User:Fightin'Mick

Fightin'Mick
	Joined: 2009-05-20 Character class: Revolutionary Zombie Hunter Favorite equipment: Fire Ax and Shotgun, why can't we have machetes! WHY!? Character profile: Urban Dead profile Current status: Alive and sitting in a pub cleaning his machete Character group: The Zeally's- Sergeant At Arms' Character stats: 93 Zed kills and rising... Journal: Not quite yet... for Fightin'Mick

The Introduction to "Mick"

A grim gleam shines in the man's blue-gray eyes as you approach him within the sparsely furnished back room of the Zeally Arms pub. He tiredly removes a studded leather black jacket that has various band names painted on it and begins to rub at a faded black bandanna that is tied around his neck. He is wearing a t-shirt that has a band called Witch Hunt on the chest.

"How's it going, Mick?" You ask as you take a seat in a looted five-star chair, most likely from one of the more ritzy hotels to the east, and lean back. You notice several empty bottles of whiskey lining the back wall along with a fire axe leaning on the couch arm, its edge shining from sharpening.

He runs his fingers through the mess of spiked dirty blond hair and looks out of a boarded up window as a ray of sunlight illuminates his eyes. A distant gunshot rings out and his hand unconsciously begins to play with the grip of a pistol that is situated on the arm of the looted couch.

"Amazing." He replies wryly.

You shake your head. Mick had always been sarcastic.

He leans down and from a large milk crate and produces two Guinness tallcans, where and how he looted the beer is beyond you. He looks at you, his mind taking a break from his thoughts and offers you one.

"Here."

You thank him and take the tasty beverage. He cracks his and takes a sip with a satisfied sigh. You notice a picture laying next to Mick's leg on the couch. The edges are worn and dogeared from constant use but the picture of a blue haired, red eyed, Japanese albino girl with silk smooth cream colored skin is still visible.

The picture of the Girl.

"Hey, Mick?" You ask after a sip of the dark stout.

"Yea?"

"Who's the girl in that picture?"

He looks at it and gently hides it away in his jacket almost as if he is trying to place a delicate treasure within a locked chest. He takes another drink with a haunted look.

"Some one I lost."

You roll your eyes. "Where is she?"

He strokes the pistol unconsciously again. "Alive somewhere. I know she is." He does not seem to be responding to your question, instead he seems to be repeating a mantra of some kind to himself.

You shake your head and take another drink. Mick never liked to talk about her, that is unless he was drunk and feeling depressed.

Outside a loud feeding groan sounds out. You shoot to your feet still holding your can in alarm. The instinct to flee begins to grow in your gut and your hand unconsciously snatches up your worn, but trusty, back pack. Mick calmly stands up and pulls on his leather jacket and begins to quietly whistle an Irish tune. You turn around to see a wickedly sharp D.I.Y. made machete be strapped to his thigh. He checks the clip on his pistol and loads the weapon before placing it into it's worn holster on his opposite thigh. His combat boots clomp on the deep blue Greek rug, most likely a looted piece from a museum, on the floor as he passes you still whistling merrily.

"Mick, where are you going?"

He turns around and flashes a wolfish smile a dangerous light shining within his stormy eyes.

"I'm going to go get rid of that racket." With that he straps on a gas mask over his smiling face and walks to a hole leading to the sewer passageway leading to the street. Before he enters he pulls out the machete and glances back at you. "One thing, comrade."

You stare at him. "What?"

"Don't drink all my beer before I get back."

A Non-Fiction Approach

Welcome to the Fightin'Mick. I have the slight flare for the dramatic, and theatrical, if you can't tell from the above article.

On to the important stuff. I have found a new family with my fellow Zeallys and have downed many a pint with them, while keeping the Zeds irrate. As [1]Sergeant At Arms' of the group I would like to invite you into the sturdy[[2]] pub that I call home. Take up arms with us, and pints, and have a little fun.

Let me clarify: I don't dislike the Zeds. In fact if anything I appreciate them for making my day interesting as I hit one and have ten chase after me in Brooksville straight up to Shore Hills. So on my behalf: "Bless your rotten hearts. Now stand still, My axe can't hit you if you keep moving around."

A small 'Journal-esque' Section

After slugging downing several pints of stout in [[3]] South Blythville I made an uneventful trek through Greentown into [[4]] Brooksville once there I ran around trying to support the other Survivors until the entire north western side was decimated. Wounded and exhausted I took cover in a [[5]] Bandit Queens safehouse to strike out against the Zeds infesting the north west corner. Thanks to the BQ's friendly first-aid assistance I survived, after a chewy run in with some less than friendly Zeds, to carry on my dream of visiting as many of the pubs in Malton before somebody gets to my brains, again.

Following one too many shots of whiskey and an Irish Carbomb at The Brookman Arms; I got into an argument with myself and after a brief run in with a several Zeds, once more the chase was on, I kicked rocks north to hide out in Shorehills. Now I'm hiding out and eating a few peanuts and drinking a few pints in the [[6]]Zeally Arms. That is I was hiding until my very dear friend Prudences Aunt came in and we began the drunken little family in the pub.

I often run down to Brooksville to help out where I can and try and report any nasty business in Brooksville to any body I can throw a shout at as I run through their building. Most of my days though are spent contributing design and structure to the group The Zeally's. To join our family and help keep the game interesting for both Survivor and Zeds alike, join our forum and family here[7].

Current Situation

Does it ever get better than to have your comrades at your side, a bottle of whiskey in your gut, and a hundred Zeds just moaning for your ax? If it can be I'm hard pressed to even look for it! -Fightin'Mick, Sergeant At Arms'