Post by hoonigan on Dec 13, 2015 23:06:30 GMT -5
FC: Sid Haig
He was tall and a bit awkward. Always with hunched shoulders and the gait of a reckless, running, child. Until it was time to die historic. Then, with blood and adrenaline coursing through his veins, he would forget himself and stand tall- an impressive head taller than most and wide-shouldered he was a fearsome sight alone, but alongside his brothers of war his ugly face, lips snarling, skull painted and greased, body scarified, he was viscous, but they all were.
Other than his height, there was not much that made him stand out from the next War Boy or the next. He kept his head shaved and had his share of scars, both self-inflicted and badges of war. But he was never without his favorite bit of shiny metal, a rectangle with [HOONIGAN] stamped into it. As a brand new Pup, he'd stolen it from a pile of metal bits and pieces and claimed it as his own, fashioning it into a necklace. Unable to read what it said, he had grown from a War Pup to a War Boy never having realized that was why he was called Hoonigan.
He walked right down the middle of mediocrity but always fancied himself more a black thumb than anything else, collecting and hoarding anything he could use or keep for himself, anything that would go unnoticed- a habit he'd had since he was a Pup. Hoonigan longed to prove that he was not simply mediocre but his immature mind could not settle on a path, could not decipher, out of the craziness that was the life of a War Boy, a way to become something more. He would flit from idea to idea, project to project, land wherever his interest lay at the moment always seeming to scuttle about anxious, hyper, eager, restless. Sometimes it seemed as if he knew quite a lot about many things, that he was somewhat intelligent but it was only a product of a restless, childlike enthusiasm for anything that might keep the humdrum doldrums away.
He preferred the company of the Pups or the younger War Boys. They were eager to learn and looked up to him as older and more experienced. The child in him knew nothing of life as it had been before, whatever memories he had tainted by life and death and misguided youth. That part of him did not understand that there might be more to this fleeting, shiny-chrome existence. So, Hoonigan liked to show the young ones any new skill he'd picked up, or new shiny plaything found, whatever useless object he made, finding that it made him feel as if at any moment he would be recognized. For what, he did not know and he often thought that when he was finally seen and found worthy, that the reason why would be just as surprising to himself.
But there was something about war, about the rush of a raid, the thrill of death and fire and blood, screaming engines, howling-mad War Boys, that called to the man in him. It gave that man purpose. He would not be mediocre the day he died. It would be glorious and he would be ushered to Valhalla in a haze of guzzolene vapors and chrome mist.
Until then, Hoonigan was always and forever stuck between those two worlds- the world of being a man and that of being a child. He had no real memories of life before the Fall, just fleeting images of a childhood that was mostly pain and insanity. There were times when he thought he remembered his mother but he could never be sure, her face was always different and it hurt a little too much to think on. So, Hoonigan forgot most of the things that did not matter, the things that did not lead to the Road or that were not powered by fuel. He never even realized that he would never be more than exactly what he was, that there was a big world at the end of the road.
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