. “Hopefully,” is what she thought, as she climbed out of her parked vehicle, shotgun in hand.

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Character Portrait: "Irish" Logan Joseph Character Portrait: Cora Flynn
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Screeching tires pierced the silence of thought as a bark bellowed, the man looked up from an intense staring match with his feet. His eyes surveyed the area for his dog. Though he tried desperately to find a different solution between the missing dog and the smell of warm rubber, it was obvious to him what happened. Hastily he moved from the swingset, leaving it to sway forcefully as he pushed into a brisk job. He couldn’t help but to laugh in the back of his mind, I hope the vehicle is okay.

As he rounded the street, he was relieved with what he saw. Gor took kindly to women and had sat, tail wagging wildly, on driver’s side of a stationary vehicle. At first he contemplated letting it play out, then his mind changed as he watched her exit the vehicle wielding a shotgun. He did his best to announce his presence as he approached her; nothing worse than a startled woman with an itchy trigger finger. Now there was a problem with the man: you can’t really understand much of what’s being said. It’s not Irish, and it’s definitely not English.. it’s just pikey. They’re masters of negotiation which is part of the reason they talk fast, so you can’t follow what’s being said.”Fuckme! Woman whatchya thinkin’ abit doin’ with the size’o that thing? Don’tchya like dags?” He walked closer with his hands extended and palms down, motioning her to lower the weapon.

”I’m notta tief, miss.” The words he spoke--though difficult to decipher--were honest. He wanted nothing from this woman except a peaceful disengagement. Part of him hoped to gain her trust by letting her have the draw on him, though with his dog in jeopardy he had little choice in the matter. He fully realized this was the only card he had to play, and it was now in her hands. The other part of him could almost care less if she shot him, at least it would end the rumbling growl in his stomach.

In the distance, the quiet popping noise of several shots served as a distraction from tension, stressing the certainty of mayhem to follow. The man used this to let out a sharp whistle, dog obediently coming to his side after. ”I gotta be goin’ now; sure ye understand. More’n welcome t’come wit me if ye can handle yerself. N’it looks like ye can.”

He wasn’t sure what her answer would be, and he didn’t bother to stick around and find out. The hunger growing inside of him prevented him from caring. An expectation from his body demanded he continued-- likely away from the gunshots.

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Character Portrait: "Irish" Logan Joseph Character Portrait: Cora Flynn
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Cora came around to the front of her jeep to take a look at what had bounded in front of her jeep. She looked down at the seated heavy dog in front of her and grimaced. It was big, drooling, and sticking its tongue as it stared dotingly up at her. His golden fur was dirty from playing in the dirt and what looked like dried bits of blood. She began to lower her shotgun seeing that the dog was at least not a threat, but quickly stuck it back up as she saw a man come walking slowly towards her. He held his hands out in front of him to she he was not armed.

“Fuckme! Eappgeapmfedags?”

The accent caught her off guard and she was not completely able to comprehend the whole sentence. She arched a blond eyebrow up.

“Huh?” she said, as if she were losing her hearing.

”I’m notta tief, miss.”

This she heard more clearly and felt the tension in her shoulders ease up. “Thank god, I don't know exactly what I'm doing with this..” she thought to herself. Cora had handled a gun before, however never a gun this big. Most people might second guess the stranger's blatant statement about himself, but Cora seemed more than obliged to believe the rather intimidating stranger. She spoke the plain truth and would often believe what other people said with minimal proof. The man had his hands out in front him, he wasn't armed, and his dog certainly wasn't ready to attack her - except maybe with big slobbery kisses.

“Ummm, that’s good.” She replied, just as she too heard the soft gun fires in the distance.

Then before she could utter another word he had turned away calling his dog with him.

“”I gotta be goin’ now; sure ye understand. More’n welcome t’come wit me if ye can handle yerself. N’it looks like ye can.”

He was walking getting a few yards away as Cora stood contemplating her options. She could continue by herself, but if the gunshots were any indication it might not be the best idea. She had no idea if the gunshots were being aimed at another person or the former shell of a person known as a zombie. Either way, being alone was not a safe option when there were zombies and desperate people. It didn’t take long before she came to her conclusion.

“Ahhh. Wait!” she exclaimed. She put the shotgun on her shoulder by the strap and hurried to catch up with the stranger and his dog. The dog walked in between them and she felt a little chill up her leg as the dog brushed its furry body against her black yoga pant. The golden fur clung to her black pants annoyingly.

“I didn’t quite catch that last part to be honest with you, but, I would like to go with you.” She told him, brushing a strand of blond hair back in its place behind her ear.

“I’m sorry about pointing the gun at your dog, and you. I wasn’t sure if you were a thief or not until you clarified that for me.”

She pulled a little at the collar of her blue hoodie nervously, not sure if she was really helping or hurting her chances of gaining a new friend at this point. Now that she was a lot closer to him, he was slightly more thuggish than she had thought and she was hoping he was telling the truth about not being a thief. He was taller and in very good physical health for the most part, even though she could hear the ominous growling coming from his stomach. His boxer’s body was a lot more buff than her yoga-fit body. Not that anyone could see that her body was fit at all under her hoodie, most people expected her to be as scrawny as her geeky demeanor implied. He also had the brightest green eyes she had ever seen, brown hair, and a handsome face. Judging by his accent maybe he was British or Irish, but it was hard for her to distinguish the accent as either.

“My name is Cora Bree Flynn.” she continued after a moment’s pause of taking in the physical appearance of her new companion, “What’s yours?”

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Character Portrait: "Irish" Logan Joseph Character Portrait: Cora Flynn
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As he walked down the center of the street, something made him wonder if it would make her uncomfortable. Being out in the open wasn’t a strong tactic for survival, but Logan made the habit of being bait to lure unsuspecting danger in. He preferred direct confrontation in most situations and figured if somebody put effort into setting up a trap they’d probably succeed regardless. Most people wouldn’t expect such a wild-card.

Once she introduced herself, he stopped enough to turn around and extend a hand. ”Name’s Loggin’, but most’a world knows me as Irish.” His grip was strong, but he wasn’t a barbarian. People who couldn’t control their strength were weak in his mind, and he knew how to use discretion. It was funny to incorporate the world in that sentence. Even though he’d been reasonably well known, most of those who would’ve recognized him were likely zombies and wouldn’t care. This didn’t bother him as fame only came as a hinderance. Nobody wanted to bare knuckle box a registered contender.

In the underground world is where he was truly a legend. He was infamous for accepting fights with men twice his size. In the ring he was known to pack such a wallop that if a solid hit connected the receiving end was likely going down. This bored him, however, which is why he became so good at rigging fights. Often he would toy with his opponent and take a masochistic beating, giving the illusion of hope, before totally annihilating their face. Needless to say this is why he was a relatively poor fighter once the gloves went on, though he obviously adjusted and likely could have been a world champion.

This was history. There was no point in living in the glory days now, especially as hungry as he was. They covered a few blocks of distance before he turned into an alley and pulled out his mammoth knife. What he saw at the end of the path made his eyes light up. The snare he’d set up near a dumpster yielded a catch: a young raccoon with a metal wire bound around it’s leg.

Logan lived in a village of mobile homes which his family and friends would travel from place to place in, often on the outskirts of larger towns. This fed his adventuring soul, and he quickly proved to be a genuine Huckleberry Finn. He’d often contemplated never leaving the wild and accidently got his wish.

He approached his catch and it struggled furiously, Gor seemed to pay it no mind. Cautiously Logan performed the duty of giving it a swift death before turning to Cora, ”What luck, I hope yer hungry.” Not waiting for a response, he made a careful cut up the belly and began to remove the entrails and skin the beast. He turned again to her for a suggestion, ”Now we just needa place to cook’er.”

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Character Portrait: "Irish" Logan Joseph Character Portrait: Cora Flynn
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Cora was impressed with the small snagging contraption that Irish had made. She had helped build complex machinery and program computers to do impressive things, but it was this kind of simple invention that would keep them alive. What good were her inventions now? Who cared about robots that could teach math? Who cared about robots that could go to space? People who could build snares for small vermin were more bound for success than she was in this new world.

Cora twitched as Irish put the overgrown urban pest out of its misery swiftly then proceeded to skin it – carefully removing the skin like a diver's suit. When Irish spoke directly to her, she snapped out of staring queasily at the skinned animal that would soon be their ‘meal’. She had learned from her many years abroad that one’s idea of edible foods varied. Plus, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“Oh! Yes, well.” she took out her eyeglasses from the pocket of her hoodie and cleaned them with her breath as she thought about a solution.They needed a fire that was obvious; how to get fire and where to cook their freshly killed vermin was the real problem. She was a big problem-solver, but it was down to thinking of how to put food in her stomach, survival-style.

Sunlight flooded into the alleyway as the sun rose higher into the sky. Just before she could put on her eyeglasses, she noticed the sunbeam shining through them over her shoulder, creating a small dot of light onto the ground at her feet. The laser-sized light at her feet gave her an idea and she put her glasses on top of her head. She promptly began to scan the garbage scattered around the alley, picking up anything that she thought could be used for a fire. The garbage had been picked over by scavengers, animals and survivors alike, for food. This made her job a little easier as it removed a lot of the extra junk she did not need.

“We are going to cook our meal with solar energy, and just a little wood and tinder.”

An intact small crate was used to put pieces of paper and other dry scraps in. The crate would have to ultimately be used as wood for the fire.

"With the sunlight and my glasses, this should burn." she took a piece of torn paper from the pile, removed her glasses, and held it above the paper on the ground between them to demonstrate. The ray of light that shown on the piece of paper smoked, then ignited.

"If I were near-sighted this wouldn't work, but because I'm far-sighted my glasses concentrate the beam. With a few drops of water in the lens too, it'll burn faster."

She liked giving small lectures, perhaps it was from her side job of being a tutor of science and math.The paper wilted into ash and she looked up at him with a triumphant smile. "Ta-da."

It was important she thought to prove her worth to someone who obviously was fine at surviving before she came along - the last thing she wanted to be was a burden.

"You seem like an adept survivor Irish." Cora observed aloud, "What was your profession before all this happened?"