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He can occasionally be found slogging away at an old typewriter, frothing at the mouth… sometimes he’ll toss the typewriter against a wall and find himself satisfied with the random strings of letters that have fallen on the page.
Some say he’s part saber tooth, part human, and part dark matter from another universe.
He’s a dark horse, a rogue, a bacchanalian that you would not invite anywhere, ever, under any circumstance.
The most frequent sentence his name is spoken in is: “Who is this bastard guy, Vincent Strangecraft?”
He was raised by experimental mice that were smart enough to escape death at the hands of ignoble scientists. These mice taught him everything he knows, which really isn’t saying much.
He spent seven years of his life pouring word by word over James Joyce’s “Ulysses”, only to realize he himself had become a vile joke, and the book made less sense than when he began it. Henceforth he could be found uttering ‘Joyce’ as an epithet to his foes under his bubbling green breath.
It’s impossible to beat him at any video game, or at thumb wrestling, because he has two thumbs on each hand – a genetic gift he was born with. If it scares off the ladies, he just says “It’s her loss. If she only knew the things I could do….”
He once challenged a man to a game of rock-paper-scissors, best two out of three, to the DEATH! The man declined, and was never heard from again.
He was never born. He crafted himself out of pure nothingness. Consequently, he sometimes feels empty inside.
He prefers stale ale’s over fine wines, and hard-featured maidens over high class madams. This is what he tells himself every night before he goes to bed.
He’s not kind. He doesn’t rewind.
He’s Vincent Strangecraft.