carl's pissed rough

"Hi, I'm Carl and I'm Pissed! Why am I pissed? Because I leave the South Philly Sprawl after 20 long years of years of runnin and set up in Nawlins for a nice retirement only to find that the fuckin' Yaks and goddamn Zobop decided to turn the streets into a freakin' warzone!"
Carl Brutanandilweski, a fat, balding male metahuman  paces across the room, grabs what appears to be a bottle of grain alcohol and slugs it out of a grimy looking plastic glass. "What the fuck is up with that? Okay so I'm not that happy with Dona Rodenbush. I ain't comfortable taking orders from any broad period, specially one that looks like she came offa Lords of Acid Album cover. She also didn't secure power fast enough and so now we've got those creepy voodoo fucks filling one end of the city with zombies and those dirty nips filling the other with Kimmy or whatever the fuck you call those stupid japanese spirits." Carl's unorthadox mohawk is bright blue, it sags and is filthy with soot and god knows what else. Clearly he needs to spend some time on his hair. His blue shirt demands onlookers "meet their master" (his penis) but he's ditched the blue leather coat he usually wears, his eyes are bloodshot and you can practically smell the whiskey on his breath. "But the incompetence of the mafia ain't the worst thing this city's gotta face. Under NOPS this city was doing great, yeah they leant a little too hard on the Trogs and the Keebs but they kept order! (Y'know as long as that order didn't interfere with tourism profits or the people paying the bribes.) But now we got those namby pamby Knight-Errant and Lonestar dregs sticking their noses where they ain't wanted." Carl rummages around in the assorted junk of his room and lifts up what appears to be a Bong that's appears to be old enough to take a driver's test. He picks up a bag full of some kind of foliage, stuffs it in the bongs bowl then regards it for a few moments before pouring the last of his whiskey into the bong's resevoir and taking a deep hit. Eventually he lets out the smoke (bright indigo in color and sparkling with god knows what) before taking a deep breath of air. "So I have some predictions about what's gonna happen. Somebody is gonna make a fat paycheck by hitting the Zobop, I mean hey lets be honest here. If the Yak's take over they probably won't change anything the mafia wouldn't, they'd just do a little more organlegging than old Dona Kozlowski ever did. (and to that turkish fuck who took my kidney, I hope you choked on it.) So really, the only players we need to worry about are the Zobop. 'Cause if they take control of the shadows just about everything will be done by zombies and I prefer my working stiffs to be figurative, not literal."