[center][h1]Omar 'Mario' Barajavan[/h1][/center]
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[center] ___________________________________[/center]
P R O F I L E
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[sub]Age[/sub]
[indent][sub]29[/sub][/indent]
[sub]Sex[/sub]
[indent][sub]Male[/sub][/indent]
[sub]Height[/sub]
[indent][sub]5'9[/sub][/indent]
[sub]Weight[/sub]
[indent][sub]175 pounds[/sub][/indent]
[sub]Ethnicity[/sub]
[indent][sub]Nepalese-Indian[/sub][/indent]
[sub]Rank[/sub]
[indent][sub]Deputy[/sub][/indent]
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BACKSTORY & PERSONALITY
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[i]Backstory[/i]

You know why my favourite brand of beer’s Kingfisher? Nice peaty notes. It’s a coincidence that it’s also how my mom and dad first met in a seedy bar in New Dehli. Sharing a glass of Kingfisher. They both came from overbearing service jobs from their home states of Kathmandu and Kashmir; Mom an overworked sous chef and Dad an overworked hydroelectric engineering consultant. I was born in a squalid little apartment complex, the second child of my family and the last to be born on the eastern hemisphere. You see, like most other enterprising migrants, my dad and mom had to be asleep to see the American Dream. India was growing fast but not fast enough for the both of them. They saw America as the land of Gates, McDonalds, Las Vegas, Wall Street, rock, milkshakes and opportunity. 

So, they sold our shitty little apartment and got on a 15 hour flight to JFK. Life proceeded as it normally would. Trysts under the bleachers. Snowball fights with the next-door neighbours. Got my name from the bullies and made them scream my name before the teachers pulled me off them. Throwing your crappy report cards down the garbage can. For all it was, I did well enough to get into Rutger’s before my house got torched alongside a quarter of our savings. Whether it was deliberate or an sign from God to do DIY renovations, my mother’s dream of seeing me become a financial consultant at Goldman and Sachs was over. My father had a little bit of a 9/11 rant but that faded away eventuallly over time. I considered doing my soul searching by going to the nearest enlistment office but the NJPD had other plans for me. 

Becoming one of the few Nepalese police officers in New Jersey earned me little praise or envy for that matter. No one noticed me which was fine by me and even more surprising for them when I began moving up the ranks quickly. I was getting my act back together. Got a girlfriend, Clarisse. Was paying my rent on time. I got in shape. I was living for myself finally. I spent my first two years off and on patrol duty, a year in emergency services that made me lose my lunch more than I can count and then, street crimes. Fucking street crimes. If you’d catch the amount of shit that officers get up to in street crimes, you’d realize that calling us all pigs was justified. Anyway, IA managed to stop my ass from getting splattered all over the pavement and sent me to desk duty in the Sheriff’s office for about a year. 

And then, they booted my ass out of state and demoted me. Thank god for police unions, am I right? The NJPU gave me a lease for a new apartment and a new position in Lambour County’s sheriff office before simply telling me to fuck off. I supposed I should be grateful that I wasn’t fired. Small mercies, am I right? I tried to convince Clarisse to move with me but I supposed it was too much for her. At the very least, she broke the news to me over a cup of coffee. I still keep in contact with Mom and Dad. I think my little brother’s shacked up with me at the moment for a conference in Lambour that he’s attending. Something about concrete? Eh, I couldn’t tell you. 

So, that’s my life story. And remember to pay the next five drinks on my tab, hear me? 

[i]Personality[/i]

One pair of leather boots. One coffee cup. Cooking the same breakfast everyday: two over-easy eggs, a hash of turkey bacon, fried mushrooms and a slice of sourdough toast. Mario, in simple terms, views life as unfair and in return, treats it in an minimalistic manner to avoid the pain of uncertantiy. He maintains a relaxed demeanor and prefers to resolve conflicts in the most efficient manner that requires the least amount of effort. Where there waas once optimism has been burnt out hollow by cynicism and filled by a dreary sense of realism. The odd speck of passion arises in him every once in a while but it is usually quashed by his own desire to have a quiet life. He often keeps the lower half of his face concealed with a bandana out of habit. 

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