I bet you're wondering about the eyepatch. Or maybe it's the shirt. Or, and this is just a wild guess, you're wondering where my pants are. Well, I'll get to all that later. First, I gotta tell you about the stuff you CAN'T see in that picture. Because that picture is terrible. No detail at all. Makes me look like some sort of cookie-cutter freak.
Anyway, as I was saying before I got sidetracked, I'm gonna tell you about who I am, and why I wear what I do. First, a physical description. I'm about 188 centimeters tall (6' 2", for those of you not on the metric system...), and I weigh somewhere around 84 kilos (185 lbs). Heh. Just a couple weeks ago, I was another six or seven kilos heavier. Funny what not eating'll do to ya.
I wear contacts. Well, one contact, what with the eyepatch. I'll spare you the grisly details of how I got that, for now. I don't go in for fancy jewelery an' such like, but there is one thing I will always keep with me. My ring. I've had the bugger for years, and there's no way in hell I'm gonna part with it.
You see, this ring is special. Not like 'magical powers' special, or any stupid crap like that. It's special 'cause of what it means, and how I got it. It's special 'cause I fuggin' earned it. It wasn't easy, gettin the ring, but it was worth it. Incidentally, how I got the ring is also how I got this scar here that runs from my right shoulder to my upper thigh.
Hey! No flinching! I'm tellin' you about myself, an' that necessarily means I gotta show the scar to you. Otherwise, you ain't gonna believe me, an' I'll have to work extra hard to convince you. Now can I get back to my story? I can? Why, thank you kindly. Where was I? Oh, yeah, tha's right. I was 'bout ready to tell ya about my ring.
It's a purdy little thing, ain't it? Six Origami cranes, all engraved on a free-spinning wheel that's surrounded by the rest of the ring. And no, I ain't got no clue how they made it, so don't ask. Nearly pure silver, they told me. Tarnishes like real silver, so I'm inclined to believe 'em.
So, onto the story.
I was your typical teenage rebel. You know, the kind who start fights, and pick on helpless old ladies? Yeah, I know. I don't seem like that kind of guy. But I was. Well, at least until I picked on the local Judge's mother. That old bird was intelligent, let me tell you. Only reason I didn't get away with it is because she'd been smart, and had a .22 hidden somewhere. I don't know where she had it, but when I found myself staring down that tiny barrel, I dropped my knife and put my hands up.
Spent the next two years in lockup. Not a fun place. 'Specially when you're an attractive young man. Don't laugh! I know I ain't pretty now, but back then, I was havin' to beat the girls off with a stick.