Big Bad
Brad (noun): A lumbering,
sub-human brute with a bulbous frame and an unnaturally wide base. His
thick,
fat, calloused hooves are often crammed into women’s footwear. His face, a big, dumb, perfectly round
slab of confusion, sits atop his hairy mass, though his scalp remains curiously barren. He speaks in a slow, monotone drawl, as if each word is a struggle against his own stupidity.
Chronically late to work and a walking medical mystery (at least in his own mind), this gutter snipe suffers from an extreme case of hypochondria. His days are punctuated by dramatic medical ailments, followed by frantic calls for an ambulance to ferry him from his own home, only for doctors to confirm, yet again, that absolutely nothing is wrong.
A connoisseur of filth, this swamp-dwelling specimen produces greasy, bile-ridden shits at an alarming rate. He is a walking biohazard, harboring every known strain of hepatitis along with a few that science has yet to discover.
Despite his Neanderthal-like attributes,
Brad possesses a shockingly average
IQ. However, his dental
history suggests a level of neglect that has
single-handedly funded his dentist’s children’s college tuition. Though Big Bad
Brad’s underwear is often covered in matted hair and shit, he remains a friend to all and, in his free
time, a self-proclaimed world-class chiropractor, despite having no formal training or hygiene standards.
Jimmy: Big Bad
Brad showed up late again, wheezing like he ran a marathon wearing those damn women’s sneakers.
Melvin: I swear those shoes are crying for help. Probably like his dentist every time he walks in.
Jimmy: Speaking of cries for help, what’s the over/under on his next fake medical emergency?
Melvin: Two hours—max. My money’s on “mystery heart failure” again.