GOH, together, we're over 10 feet. Me could totally pwn these mofos, Gundam-style.
"Gundam-style" being some sort of code for carnival sideshow?
As you seem determined to strong-arm me into this...
Name:Jefe
Age: 36
Weapon(s): A heavily worn, length of rebar, one end of which has been smoothed through constant use as a walking aide. Jefe also carries a medium sized, rubber mallet worn across the hip in a length of weathered animal skin.
Appearance: Jefe is 5’11” with ebony skin beaten and chapped by a lifetime of exposure to the harsh climate. His arms and legs are thin, corded muscle, while his belly bulges forward distended beyond even the world’s harsh standards of hunger and starvation.
In an already bleak world, Jefe finds himself living an increasingly harsh existence with his charcoal skin, a peculiarity rarely, if ever, seen today. A neurotic compulsion to scratch and pick has left Jefe peppered with various half-healed blisters and pockmarks, giving his skin an almost corroded quality, and further alienating him from an already unforgiving society.
Jefe’s clothing could be considered non-existent for all intents and purposes; consisting of two pieces of tattered leather, all that remains of a coat many decades old. The larger piece is worn around the waist, bound tight by a length of hempen rope. The remaining, smaller piece is worn as a skull-cap which Jefe never willingly removes. Why Jefe wears so little is unknown. He can often be found in some solitary corner, arms crossed tightly across his chest, rocking back and forth, subconsciously fighting a self-imposed chill.
His eyes, like his skin, are a rare ebony color. This ominous tone is further enhanced by the haunted, void-like dullness of Jefe’s stare. He never looks another human eye-to-eye, and rarely speaks, attempting to hide his few gingivitis decayed teeth.
Brief Background: Jefe once lived as an isolated member of a farm community, sheltered in the mostly intact remains of an open-air stadium. The stadium had served as a makeshift home to the community for several generations, after having its field converted to farmland and its stands a makeshift tent city. Born in the last breaths of a dying woman, Jefe knew no family or love. He simply existed from day to day, supported as an infant by the mercies of mother’s to stillborn children. These mercies ran their course, and Jefe eventually found himself put to work in the field, scraping away at soil which produced less and less food with each season.
In time, the small patch of land would support only the hardiest of crops- potatoes and turnips. All the while the community had dwindled to less than two dozen. Soon even this small group lacked the resources to support itself. In the dead of night, individuals began to vanish, the victims of hungry neighbors, even hungry relatives.
When all but a few remained, their hunger could not be denied; they descended into brutal cannibalism, attacking one another with tooth and nail, and feeding on the still hot flesh of those too weak to resist.
Jefe is the last of this community. How this isolated and repulsive potato farmer came to survive is a story he never speaks of but is forever haunted by. He wanders now from village to village, starving himself almost beyond endurance as a method of absolution for acts too inhuman to speak of, even in this bleak and pitiless world. Jefe’s hunger to forget grows with each passing day...as does his hunger for change.
Theme Song [optional]: Wishful Sin by: The Doors
