(no subject)

[hillbillyboy]

 

The Crooked/ The Hillbilly/Boy

 

 

NAME :

Boy aka Hillbilly aka Max Thompson jr.

 

OCCUPATION :

Farm labourer, murderer, professional punching bag

 

HOMETOWN :

Texas

 

AGE :

25

 

SEXUALITY :

Gay

 

GENDER :

Male

 

RACE :

Caucasian

 

HEIGHT (CM/FT) :

7’6 (when standing straight)

 

WEIGHT (KG/LBS) :

365lbs

 

COUNTRY/ORIGIN :

USA

 

NATIONALITY :

American

HAIR COLOR :

Dark brown/black

 

EYE COLOR :

Off-white, Grey

 

DATE OF BIRTH :

??/??/1957

 

ALIGNMENT :

Chaotic neutral

 

RELATIONSHIPS :

Father, Max Thompson sr. (Deceased)

Mother, Evelyn Thompson (Deceased)

“Chief” (Deceased)

 

“C’mon boy! Show these deputies wut you kin do!” -Max Thompson

 

LIKES :

Tinkering

Alcohol

Any and all food (rotten/bad included)

Clothes

Killing

Chases

Drawing

 

DISLIKES : 

Pigs

Authority

Failing

Being misunderstood

Being ill

Being irritated

People laughing at him

When his chainsaw overheats

 

 

APPEARANCE/ COSMETICS :

Max cuts a lean figure covered in warped trails of muscle and scar tissue, the most visible being the warped flesh that connects his face to his shoulder. What is likely a full head of hair starts far back on his forehead and trails down his neck and the large expanse of his right shoulder. His shoulders and chest almost seem too large for his form, his spine visibly twisting down a deceptively strong back. His skin looks almost like it’s stretched too far over his form and things such as his belly button aren’t where they should be, though whether that is due to his deformities or due to the abuse suffered by the Entity isn’t entirely clear.

 

His default posture is a sloped gait, his limp more than visible in his lurched movements, his shoulders in a constant lean to his “weaker side” that is home to the chainsaw. His clothes are tattered and ripped, old remnants of the attire pulled off the corpse of his father and taken from other parts of the Thompson household.

 

(Max’s gear is the ‘Sunday Slaughter’ set. The pig hood is sometimes used but usually it’s just the distressed blue shirt of it.)

 

 

GENERAL PERSONALITY :

Calling Max 'a manchild' might seem like an insult, but it’s a pretty decent summary of his most obvious personality traits- overly emotional, socially stunted, and uncaring of other people’s feelings. If he could articulate better, he might put this down to his bad upbringing, but he also shows other facets of his personality through his actions and reactions to the world around him which also show him to be a particularly persistent and resilient individual in spite of all life throws at him.. If he doesn’t get his way however he is prone to falling to violent outbursts and tantrums.

 

He’s easily entertained and is prone to hyper focusing, which plays into his talent for making weaponry and messing with electrical equipment, which he uses against people in his way or that he’s led to deal with.

 

Max’s trust issues are vast, though that’s mostly because he doesn’t know what trust is or how to implement it and instead grew a hyper awareness in regards to actions. While he learns from mistakes he’s still easily coerced, especially when words and actions that aren’t blatantly malicious. When met with malice however he responds with physicality. Violent physicality. While he still has the wide-eyed wonder of a child, he also has the unrestrained cruelty and ego humility beats out of the majority as life goes on, which has only been amplified by his experiences and the Entity’s influence. Boy however is not unaware of the fact that he is undesirable and longs to be accepted, or at the very least, for people to stop thinking that way about him. Usually by stopping them from thinking in general.

 

The majority of his spoken words have little meaning in regards to actual language, but he uses sounds and words to accentuate his tone and body language. Because of this straightforward approach he comes across as pushy and stupid, which if he realises he will use entirely to his advantage. Language is something that fascinates Max, and he continuously works to fill his vocal arsenal, even if the words have little to no meaning to him. They obviously do, to other people, and this feeds into his desire to be accepted. Because of this desire he is an exceptional parrot and will mimic animal calls, people’s voices and even just general sounds from time to time, to varied competency and effect.

 

One thing Max excels at is environmental and emotional awareness, both in his surroundings and in his prey- due to being partially sighted Max uses lots of audio cues when it comes to assessing people and areas he finds himself around such as the sound of birds, moisture in the air and the difference between sounds in different climates. Sadly the only emotional cues in his register come from fear and anger- softer, more pleasant emotions are still confusing to him and a lot of the time he will not understand, though it might trigger an urge to mimic or even spur on further softness… Sometimes, but not always.

 

 

POSTIVE TRAITS :

• Inquisitive
• Quick Learner (despite age and inhibitions)
• Kinetic Learner
• Playful
• Independent
• Is willing to work with others, within reason (or for rewards)

NEGATIVE TRAITS :

• Easily Overstimulated
• Aggressive/Quick to anger
• Pushy
• Bad Speaker (but decent parrot)
• Emotionally /Socially stunted
• Addictive Personality
• Immensely self serving

 

AUGMENTS :

Sprint- Despite having a visible limp the Hillbilly can sprint at alarming speeds, especially when wielding his chainsaw.

Entity- He’s been infused with the power of the Entity, which gives him practically inhuman vitality and resilience.

 

PERKS :

BBQ and Chilli

Tinkerer

Discordance

Overcharge

 

POTENTIAL CANON SHIPS :

N/A

 

HEADCANONS :

• One of his hobbies (and means of catching people unawares) is mimicking scarecrows. He’s remarkably good at it when he wants to be.
• He will absolutely hunt for sport and takes great joy in chasing people, even if he doesn’t catch them.
• Boy will 100% eat a crow. He’s 100% down to eat a crow.
• Boy is a very bad loser- he only enjoys/interacts positively with things and people if he gets his own way.
• Boy never got to socialise as a child and thus never learnt how to live in a more humane society. Because of this, manners and etiquette are things he does not exhibit.
• He likes to sing, but he’s not good at it due to not knowing words to most things, but he can definitely hold a tune. Let him listen to something enough however and he will learn to parrot. He also wishes he knew how to whistle, even if his mouth deformities would likely kill that dream anyway.
• He’s quite often toothless, or missing teeth. This is because he has a habit of biting... Most things, such as rocks, his weapon, the Entity's appendages, etc. so his teeth are often either removed as a punishment or simply crack/shatter and fall out of his mouth in due time. He doesn't seem too bothered for the most part.
• The stapled wound and gap in his bottom lip/jaw was self-inflicted- The Hillbilly learnt through experience that chainsaws have a habit of snap-back.

BIOGRAPHY :

(Trigger warnings for; gore, animal abuse, child abuse, child neglect)

Any child born to Max Thompson and Evelyn Thompson would have a large shoes to fill; as wealthy landowners and friends to the locals of residing towns the two were seemingly the perfect couple; Max was ruggedly charming and always happy to hand out sage advice on the best feed for pigs and how to keep your equipment in check, while Evelyn was the sort of woman that you might see on TV if she hadn’t settled down into a life of domestic bliss. They were perfect, that is... As long as they were off the grounds of Coldwind farm. On home soil however, their ugliness was entirely on show.

 

When he was born, Boy was little more than a wailing nuisance, a runtish abomination in the eyes of his parents. His body deformed at birth due to an unborn twin, Boy was bottle fed from birth and barely checked, his lack of care and the close proximity of said care pushing him to grow into an exceptionally needy one year old, screaming all hours from his crib. His push for his parent’s affection was paused for a few years when his mother, finally sick of his constant wailing, moved him into the kitchen, and proceeded to pour a pot of boiling hot water over him, burning the child into an even more warped creature. His scream for care was nothing compared to his wails of pain and his mother, in a moment of lucidity, realised what she had done, panicked and told her husband. His father wanted to finish it- tie him in a weighted bag and throw him in a river like an unwanted cat, but the local Sheriff strolled onto the scene as the couple moved to put the plot into motion, causing them a decent schlock of time to hurriedly explain- it was an accident, he grabbed the pot, it was the Boy’s fault.

 

Due to his relationship with the family, It was written off as an accident. The shrieks of pain from their son never really lessened, so a shack was built off the old cowshed, and the boy was thrown inside. On a diet of corn mash, dinner time leftovers and the insects that made the brick and mortar shack their home the boy survived, teaching himself to crawl and then to walk, the couple unaware and unsure of what they should do next.

 

His father wanted to kill him and his mother just wanted him gone. Instead they did neither, letting him fester alone in the cow shed- feeding through a slat in the door with bowls of mash leftover from making Max’s infamous Thompson Moonshine and on occasion giving him water. The local sheriff however, the same man that had caught them red handed before, had an idea. “A monster for manual labour” was a great investment around the farm, leaving the Thompsons with the time and effort needed to work on more… Lucrative occupations than farming; money laundering.

 

The police delivered the couple money monthly, and the Thompsons and cops involved siphoned it from the farm as covertly as possible. It meant Boy got used to a large number of the local police department, and from the way they treated him he loathed every last one of them; as he grew he gained the interest of the police, noting the way Boy learnt quickly and soon, despite his feelings, he was their new form of entertainment.

 

Bull baiting, cow culling, moonshine tasting, punching bag and worse; whatever they wanted from the boy the son of Max Thompson was expected to deliver. This new role in the family drilled into him his purpose; a flesh sack for the sins of his family and the people they worked with. His name followed suit; every ‘Faster, boy’ and 'Shut up, boy’ and ‘Lie there and take it, boy’ locked it in harder and harder. It wasn’t much, but considering what he was, ‘Boy’ was a better name than he deserved, at least in his eyes.

 

Over the years his skill list grew, and his habits were adjusted; crying and screaming were no longer his go to, the urge literally drowned out by his mother in the pigs trough, searching for affection beaten out of him by his father. Instead he turned his interests to vying for their attention in new ways; doing what he was told, and escape attempts. Both these goals pushed him through childhood, but they came with a cost; the more he tried to escape the worse the punishments got, to the point that the boy was strapped down on nights or worse, left strung up in the basement, where his parents had constructed a specially made torture chamber, just for him.

 

At age 10 something happened that would change Boy’s life forever; suppressing him had brought about his screaming again, something his parents were even less thrilled about than the first time. They tried a host of different ways to silence him; covering his face, gagging him, exhausting him… The only thing that seemed to work however was, surprisingly, Television.

 

Boy loved watching TV, gluing himself to the screen and losing himself in superheroes, quiz shows and happy families in convenient 30 minutes segments. He was given his own TV, strapped down and forced to watch it, through the evenings and into the night, and it kept him quiet, ‘zombified’ to his parents' relief. It was their undoing however, as Boy learnt things; learnt how life was different outside the farm, that other children were loved, normal children were cared for. He also learnt less wholesome things, such as killing for sport and killing for profit due to his father and the cops having a vested interest in bull baiting and cattle killing as a means of entertainment.

 

He used both and pushed even harder for love and acceptance, learning to mimic words and actions, teaching himself how to draw, using TV and the toxic behaviour he saw used by the adults around him to teach him how to be a person. This disgusted his parents, who pushed harder against his affections and his frustrations grew, and grew, and kept growing for another 15 years.

 

As he hit his late teens, his parents found a new way to humiliate him; Donny and Duke. His father bought them at a fair, and it was Max’s job to clean their pens and make sure they ate what they were given. Day in and day out he watched those pigs eat better than he did, sleep better than he did and be treated with more respect than he’d seen past the Thompson’s friendships with the Rangers. They even got names! Without working for them! Boy didn’t have a name, he was given a descriptor, and hearing his father talk about those pigs made him realise that, now more than ever, he wanted a name… He just needed to figure out a way to get it.

 

The pigs only furthered his rage and, as his anger grew, something started to emerge; a shrill ringing sent waves through him, the unseen mass’s laughter mocking his attempts at humanity and a soft voice whispered through the darkness;

 

“Kill… Kill… Kill…”

 

The day of the massacre started like any other, Boy finding himself wishing life was different in the tiny shack he called a home. His fieldwork was done for the day and the pigs were fed. Dragged to his feet by his father for the waiting crowd, he moved to go through the motions; kill the cow, take the beating, get rewarded with TV… But something happened that day, an amalgamation of mistakes and motions; so sick of being treated subhuman and all other things held above him he lost his temper, and anything in the vicinity earnt his wrath. Unfortunately Max Thompson made himself part of that number, two of the sheriff’s deputies doing the same barely seconds later.

 

What happened after that was a bloodbath, spread over that day and the next; he took his mothers eyes, and her life, and crushed them between his fingers in a motion born of love, but taken by anger. “What’s my name?” Came the garbled and illegible question, the long awaited answer stolen from him as she died in his arms “What’s my name?” His questions were cut short by the Sheriff, and Boy took off, sprinting to the undergrowth and the woods outside the homestead.

 

What started as a massacre became a lethal game of cat and mouse; Boy versus the Sheriff and his deputies, but Boy was clever, cunning, and years of survival instincts and strength born from working against the odds turned the tables quickly. It was fun, and the police were stupid- too comfortable with guns and nightsticks to stand a chance. He could have done that forever, but the Sheriff caught him in an altercation that left them both injured, the ‘man of the law’ letting him in on a little secret; He had a name- his father just never gave it to him. He also called in backup and dogs, but that didn’t sway Boy. It just pushed him harder to get back to the house and look for his birthright.

 

As he sprinted to the house he was crippled by the searing sensation of a gunshot; it stopped him in his tracks and he turned back to finally deal with the man that made his whole life a worse hell than it had to be. The Sheriff saw no mercy in Boy's eyes or actions as he was broken down, gutted and thrown unceremoniously to the pigs, the last thing he saw being blue ribbon winners Donny and Duke greedily feasting on his innards. With that done he moved to take care of them too, donning their skins and making the home his own. Sadly he never found his birth certificate, or if he did, he couldn’t read it.

 

But that was fine. He could be whatever he wanted to be now. There was no one left to tell him otherwise.

 

It wasn’t long after that the Entity, the being that had nurtured him for so long, took him to the realm, but not before he could leave a lasting impression, stringing up the corpses of the cattle left on the farm in the old dead tree on the Thompson land. With that done he was taken, and Boy has never looked back.

 

 

WRITING SAMPLE :

The sensation of being woken for a trial was familiar nowadays, like well-worn shoes or the acrid heat that was nowadays part and parcel of Coldwind Farms. Sometimes he missed things like the rain, or darkness, but that yearning reminded him of things he didn’t want to think about; being cold and wet, scrabbling for spiders in a tiny damp shack--

 

No, things were better now, now that he was big and strong and killed things for his living, and today was no different, the familiar clunks and clanks of a generator picking up to his left, his lips half curling to show gum as the area pipped and became an almost unnatural yellow hue. At least two people at a generator? The survivors were playing boldly today.

 

He moved closer, making his own clicks and clunks in the back of his throat, the grip on his hammer tightening. From the sound of things there were a good number of survivors there, perhaps even all four, and he felt himself fall into a sneakier stance as the generator started to more fluidly chug; they were almost done, but he could pick one of them off easily if he played it right; there was one of them hooky-sticks nearby, so pull off one and put them on, hit another with his hammer--

 

“Shit he’s here! In the corn!” A voice rang out, cutting off his thoughts and catching his attention. One of them had made a fool of him, hiding in his dad’s chug machines- the corn cutter, specifically. His plan changed in an instant, the saw screaming into life and raised high as he started his sprint.

 

Oh well, he’d always been more of a chaser anyway.