There's your average, happy-go-lucky type of guy, and then there's Jefferson... a man SO full of love and life, he makes fabled storybook character Pollyanna look like a fifteen year old Goth with diarrhea. Every morning, he's up at 6am and leaning out his apartment widow, singing showtunes at the top of his lungs in a fine, surprisingly strong soprano. That he does so fully nude has caused much consternation to the neighbors... particularly those with weak stomachs (he's 98% wrinkles)... but in the end, they all decided that they'd leave him alone and just vow, for their own sanity, to not look up until at least noon. His voice is THAT good. Following his musical escapades, Jefferson usually tap dances down to the local bar and occupies the third stool from the left until closing time, telling jokes and spinning yarns and farting on command and laughing and laughing and laughing. Oh, and drinking straight grain alcohol from a cracked mason jar. Because without his Everclear, Jefferson gets fucking MEAN.
Were he not the laziest son of a bitch ever to hear far-off voices echoing around inside his skull, he'd be a serial killer on par with Jack the Ripper, at least as far as the volume of dead hookers is concerned. But, fortunately for everyone, stalking and brutally murdering ladies of the evening is WAY to much work for Scary Stu... he'd rather sit in front of his computer reading conspiracy theories about the Devil and watching slasher flicks off his Netflix Instant account. Oh sure, he thinks, if a hooker HAPPENED to wander into his one-room apartment and there HAPPENED to be a hacksaw and a mallet handy, he SUPPOSES he'd dispatch her in as horrific a manner as humanly possible. As long as he wasn't in the middle of Friday the 13th Part VI: Jason Lives and as long as he'd already eaten his Stouffer's Mac N' Cheese and as long as she'd just lay down and let him do his business and not run all over the place screaming and yelling for the cops. Scary Stu doesn't need that shit.
Ever seen a barbershop quartet-themed tattoo on an old, fat ass? Want to? Because Percival will drop trou
at even the MENTION of the word "tattoo," so proud is he of his butt-displayed ink. And, truthfully, it IS a lovely piece of work, if not a little hard to see due to the amount of wiry, gray hair that blanket's Percival's backside like kudzu vines in a Georgia gully. Very colorful, the tattoo is, and it makes creative use of the crack, which is some detail work I think we can all appreciate. Anyway... Percival loves his barbershop quartet. Not for the music, so much; mainly because they don't give him shit about the way he dresses (he loves stripes, both the pattern and the movie) or the fact that he's got a mustache/beard combo that makes people on LSD's
Augie works nights at a graveyard and is so scared of ghosts, he carries around nineteen
flashlights and a book of magic spells with him at all times. Most of the flashlights don't have batteries, of course... Augie's not the brightest of bulbs, no pun intended... and the "book of magic spells" is just an old Betty Crocker
cookbook from the 70s that he found on the bus, but still. They make him feel better. And that's really all that matters... you know, whatever keeps him from jetting fear pee all over the tombstones every time
a bird shifts it's weight on a branch or he startles himself with a sneaky fart. It's either his collection of talismans or he gets a job as a Wal
-Mart greeter, and Augie's not allowed back in Wal
-Mart anymore. The fear pee thing again. All over the DVD racks. Lousy terrifying Wal
Nobody fucks with Chan. Ever.