FPL HOME  *  Characters  *  Current Battles  *  FPL Forums  *  Player Utilities   

Andrew James Crenshaw
Played By: ThePoet

Andrew James Crenshaw by ThePoet

TEAM: Solo Hero

SECTOR: INDUSTRIAL

KIT CLASS: Olympian

Brutal - 2 fatalaties!

Fight Record
League Wins: 7
League Losses: 2
Out Of League Wins: 0
Out of League Losses: 0
Total Wins: 7
Total Losses: 2
YM-315 - Win 8-7
Devourers - Win 9-3
Hail to thee. - Win 8-3
The Creeper - Win 9-3
Polismancer - Win 6-4
The Great Golem of Warsaw - Loss 4-7
Khazan All-Stars - Win 9-6
Doctor Hazel - Win 18-8
Ponce - Loss 11-14

The storm last night pounded the prison with the fury of the coming of Gods. Rain trickled through every nook and cranny my cell wall had to offer. I didn�(TM)t care about the rain, water doesn�(TM)t particularly bother me one way or the other. The noise however, was an entirely different matter. I could not sleep with the torrents of rain slamming into the side of the jail, sending echoes throughout every room, basement, and cell on the entire island. It actually surprised me that the rest of the inmates were sound asleep or at least resting. Also surprising was that after seven years I still had trouble sleeping at night. Seven years, my life has passed before my eyes while I sit here rotting. Rotting for a crime that I did commit, but whose punishment I�(TM)d served ten times over at the very least. Ah well, one day I will have my revenge, one way or the other. Revenge may be difficult considering the man who sent me here is now dead, but I will have it. It may be creatively attained, but it will be attained, that much is sure.

I�(TM)m not entirely sure where the blame lies for my present circumstances. The list of suspects is fairly long. My mother, my estranged father, myself, society, a corrupt judicial system, bad luck. I suppose it�(TM)s some amalgamation of those influences, but still I wonder. Nonetheless, to mete out my revenge, I must first escape from this isolated abomination of a prison. I read “The Count of Monte Cristo” in high school and again about six months ago. In spite of the deprivation and wretched conditions of this prison, the library has some choice books. I imagine that particular volume was placed here for the savage irony. I see many similarities between myself and Dantes. We both committed small crimes and were punished severely for them. We were both sent to prisons where society hoped we would fade from memory. And we both dream of the fateful day when the opportunity for revenge calls.

Whiplash Island, my personal Chateau D�(TM)if, is the gutter of all society�(TM)s prisons. It even makes the Lowtown Crash and the rundown streets of Lowtown proper look like palaces. My cell is frigidly cold in the winter and sweltering hot in the summer. The food tastes months rotten and the water has never been clear that I�(TM)ve seen. Truth be told, I�(TM)m not sure it�(TM)s water, but when a man reaches a certain point of hunger, inhibitions take a back seat to survival. My fellow inmates are either criminally insane or in the same predicament I suffer. Punished beyond their crimes. The guards take sadistic pleasure in daily beatings for no reasons other than boredom, sadism, sport, and gambling. Seven years and counting. I wish I could say that I have some brilliant plan for escape, but I don�(TM)t. I have faith that cosmic forces will correct this atrocity, but so far nothing has come of this. One day it will though. One day.

 

Personality: My mother was a slut. It does shame me to say that, but it�(TM)s the honest truth. She slept with so many men that I was surprised when she told me exactly who my father was on her death bed. It was shocking, appalling, disturbing, infuriating, and soothing all at the same time. Shocking because I never would have guessed. Appalling because of who exactly the man was. Disturbing because I could see the similarities in an unpleasant way. Infuriating because my mother had lied to me until that point. She made up some story about him being murdered by a burglar. Yet it was soothing to know the real truth. In her dying moments, she managed to have all the dignity of a queen. I do regret her death, but there�(TM)s nothing I could have done about stage four liver cancer.

I say that she had dignity in death because she never had any in life. She was a good mother. She worked several jobs to support us both. I never missed a meal except of my own choosing. But her dignity fell each day when I would be eating breakfast and a different man left our apartment each time. I cared to a point, but I realized that was her way of coping with life. Mindless sex with someone she had no emotional connection to. At first it fazed me, especially once I understood what sex was. But as time drove on, it became second nature to me. “Mommy�(TM)s self-medicating. But she still loves me and only me.” I took comfort in that fact. I was the only man in her life that she cared about.

My mother and I got along famously for the most part. I excused her sleeping around and she excused my pranks and mischief as part of being a growing boy. She did punish me if the police got involved, if only so I wouldn�(TM)t be at the mercy of our judicial system. The only sore subject was my father. Any time I asked about him she would become irritated. “He was murder by a burglar and that�(TM)s the end of it.” In the back of my mind, I knew this was a half-hearted attempt to placate my curiosity, but I hated to see her upset so I would drop things. But on her deathbed, she asked the doctors for a private moment with me.

“You may or may not have guessed, but your father was not murdered by a burglar. Far from it. He is alive. He swore he�(TM)d kill me if I pressed the issue, but I�(TM)ll let you decide how to deal with him once I�(TM)m gone. His name is Nathaniel Jarvis.”

I cried.

 

Strength:

 

 Superior The pinnacle of human strength.
Can bench press 1000 pounds.		Agility:

 

Superior This fighter can dodge, weave and move
with the grace of an Olympic gymnast.
Body:

 

Superior Hardy.
Takes punishment like a heavyweight fighter or wrester. 		Mind:

 

Superior Highly educated and ingenious.
A smart cookie.

The First Cut is the Deepest

Nathaniel Jarvis, of all people why him. And how did she know for certain? Nathaniel Jarvis�(TM) reputation had been steadily growing for years, but it was also shifting and warping with each passing day. Tales of his legendary acquisitions gave way to cold-blooded and ruthless business. That gave way to savage rumors that he was a murderer, embezzler, thief, and burglar. There was no way to substantiate the rumors as my sources always heard it from someone else, but the rumor mill was strong and rife with stories of his supposed exploits. I never doubted my mother�(TM)s loyalty to me, but I could not believe that Jarvis was my father. I just couldn�(TM)t. Even without the rumors of illegal deeds, the business dealings were enough to make my blood run cold even in the sweltering summer heat. And I knew those to be true if exaggerated by several people.

I could not do much besides dwell on the subject now. I�(TM)d never pressed the issue about my father because of my mother�(TM)s sensitivity, but she was gone now. That pained me as well, but the freedom to discover things about my past dissuaded me from drinking myself into a depression. The first thing I did was ask for my mother�(TM)s medical records at the hospital. After looking through them, I found several things of consequence, but ultimately not conclusive. Around the time I was born, she ordered paternity tests on several dozen men. In truth, that surprised me. I did not think she remembered their names after they left in the morning. All the tests revealed nothing though. None of the men were matches for being my father. I also saw charts on her cancer and asthma, but nothing new or earth-shattering. My next task was no easy challenge, particularly because of where it would take place.

As far back as I can remember, I�(TM)d never entered my mother�(TM)s bedroom, nor even glanced inside it. It was locked when she was not home and the door was closed except for her entering and exiting. I was curious several times, but just imagining what happened in there made me nauseous and I never mustered the courage to enter. Now it was a different matter. I had no choice. Either enter and learn or stay outside and forever wonder. After several hours of steeling my nerves, I went in. It was surprisingly innocuous. A bed, nightstand, lamp, dresser, chair, and various odds, ends, and clothes strewn about. It wasn�(TM)t particularly tidy, but it was on par with the other rooms in the apartment. Nevertheless, I started searching, determined to find something of value, and I did.

The third drawer on her nightstand was locked, but easily broken. It was a fairly old dresser. We seldom were able to afford new things. Inside the drawer, there were piles and stacks of books. Upon closer inspection they were diaries. I started reading starting at the most recent book. There was nothing terribly interesting. Her liver cancer, my graduating high school, a movie we saw together. I started to panic, thinking there wasn�(TM)t an answer. I started rifling through each diaries, praying I would find something. The last yielded something. It was in the back of the drawer perched on its side. It looked fairly old, but lacked any dust. That suggested it was recently opened. I opened it and instead of a traditional diary, it was in the style of a ledger. One side had men�(TM)s names, the other had dates. My stomach turned. This was an account of every man, every sexual encounter, every one night stand in her life. And I needed to read at least part of it. I turned to the beginning, around nine months prior to my birth. I recognized the names. They were in the medical files I had read. I rushed to the next room and grabbed the medical files to compare notes. All of their names were there except the diary had one more name than the records. Nathaniel Jarvis.

Mad World

That clinched things in my own mind. There was still the formality of an actual blood test, but my mind was made up. The puzzling and perplexing part was why his name was not mentioned in the records. I remember my mother saying he swore he�(TM)d kill her if she ever told anyone about her connection to him. The timeframe did not fit though. The timeframe given correlated to the rumors of his shrewd business dealings, not his heartless and cruel ones. I really could not wrap my mind around that and decided I would simply have to talk to him in person. Now I merely had to think of a guise to gain an audience with him. His threat to my mother ruled out the direct approach of being his long lost son. I thought about things for a long time, but I could not find an answer. I had no connections to any businesses he currently targeted or dealt with. I had no credentials other than a high school diploma. In addition, the rumors that he simply killed people in his office were scary. It would have to be a meeting at his home, his private residence.

Attaining entrance was no laughing matter either. His estate was posh, luxurious, and expansive; everything one would expect for the richest man in Khazan. Electric fences, guard dogs, security guards and cameras galore. In spite of all those things, I gained entrance largely undetected. I used a car mat to climb the fence. The rubber absorbed the current long enough for me to vault the fence before the mat melted. Next the dogs. A few choice morsels of meat were thrown into the dark of the evening to pacify the dogs. I had worked out the camera angles and guard routes in advance. Everything now was a matter of careful measure and patience.

He was reading a newspaper and a financial report in his study when I walked in.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he asked, pulling a gun from the holster on his shoulder.

“My name is Andrew James Crenshaw.” I answered a bit shakily. “I just wanted to talk.”

“I wasn�(TM)t expecting you, so you�(TM)ve bested my security measures.” He said, a feverish smile creeping onto his lips. “That earns you sixty seconds.”

“According to my mother Patricia Crenshaw�(TM)s journal, you�(TM)re my father.”

He didn�(TM)t even flinch. “I expressly forbade her from bringing this issue up again. I assume she�(TM)s dead and you were curious as to why I turned her away. It�(TM)s true; I probably am your father. I slept with your mother a week after I was mugged and nearly beaten to death in Lowtown. I went back there; gun in hand, to find my attackers. I found your mother, a sex-crazed temptress. It had been two years since Anna Maria died and I was lonely. So I fucked her. She came to me shortly after your birth. I already had a child I was proud of, from a wife I loved. I did not love your mother, nor was I proud of you. I am proud of you now, after a fashion. Besting my security is no easy task.”

“Does that mean I can be your son?” I asked, slightly hopeful.

“Of course not, I have a reputation to maintain. But I�(TM)ll make you a deal. Tell no one that I�(TM)m your father and I�(TM)ll let you live and have the guards escort you out and back to your life. Call it my being proud that I don�(TM)t shoot you right now.”

I agreed to his request. The guards came to escort me. They drugged me and that�(TM)s how I ended up on Whiplash Island.

Into the Night

My first days in prison were frenetic at best, paralyzing at worst. Even without Nathaniel Jarvis, I was still a free citizen. Now I was stuck in prison. For days I wouldn�(TM)t leave my cell. The guards tried to coax me out with beatings. I only sat there in a catatonic state. Still in shock, my own father who I�(TM)d never even met had sent me to prison to save his precious reputation as a ruthless businessman not to be messed with. Gradually though I accepted things. I started actually leaving my cell for meals and exercise. I even reacted to the guards beatings. They seemed to take some pleasure but not much. They enjoyed the screams most of all and some of the other prisoners screamed much louder. After seven years something happened that altered my course, my mentality and I�(TM)m happy to say my future.

For years I sat there, scared that any escape attempt would incur the full wrath of Nathaniel Jarvis. I�(TM)d read of Whiplash. This was a place for people that society wanted expunged from the records and annals of existence. I was resigned to my fate, even embracing it when fate intervened. As I mentioned earlier, there was not very much in the way of literature. A scant few books or a newspaper over a month old. But prison time is slow and drawn out. Anything to pass that time was welcome. That�(TM)s why by the end of seven years I�(TM)d read all the books and newspapers there at least twice over. Then I newspaper came and I read it as usual. Nathaniel�(TM)s name was in the obituaries.

“Business tycoon and rumored murderer Nathaniel Jarvis found dead in his office at the age of 53. He suffered multiple gunshot wounds to his head from an unknown weapon and his own pistol. He is survived by no living relatives with his wife and parents being dead and his daughter having disappeared ten years ago.”

Anger and peace flowed through me in equal measure. Peace that I could finally escape, but anger that someone else had beaten me to the act. I wanted to kill him, I was still working out my plans to escape undetected and slay him. Worst of all, no suspects were named. Either the assassin was brilliant, or the populace was thankful that he was finally dead. At any rate my time in the prison was at an end. I had plans in place for an escape back to the mainland at least. The night before the monthly guard rotation when new guards come for a month and the others went back to Khazan for their month off, I shived the guard for my floor. I exchanged his clothes for mine and posed as him for the rest of the night and morning. He in turn posed as me, covered up under the blanket on my cot. We were similar height, build, hair color and even face. No one even gave me a second glance from the morning meal to the debarking at Khazan airport around 10:00 P.M. that evening. I was free. Next, revenge.

In the Ghetto

  • Power: Vehicle
  • Level:Superior
  • Reinforced Defenses Defense blocks Armor Piercing attacks.
I was free and that was it. I had that guard��(TM)s wallet with a scant 17 dollars in it. I had no college degree, no certifications. I had graduated toward the low end of my class in school. The only class I really did well in was auto shop. There was just something about cars that excited me, made me want to work on them and actually try hard. It wasn��(TM)t much, but better than nothing. I started searching for a garage or a repair shop. First I slept in an alley until daylight, then it was off to scour the city for work and revenge. The first couple shops turned me down categorically. I had no experience, resumes, references, or even an address. Then I ran across Jacob��(TM)s Auto Shop. The place looked run down and I was surprised that I was nowhere near Lowtown. Anyhow, there was a “Help Wanted” sign barely visible through a grimy window so I went in.

Jacob was an old man, older than you should be to work at an auto shop. I asked him why he was still working.

“In spite of what you may see, I still do great business. It��(TM)s just gotten too much for my old age and I need a hand. My wife has cancer and her treatments ain��(TM)t cheap. I can pay you five dollars an hour in cash only because that��(TM)s below minimum wage.”

“I��(TM)ll take it.” I replied eagerly.

“Not so fast son, I gotta try you out first. I have a meeting Uptown with a few people about some custom work they want done. You see that mess of paint cans, oil, and other shit. You got three hours to clean and organize that, sweep the garages, and then we��(TM)ll see if you��(TM)re up to snuff.”

And just like that, he was out the door. Pretty trusting of him considering he��(TM)d never met me, but I didn��(TM)t really care to notice. I had a chance at real, bona fide work for the first time in my life, so I set about things eagerly. The mess of cans wasn��(TM)t hard, more a matter of clutter than sloppy mess. The sweeping was time-consuming because of the floor space, but it was also easy. I finished in two hours and started to look around. There were two cars in different stages of being detailed and altered. Around the back was empty parking lot save for a beat up old sports car. I started to check it out. The engine, transmission and parts were worthless, but the shell was intact and the frame was in great condition.

Anyhow, Jacob came strolling back inside, humming some tune I��(TM)d never heard of. “Not bad” he said surveying my work. “Not bad at all. I may actually pay you ten bucks an hour plus that junker in the back I saw you staring at.”

That��(TM)s how my new life started.

In the Rough

Jacob and I got along rather well. He saw that I knew my way around a garage and he started sharing tips of the trade with me. I saw rather quickly why he was still in business. None of the other shops could match his quality or attention to detail. After a year, I realized that I had become distracted from my goal. I could not exact revenge upon my father, but I could find his killer and make them pay. Nathaniel�(TM)s company, Jarvis and Associates, was still going strong. He had too many money grubbing underlings to let the company die. In fact several of them were Jacob�(TM)s clients. They came by the garage now and then to drop outrageous sums of money to detail cars I only dreamed of affording. Anyhow, I met them and they started to trust me with their prized cars as much as they trusted Jacob. I even met them over lunch to discuss options of paint, interior, and custom spoilers.

On one of those instances, I arrived earlier to the highrise they worked in and snuck into the security archives. I will thank my father for being obsessed with security measures. They had footage from every hour of every security camera dating back over ten years. I went to a vacant computer terminal and searched the archives for the date of his death. There it was and my suspicions were confirmed. Society had wanted him dead. The girl who killed him was average height, maybe a bit tall for a girl, blonde-haired and cold. I say cold because the several close-ups of her face revealed nothing except a seething determination to watch him die. I imprinted her face in my memory and left the archives to meet my client for lunch.

I could not stop seeing her face, but that was all I had. No name, no address, no nothing. So I continued business as usual. Then I went to Lowtown to several bars I had started to frequent. I had my group of regular friends at each bar that I would grab a drink with, but tonight all the places were empty. I asked the barkeep where Walt and Buck her. He told me that the Salty Dog was having an arm-wrestling contest. I was dumbstruck. The Salty Dog was notoriously unsavory and not at all a place I would expect to find an arm-wrestling contest. I more expected a prize fighting contest or a best bullet wound contest. And those were the lighter side of what came to mind. Nonetheless, they were my friends and I wanted to go cheer them on and just hang out.

I arrived to something between an orgy and all-out brawl occurring in the street out front. I will admit that Daniel Van Sant ran a tight ship. As long as you didn�(TM)t fuck up his bar, you could do anything you dam well wanted to. I stepped gingerly around the fight and in to the bar. I spotted rows of table with men and a few women sitting there, waiting for the start cue. I found Buck and hurried over.

“How are things?” I asked.

“Just about to get started” he said. Just waiting for the whistle from Jessica behind the bar. I glanced over and there she was. Blond hair shining and eyes showing every bit the emotion of that security footage. I had to fake a minor stomach cramp to mask my joy and shock.

Bittersweet Symphony

My life has been one giant obstacle after the other. First my mother�(TM)s evasiveness, then her cancer, then my dad, then prison, then employment, now this. I knew who she was. She was Jessica Pendleton, Daniel Van Sant�(TM)s girl. Daniel had a serious rep as a street fighter, bar keep, prize fighter, and all out tough guy. She was slightly less known, but equally as dangerous. I didn�(TM)t like my chances against her one on one, much less with Daniel in the mix. I decided patience and vigilance. Sooner or later Daniel would leave, that would be my chance. I prepared everything in advance. My retro fit “junker” now had a 10-cylinder engine and all kinds of accessories. My shiv was handy in the glove box and some dark clothes were stashed in my trunk. It took eight months, but finally I got my chance.

Daniel was attending an awards ceremony that Jessica insisted he attend. He was the bartender of the year or something like that. He deserved it, but still, I had a task at hand. The trick would be surprising her and incapacitating her without killing her. I had to know why. I snuck in the back door of the Salty Dog where she and Daniel stayed and waited. She would close the bar and come back eventually. Daniel would receive his award around 6 A.M. the next morning. Apparently it was a custom for all the honorees to drink themselves blind. Anyway, around midnight she strolled through the door, taking her ponytail out. I lunged from behind the door and drove my knife into her shoulder while knocking the gun out from her hemline.

“What the fuck!” she yelled. “Who the hell are you?”

I turned her around to face me while still applying pressure in her shoulder. “You killed Nathaniel Jarvis. I need to know why.”

“He was a rotten scumbag bastard who caused me so much misery that I decided to end it.”

“Not good enough, he ruined a lot of peoples�(TM) lives, including mine. He wouldn�(TM)t even acknowledge me as his son.”

Even with blood flowing from her shoulder, she maintained a firm voice. “That�(TM)s because you aren�(TM)t his son. He only had one child, a daughter. And I�(TM)ll never forgive what he did to me.”

I was so stunned I let go of the knife and staggered back. “You�(TM)re his daughter? She�(TM)s been missing for almost twelve years. That means I just stabbed my sister.”

Seizing the moment, she picked up her gun with a good shoulder. Aiming at my face she said, “You�(TM)d better start making sense.”

I did my best to explain the paternity tests, Nathaniel�(TM)s story with my mother, her diary, my desire for revenge on Nathaniel and then in turn on her.

After I finished, she set the gun down, pulled me to my feet and looked into my eyes. “I believe you.” She managed. Then we both started crying.