Roland Renard

What?! Can I help you? Oh, I’m sorry if my apparent sarcasm upsets you. Forgive me for existing. No, I’m not snarling at you in particular, I just like to snarl. Consider it my small contribution to facial expression everywhere. Is it the Goth thing? Is that why you’re giving me a hard time? Just because I listen to inane music that worships the Dark and dress like Satan at a funeral doesn’t make me a bad guy, does it? I mean ... it could, right? No? Damn. I was really hoping you’d say that it did. Thanks for nothing.

Yeah, I’m depressed. You’d be depressed too if you were in my shoes. No, I’m not depressed because I wear black from head to toe! What are you? A psychotic counselor with a fashion fetish? I wasn’t always this way, you know. I used to really enjoy my life. Ok, my unlife. That’s strictly confidential and if you whisper a word I’ll have to kill you! I’m a vampire, baby, a creature of the night. I eat little babies for breakfast! Well, I used to. God, how I miss a nice toddler in the morning! Better than caffeine and nicotine, and much more healthful.

Life was a box full of dead puppies before I laid eyes on that woman. I was in SoCal, living it up with my buds in L.A. We were planning on eating a nice meal out of the peeps at this hotel when we saw her. Jasmine. The most gorgeous of Goddesses. I meant “Goddesses” with a capital “G.” You caught that, right? I don’t know what dimension she came from, but by looking at her you thought she floated down from Heaven. There was already a small crowd kneeling at her feet when we got there, and we did the same. Just laying eyes on this woman inspired instant worship. She walked by each one of us and looked into our eyes, smiling a smile as bright as a nuclear fireball. As she passed me I could almost feel my heart beat again, and I blurted out, “Please, tell me how I can serve you and make you happy.” And she put her hand on my head and said, “Be a good boy, Roland, and help those in need.”

Ever since then, I’ve been like a KKK member campaigning for social justice. That woman didn’t just pat me on the head and drop a platitude, she geased me. She put a magical whammy on me so that I’m now a do-gooder. Roland plays nicely with the other kiddies now. I can’t even show my fang face. I’m too embarassed to tell anyone what I really am. Can’t even stake myself. My buddies, former that is, threw me right the hell out of L.A., and I’ve been looking for a nice backwater town to settle down in. Somewhere I won’t have any trouble in not finding trouble. If I’m going to be a good boy, then I choose to do so in a town where nothing bad ever happens. I tried places out West and down South, but the country music kept driving me away. So, now I’m in Farmingham, NH, and I pretend to be a goth kid so that all that black hides my delicate skin from the Sun. I’ve even gotten myself enrolled in the High School so that I can watch the bullies beat up the nerds in the Chess Club … who I’ll be magically compelled to help ... um, I think I’ve detected a small flaw in my plan.

Quote: “I’m having a bad day! (punches a bad guy) Misery loves company!”