An Anti-Mary Sue
Edited to add: Please note - just because I consider this OC to be a dullard and a homophobic nimwit does NOT give anyone else the right to use him in their fics.
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Written after reading one too many discussions about how most OCs are Mary Sues. By the time a writer pares down the OC to avoid the common gripes you'd end up with someone about as interesting as yesterday's laundry.
Billy Smith parked his vaguely gray sedan, that might once have been a tan Ford Falcon about twenty-five repairs ago, in the motel lot. Billy tugged his duffel bag out of the back
seat and slung it over his shoulder. One of these days he'd get the trunk fixed, but he couldn't think of anything in there he needed that was important enough to pay for someone to fix the lock.
The ripe smell of the remnants of yesterday's ham sandwich reminded him that he'd missed lunch today. He'd been all set to chomp down on a Philly cheese with double onions when that damned buzz hit. The bellows of an outraged waitress followed him out the door, but he knew better than to stick around. He hadn't lived for a fifty years, or maybe it was only thirty-seven, without learning a thing or two. When the buzz hit, leave town. No way was he going to waste his life by making friends with people who fancied themselves better than him because they could do fancy things with a sword.
Fancy boys who pranced about jabbering about how things were in the really old days made him want to puke. He'd run into one of them once and nearly died of boredom listening to all that talk about some game and how he had to learn to defend himself. Hell, he'd probably been in more danger from the fancy boy with his damned foreign accent than from some stranger. He'd stayed around long enough to learn that the buzz meant one of them was nearby, where the fancy boy kept his money, and that if he was real careful, he could live forever. Billy wasn't sure how long forever was, but he liked the sound of it. You could drink a lot of beer in forever.
Billy considered himself to be a practical man of the streets; quick with his fists and not about to take gruff from any man. Talk radio told him all he needed to know and what it couldn't tell him, he'd pick up off the TV. The fancy boys and their swords couldn't be very important if they hadn't made it to reality TV or even got a mention on talk radio.
edited to add: This is a satire. This is not an OC. This is a stereotype written to prove that some characters not only won't move a plot forward, but they sit there like lead in bread.
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Written after reading one too many discussions about how most OCs are Mary Sues. By the time a writer pares down the OC to avoid the common gripes you'd end up with someone about as interesting as yesterday's laundry.
Billy Smith parked his vaguely gray sedan, that might once have been a tan Ford Falcon about twenty-five repairs ago, in the motel lot. Billy tugged his duffel bag out of the back
seat and slung it over his shoulder. One of these days he'd get the trunk fixed, but he couldn't think of anything in there he needed that was important enough to pay for someone to fix the lock.
The ripe smell of the remnants of yesterday's ham sandwich reminded him that he'd missed lunch today. He'd been all set to chomp down on a Philly cheese with double onions when that damned buzz hit. The bellows of an outraged waitress followed him out the door, but he knew better than to stick around. He hadn't lived for a fifty years, or maybe it was only thirty-seven, without learning a thing or two. When the buzz hit, leave town. No way was he going to waste his life by making friends with people who fancied themselves better than him because they could do fancy things with a sword.
Fancy boys who pranced about jabbering about how things were in the really old days made him want to puke. He'd run into one of them once and nearly died of boredom listening to all that talk about some game and how he had to learn to defend himself. Hell, he'd probably been in more danger from the fancy boy with his damned foreign accent than from some stranger. He'd stayed around long enough to learn that the buzz meant one of them was nearby, where the fancy boy kept his money, and that if he was real careful, he could live forever. Billy wasn't sure how long forever was, but he liked the sound of it. You could drink a lot of beer in forever.
Billy considered himself to be a practical man of the streets; quick with his fists and not about to take gruff from any man. Talk radio told him all he needed to know and what it couldn't tell him, he'd pick up off the TV. The fancy boys and their swords couldn't be very important if they hadn't made it to reality TV or even got a mention on talk radio.
edited to add: This is a satire. This is not an OC. This is a stereotype written to prove that some characters not only won't move a plot forward, but they sit there like lead in bread.