GALE, Wesley Porter

[wesley]

WESLEY PORTER GALE




"THE MARCH HARE"

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Alias: Madge
Other Characters: None
Rewritten City Found Via: Caution 2.0
Contact: PM or AIM (thatonekidfache)
Comments: Just that I'm glad to be here!
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00I. full name Wesley Porter Gale
0II. canon or original Canon; Alice in Wonderland
III. years of age He supposes he’s 28 since his heart’s been beating for over 245,448 hours, but he changes his mind every now and again.
0IV. orientation Unquestionably asexual. He's a bit too caught up in his own little world to even consider becoming intimate with anyone else.
00V. social status Low Class
0VI. occupation Coroner

00I. play by Gaspard Ulliel
0II. body type Due to Wesley's inconsistent eating habits and tendency to cure hunger pangs with alcohol binges, his frame is quite the frightening sight. Most resemblant of a starving sphinx, his lanky figure exudes infirmity and destitution – in all honesty, if it weren't for the haughty air he emits and the ominously large satchel tugging on his left shoulder, he'd be more often mistaken for a cancer patient with a bad wig than an unstable and potentially life-threatening ne'er-do-well. Despite his hollow looks, however, he's not entirely fragile – he's got that treasure trove he lugs around to keep him working the remains of his deteriorating muscles into something somewhat useful. Sort of…
III. height 6'3
0IV. eye color A frighteningly dull shade of gray, and consistently bloodshot. Nothing remarkable.
00V. description Most people can blend in fairly well with society - Wesley is no exception. He really looks like your average anorexic bum, what with his swollen eye bags, stringy, bushy hair, ribs shown through almost anything he's wearing, and wiry legs that are practically non-existent. However, while Wesley’s appearance isn’t distressing or particularly frightening at a first glance, a further examination will reveal quite a few scars remnant of past experiences and, only in some cases, memories. A rather large section of his right leg is colored with burn scars – the result of his first attempt to light a cigarette (around the age of eight, might I add), which ended in him dropping the cigarette on his sneaker when he tried to close the lighter cap – and one long wound rests underneath his chin, stretching from his jawbone to his throat (also caused by one of those ‘first try’ experiences – this time, however, was his first attempt at shaving, far before he actually needed to shave, or was smart enough to hold the knife at an angle). His nose is slightly crooked, his ears are a tad on the large side, his teeth aren’t in the best of shape, and, at times, his right eye is a bit lazy, if that can, in fact, be considered a physical flaw. He does keep himself rather well groomed, though, by shaving fairly often and taking frequent sponge baths in the bathrooms of various convenience stores and restaurants. With Wesley, cleanliness is a must, despite the circumstances.

TYPICAL DRESS STYLE: Wesley believes strongly in the repulsion of pre-planning (most likely since the majority of his life was conducted in such a way – with or without his consent), and thus his wardrobe reflects these beliefs. He’s often seen in a sweater vest or at least a button-down shirt, for one must always dress respectably if they are to gain any sort of reverence in a society so strongly based upon judging books by their covers, though the variance of color, pattern, shape, or even size, can never truly be guessed ahead of time (much like his wrist watches-- which, by the way, are the reasons he only wears long sleeves). Though, I might add, his clothing options are, in fact, limited – not having much as a child, he doesn’t see the need to have much as an adult. Most of his garments were bought simply to fill in time while his main ensemble was being washed or dry-cleaned, so he doesn't usually keep them for more than a day or two. His only consistent outfit is a pair of navy pin-stripe dress pants, a red sweater vest (always covering a white button-down shirt), mismatched socks, and a pair of worn, brown leather trainers.

00I. overall personality To put it simply, Wesley is a confused and psychotic wolf in sheep's clothing – I mean, in hare's clothing, of course. He's not one to flaunt his occupation to the masses in daylight, though he'd be more than happy to introduce himself one-on-one after dark. He can mask his murderous side fairly well – he's got a bit of a routine, though he doesn't like to admit it - because he's really only looking for bloody thrills at night. When the sun's up, he prefers the rush of viewing car wrecks (that don't involve himself, of course), suicide jumps, bank robberies, and anything else that's guaranteed a siren following. He's rather "addicted" to the sound of sirens, if I do say so myself. They often put him in a fit of laughter, which always gains him some odd looks and filthy scowls from those who don't see the funny in life the same way he does. However, even though he attempts normality in order to stay "under the radar", he hardly, if ever, achieves it.

Wesley is claustrophobic, which makes for a rather interesting situation whenever he's the first one at a wreck, and a rather large crowd seems to gather thereafter before he realizes it, because he'll often go from giggling under his breath to turning around, realizing what's happening, and panicking uncontrollably, resorting to muttering incoherencies in an effort to calm himself down. He has an odd belief that it is, in fact, possible for people to use up all the air, and is terrified of ever being in the same place with too many people at once, and not being left any oxygen. He also doesn't like the feeling of being pressed against multiple sweaty bodies – he has fainted before because of it. Though, it may also have been because of the heat, or because he thought he'd run out of air. It's hard to tell.

Contrary to his seemingly "dark" demeanor in his little monologue below, Wesley's actually quite the funny fellow. He jokes about life, about people, about clichés, and just about anything else you can image – everything, that is, but his history, which is no laughing matter. He takes anyone making any remark about it very personally, and even a slight interruption can send him haywire. All that aside, however, you'll almost never catch Wesley without a big smile plastered on his face. Granted, half the time he'll be laughing at you.

Wesley is never guilty. Ever. Don't try to tell him otherwise. Ever since he started feeling like everyone was holding him accountable for his father's death, he's been passing guilt like there's no tomorrow. Those innocent victims he's murdered? Yeah, well, they were in an alley after dark – they were clearly up to no good, anyhow. The result of your pesky questions? Should've kept your mouth shut. The mud that just splashed all over his shoes because he stepped in a puddle? God did it.

Wesley has an odd obsession with manners, although what he considers to be "good" and "bad," doesn't usually follow normal standards, and fluctuates often. Because he really doesn't know the difference between right and wrong, he usually just makes one up according to the circumstances - if he doesn't like what you just did, it was rude. Not laughing at one of his jokes? Rude. Laughing when he didn't cause it? Rude. Waiting in front of him in a line, even if you were there first? Rude. It's best to try and keep him happy if you'd like to avoid a rather extensive reprimanding. Funny thing is, if he were ever to meet himself, he's quite the rude fellow according to his own definition.

Life is simple, and that's just the way Wesley likes it. He has a problem following complicated trails of thought – though he often produces them, it's always unintentional, and he hates it when other people do the same. He likes things short and sweet – or, not so sweet. But short, anyway.

Confusion will not escape a conversation with Wesley. He's intuitive, insightful, and downright intelligent, but he has the most horrible time making himself clear. He won't admit it, though. Rather, he'll simply leave you wondering if what he said was complete nonsense, or simply far too advanced for you to comprehend. For future reference, usually it's the former.

Wesley's quite the germ-a-phobe. Hand sanitizer, a good pair of gloves, and a couple of pocket tissues are his best friends. He was a more obsessive about it for a while after he began the murders – using Kleenex to turn doorknobs, never shaking people's hands, washing his own every hour or so – but he began to settle down after he became more accustomed to his newfound lifestyle. Even so, his fear of germs hasn't completely evaded his thoughts - after "borrowing" a watch from a body, he has a process of sanitation that he puts it through, which consists of washing it down with hand sanitizer (a step that often results in the watch later rusting or breaking), and allowing it to dry on its own to let the impurities "disintegrate." Just because he likes seeing blood doesn't mean he likes it touching it.

Wesley is easily bored, and has a tendency to change the subject. Often. He can't keep a single trail of thought going for more than a few minutes, unless, of course, it's one that works up his emotions or that he's thought about and considered habitually. But, that doesn't happen much. He's usually pretty mellow, so his mind's usually pretty scattered. Pacing helps, though. A constant sound can usually assist his mind in staying consistent, too. Plus, he's less prone to notice outside distraction when he's focused on pacing.

Numbers are perhaps Wesley's biggest obsession. With eight watches on his left arm, and god-knows-how-many in his briefcase, you'll never catch Wesley without something on his person counting. However, more likely than not, he'll be doing the same – counting, that is – though never really out loud. He tends to keep it to himself mostly, though numbers often influence his decisions. He'll choose number 5 at the coffee shop over number 6 any day.

Wesley can do for himself. He thinks he knows it all, and isn't afraid to let it show. Some may label it "cocky" or "arrogant" when one constantly disregards the opinions and beliefs of others, but when you never consider anyone else's opinion anyway, it's never anything personal. After all, you'll hardly, if ever, catch him asking you a question – rather, he'll more often than not be caught telling you something that would incite the question. Though he often finds himself confused, he never attributes this to the fact that he doesn't ask for clarification on things – rather, he just blames the speaker for being confusing.

It's hard to describe Wesley without using the words "delirious," "abnormal," "psychotic," or "confused." In fact, it's impossible. He really is truly insane, and there's no other explanation for his behavior. He's rude, arrogant, intrusive, clueless, socially awkward, and altogether strange. He tends to avoid conversations including more than five people (five being uncomfortable enough) for fear of becoming overpowered in opinion, and he laughs at strange intervals and inappropriate times. He thinks of himself as more important than others, resulting in his frequent interruptions, and sometimes complete detachment from whatever the other person is saying. He forgets things like crazy – he may ask you a question one moment, receive an answer, and then ask again only a few moments later. Sometimes he'll forget your answer and forget to ask again. It's hard to keep a straight face when he's around (unless, of course, he's currently laughing at you, reprimanding you for doing something that's really not worth being yelled at for, or getting on your last nerve), for it's usually more of an expression of confusion. However, even despite all his abnormalities, Wesley is still a person. He gets disappointed, discouraged, uplifted, angry, hopeful, hopeless, optimistic, and pessimistic – just not at the same time as "normal" people.

Though I wouldn't consider Wesley to be mundane, he doesn't have very many special abilities worth mentioning. He takes to guns like a duck takes to water, but, then again, he's had a lot of practice. He can also count like there's no tomorrow, but you knew that already, and besides, it doesn't really come in handy much, especially since he can't even add and subtract (unless it's by ones, of course).

FEARS:
[=] Dislikes.
Quite frankly, most of his dislikes are minor fears. He tends to avoid them, anyway. After all, what scares us more than the things we hate?

[=] Even Numbers.
Not only immensely disliked, but unnaturally feared. They've never been too agreeable with him.

[=] Fire.
Most likely due to that first little incident involving a burning sneaker, but he never had been too fond of the flames. How he forced himself to become addicted to cigarettes is beyond comprehension (perhaps it was simply that overtaking desire to become more like his father), but lighting the damn things poses a daily challenge for him. Oddly enough, he's obsessed with setting off explosions. He just...doesn't want to be near them when they actually explode. Then again, who does?

[=] Spiders.
Just one of those fears. He’s never really had any sort of emotionally scarring incident involving spiders, or even been bitten by one, to be honest, but he just doesn’t like them. Eight legs? Talk about strange. And fast.

[=] Crowds.
He's claustrophobic. And germophobic. Being in the center of pushy, sweaty, bacteria-transferring mob is obviously not his ideal situation.

[=] Being recognized.
Ever since the Harwich shootings, Wesley's been paranoid of having someone associate him with the murder of his father. His constant moving is a direct result of this rather daunting and oftentimes overwhelming fear.

[=] Being murdered.
Not a devastating fear, really, but one that sits in the back of his mind and creeps up whenever he least expects it. He bases so much of his purpose in life around taking the lives of others - just the thought of someone turning the tables on him leaves him feeling uncomfortably vulnerable.

[=] Having his watches stolen.
They're like his children. Literally. He adopts them from less-than-satisfactory parents and proceeds to care for them until the day they die; even then he doesn't let them out of his sight. If anyone ever mustered the gall to lay a hand on his satchel, they'd be greeted by a bullet to the head and a drop to the dirt, despite whether or not they had a watch of their own.

HABITS:
[:] Nicotine
[:] Alcohol
[:] Murder
[:] Chasing sirens
[:] Cleaning his watches
[:] Biting his nails/lower lip (when he's feeling exceptionally anxious, he gnaws on his fingertips-- often until they bleed-- due to his autophagia)
[:] Twitching his fingers when thinking


0II. strengths
[+] Wit.
He’s got a rather impressive talent for making intellectual humor out of most any situation, whether it be by actually narrating a riddle, or just manipulating someone else’s words. Laughter is the best medicine – in this he fervently believes. Though, of course, there are times in which hilarity is most unnecessary – problem is, he never did have a knack for telling when exactly those moments had arrived. His desire to cause amusement often gets him into some rather awkward situations.

[+] Lack of an apparent conscience.
Right and wrong have no boundary line in Wesley's mind, where guilt is a foreign emotion. Not that he chose for it to be this way, but, let’s face it – we can’t always choose the circumstances that lead us to become who (or what) we are. Besides, everything is justifiable if you twist it in just the right way. But, you ask, could this really be considered a strength? In Wesley's case, it most certainly is. After all, he’d be a very sick puppy if he actually knew how many bad things he’d done. He tries to be a decent and rational human being, and when something can be warranted, it can’t be all bad, can it?

[+] Positivity.
Wesley's quite the optimist. He sees the best in just about every situation, and his smile is a permanent feature. No, really – you'll hardly ever catch him without it on. Contrary to the typical "optimist" attitude, though, he doesn't always notice the most wonderful things in other people. He'll be more likely to point out the tiny zit on your forehead before he'd take note of your new hairdo. But, if you tell him your cat was just hit by a car, he'll give you some silly explanation for why it was a good thing – after all, now you can get a kitten instead. Everyone loves kittens.

[+] Independence.
There’s no doubt Wesley Gayle is one autonomous being. He feeds himself, provides for himself, and conducts various murders on his own accord. Sure, at times he wonders if it might be nice to have someone constant to talk to (other than himself, that is), but he's come to enjoy freedom so much he can't image regaining the role of a follower, and he’s come to find that ‘following’ is most often what friendship entails. That, and trust, which simply won't do. He wasn't always this way - no, not in the slightest. But sometimes life calls for a little bit of change, and besides, Wesley finds it's a bit easier to get along when you don't depend on someone else.

[+] Ability to talk to children.
Though it seems a bit uncanny, Wesley has an immensely abnormal gift for associating with children, especially those under the age of seven - when imaginations are still running rampant. He’s often described as having a more child-like mind himself, though, of course, any grown man who enjoys talking to children is often looked down upon with his intentions placed in question (what with the stereotypes running rampant in society), so he seldom gains such an opportunity to relate with someone more like himself. Not that he can’t associate with adults; they’re just not quite as inquisitive or accepting of abnormalities in behavior.

[+] Flaunting a rather ‘average’ air.
Wesley is anything but average. His actions aren’t average, his fears aren’t average, his habits aren’t average, and his mind is certainly not average. But, he can thoroughly act the part of John Doe. Well, an introverted, socially awkward John Doe, that is. Though his quirks and eccentricities do occasionally reappear (after all, even numbers simply will not be tolerated), for the most part, he is able to keep them all to himself. Seeing him on the street, you would never guess some of the things he’s done (that is, if you see him in the daytime, of course).

[+] Luck.
Wesley's lucky – plain and simple. He's never done anything deserving such a gift, and he probably never will, but that's life for you. Perhaps he just got lucky in getting lucky. Go figure.

[+] Sobriety.
He could have one drink or eleven, and it would hardly make a difference. Having an incredibly high alcohol tolerance level, probably since he was practically raised on the damn stuff, it hardly ever has immediate effects on his mind and thought processes. However, he certainly isn’t immune to those god-awful hangovers that plague him so many mornings after.

[+] Ambidextrous.
Yes, Wesley can write with both his right and left hands. Talk about talent, eh? Too bad he's simply atrocious at spelling.

III. weaknesses
[-] Psychological Disorder.
Wesley is truly, fully, and completely mad, both in the figurative since, and the literal. As you may have assumed, our little friend had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD), and rather horridly, might I add, when it comes to numbers. He counts things. No, scratch that. He counts everything. How many steps he took to get up the staircase? Check. How many times he read the street sign before crossing? Check. How long it took the police to find victim thirty-four? Check. If it can be counted, Wesley will count it. Does this obsession stem from childhood? Not entirely. Yes, in a way, considering counting really was the only thing he was good at during schooling, but at the same time, the fixation really didn’t begin until after the day he fell on his head, and has only seemed to progress in severity over time. In fact, many of his mental disorders didn’t start until his teens, including his schizophrenia, paranoid personality disorder (though it was most likely hiding in his genes long before then), and autophagia. OCD is often considered simply a side-effect of the grander mental illness he's acquired - a suggestion which is quite plausible, considering it didn't begin noticeably until after his paranoia and extreme memory loss. Though the delusions and hallucinations have never really plagued him, his inconsistency in thinking, inability to stay focused, fast and oddly elaborate speech, social awkwardness in crowds, fixation with murder and control, and lack of sympathy or guilt are some of the most definite signs that something is, indeed, wrong. Then again, his odd behaviors may not be attributed to a mental disorder at all - it’s just as plausible (if not more so) to say his addiction to alcohol has a bit to do with it.

[-] Being associated with the things he hates.
He really just can’t seem to stay away from all that he loathes. Even numbers cling to him. Pre-planning constantly squeezes its way into his thoughts. Complexity consistently takes hold of conversations. At times he even finds himself organizing his wristwatches. He usually forces himself to justify these horrid actions in one way or another so that he doesn’t stay mad at himself for too long, but I’m sure by now you know just how hard it is for Wesley to be anything but mad.

[-] Addiction.
Though, not just towards drugs or naturally addictive substances, as you may have originally assumed. No, in fact, Wesley can find himself addicted to most anything if it appeals to him in some sufficient way, and he often has. He’s addicted to laughter, to solitude, to conversing with the seemingly ever-sober thoughts in his head, to taking lives, to a love of mind games, and even to the habit of pacing. Not one of these odd fads could he live without (or, at least, so he believes), and therefore it seems just to say he is quite fervently addicted to them.

[-] Impertinence.
Wesley has a tendency to interrupt someone else's speaking. And make personal remarks. And order others around. Not to mention his obsession with controlling the conversation. All in all, Wesley can be quite the rude fellow. Which isn't to say he isn't charming in his own way, what with his lack of seriousness and obvious social uneasiness, but he certainly didn't learn proper social etiquette as a child.

[-] Inability to stay focused.
Please, for your own mental stability, don't try talking to him about one subject for more than five minutes. It won't happen. He gets off-topic easily - much, much too easily - and is distracted by even the slightest thing. His mind is scattered, and his thoughts constantly dart every which-way during conversation. Don't mention your hair if you're trying to talk about the weather - he'll go off on a tangent, and I doubt you'll be able to stop him. Not that his seemingly irrelevant points don't have a meaning - in fact, the majority of them are actually very insightful - but they won't necessarily be what you'd come to hear.

[-] Long-winded.
God, can Wesley talk. Though, I'm sure you'll soon realize this for yourself, what with his "little" story and all. However, place him in a crowd and you'll be lucky to get him to introduce himself. He's much more sociable one-on-one – perhaps because he knows he always has the "upper hand" if the conversation goes where he doesn't want it to.

[-] Improper use of emotions.
Wesley feels the same emotions every other human does - joy, sorrow, anger, etc - just not during the same circumstances. See, something happened that day he fell on his head - something was rewired, or jolted - and ever since, he doesn't seem to react to situations in quite the same way everyone else does. He laughs when people die, for one. And he doesn't feel guilt. He likes to make people laugh, but at the same time, it makes him angry if anyone is happy and he didn't have something to do with it.

[-] Egocentric.
Wesley does what Wesley wants done. Granted, most of the time he feels he's doing it for the good of others, however, in the end, his actions are all rooted at pleasing himself. Then again, whose aren't?

0IV. goals
-To rid the world of "bastards with wristwatches."
-To remain anonymous those who want to find him, and have a one-on-one with all who don't.
-To dissect a living human being.
-To ultimately be the cause of his own death.

00I. notable family & friends
PARENTS:

[x] Millie Noelle Mason – Wesley's loving, erratic, harebrained, schizophrenic mother. She’s charming, pretty, and gets most anything she wants with a simple battering of the eyelashes. Not to say that she couldn’t provide for herself, but what’s the point when someone else will do it for you? Besides, she has more important things to do than worry about life’s necessities – as far as her children know, she has high aspirations to become a opera star, after all. That’s not to say she doesn’t take time to love and look after her children – no, not in the slightest. But, she never did take a class on mothering, so the entire concept eludes her. After all, from what she’s experienced, it’s pretty damn easy. They need food, water, shelter, and appreciation. Whoever said parenting was a difficult job was clearly out of their mind.

[x] Henry Drew Gayle – The ‘leader of the pack,’ so to speak, and Wesley's childhood role model. Though he seemed to play favorites quite often (and not usually in Wesley's favor), to his son, he was the greatest thing since sliced bread. Being a ‘secret’ member of the MI5, MI6, and ESA, what was there to dislike about him? Even if the titles really were all just lies fed to the children in an attempt to disguise the fact that the family was constantly on the run from debt-collectors, the man had to be somewhat cunning, crafty, and inspirational to make such ideas believable. Right?

SIBLINGS:

[x] Lisa Carter Gayle – Ah, Lisa, the bane of the Gayle family – at least in Wesley's eyes. Not that he didn’t love his older sister – of course, since they grew up with relatively nothing, they fought even less than typical siblings (after all, what was there to fight over?) – but he’ll never get over her egotistical attitude, unappreciative nature, and frequent, thoughtless actions. Though clearly the most intelligent member of the family book-wise, she had no sense of street smarts whatsoever. Not that it mattered. She was pretty, like her mother, and once she found a man to sweep her off her feet and promise her a fairy-tale ending, she never looked back.

[x] Louis Charles Gayle - The little brother he never remembers having. Apparently, at one point, Wesley had taught him how to spit further than their father - something to be very proud of, mind you - but Wesley doesn't remember a speck of it. He assumes he died of an illness - pneumonia or leukemia or something of the sort - since no one ever recalled the event being traumatic, but neither parent would ever really talk about it. As a result, as far as Wesley's concerned, the child never actually existed.

[x] Alex Michael Gayle - Wesley's older brother, and the only sibling he doesn't often forget about. Sure, he was teased by him on a constant basis, but he didn't mind the attention. Plus, he was pretty much the only rational person in the family, and the only one with a possibility to have actually made something of himself.

0II. overall history
Wesley tends to forget the truth. He'd also been kept in the dark about more than he realizes, and can hardly remember anything about his past – in fact, that lengthy speech he gave to you only moments ago was, quite literally, all he can remember. All he's ever been able to remember. However, as I said, he tends to forget most all the specifics of events, and, of course, only knows what he was told about events he didn't witness himself. So, for clarity's sake, I'm going to clear up various bits and pieces of his tale that he didn't recall quite right.

Millie was schizophrenic. She was delirious, most of the time, and constantly battled the delusions and hallucinations distorting her reality and toying with her emotions. Eventually, it was too much, and she went insane. She never went to London. She killed herself when the family left because she was afraid that, if she didn't, she may accidentally harm one of her children when she wasn't in-control of her thoughts and feelings.

Schizophrenia is hereditary. Wesley was "lucky" enough to acquire a taste of it, which resulted in his acquaintance with schizotypal personality disorder. He doesn't hear voices, or see delusions, but he's constantly confused, awkward in large crowds, has OCD when it comes to things like numbers, is easily distracted, has a distorted sense of reality and emotions, and can't remember hardly anything that happens to him. It became worse after he fell on his head and damaged his prefrontal cortex. He didn't recognize his parents as parents when he first awoke, but he knew the words and names, so very quickly he associated the people at the table as his own family. For all intents and purposes, Wesley could have been kidnapped by strangers right after the incident, and wouldn't know the difference between them and his real parents. But he wasn't, thank god, or they'd have probably deserted him not long after.

He did cry when his mother left; they all did. But, Wesley's memory gets even fuzzier than normal around this point, because he did enter a rather large bout of depression after the loss of his mother and brother. He remembers his mother smiling when they drove away – she wasn't. She hadn't smiled in a while prior to her leave. Wesley's absence of a motherly figure throughout most of his life contributed a lot to his awkwardness, feelings of needing to prove himself to be worth something, and lack of any sort of real "love" emotion. Wesley is also void of sympathy.

He began drinking after his eleventh birthday, though the smoking had begun three years prior. It was his escape, and god, does Wesley enjoy his escapes. He became unnaturally attached to his father at this time, for he saw his father as the only real constant in his life – no matter where they went, or what they did, they were together. After his father died (of a combination between an already weak and enlarged heart and the brutal impact of the man's furious fists), he did panic, and he did shoot two bystanders, though they were, in fact, nobodies (fellow squatters, actually) whose murders were never reported to the police. However, he forgets that he shot the bystanders partly out of shock, anger, and temporary delusion that they were the police arriving to arrest him for his father's murder.

For the next five years of his life, Wesley wandered to and fro in search of some sort of purpose, and constantly with a paranoid idea that someone was following him. He drank himself ill at bars, stole cigarettes from convenience stores, and, for the most part, stayed out of everyone's way. He never tried drugs out of a fear that they'd come from someone filthy, and he would be infected with some sort of fatal disease after injection/inhalation. Oddly enough, he never considered he may be tainted with lung poisoning.

It wasn't until he killed his first real victim in an alley before dark that people began to take notice of him. He wasn't alone that day – there were other people at the scene of the crime, people who knew him (as he still went by the name "March Hare" when out and about at pubs or clubs), and they were the ones who began his serial murderer name. No one has yet connected "March Hare" with "Wesley Gayle," partly because Wesley was never even born in a hospital, and doesn't have a national insurance number; therefore, there's no record of his existence, and, basically, according to the government, he doesn't really exist.

He was scared to death when he went out to murder the second time, because he felt sure that someone would be there or see him. They weren't, and they didn't. He killed the man to release anger, and attempt to feel just as empowered as he had the first time. It worked. After that, he didn't stop.

He does steal the watches (and wallets) of his victims, but he also has another strange trademark: he numbers the wrist where the watch had been. This way, he and the police can both keep up with just how many have died by Wesley's hands. He loves to count, after all, and the more the merrier.

He started wearing gloves after fretting over whether or not the police could read his DNA from the shirtsleeves of the victims. They hadn't yet, but that didn't matter since he didn't know. He also became a bit of a germ-o-phobe during this time because he liked the "protection" of the gloves, and the assurance that he could keep himself safe, but stopped wearing them after fifty-two soiled them with scarlet. Now he still tends to wash his hands rather frequently, but he's calmed down about having cleanliness 24/7 (he realizes he rather enjoys living a 'dirty' life).

Since London is filled to the brim with tourists and unknowns, Wesley saw fit to join the other misfits here in order to blend in a bit, for, as of late, he hasn't been doing as well hiding himself from those he doesn't want to be seen by. He seems to be getting more and more sloppy with his work, something that drives him mad. Besides, though he loves his attention, the worst possible thing he can imagine is being caught – after all, what's the fun in losing? Wesley plays to win.

III. sample post

BAM.

"One, two, thr-"

THUD. Splash.

The sound reverberated off the walls, inciting a shrill, nervous laugh to escape the chapped lips of the wide-eyed skeleton lurking in the center of the alley, just across from the recently deceased mass collapsed in one of the muddy puddles pooling through the cracks in the concrete.

"Halfway through three might as well be three, since two has passed, and a half simply won't do." The muttered nonsense swirled through the chilly air, though Wesley didn't take much notice to the tendrils wafting from his mouth as he cocked an eyebrow and tilted his head to the side ever-so-slightly when a convulsion shuddered throughout the figure before him in a last-stitch effort to survive. Smiling pathetically, Wesley proceeded to lift the flap of the satchel clung tight against his side, and placed the gun on top of the towel laid amongst the dozens of metals refracting hints of the dim lighting before turning back up to face the misshapen mass.

He bit his lower lip in excitement, skipping – almost dancing – towards the body like a child who'd just won his first soccer game. The bag gripped across his shoulder rose up and down with each bounce, sending the treasures inside clanging against one another in a rather noisy fashion, though Wesley hardly noticed in his fervent attempts to reach the man without first losing his mind entirely.

"I'm terribly sorry about this, sir," he giggled as he approached, the corners of his mouth rising into a rather frightening grin as his eyes widened in anticipation, "You really must understand how terribly, horribly sorry I am, but I must let you know, it was not very intelligent of you to be this far out after dark, and, in all honesty, I am doing you a rather generous favor." He leaned down beside the body, balancing his tall, lanky, bone-thin figure on the tips of his toes (which were housed inside another man's brown leather office shoes), the satchel on his shoulder almost knocking him off-balance as it pulled him towards the brown goo slinking through street. He rubbed his hands together in a mad-scientist-type manner and licked his sandpaper lips as he glanced over the disfigured-looking shape in search of something – anything – worthy of acquisition. He'd seen it already when he first laid eyes on the man – he knew it was there, on his right hand. The problem was finding the body's right hand under all this clutter.

"I know it's here." He lifted up a soiled piece of cloth, yelping like a wounded puppy as the blood soaked through to his trembling fingers.

"Some people die so messy," he growled, pulling the towel out of his satchel and wiping his fingers down furiously. "No manners whatsoever. No manners at all."

Keeping a firm grip on the towel, he used it in his attempts to raise the man's shirtsleeve (or, at least, what he assumed to be the man's shirtsleeve) once more, in high hopes that the man was turned, in fact, on his right side instead of his left. He would be a most unlucky fellow if it were otherwise, because then he'd have to proceed in turning the human sponge over, which is a most dreadful task, indeed, considering the mess it makes – a mess which very, very rarely misses his clothing. He'd done it before, and would very much like to keep from doing it ever again.

Wonderfully for him, it's a rare day indeed that he doesn't get lucky.

He laughed again - a high, sharp, short sound barking sound - at a little sparkle of light before quickly biting his lower lip to hold the excitement at bay and keep any late-night pedestrians from becoming intrigued by such an odd noise. He wouldn't mind a bonus tip for his troubles tonight, but his luck really didn't seem to be on top of its game considering the most awful fashion the man decided to fall in, and he didn't want to risk being made to touch anotherbloody sleeve. He nearly shuddered at the thought.

Reaching out carefully and using the towel to turn the wrist around, he unhooked the silver watch's strap locked tight against the man's ghastly-looking flesh. It was one of the more difficult locks, this one was – wrapping around itself once or twice in order to make it extra-secure – but Wesley had dealt with worse in the past. Besides, this one was worth it – this was a Gucci.

He held his breath from the moment he laid his fingertips on the strap of the watch to the moment the entire strip of metal was chilling his palm. Carefully, delicately, he lifted it up to one of the faint, flickering, yellow, back-alley bulbs buzzing overhead to examine it thoroughly. Oh, yes – this was a keeper. Not that he'd ever acquired a watch thatwasn't worth keeping, but this one was extra special. Stainless steel frame, diamond imbedded casing – yes, yes, this one was well worth someone else's blood on his fingertip. Still not as special as the silver Piaget he once acquired, or the gold Dior with the diamond hands – both of which were wrapped snugly around his left forearm, right at that instant - but one couldn't be too choosy, after all, or one would never get any watches at all.

He laid the towel out flat in his right palm and placed the slightly blood-stained watch delicately on top. Mouth twitching between a smile and a fascinated gawking look, he wrapped it carefully between the folds and placed it even more cautiously at the very top of his bag.

He trembled in excitement when it was safely pinned between the side of the sack and the edge of the gun handle. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. He'd have to fix it as soon as he could.

"As I said, you really brought this upon yourself." He turned back to face the man, closing the lid to his bag gently and reaching into the right pocket of his navy pin-stripe pants to pull out a keychain-sized black Sharpie.

"I suggest you be more careful next time, and don’t wander through places you've never been before," he reprimanded as he popped off the lid, carefully aligning his own hand with the still-exposed wrist lying on the ground, and writing a rather sloppy-looking "71" on the skin.

"It's not good for your health."

He leaned back, admired his work, nodded his head, and closed the lid once more before debating whether or not the man's wallet (and contents thereof) were worth the trouble of turning him over. He still had some change from the last casualty and, besides, a man with money enough to own a Gucci probably wasn't stupid enough to carry his fortunes around with him as he ventured through lonely alleys, right? Of course not. Not a chance. Well, there was always a chance, but considering how small it seemed, it was really insignificant, in the long run. If you looked at the big picture, that is. And the bigger pictures always have a much better view than the smaller ones.

And with that decision finalized, Wesley rested his arms on his knees in preparation to stand back up and begin heading on his way.

"I'd like to thank you for your cooperation. It means a great deal to me - it really does." He smiled, taking a little container out of his pocket and splashing a bit of hand sanitizer on his hands. "Have a wonderful afternoon, will you?" He nodded, patted the head of the limp body affectionately, and then stood, nonchalantly dropping the Sharpie and Germ-X back into his pocket and heading on his way, whistling a rather imaginative tune he'd constructed quite a few years ago. It seemed fitting at the moment, as it did on most nights like this one – nights when the moon was high, the alleys were eerily quiet, and he had a new watch to take care of. Besides, the whole idea inspiring the jingle was quite ingenious of him, really, and it was derived from such a simple concept, too – he really couldn't believe no one had thought of it before. After all, the two most important moments in a person's life are his birth date and his death date, so why only celebrate one? Plus, people die every day, which makes everyday a cause for celebration, if you think about it like that. How wonderfully marvelous.

He began skipping as he reached the corner of a busy street under another flickering streetlamp, humming merrily to himself; the body lying behind him at the very back of his mind. After all, what was there to be sad about? Tonight, he'd gotten everyone else one step closer to a perfect world. It was quite noble of him, really, if you thought about it like that. If you thought about it the way he did.

And, besides, even if he had felt bad, what was he to do about it now? What's done is done, and can't be undone.

SYR INTEGRA of CAUTION 2.0 created this, modified by Yols with Shakespeare lines.

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[||ADMIN NESSIE||]

Wow.

The detail in this application is incredible and you've taken the character in a direction I was not expecting. It is evident that a great deal of thought has been put into this, what with all his major and minor fears and habits...and don't get me started on that writing sample. It gave me chills. Mad as a march hare, he is.

ACCEPTED!