NAME: |
Liam Bridger Cagney |
AGE: |
61 |
SPECIES: |
Silver fox |
HEIGHT: |
5'11" |
NATIONALITY: |
Christopheni |
GENDER: |
Cis man |
SEXUALITY : |
Straight |
OCCUPATION: |
Janitor |
LIKES: |
Football, hockey, hunting, sitting on the porch with a cigar, barhopping |
SMELLS LIKE: |
Cigarette smoke, alcohol, cleaning supplies, the plasticy scent of new school supplies |
A 19 year old makes a fake ID and walks into a bar. Yes, to watch the game, but namely to hit on women. It wasn't what he learned in Caethlon school, but it was fine. God forgives all, yes? He'll certainly forgive a few one night stands. After all, how could he say no to such an adrenaline rush, the excited looks on his friends' faces as they enter a space where they're meant to be forbidden.
A 21 year old walks into a bar. The game is everything. He has a woman, yes, but he'll eye a few more foxes as they pass by. What's the harm? Look but don't touch. His friends are off doing their own thing. Passing a vape pen, falling into some rolling boulder of a joke that he would've needed to be included from the start to understand. Too late to join in now. Besides, his mind is busy; job-searching without a college degree isn't easy, after all.
A 27 year old walks into a bar, just married. This life isn't easy, but he's made do well enough to fall in love. His wife enthusiastically describes the barn wedding and plans to move in together to a bright-eyed bartender, who seems invested in hearing some good news rather than the usual sorry tales of drunk and lonely men. He'll have some kids, get a better job, buy a bigger house. Somehow, he'll make do.
A 31 year old walks into a bar with one friend. He's sore and tired from work. "I'll think about getting a better job in a couple years... this is fine," he explains as the bartender does some fancy maneuver with a shot glass. He wouldn't admit it, but he often came out to the bar to get away from the screaming and arguing and harsh smells of his kids. The first baby had been okay, the novelty of the experience trumping all else, but the second had him starting to question his sanity. His wife would handle them well, she always did.
A 35 year old walks into a bar alone. "Needed some time away from the old ball and chain?" the bartender sneers. The man nods. Same job, same house, same wife, same kids. The noise at home still grates on him in such a way that the bar does not, a sentiment he cannot explain. He often finds himself here after his place at home is denied; after such long days at work, how could his wife expect him to keep working? He barely had the energy to keep his eyes open watching TV, nevermind keep two kids entertained. He would often find himself regretful. Regretful of what. Having them? He loved them, somehow. Did he? Yes, he certainly did. He was supposed to have them, after all. That's what people do.
A 38 year old walks into a bar, already trashed. "I'm sorry sir, I can't serve visibly intoxicated customers," the bartender says. The man slams his fist on the table and bursts into tears, "My wife wants a divorce." The bartender doesn't seem as surprised as he should be. Look at his stupid fucking beak. He almost looks like he's smiling. He doesn't care about me. He never did. The 38 year old snarls, "You think I deserve this." The bartender shakes his head, "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave." The man wakes up in a closed down park somewhere surrounded by do not enter signs, head pounding, and oppressive sun beating down on his back.
A small child, awoken by his parents' screams, hides around the corner of a dark hallway. "Get out!" her mother shrieks. A window flies open and pieces of her father's belongings are chucked outside, something fragile shattering against the driveway below. Just as she goes to throw his hunting rifle out the window- "Fuck you!" her father snarls, grabbing her mother by the arm and yanking her away from the window so hard that she stumbles back across the room, slamming into the wall. "This is my fucking house!" he continues, slamming one fist into the wall and gripping the gun with the other. The woman picks a book up off the floor and throws it at full force, narrowly missing his head, "Then act like it and be here for your children!" The man approaches her, looming over her with an aura of vile superiority, when suddenly, the mother notices the child's face in the dark, eyes wide and wet.
A 45 year old walks into a bar, already drunk, but he's learned to hide it so well. There's a new bartender. Old one quit for some online position. No one wants to do real work anymore. But this man? This man was a real laborer, unlike some of the softies he'd started to notice populating the spaces around him. He wasn't even pretending to watch the game anymore. Ever since his wife left, he'd started noticing the demeanors of others- what made them likable or not, how they carried themselves, the state of their faces and hands, the way they dressed. A lot of the city people are soft, a fact he'd always been deeply aware of but the severity of which seemed to be increasing at an exponential rate. Even the new bartender occasionally wore a shade of red too light for a man, despite otherwise seeming a respectable, traditional type of guy. Scanning, watching, waiting.
A 50 year old walks into a bar, unable to feel much at all. For the first time since his divorce, his wife has given him more than just a one word update on the kids; they're going to public school. Why?! What could they possibly gain from public school that they couldn't learn at home, free from the influence of the political bullshit teachers told kids nowadays? He'd tried to reason with her, but as usual, she wouldn't listen to the rightful household leader. That's why things hadn't worked out, he'd realized: she's too uppity. Shes one of them, one of the non-traditionalists, and his kids would surely turn out that way too.
A 61 year old sits at home watching TV, sipping his fourth or fifth beer. A distant humming grows ever closer, some sort of harsh winds causing the house to creak. There's something moving around outside. The shadow it briefly casts across the back window is certainly not an anthro, but if it's an animal, it's not one he's familiar with. Far too big to be a deer, but it doesn't have the heavy clumsiness of a bear that's stumbled into an inhabited area. Too far south to be a moose. He doesn't even have to get up to reach for his already loaded rifle on the table beside him. The man squints as the sound makes its way around towards the front of the house. On its current path, it will pass by the front window, and he'll get to see what it is. As much as he'd love to avoid shooting through a window, it's better than having some sort of monstrosity digging around out there. The steps grow closer, something scraping across the house briefly, likely as the creature presses up against the siding to avoid some of the bushes in the yard, but the sound makes him jump nonetheless. But there is a momentary silence right before the window, right before whatever it is ducks. It ducks its head so that only the odd, jutting spine of its back can be seen as it stalks past the window. "What in tarnation?" the man mutters as he gets to his feet, prepping his gun for fire. The creak of the porch as the first step up gives way to something's heavy foot. A momentary pause before the second step, and then the third. It's on his porch. It's approaching the front door.
Liam is a fat silver fox with a constant slouch and undereye bags somehow visble even through black fur. When not in his work uniform, he's most commonly found in neutral colored sweatshirts or polo shirts and jeans, nothing too fancy.