crimepays: (Read you like a book)

Who says crime doesn't pay?

Guns, Gams, and Gumshoes

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Created on 2013-12-31 02:16:04 (#2137520), last updated 2014-01-09 (197 weeks ago)

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Name:Brodie Kinnaird
Birthdate:Nov 14
Location:(Error in Linkification)
RP Journal for Brodie Kinnaird, OC for The Haunts. Both muse and mun are over 18.

Name: Fearghas Brodie Kinnaird
Nicknames: With a first name like Fearghas, you can hardly blame him for preferring Brodie.
Birthday ; Age: November 14, 1978 / 35
Occupation: Private Investigator
Undergraduate School: School of Hard Knocks
Graduate School: Royal Marines Commando Brigade (45 Commando)
PB: Patrick Dempsey

Any distinguishing features? Brodie is lean yet muscular, standing 6'2" and weighing around 13 1/2 stone. He's dotted by several small scars, including one from flying shrapnel situated over his left butt cheek. His right butt cheek sports a tattoo of the globe and laurel of the Royal Marine Commandos, something to this day Brodie claims was the drunken mistake of youth. Fortunately, both marks remain hidden unless he leaps out a window sans trousers or encounters a strong wind while wearing a traditional kilt.

Personality: Brodie appears to be a world-weary man with a distinct disrespect for people in authority and rules in general--at least when they're applied to him. Keep on looking and he remains disrespectful and world-weary, but holds onto a black sense of humor and impious charm that have allowed him to wriggle his way out of more than one tight spot. He's an excellent judge of character, which he'll claim as reason for his dislike and distrust of people in general. They're all fucking bastards, just takes time to understand what degree of bastard any particular person is. Street smart and people smart, Brodie possesses a memory like an elephant's. All three qualities make him tops at his chosen profession. He's no coward--far from it--but prefers to solve fights with his brains rather than his fists. He reckons after serving Her Majesty's pleasure for seven years and managing to keep himself relatively in one piece he's within his rights to be protective of said skin now. Anyroad, hardly sporting to pick fights with your run of the mill petty thief when he has all those years of commando training behind him.

Brodie grew up on Waddell Street in the Gorbals, well-known as one of Glasgow's toughest neighborhoods. His old da drank a wee bit, but he never got mean with it. Jenny Kinnaird, nee Brodie, had no use for a mean drunken lout of a husband, and it was Jenny Kinnaird who ruled the roost and the four boys and one daughter of the Kinnaird clan. She kept them all in line. Brodie was more likely to feel the lash of his mother's tongue than he was that of his father's belt

He and his brothers fought as much as any siblings close in age will, but that never stopped them from ganging up against all comers to defend each other or their turf. All four gave bloody hell to any lad who so much as glanced at their poor sister. They all learned how to pick locks and jack cars for a bit of joy riding and petty theft. When it came time to talk their way out of a hard spot, the other three looked to Brodie, who had an enviable talent for subterfuge and obfuscation.

The ability stood him in good stead once he decided to enlist in the Royal Marines. It wasn't long before he was offered commando training. He'd later serve a tour in Afghanistan as a bootneck. Brodie was smart, gifted, wily. He completed training in record time, served with distinction in two tours in Afghanistan, became attached to the MPs for a few years and somehow managed to be promoted to Master Sergeant.

A natural born sergeant, Brodie could manage any Rupert that came his way. Satisfying how many officers who couldn't find their arse if their head was shoved up in it lent truth to his long-held belief in the stupidity of those in authority. Pity he never foresaw the inevitable conflict his inability to follow orders would create. His CO took him aside one day and advised against making a career out of the military. There was no bright future for a sergeant whose mouth always had him teetering on the brink of disciplinary action.

For once, Brodie took the advice and left the service. He tried going back to Glasgow, but it no longer felt like home. Time had aged his da cruelly, Moira had wed a Canadian bloke when no one had been looking and migrated to Victoria and even wee Niall had up and moved down to London town where he was doing well as a DCI with the Met. Angus looked to make a career with the RN and the Celtic had gobbled up Connell for his sporting skills. Nothing held him there. Nothing ever had, really. Eventually he drifted east to Edinburgh where he ignored his mother's wishes to become a respectable policeman like his big brother and set up shop as a private investigator. He'd had his fill of accepting orders. From now on, Brodie Kinnaird worked for no one but himself.

Stuff people should know: He has problems with his first name, alright? One, it uses a stupid, old-fashioned spelling. Two, he detests the nickname. Only family call him Fearghas. Fellow bootnecks call him Fergie. (See? Stupid nickname. Why do you suppose he prefers Brodie?) To everyone else, he's Brodie.
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