The Scotsman — Roleplayer Guild

Appearance Description: I'm 6' 1", 180 lbs of hard man. You fucking know when you see me walking into your pub that you don't fuck with me, because I've got the bigger cock, and that's a pain in the arse you don't want.

Name: Jim Stark

Nickname:Besides from that angry motherfucking prick who keeps nabbing my money? Grease, because no matter how close the bastard Pigs get to catching me, they're no fucking getting me!

Age: 37

Gender: Is there no a willy hanging there?

Nationality: Passport says British, but my accent says Scottish.

Role: Heavy gunner. Pew pew, you dicks.

Personality: Angry as fuck! Aggressive as fuck! But if you want a place shot to shit in daylight and no-one caught, give me a buzz. I'm the boy for the job, and trust me, no-one swings a fully automatic like I do.

Biography: Born in Glasgow and lived in Easterhouse until I was 6, I've seen some nasty bollocks. Like my dad walking back from the pub with his cheek hanging off because some cheeky wee shag wanted to mug him. Pop gave him the boot in the puss, and the bacon still sent the old man away just for defending himself. Apparently giving a nasty rat brain damage in the street and leaving him choking on his on torn tongue is a criminal offence, those jumped-up twats at the courthouse said. So me and Mam trod down to the England Glasgow; London. Shitehole was just as bad, except now they didn't know who Pop was. So I had to make a name for myself. Next time Mam got knocked over and her money nicked, I grabbed the plonker and cut him ear to ear and dragged him to where his wee mates hung around. Dumped the body and chopped his fingers off, so I did. One of the boys' brother liked my style so he gave me a chap on the door and offered me a job: robbing this old boy's corner shop. And boyo! Did we fucking wipe that place clean! I ditched that wanker once I realised I was being payed a bloody pittance, started my own wee squad and ran up and down the country with them boys. Eventually we split ways (fairly, I'm not a total dickhead) and I shifted around the world a wee bit. It was evident my reputation preceded me, because at this point I'd gotten an email from some Saudi fucker asking for me to steal something. I said no, because am I fuck going to shite desert to nick some sand or whatever, just no fucking happening now or ever. I did get to visit Ibiza though and France, USA, Germany, Mexico (they've got some braw lassies there, better than Saudi), all them nice places. And now I'm here, listening to you asking me questions when you quite obviously you know I'm the best shooter in the world, which explains just how fucking poor I am to be listening to some cock like you.

Equipment: The LW-3 automatic shotgun with a 20-round drum magazine and a reflex sight attached to the top. The SIG P250 full-size is the preferred sidearm. Combat knife is also hidden away on my combat vest. Anything else required for the job has to be specifically ordered by head honcho.

Relationships
That boy has the gift of the fucking gab, I tell you. He could sell ice to a bloody eskimo. Pretty easy going bloke, but you're always wondering if he's being genuine with you or just yanking your cock. Smart kid though, quick as a whip, and knows his shit. And for that, I don't mind him being a sly bastard.

Quiet boy, all scratched up too. Thinking he pissed off some boss man up and got his tuppence. Learnt his lesson I presume though, because he's reliable as a work horse and I haven't seen him fuck up. Top notch driver, I'd let him use a fucking trike to get out of a heist if he was driving it.

Wee shag's got some kind of personality complex. Soon as rubber hits concrete he turns into a gobby fucker, but quiet as a class of bairns being yelled at when he hasn't got an engine. I don't like the boy but he does the job well so Juan must have a reason for keeping him around.

English bastard. Got that fucking Saville Row swagger that I just want to knock the fuck out of him. Stuck up, nerdy, shitey James Bond. Take your bastarding computer and ram it. When you want a fucking job done, you don't play a game of solitaire, you shoot things!

Tits. Arse. Braw face. Not much more you can ask from someone who needs to have all of that, and not any more. A twisted cow at the best of times, she changes her personality like her goddamn clothes. Happy then sad, grumpy then laughing. I can't fucking deal with her. I don'trust her. She has shit that I don't want involved in.

Mike, the main man. Boy likes shooting things like I do. Can't fucking fault him there! I trust the sod, and he hasn't fucking let me down yet. If he had my back in a shoot out, we're getting out of there alive. He's a quite animal, but not because he's being sneaky, but because he's a straightforward, simple bloke. Do the fucking job, and get your fucking money.

I don't know him. Gets me money. I don't want to say anything else, the pricks bankrolling me. All I will say is that the none of the jobs from him have had any issues yet.

Miscellanous: You implying I'm hiding something from you?

Theme Song:Macklemore & Ryan Lewis (ft. Buffalo Madonna and Champagne Champagne) - Kings

Let me know if I need to add anything. Sorry for the unusual style, I'm just getting back into this after a 7 month hiatus so I thought I'd try something new. If you particularly hate this, let me know and I can avoid it in the IC. If you particularly like this, I can use it in the IC. If you're not bothered by it, I'll probably flip a coin for it.
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