Name: Coleman Ichabod Coolidge
Age: 18 years
Height: 6’ 0.5” in human form. In his true canine form, he stands at 4’ and some change at the shoulders. Balancing on his hind legs for a few seconds, he is about 6’ tall.
Creature: Hellhound. Coleman comes from a long line of Hellhounds that stretches back for longer than records have been kept. The species originates from none other than Hell itself. Originally used as pets and guards for demons and other dark creatures, Hellhounds were granted the ability to turn into a human to be able to walk amongst those who dominated earth. A race known for their ferocious temper, instability, raw strength, and brutality, it has birthed a great majority of the more well-known (and lesser-known) serial killers throughout history. There has been a long standing joke in Coleman’s species that if you ever want to find another Hellhound, all you have to do is look at those on death row.
Because of the destructive, highly aggressive nature of the species, there always seems to be a decline in the number of members. Although they constantly reproduce, they constantly get into fights that sometimes end fatally. The species is male dominated, though there are a few female Hellhounds. If a Hellhound has children with a human, the daughters are far less likely than the males to become Hellhounds themselves, due to the fact that the genes causing it are predominately found on the Y chromosome. Thus, female Hellhounds are usually unable to transform, possessing only slightly heightened senses and, typically, a nasty temper. Hermaphrodites, however, would most likely be able to transform due to the presence of a Y chromosome, although there have been no recorded Hellhound hermaphrodites. Half-Hellhounds and so on are just as powerful as full-blooded Hellhounds. The only thing that changes is the size. Full-blooded Hellhounds tend to be much larger (closer to that of a horse than a regular dog), though this is not always the case. The pelt color, also, tends to vary from the typical dark gray/black.
The transformation from man to beast (and vice versa) is what marks the species. While the change is entirely out of will, anger tends to make it happen more quickly and frequently. Increased blood flow and movement must occur in order for the change to happen in a timely manner; otherwise, it would take incredibly long for the complete shift in size and shape and build to occur. Because of this need for energy, the process is very tiring (strong emotions, most commonly anger, tend to help the Hellhound fight off this side effect by distracting it). So, energy and a handful of seconds (usually ranging anywhere from approximately 3-15) is all it takes. Well, that and knowledge. A Hellhound rarely ever makes the transformation unwillingly (though sometimes extreme anger and the sudden impulses it comes with can make the transformation seem unwilling), so to be able to change, he must know that he is able to. More times than not, Hellhounds learn of this ability by seeing someone else change forms. Seeing it awakens the hidden beast within, essentially, allowing for transformations to become possible. In accordance, already abnormally high senses and strength is heightened even further. Why? Simply because of adapting to survive. A Hellhound must be aware of what it is and understand how dangerous it is before it is able to fully unlock that potential. Countless centuries of persecution brought this specific trait into being, which helped prevent random changings and freakish strength that would put the species in even more danger. The Hellhounds’ highly adaptive nature has allowed them to survive this long.
Hellhounds range in size anywhere between that of a large dog and a horse, though typically on the larger side, since smaller ones are often incapable of handling the abuse done to them by other members of their species. Typically, a Hellhound has fur as black as coal/a moonless midnight, though there is occasionally a bit of variance in color. The patchier the pelt of a Hellhound is often goes hand in hand with its social standing amongst other members of the species. Every wound a Hellhound ever receives remains on its pelt. The wounds heal in its human form, but in its true animal form, the wounds often continue to bleed. Depending on the severity of the wound, muscle and bone tissue may be (and often are) exposed. A species characterized by its blood thirst, obviously, greatly values scars. The flames that characteristically engulf the body of a Hellhound burn hotter and brighter in correlation with the amount of blood it has shed. Another marker of social standing. And last but certainly not least, a Hellhounds eyes range from bright yellow to glowing blood red. Ironically, the redder the eyes, the more kills the Hellhound has racked up. Small kills, such as most animals, hardly even register. The more difficult the enemy, the more noticeable the increased amount of red blotches in the Hellhound’s eyes will be. The Hellhound that is the most hideous by human standards is the most beautiful (and feared) by Hellhound standards, more or less.
Hellhounds, needless to say, do not smell like roses. Putrid, rotting, charred roses of death, perhaps. In their human form, Hellhounds carry about them an odd, somewhat displeasing smell, though it is nowhere near as strong as it is when in canine form. To go along with their flaming (animal) demeanor, almost all Hellhounds smoke cigarettes or, at least, some other distinct-smelling form of the stuff. It helps to mask their smell, making them harder to pinpoint, and helps them to relax more. Constantly being hostile is not a great way to live your life if you plan on living it for very long. Smoking also helps with a Hellhound’s need to literally give off some steam. As they exhale the cigarette smoke, they can easily exhale some inward-flaming-fur-and-flesh smoke as well. Along with cigarettes, Hellhounds typically use alcohol and other drugs. The body of a Hellhound naturally runs hotter than that of a normal human’s, allowing them stay warmer easier but also get uncomfortably hot faster. In accordance with this, Hellhounds often breathe quicker and more often than the normal person to help stay cool, like a dog. They prefer to eat meat (raw is even better), though they can eat other things, just in moderation.
Despite popular belief, staring into a Hellhound’s eyes three times does not cause a curse. Just like any animal, locking eyes with it is typically viewed as a challenge for dominance. Repeated offenses often lead to fights, which birthed the popular myth that Hellhounds cause death-bringing curses. Occasionally the demon masters of the Hellhounds (back when they were mostly all pets) would curse or otherwise harm nearby people, which probably also contributed to it, though that had nothing to do with the Hellhound itself.
Personality: Coleman never really had much of a chance to be a kid, which explains why he is very mature for his age (or for any age in general, really). He grew up quick, becoming a bit of a father-like figure, in that sense, amongst his friends. He is very understanding and caring. Coleman is a good blend between being selfish and selfless. He takes care of himself when necessary, but he won’t hesitate to help others. He gives off that kind of tough-guy look. He is an avid peacemaker, despising violence in virtually every form. This is due to the fact that violence has practically been Coleman’s shadow ever since he was born. You are more likely to see a pink elephant barf up a kitten than to see Coleman purposely start a fist or knife fight. He never starts fights, but he damn well has no problems with finishing them (he often finds himself saving one of his best friend Stanton’s ass when Stanton bites off more than he can chew).
Needless to say, Coleman is a very reliable guy. But despite constantly being abused by his family, Coleman never brings any of the anger and pain it caused him outside of that rundown house. The whole ordeal not only scarred him physically and emotionally/mentally for life, but it also ruined his reputation. He was instantly branded as a no-good, low-life piece of street trash who would turn out just like the rest of his family had- abusive, ferociously alcoholic, and serving more years in prison than they could count. This couldn’t be farther from the true nature of Coleman. He is a good, sensitive guy who has had a very harsh life but is brave and stubborn enough not to let that dominate him. Ever since day one, he has wanted to do more than what was expected (seemingly demanded) of him. And because of this, Coleman always seemed to be fighting an uphill battle. He is, and always will be, misunderstood. Times were beyond just ‘tough’ for Coleman. There were times when he had to abandon his conscience just to survive, and it killed him inwardly more than any beating ever could, even if some of them landed him in the hospital for a few days. Coleman is a thief, a liar, a cheater, and countless other things, but the one thing he is not is a man without morals. Many a time Coleman has stolen something or lied to gain something, only to end up regretting it so much that he has tried to right his wrong. If anything, it only worsened his reputation. After all, once a thief, always a thief. But it is because of his very strong, almost domineering (to him) sense of morals that he can be trusted with anything from a dime to protecting someone’s life. He is undyingly loyal and has a hard time accepting gifts from others when he knows that he cannot ever hope to pay them back. He would never steal from those he loves, even if it costs him his life. He is very responsible, and, as would be expected by what has already been said about him, he makes for an irreplaceably good friend.
Coleman is a good, wise leader, partly because of his vast life experiences and partly just because of his sensitive, caring nature. He has a good heart and tries to do right in the world, but the world never seems to make it easy on him. He is independent and responsible, not to mention determined to prove to himself that he is better than everyone tells him he is. He has basically given up on changing people’s minds about him, since 18 years of life have done nothing but convince him that he is unable to do that. Hence, he tries not to care what others think about him, though this isn’t always a walk in the park.
Despite all of this, Coleman is a rather humorous, light-hearted trickster who loves to goof around and have fun, but he knows when to be serious. He is quick on the draw when it comes to comebacks, and quite often they’re good (insulting, humorous or not). Coleman has a very adept sense of when he is taking something too far, which leads to his almost overly apologetic side. He greatly fears hurting those he cares about, for it makes him believe that he is no better than his father. He is apt to quick/sudden mood changes (seemingly bi-polar, to an extent). He is a lot smarter than he looks, though he does not always try his hardest at schoolwork or related things.
Coleman is prone to having flashbacks, during which he often spaces out, appearing very sad. Most commonly, he thinks of his mother. Coleman gets very defensive when his mother is brought up and does not like to talk about it in the least bit. She was really the only person in his family who ever cared much for him, leading him to consider his friends as his family. His trust and respect is not all that easy to gain, but once you earn it, you’ve got yourself a great person to call friend. But back to the whole mother thing, Coleman is very sensitive about it. He will avoid talking about her at all costs and is quick to anger if/when someone presses the subject, though he does not become physically violent. Just verbally. Coleman has a <>ferocious temper</b>, just like his father, only he controls it much, much better and is a thousand times slower to become angry (in most cases). He does not always control what he says, however. Speaking of family stuff is not something Coleman will do light-heartedly. He does not like to talk about his past, partly out of shame and partly out of the fear that it will scare those he cares about away. He will only willingly discuss his past with those he truly values and cares about, and even then the details are very few and far between.
Coleman does not despise praise, but if he receives more than just a small amount of it, it makes him a bit uncomfortable. He does not like it when others ask him about his numerous bruises or scars, for it embarrasses him and makes him feel like whoever is asking him about them is caring about him too much. Coleman prefers to care about others, for when others openly care about him just as much as he cares about them, it often makes him unsure of how to react. Things he is not used to receiving, just like with any other living person, make him uncomfortable.
History: One word- abuse. Coleman’s father was a raging alcoholic. Sober or not, his two favorite hobbies seemed to be collecting welfare and food stamps, then drinking them up, and beating the living hell out of his wife and seven kids. Sometimes it was because they made a mistake, like back talking him or dropping something or sleeping too late, but other times it was simply because he damn well could. Coleman feared his father. He saw his father like the 6’5”, 300 pound living embodiment of terror itself. But it wasn’t like his three older brothers (or their friends) were any better. They were just a hell of a lot leaner and younger, weaker (though that wasn’t saying it didn’t hurt) but quicker with their swings.
Coleman was born on the 22nd of November, the result of a terrible Valentine’s Day roughly 9 months earlier, though Coleman never knew just how bad it had been. Coleman grew up in a small little shit town in southern Michigan called Buckle, population 421, roughly. That number only ever changed when new babies were born or old folks died. No one ever seemed to move there, and they were right for it. There were slightly larger towns closer to the major cities, and that’s where a lot of the newcomers to the state preferred to moved. Good for them, Coleman always said, that kept them out of Buckle-Down-and-Head-to-Hell, Michigan. That fantasy of having a new kid move into town and change the place never came true. Damn movies lied about that. It never came true, as far as Coleman was concerned. He was born there, and it was likely that he would die there (or so he grew up believing for 18 years).
He could never escape the abuse. At home, it was his father and brothers. At school, it was mostly verbal or simple tricks (he had a strong swinging arm that had taught most people not to mess with him otherwise, which, of course, had only added to his family’s- and therefore his- nasty reputation), but it was still abuse, nonetheless. Coleman only ever had two really good friends in that town- Beau and Stanton. He had met them in elementary school, both during a fight. Funny thing is, Coleman had actually met them both in the same fight. He had fought Beau to save Stanton’s face from him. Beau had held his own against Coleman pretty well, and that had earned him his respect and later his friendship. Stanton and Beau had already been best friends; they had just gotten into fight over some girl. Befriending Beau quickly led to befriending Stanton. It was not long before they all became a trio of best friends. They were a gang of three with Coleman as the leader, though this ‘gang’ never really did anything bad. They just hung out and caused the occasional childish mischief, going on a few adventures here and there.
There were only two real gangs in that town, one of which Coleman’s older brother (a Hellhound just like himself), Darren, was in. His two oldest brothers, Tyler and Guy (both also Hellhounds), were serving a life-sentence for having raped and murdered a thirty year old woman on her way back from the grocery store. Coleman’s father (a Hellhound), sir, as he knew him, had been convicted of several petty crimes along with an assault and battery charge, but Coleman was sure he had murdered someone, too. Coleman’s mother, Dana, was a sad little thing. She was human and her husband and half of her children were Hellhounds, but she never actually learned that until the day she died. She, Mrs. Coolidge, had once been a vibrant, pretty blonde but after years of abuse and childbirth, she had been sucked into the whole mess and had been unable to escape. Instead of looking 30 something, she looked like a rode-hard 40 year old. Her hair was littered with gray; her dainty face wrinkled like the roads on a map. Coleman also had three younger siblings (all of which were humans): Grace, Peyton (brother), and Kayla. Peyton was human, but he hardly ever acted like it. He spent a lot of time in and out of juvenile detention, mostly for causing fights at school (though once he did pull a knife on a kid). So there was Coleman’s immediate family. This was not to mention what his grandfather had been like to have turned Coleman’s dad into the monster that he was, nor to mention any of Coleman’s uncles or cousins, most of which resided in various prisons around the globe.
Anyways, to sum up a lot of monotonous tales of woe (they never seemed very monotonous to poor Coleman), Mr. Coolidge had put pretty much everyone in that house in the hospital at least once. Coleman had been twice that he could clearly remember, four times that had been kinda fuzzy, and countless more completely and utterly, helplessly unconscious. He was often “getting sick” and having to miss school because he was beaten so bad he could hardly stand. Coleman hated his house. He hated pretty much everyone in it, too. Darren made sure to terrorize him whenever their father wasn’t. Why? Coleman didn’t know. It was probably because Darren had a lot of built up anger and frustration from the constant abuse from their father that he just had to let out at some point, but Coleman didn’t think that much into it. All he knew was that he absolutely abhorred his older brother and his father. His rapist/murderer brothers, he never really knew, but he hated them too. They had littered his early days with torment. Coleman tried to help Peyton out, but his younger brother only seemed to hate him for it. Coleman was powerless to prevent yet another lost cause. His sisters, Grace and Kayla, were sad, sheepish little things. They were so ridden with fear that they even believed Coleman was going to hit them. There was nothing he could do for them. He had tried to convince his mother to just leave her husband, but she was faithful and stupid and utterly terrified enough to not. This was what ultimately caused her death when Coleman was 13.
Coleman had been spending the day with Casey, his girlfriend at the time. He had forgotten to bring home the groceries, which had sent his father into a rage. Coleman was knocked to the ground and kicked repeatedly in the ribs. During this beating, he had spat blood and mouthed off in some tiny attempt to make himself feel less powerless, but it had only infuriated his father even more. He went to kick the cowering, horribly beaten Coleman in the head, only to be stopped by his crying, screaming wife. Mr. Coolidge shoved her down, but before he could begin beating his son’s face in, Mrs. Coolidge was up and trying to stop him again. Then Mr. Coolidge had lost it. He had flung her frail body to the ground, slamming her head against the dirty tile floor. It was the first time Coleman ever saw his dad change forms. In a matter of seconds, the beer bottle he had once been holding clanked on the ground, and in the place of the beer-stained monster stood a giant, bloody, flaming behemoth almost the size of a horse. Maybe his Hellhound form was symbolic to his true nature, though Coleman never thought about that. Mrs. Coolidge shrieked and raised her arms to defend herself, shaking like mad, but it was not enough. Her husband, the Hellhound, tore into her with his jagged fangs. Blood sprayed the room and screams were soon drown out by the almost rag-doll like thudding of a body repeatedly against the floor and the snapping of bones. Coleman, even with bruised and cracked ribs, had managed to force himself to his feet. It was the first time Coleman ever took his true form, a smaller (probably about the size of a lion) Hellhound littered with chunks of missing fur and flesh and a few jutting bones. He attacked his father. And lost. Coleman’s mother was dead. Her remains had been horribly mauled and disfigured almost to the point of no recognition. And Coleman was only lucky enough to have survived with several broken bones and a horrendously bruised back due to the unexpected presence of Darren in the kitchen, who later suffered from several bruised ribs after a Hellhound fight.
The funeral for Coleman’s mother was quick, cheap, and not nearly as attended as it should have been. Perhaps this was the ultimate symbol that Coolidge was a synonym for extreme disinterest and hatred. He had learned that he was not human on the same day that his mother had died, but the whole thing had been pretty terrible for him. Now that her funeral was over, he had finally been able to think more about his being a Hellhound. Out of fear of his father, he did not even dare approach him and ask him about it. Even though he despised Darren greatly, he just had to know. Coleman asked his older brother about whatever-the-heck-it-was-that-they-were, and Darren answered him. He told Coleman that no one else could know about it, and threatened to take his life if he ever told anyone. Darren was looking out for himself mostly, for he knew that magic beings were being hunted down and killed every day. Coleman didn’t really understand the gravity of the situation until he did some research on the internet, and, to put it shortly, the stuff he saw at age 13 kept him quiet as a mouse about who he truly was for the next five years. He didn’t even tell Stanton and Beau, no matter how badly he wanted to at times. No one could know or he and his entire family (even though he disliked them about as close to hatred as he could get) would die.
Coleman spent as much time as he possibly could away from his house, typically hiding out in Stanton or Beau’s house, though there were times when he had to camp out under the stars. Many a time, Coleman was kicked out of his house, and many a time he had snuck back in during the winter in fear of otherwise freezing to death due to his lack of enough money to get a coat. This often resulted in a horrendous beating, which is one of the reasons Coleman quickly turned into a light sleeper with nimble feet and hands good for sneaking in and out of a creaky old rotting house. Beau and Stanton’s parents didn’t like Coleman, either. He was a Coolidge, so he was automatically a big pile of steaming dog shit. Stanton and Beau didn’t believe that, and sure, there were several other people in the town that didn’t. The only problem was that Stanton and Beau were the only two who actually tried to do something about it, other than Coleman, of course. No one else really saw it as their problem, so they never really intervened more than once, if ever. The police never even seemed to care. Typical small town cop mentality. Perhaps the only thing that could have gotten them to care would be someone burning the house down with everyone in it, but even then it was still questionable. No one bothered the Coolidges. Let the trash be trash.
But it wasn’t like the Coolidges liked to deal with cops, anyways. Cops were often beating down their door looking for Darren or, in the later years, Peyton, for some petty crime. Being a family of Hellhounds (or, at least, partially), their criminal records weren’t the primary thing causing them to hate cops. Cops were the law, obviously, and throughout history, the law had never done much to help Hellhounds (or witches, or any other persecuted race for that matter) with being hunted down and killed by the masses. Coleman does not despise all cops, but he certainly looks down on them as cowards because of this.
Fast-forward several years of cruelty (and a few short-term girlfriends on Coleman’s part), and Coleman was now 18. He would have gladly dropped out of high school and left as soon as he could, but Stanton and Beau convinced him to finish high school. Sometime during those last few months of high school, Coleman experienced his first miracle. He heard of the World Train. He began saving up money, working as many jobs as he could (he had already been working some to help pay for food). But it still wasn’t enough to afford a ticket (later he learns that there are no tickets). Coleman abandoned his morals (painfully) for his lust for freedom. He began selling drugs for the gang his brother Darren was now leading. Coleman absolutely hated it, but the money just started pouring in, and because of that, he knew it was his only shot out of there. As soon as he finished high school (his grades weren’t anything to be very proud of, but at least he had graduated, unlike some in his family), he up and left Buckle, Michigan. He wanted to get Stanton and Beau to go with him, but that was impossible. They were human, and Coleman was not. And the World Train was the only place in which humans were not allowed and non-humans were. It was like the reverse of the rest of the world, Coleman thought. Reluctantly, he had to say goodbye to his two best friends- his true brothers. He packed whatever he had (which wasn’t much more than some tattered hand-me-downs and a carton of cigarettes) and left.
Finally, he was free. Coleman traveled a great distance until he reached the train stop for the World Train. When it finally arrived and he took that first step onto it, he could feel what he had been searching for for a long time. Coleman was finally free.
Skills: Because he is a Hellhound, Coleman possesses a heightened sense of strength in both his human and true canine form, though he is stronger in the latter. Because he has been beaten for most of his life, he has a higher pain tolerance than most, though it’s nothing truly superhuman. He is a skilled fighter and knows his way around handguns and knives. He is also a skilled gambler and excellent trickster. Coleman is a decent smooth-talker, in some cases, and has nearly perfected his persuasive, well-known Coolidge smile.
In his Hellhound form, his flames act as real flames, for the most part. He can (and often does, accidentally) burn/scorch things around him. Coleman is an extremely light sleeper, which makes it nearly impossible to sneak up on him when combined with his heightened senses of smell and hearing. He can eat raw meat and not get sick. The negative effects of smoking are very slow to appear in Coleman due to his having a natural resistance to smoke (otherwise Hellhounds would just choke on their own smoke and suffocate), other than the smell, addiction, decreased stamina, and yellow stains on his teeth. Needless to say, Coleman’s Hellhound form cannot be burned. While his human form can be burned, it is much more resistant to fire than the average person.
Weaknesses: Fear is always a weakness, and Coleman fears that he will lose the ones he loves and that he will turn out like his father. His temper is ferocious, and although he never physically abuses anyone, his anger can cause him to verbally tear someone’s head off, or at least verbally put salt in their wounds. In that sense, he can’t really control his temper and lets it get the better of him. Changing into his Hellhound form does not take much longer than a few seconds, though it is extremely tiring. Be it physical or just emotional, Coleman is always in pain. Coleman is a Coolidge. That is a weakness, at least, where he is from. Coleman has a certain heated cynicism towards violence, so he will always make an attempt to stop it, even if it means risking his life. For obvious reasons, his flaming Hellhound form and water do not mix. Putting out the flames makes him incredibly tired and, in some cases, may cause him to almost instantly fall asleep. Coleman’s strong, easily recognizable scent (be it of cigarettes or his natural one of charred, rotting flesh and dog blood) makes it a lot easier to track him. Being a very light sleeper, Coleman can suffer from sleep deprivation a lot easier than the average person. He cannot eat multiple salads in a row, for the overwhelming amount of vegetables will make him vomit. Just like water, strong winds (which also put out fires) make him tired in both forms, though especially in his canine form. Because of the fact that Coleman smokes like crazy, his stamina suffers, though not tremendously due to his natural resistance to smoke. As the years go by, lung cancer and similar respiratory problems commonly caused by smoking obsessively are ever so slowly appearing in him at a rate far slower than that of a normal human.
Likes: Smoking, eating meat (preferably raw), stopping violence, joking around, helping others, being near those he loves and cares about, gambling, tricking people (light-heartedly), not being home/not being in Buckle (Michigan), women (especially those who aren’t afraid to break social norms), purposely bothering/disturbing people, walking around in his Hellhound form (partly for his like of disturbing people), water (but only in his human form), climbing trees, freedom, (wearing) leather jackets, speaking freely (which includes cursing), being a leader, exploring, spontaneous things and people, being brave (not because it strokes his ego, but because it makes him feel like he has purpose), feeling like he has purpose, when things are calm from time to time, being warm, having somewhere comfortable to sleep (preferably in a house, though he will sleep outside when absolutely necessary), laughing, great comebacks (‘burns’)
Dislikes: Violence, alcohol, stealing, lying, seeing someone else’s blood (he does not fear blood; instead, it makes him feel angry and powerless to have prevented it), abuse in any form, being cold (he would much rather overheat), getting a lot of praise, remembering the past, sleeping (he often has nightmares of some sort), selling drugs, being hungry, his scars and bruises, people who judge too quickly, being misunderstood, how he naturally smells, being interviewed/ questioned, school/tests, focusing on one thing for very long (it bores him), people who complain too much, people who can’t keep anything to themselves, people who take their misery out on others, jumping to conclusions (or people who do so), being asked if he beats his girlfriends (he doesn’t, but because of his father, he’s used to people assuming he does), being useless/ standing around doing nothing when something needs to be done, gangs, crime, searching through garbage (for food; he had to do this on rare occasion), being unable to repay someone, when someone can’t take a joke or takes a joke too far
Misc. Facts: Coleman is a hardcore smoker. If it wasn’t for his increased strength due to being a Hellhound, Coleman’s bones would be rather disfigured/frail due to constant abuse while growing up. Due to lack of funds, Coleman rarely ever gets the chance to buy new clothes or clean them, which leads to his dirty, tattered appearance. He has only ever seen a $100 bill five times in his life, at least three of those times being when he was selling drugs. He is terribly ashamed of being a drug dealer, but he continues to do so on occasion when he does not have enough money to survive otherwise. Coleman would rather sell drugs than be forced to steal, for at least with selling drugs he has to do something to earn the money. Coleman has nearly broken every single bone in his body at some point and time. As a result, he has been hospitalized more times than he can count. He is an extremely light sleeper.
Pet: None. Coleman can hardly afford to take care of himself, let alone a pet.
RP Sample: Coleman was a young man who believed in settling your differences with words rather than fists, though he knew that there comes a time when words aren’t always going to cut it like a swift hit in the jaw would. And he respected that- so long as it didn’t go too far. And it was that mentality that had landed Coleman in his current predicament.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been around when a fight had broken out, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. The lean 15 year old didn’t particularly enjoy snooping and getting involved in things that weren’t his business, but, admittedly, it’s kind of hard not to notice two people yelling in each other’s faces at the table next to you in the high school cafeteria. It was a small cafeteria, too, so the sounds were only magnified as they bounced off the walls and captured the attention of every individual in the room. A small crowd had already started to form around the two arguing young men, mentally drooling at the thought of a fight breaking out. Savages. Coleman knew this both from previous experience and from the fact that several backsides were dangerously close to him as he sat at his table and continued to eat whatever lumpy slop the school had decided to call mashed potatoes that day. They tasted bland and salt-less, which was a giant step up from how they smelled and looked. Better they taste like the cardboard box they came out of than the green lumps they were littered with. But Coleman wasn’t complaining. It was either this or go hungry. Again. It was the end of the month and the next set of food stamps hadn’t come in yet. ‘The rationing week,’ as his brother, Darren, called it, though it was more like ‘the week of nothing but stale pizza and old beer cans.’
Before Coleman could take another bite of the slop, he heard an all too familiar sound ten or so feet behind him. It was the dull thud of a fist against the side of someone’s face, followed immediately after by the squeaking, scrambling of sneakers against tile floor as someone attempted to regain their balance and retaliate. Then came the second thud. It was on.
Coleman found himself rather abruptly abandoning the color-wheel of food he had previously been eating, standing up and turning around to see what was going on all in one motion. Being just a hair over 6’ had its advantages; he could see over most everyone’s heads. All the dirty blonde-haired boy could make out was the back of a letterman jacket. Whoever was on bottom was getting their face beaten in, which was evident by the repetitious, malicious thuds and the cheering and oohing of the quickly growing crowd. Coleman just couldn’t stand it. He weaved in between people as best as he could but shoved those who refused to move. In a matter of seconds, Coleman was at the front of the crowd, surrounded by sadistic fucks and a few angry people behind him, though their anger was quickly replaced with the intense hunger that came with watching a fight up close and personal. It was a hunger that sickened Coleman to the very core.
As soon as he had parted the red sea of people (a lot less gracefully than Moses had), Coleman found himself standing mere inches away from two animals tearing into each other. Well, one animal being a lion and the other a coyote. He did not hesitate to grab the shoulders of the guy wearing the letterman jacket, pulling him up and off of the bloody guy lying on the tile floor beneath. The letterman guy struggled to break free, elbowing Coleman in the stomach. He loosened his grip, if only for a half a second. “Fuck!” Coleman snarled in response, tightening his grip and prying the guy off of the clear loser of the fight once again. He hurled him backwards, which given the awkward angle only caused the guy to land on his butt and scoot back a foot at the most.
A single glance at the guy on the ground showed him that that fight was over. The guy was conscious but… well, that would certainly leave a few bruises for him to look at for the next couple of days. Immediately Coleman turned his attention over to the winner of that fight, who was now standing.
“What the fuck, man?” he growled, his face mere inches from Coleman’s.
“I think you hit him enough.”
“I’ll fucking say when enough’s enough!” He started to go past the blonde, who moved over to block his path. “Did your dad knock the sense out of you, Coolidge? Move your ass out of my way or I’ll move it for you!”
A bit of anger flared up inside of Coleman, but he easily extinguished it. He was used to this. After all, 15 years of it was sure to make a person used to just about anything. Instead of moving, he replied, “Sure, violence is sometimes the answer. I mean, we got an Army for a reason. But now ain’t one of those times!”
The letterman guy didn’t seem very satisfied with his answer. He got up in Coleman’s face again, threatening him once more, “Fucking move, Coolidge. This isn’t your fight.”
“Threaten me or that motherfucker one more time and you won’t have to worry about biting your dad’s cock the next time you suck him.”
If it hadn’t been for the fact that Coleman had fought that kid before (and won), he certainly would have decked him for that. Furious, he searched for a response, spitting, “What, do you love him or something? Fucking pussy; I shoulda known you were a faggot. You ain’t even worth my time, faggot.” And with that, the letterman jacket wearing guy turned and left, taking his angrily twisted expression with him.
Coleman watched him go for a second or two before turning back around to help the guy on the ground, who was now sitting up. “You okay, Stanton?”
The guy, Stanton, rubbed his throbbing forehead. “Yeah… he’s lucky you pulled me off of him or I woulda hurt him real good.”
Coleman stifled a laugh. “Yeah, I bet you woulda.”