He had such a unique walk that I couldn't help but be drawn to him. There was a bounce and sway with every step that was the perfect mix of an old timey boxer and a kid trying his damndest to see over the top of a crowd. His button-up shirts always wrinkled from never putting his laundry away and just grabbing whatever was clean from the hamper while the dirty clothes remained on the floor. In public, he was the most confident man in the room, always sure of his words and actions, committed to each movement like it could be his last. And maybe it could be. He'd pissed enough people off in this world, you never know.
He isn't the friendly, goofy type. His tattoos and gauges are usually enough to send people the other way. Those brave enough to spend some time around him though, instantly see his charm. When he speaks, he draws in a crowd. You hang on his every word and regardless of how many people are around, because it always feels like he's talking to you.
On his own though, he's not the man he pretends to be. He is never sure of himself but knows that if he showed that weakness, he'd only be prey for the powerful. He's been there and he's seen it for himself too many times. His thoughts are always racing, preparing for the next attack, verbal or physical. His fists, with their deep callouses on every knuckle, sit loose by his sides, always ready. He's been in more fights than he can remember. He never starts them, but he always finishes them. No matter how alert he is awake, he sleeps deeper than the dead. Nothing can wake him when he finally lays down.
He hates being social but he loves to drink. Not a lot, but every day he drinks something. Beer, mules, margaritas, bourbon, something every day.
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