Information

Junk_931 has a minion!

Vicky the Cayman

Junk_931
Legacy Name: Junk_931

The

Steamwork Sheeta
Owner: ~~slick_990~~

Age: 14 years, 10 months, 6 days

Born: August 3rd, 2011

Adopted: 14 years, 10 months, 6 days ago

Adopted: August 3rd, 2011

Nominate Pet for Spotlight

Statistics

Level: 3
Strength: 10
Defense: 12
Speed: 10
Health: 10
HP: 10/10
Intelligence: 1
Books Read: 1
Food Eaten: 0
Job: Unemployed

Trevor Soren Rodriguez is a 28-year-old ex-dealer who owns a 5-foot-long iguana named Icky Vicky and is afflicted by occasional psychosis.
Trevor likes to fix things. It's in the mechanics, really; the methodical joining of pieces that ultimately amounts to a whole. It's tedious, time consuming, and usually, quite unremarkable. But nonetheless it makes him feel complete, especially when the world around him feels broken, and inside him, there are only shards of what he used to be, and christ does it hurt to touch them.
Trevor likes to fix everything but himself. Actually, scratch that - Trevor loves to fix himself. Problem is, his "fixes" come in a syringe, sometimes a capsule, and most often, a tinted glass bottle.

"Go fuck yourself, Trevor. You're no better than that pile of junk you keep in my driveway. Get out."
Those were the words of Trevor's mother, moments after he stabbed her with a pocket knife in the doorway of their tiny hut of a house on Florence Avenue, smack in the middle of South Central LA. The sky had been red on that particular evening of June 19, 1999, casting the squat little neighborhood in an orange light, almost the color of clay, as if their tiny, poverty-stricken neighborhood had been carved right from the earth.
Trevor has always been a very dangerous man, even at the tender and volatile age of 15. It wasn't just the insanity of a detox that drove him to this particular attempted murder, no; he had always hated his family. He hated them for no better reason than they surrounded him. His mother and her four other illegitimate children, who spilled all the milk and kicked at his shins, and the random men she holed up in her bedroom, behind the threadbare curtain, who snorted cocaine off of broken mirrors as they stared at his shoulders, sizing him up like wolves. What made Trevor so very dangerous during that time of his life was the bone-chilling fact that he just didn't give a fuck. He had no goals, friends, or attachments, and hell, could you really blame him? The south side of Los Angeles isn't exactly the stuff of dreams. There, death and fear and hunger are very real things, and not just distant and alien tragedies so widely believed to be suffered exclusively past the borders of this country, where dreams are made. America would have you believe that if you work hard enough for long enough honestly enough, then one day there will be riches and glory and a white picket fence, but Trevor and those other kids in South Central knew better. You see, what determined Trevor's fate long before he immersed himself in the evil was the simple knowledge that there was nothing better for him in the world. Trevor realized at a very young age that his value in his community was determined by how many. How many gas stations robbed, how many guns in your pockets, how many girls sobbing and foaming at the mouth as three condoms full of cocaine burst in their bellies, how many men killed. He learned quickly that high numbers of these how manies earned respect, and the respect of others is instrumental in life.

Trevor never had his defining moment; no final descent into hell, no flaw in his personality, no psychological shift for doctors to slap a label on. He simply looked the world squarely in its face and took up what he thought to be his yoke in life, unflinching and strong.

The police report said it was assault. First Degree assault in fact, but the truth is Trevor stayed behind. Granted, he'd been one of those boys standing in a circle, pummeling the kid into the pavement with reckless abandon and watching idly as they raped him. But something in that little boy's eyes struck a chord in him, and through the haze of murderous intent he felt a twinge of compassion. He saw the despair in his eyes, saw all the grisly rawness of hate on his young face, almost felt the concrete grit being ground into open wounds and Trevor faltered, shook, stopped. He waited patiently for the other boys to flee when sirens blared in the distance and then Trevor held him until help came.

He went willingly.

Those four years in prison were hard for Trevor. He knew most of the inmates, and those that knew him knew better than to bother him. Trevor was always a dangerous man, but that day in the drainage ditch, behind the dumpsters and about ten feet to the right so no one can see you from the road, something in him was irreversibly altered. He had never entertained a particular desire to torture but rather a still more frightening tolerance, an ability to remain emotionless in the face of suffering. Still, seeing that boy with the striking red hair being brutalized in such a way changed him. Trevor isn't gay by any means, but that boy ignited mercy in him like a lit match in a sea of gasoline and now Trevor needs him.
Prison was a long and lonely time for Trevor, but it was because of it that he had time to look around. He saw the faces of the men he was surrounded by, the rapists and thieves and worn out old crooks rotting away in their cells, and Trevor decided he would be different.
Now, Trevor fights not for drugs or sex or money, but for forgiveness. He dutifully reports to work at the auto shop at precisely 7:55 a.m. every day, deposits his sloppily-made sack lunch in the fridge, and he works honestly for a meager living. That's not to say he won't indulge in the occasional, casual narcotic or bong rip, but Trevor is a changed man because of the boy with the red hair. He swore that day that he would never again raise his hand in anger, never again resort to violence. Words often fail him, but now Trevor spends his days trying his very best to earn the forgiveness of all the people he hurt, and no matter how many run-down homeless men he buys burritos for, no matter how many times he donates a dollar to St. Jude at the gas station or sets a bowl of milk outside for the unwanted litter of kittens, no matter the many how manies, it will never be enough for Trevor, because Trevor can't forgive himself.