APP.
Character: Wade "Cry-Baby" Walker
Series: Cry-Baby: The Musical
Character Age: 19
Canon: It's Baltimore 1954. There are anti-polio picnics with poster-boys in iron lungs, and a thick line between the status-quo "Squares" and the not so status-quo "Drapes." Drapes like skipping school to make out at a movie; they drink, smoke, shoot pool and bust out of Juvie. They're also fond of lurking in abandoned alleyways, so you'll learn real fast that you've gotta watch your ass in these days. One of the more notorious Drapes is Wade Walker, better known to everybody as "Cry-Baby." An ironic name, as he hasn't shed a single tear since his parents were wrongfully accused of a crime and sentenced to death. He's a singer who loves him some rock and roll, and his story and rebellious attitude catch the interest of a Square-raised girl named Allison, who wants to cross to his side of the tracks.
But Cry-Baby Walker isn't as bad a boy as everybody paints him to be. Nobody gets him, they say he's no good. Nobody understands he's misunderstood. He's got a vision of a world that's fair, where it doesn't matter if you're Drape or Square. All he wants is a little respect and some justice for his family name. When he has dickish Squares framing him for setting fires and putting him in the Vocational Lockup for Wayward Punks, Cry-Baby keeps on going in all of his badass (if not occasionally retarded and clumsy) Drape glory, for the sake of his girl, his family name and his own image.
Sample Post:
Well well! I was pretty surprised when I got a personalized invitation to sing at Camp Fuck You Die's first and only ever anti-polio picnic. Thought the name was weird, and little did I know how true that'd prove to be. But they were nice enough to at least ask, and in my opinion a chance to sing is a chance best not passed up! But you guys have no idea what you're doin' with this thing. Food with forest friends ain't exactly my idea of a good picnic, and I'm sure everyone else agrees. Take a look at the sheddin' monkeys over there. Nobody wants purple fur-crusted apple pie courtesy of King Kong.
And the doctors you guys are hirin' look worse than the people they're givin' out shots to. But just because they probably skipped less school in their whole lives than I skip on a weekly basis doesn't mean they can go around talkin' about brains like they got more than me. It's cheatin' when the brains they claim to have so much of ain't even theirs.
What I can fix here, though, is the entertainment. Probably wasn't a good idea to let those birds on the stage in the first place, after lettin' them get into the booze. Robins are singin' birds, sure, but they don't sound so good when they're smashed. I don't sound half bad when it's me, but we won't be seein' me prove that any time soon, will we? Not when there's no more drinks left, thanks to them lushes. And drinks are one of the most important parts to a successful good time, which means I gotta sing my ass off, and good, to turn this baby back around. But I think I can do that, especially since my predecessors were borin' you all with songs about never givin' you up or lettin' you down. I'll take those lyrics and turn'em into a reality. Let's let the master take his mic, and start up a good ol' rock n' roll tune to really get you people entertained.
So docs, patients, and even you monkeys; gather 'round and put your hands together, because I'm gonna revive this walkin'-dead party!
♪ The place is sort of creepy
Sir can you please refrain
From grabbin' at my arm
And sayin' that you want my brain ♫
The entertainment's sort of dead
That's clear enough to see
So step on up
We'll start a Camp Rock You Out jubilee! ♪
You guys there in the crowd with no hands don't need to look so down - puttin' your stumps together works, too!
Voting went here! In at 90.0%