Cliff (Frankenstein)

“Three thirty in the morning,
Not a soul in sight,
The city's lookin' like a ghost town
On a moonless summer night.”

He hummed to himself, following the tune in the small tape recorder. It was one of his favourites and thus he had copied it at least three times in the tape. Straight-from-radio recordings with the disk-jockey always ruining either the start or the end. Suddenly there was the dry-spitting sound of the machine and that of wood knocking against the packed leather ball followed almost instantaneously by the shrill ringing of the fence. It was always satisfying. The machine made another hollow whirring sound as it prepared another pitch. He squinted towards it under the yellowed halogen bulb.

“There's a storm moving in.
He's headin' back from somewhere
That he never should have been.
And the thunder rolls.”

Nights like these always brought him out of the fringes, to the cage, to burn a few quarters. There was something to just swinging the old wooden bat. Perhaps cathartic, but he really wouldn't have reasons to really dump that much anger. Since he woken up he had had a decent, simple life. He toiled the mornings, and listened to the radio in the afternoon in his small beat-up trailer in the middle of nowhere. He had found that one while walking away from town, while just wanting to kick the dust and get away from things. It was a wreck, but he patched up so no water dripped and now it was a nice home.

Others spoke to him of ways to become human, but he didn't want to pay it much mind. He had his humble job he did every other day, weathering the abuse, before he walked back to the forgotten patch of land where his trailer was inexorably anchored. He felt himself already going forward in his own way. He just had to keep pushing forward and he'd make it. One day he'd be able to move out of the fringe and get a nicer job where he dealt with people instead of their refuse.

Description:

Cliff is a mountain of a man, a tower of muscle. He is always dressing in a checkered shirt with a t-shirt underneath and a pair of beaten up jeans. He is always seen wearing a beaten up baseball cap of the Detroit Tigers. He is generally scruffy looking, even if he does bother to shave.

His demeanor is very quiet and introspective, it is as if the giant simply wished to go completely unnoticed. He tries to speak quietly and rarely, even though his voice is low and bellowing. He tries to be patient and not let abuse disturb him but sometimes it gets the best of him.

When his disfigurment is shown the different seams that keep his limbs attached to his chest can be easily discerned. Some of the stitch scarring even goes through some of the limbs longitude. Two large bolts stick just below his cheeks and a large segment of plating on his back has smaller bolts protruding, which arc electricity. He also has a large patch of scarred stitches across his forehead, similar to a lobotomy scar.

Goals:

Make and maintain a human friendship.
Come out on top after toughening up a transgression.
Maintain calm after being slighted gravely.
Teaching someone his way.
Not lose faith.
Become human out of perseverance.

Equipment:Wooden baseball bat.
Old tape player/recorder/radio.
Beaten up Detroit Tigers baseball cap.

Lair:
He sleeps in an abandoned trailer that he found in the outskirts of the city. Not his, not pretty, not very secure, but keeps the rain off his head. Barely.