The Whacko

Fables Among Us

Name: Mickey Gillespie
Nickname: 'Flypaper Gillespie', 'Mick', 'That Fucking Irish Midget', 'Asshole', various other uncomplimentory names.
Race: Leprechaun
Gender: Male
Appearance: Mickey looks pretty average for a Leprechaun, standing at a diminuitive 3 and a half feet, though broad of the shoulder and thick in the neck. His face is pretty brutish, with thin lips, a large, broken nose and a perminant sneer. His bright orange hair is starting to go gray and thinning at the top, though his muttonstace is as impressive as it ever was. Like most of his kind he favors cheap, green tweeds and a bowler hat, though he also sports a pair of expreisve gold-rimmed, purple-lensed specticals (More for show than for poor vision). In his glamoured form he appears to be little more than a tall, bull-necked bald White man with a penchent for jeans and bowling shirts.

Personality: Mickey can best be described as, in the words of Bigby Wolf, "A low-life piece of shit that'd let every AIDS-ridden druggie in New York have a go at his sister for a hundred bucks." He's a cheat and a totally untrustworthy creature, only managing to escape the Witching Well because he's good at covering his tracks. There is very little he won't do to make a profit, though he is a coward at heart, and as such usualy has some hired help to protect him.

Fable: There isn't much to be said about this piece of work. Back in the Homelands he made a comfortable living rooking just about everyone he came across. From (According to his word) Jack and his magic beans to convincing the Three Little Pigs to cut the costs on the contruction of their homes and then tipping off Bigby, he had a reputation as the preminant con-artist around. These days, though, he's down to working as a fence and petty drug dealer out of his Irish pub, O'Mallory's. Lately it's been rumored that he's selling black market glamours to the poorer Fables, and even more sinisterly, dealing magical items to Mundies, though nobody's been able to prove that. Not suprisingly, he gets along well with folks like Georgie (of who's club he is a regular customer), and rumored to be on Bluebeard's payroll.

Belongings: O'Mallory's, an Irish dive bar in the East Bronx not far from the Trip Trap. Woodlands Appartment 47. Plenty of cheap black market glamours and various drugs laying around his appartment for sale (though the weed is for his personal use.)
Theme: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jA693mX0CyM

My Lips are Sealed.

Wolf Among Us {Fabletown RP}

Definitely interested.

In space... no one cares that you're broke.

Still alive.

In space... no one cares that you're broke.

Del looked up at that anouncement and bit his tongue to keep from swearing up a storm. Just breaking even again. Just fucking great. Same story every other job. The Cajun just glared for a few seconds, then turned his attention to the television. He had to admit he did enjoy watching the girl on Big Shot. Biggest tits he'd ever seen and they were covered in only the loosest definition of the word. He broke himself off in his imagining the things he'd do with her to turn his attention back to the captain. The Cajun never had any problem taking orders from a woman, hell he'd spent the best years of his old trigger-pulling life working for one. She was capable enough, even if she was a cop before this job. The problem was she liked to keep it squeeky clean. You could only go so far with clean.

"With Jack on this one, Cap. Holden Boys always got some work needs doin' on that rock. Always remember to include the hazard pay too, plus the risk." He looked back down at his revolver, running the barrel swab in and out. "Might try the Capshaws too. Or Gruvick."

In space... no one cares that you're broke.

Uh....dude, she said not to post til you were accepted.

In space... no one cares that you're broke.

The sound of a man working up a great wad of saliva was the first thing that greeted the captain as the young woman stepped inside. Henri Fontaine Delacroix, Del to the few people he considered a friend, was the source of the disgusting sound, and he concluded his effort by spitting on the whet stone in his hand. The tall, wirey Cajun looked up briefly at his captain as he worked the battered bit of black metal against the blade of his knife for the briefest of moments to acknowledge that he'd seen her, then set back to work on his weapon. He looked as disheveled and shabby as ever, just like the day he'd stepped out of Tijuanna and signed on with this crew. He had most of his personnal arrsenal layed out on the table, along with the cleaning kit for all of them.

"Best keep your eyes open on Ganymede. Wallet outta your back pocket too. Lotsa folk make'a livin' pickin' pockets there when they ain't fishin'." He drawled in that odd accent between English and French that was growing rarer and rarer as the years went on. He tested the edge of his knife with a thumb, then grunted and set it aside, immediately reaching for the revolver to his left and starting to disassemble it. "How long we got anyway?"

In space... no one cares that you're broke.

...was Guy even accepted?

In space... no one cares that you're broke.

Awesome. I shall post as soon as I get back from classes.

In space... no one cares that you're broke.

I vote for in transit, boss.

In space... no one cares that you're broke.

(Delete)