He doesn't do costumes, not really- the tail end of the era of Ziggy's willingness to play dress up had, all things considered, likely been whiled away in prison. It's not like he's without a little willingness to participate in the cheer, sat at the radio booth with KB and Cash, the dog wearing a pair of cardboard cutout bat wings on his harness and Ziggy carving crude buttons for KB's projects- passing one to the older man a moment later. He'd taken on the task of helping the host repair his home in the last few weeks- as KB had been one of the few people in town who received him somewhat kindly early on. "Here's another one, old man." He declares, KB laughing and rolling his eyes.
"Oh- Hello Miss Ryan!" KB greets pleasantly as he places another crochet critter on the booth in front of himself- Ziggy glancing up- and nearly choking on his toothpick.
"H-Hey. Bri." He greets, coughing and straightening up- Cash letting out a happy warble and stretching, lumbering out of his spot under the counter to demand attention. "you look... Uh. So! I didn't know they still even did these here- the uh, festivals? All things considered."
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Outrunning karma, that boy He's such a charmer. All the bugs and their larva, follow him out to Colorado. Ten dozen hearts in a bag Their bodies lying, he'll drag them down to Colorado- A modern desperado.
"Victor Calhoun- most everybody just calls me Ziggy. I'm 40 years old, and Huntsville born and raised. Up til about 12 years ago, I called Huntsville home, and as an enforcer for the local biker gang I made certain our crew was paid out to on time- through any means necessary. In April of 2012, I was arrested as an accessory to murder, And served a 10 year sentence in state prison. I've been a free man for the last eight months, and have taken a job as a long haul truck driver. But I guess that's then, and this is now. I live in town, with no job to speak of. My greatest vice has always been my Haste to act out in violence when the going gets tough."
Name: Victor Robert Calhoun
Aliases: Vic, Bear (Among the Devil Dogs), Ziggy (From the other truckers at his company.)
Age: 40 (January 22nd.)
Sexuality/Gender: Bisexual Cis Man
Personality: while previously a violent, unkind young man with a propensity for bullying, harassment, and a full-willingness to get involved in a physical altercation as a way to pass time- it was the murder he'd be sent to prison for involvement in that would change him entirely. After ten years serving a sentence and doing his level best to keep his head down, he's come out the other side largely repentant, desperately trying to flip the karmic scales back into balance with what he believes is very little time remaining- Huntsville being an inescapable Hell containing the people he'd spent his early life making miserable, however, seems to have kicked the sympathetic engine into overdrive- He's desperately clinging to a measured, calmer temperament, but old habits die hard, and he has a tendency to flick to violence if a conversation becomes too difficult to solve with words and he can't beat a hasty escape.
Occupation: Unemployed handyman, largely living off what he's made trading and helping distribute the supplies he arrived with to the townspeople, former long-haul trucker.
Affiliations: Ex-Devil Dog Enforcer.
Scent Profile: He smells of cigarette smoke and leather, the still-present smell of mass produced cologne and soap he's not yet run out of given the recentness of his arrival. Vaguely of dog, thanks to Cash, as well as wood-shavings and motor oil, always somewhat dirty with one or the other thanks to the much lower supply of things like clothes he'd had with him for the drive he was making.
Aesthetic: A perfectly lacquered guitar and a baseball bat cracked and splintered, the rumble of a Harley's engine and the low din of a biker bar, the stale smell of liquor lingering. Blood and busted knuckles, bite marks and scars earned in love and war- the devil's right hand, the muscle. The bite of metal handcuffs and the murmur of a courtroom- the foreman's verdict as good as a guillotine for your freedom. Something you can't shake, about the incident that put you here. A decade of bars, a bird in a cage with a cracked and broken beak. when the door's finally slipped open, you fly free- not for long, Karma circles back- a Hell tailored to you. New names don't destroy what you damaged to start anew.
He's never gonna make it, all the poor people he's forsaken, karma Is always gonna chase him for his lies. It's just a game of waiting, from the church steeple down to Satan, karma. There's really no escaping 'til he dies.
CHAPTER ONE: LIFE IN HUNTSVILLE POST PARADOX
An incredibly recent arrival to Huntsville, Victor Calhoun- better known now by his call-sign for the trucking company that employs him, "Ziggy," Has only been free on parole for a short time, not even a full year of freedom before winding up in Huntsville once again- a place he'd called home until his sentencing in early 2012. it's a momentary detour- intending to just drive through town and see what had changed in his absence while making a long haul trip in the area to deliver the first stock truck for a CVS opening in West Virginia- he found himself circling town in the dim light of the evening- Cash growing more and more uneasy alongside him in the cab, ears pinned back and gaze set on the forest beyond.
It's on loop 3 he begins to feel as if he might be going crazy- a mental break brought on by returning home- a HAM radio no longer pinging the dispatch for his trucking company- faces starting to appear out of houses and businesses, at the heady rumble of the truck's engine. It's only when he's waved to stop that he grabs the shotgun from under his seat and disembarks the truck- demands to know what's going on- and why everyone's staring at him. It's a former classmate who barks his name first. Oh fuck me, it's Vic Calhoun. Just leave him to the ghosts, Mayor. It's disbelief, as the sheriff explains what's going on and people who's faces he somewhat remembers eye the truck like a flock of vultures.
He plants the butt of the gun in the chest of one of the approaching townspeople headed for the truck's back hatch hisses at them to fuck off- listens to whispers, murmurs of interest- of concern, about a commune, about the town- about the mayor. His head spins- He listens to Nat.
It's been only a small handful of days, now, and he's settled in his childhood home- parents long dead, brother just the same- he supposed it explains why they never wrote. His ownership over the keys to the freighter and the shipping manifest remains his only real leverage, for now, and while he's happy to help- He's made it clear that he's not about to let himself be screwed over- insisting Nat and Sunflower "work their shit out" and come to an agreement for the supplies split before a war breaks out over something only he can open...
and he wants first dip, of the townsfolk, of course.
Thank God the water's cool. Sure, Ziggy's never been one to complain, at least, not after he'd decided that he needed to repent for his lifetime of being an insufferable dick, but it had been a cooker the last few days on the handful of odd-jobs he'd undertaken, and he felt bad for Cash, the German Shepherd panting more than he was doing anything else lately. So it's no surprise that he's playing frisbee with the pup and a few of the other locals now, a towel around his shoulders and swim trunks both already wet from a few trips into the lake- at least one of them surely to chase the dog, similarly wet and thrilled to partake in the day's festivities.
He's taken by surprise, though, when in the middle of chasing a throw, Cash halts in his tracks to start barking, wagging his tail wildly. "What the hell's gotten into-" He trails off, turning to look where the canine's attention has settled. "Shoulda assumed it was you, Sparkplug, everybody else in this town's about as interestin' as wallpaper to Johnny Cash here." He reaches down to pat the pup's head, crosses arms over his bare torso with a grin as he take Bri in. "Damn nice day out, ain't it? Crossing my fingers it stays that way, been a scorcher the last few."
"You know, I feel like it aught to be a testament t' how much I like you that I'm willing to endure this whole... Ball thing." Ziggy chuckles, adjusting the straps of the decor on his suit. "Especially when apparently my old trusty suit and tie isn't the 'right way' to dress for it." It's good natured ribbing, and as he offers his arm to Bri, he takes the time to take her in. "God. been a long time since I took you to any sort of dance, huh?" It had to have been his senior prom, just before things got... complicated. "Granted, the outfits? Way different. similar amount of black and tulle, And if I'm rememberin' correctly, most everybody was secretly wearin' converse underneath their dresses so we could pretend we really didn't give a shit about dressing nice, despite the fact that, much like today, I stood in my bedroom wondering if you'd accept 'sheet ghost' as an outfit so I wouldn't have to accidentally embarrass myself."
It's easier, now, to reminisce on things when they were young- knowing that perhaps in another time, maybe, just maybe, he and Bri never fell apart the way they did. Knowing Nattie's safe (relatively, it was Huntsville, after all.) But it doesn't do anything to quiet the nerves- and the vague butterflies. "you... you look real good, Sparkplug. Gonna get both of us all kinds of jealous looks tonight."
"Listen I'm just thankful we're nearly done with it, been rebuildin' since Halloween, a light at the end of the tunnel is a welcome way to start a new year- especially if it means getting in out of the cold." His conversation trails off as he and another of the construction crew make their way into the hardware store- Ziggy adjusting his beanie down over his ears further as he makes a concerted effort to go unnoticed by the man behind the counter- of course the day he's sent to pick up more screws would be the day Louis was in. He'd pulled a gun on him last time, and that had been for the sin alone of being back in town. He's loathe to learn what might come of being around Bri again- of being around Natalie. For a moment, there's a flicker of his old self- that devil-may-care sort who'd dare Louis Ryan to pull the trigger. Instead, he moves back to the counter, sits a baggie of screws that he hopes will fit the repairs they're making after eyeballing the stripped out ones on top of it, and fishes his wallet from his pocket.
"Alright, what's the damage." He's avoiding eye contact. He's crossing his fingers that this won't be the kind of trip to the store that ends in having to answer for his time with Briana- or the newfound tension that's surfaced between them since Christmas. He spares a look at Louis. The expression on his face implies he should uncross his fingers. "What, Ryan? What about me just bein' in your store makes you look at me like I took a shit in your frosted flakes?"
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He's been watching the kid for a while now, subtly. He knows a con when he sees one- his own history more than a few shades of criminal, after all. It's almost heartwarming, to know that a swindler and a pickpocket managed to persist in a place like this. But it's when Roman finally acts- moves to snatch something in the pocket of the man's bag- and is caught clean by the wrist- that Ziggy leaves his post by the wall outside the diner. "Hey, Hey, easy. Easy. Guy's clearly just confused your bag for his- happens all the time- no need to get heated about it, yeah?" He straightens, 6'1, broad chested frame quickly put into action- subtle intimidation that comes out successful, as the man releases his grip- cursing and storming off.
"Gonna have to get a little lighter with the fingers, kid." He declares, turning to face Roman properly. "Not bad though. That wasn't your first swindle, was it."
"Oh no it's pretty clear why nobody here wants to give you a job, actually, because most of us remember exactly the kind a' person ya are." It's declared rather flatly, as Rusty does his best to disengage the conversation. "You better than most know how long a grudge holds in a place like this'n, Calhoun."
"Fuck me, PJ-" Rusty stops on his heels, turning to shoot a glare over his shoulder.
"Rusty- right, sorry, my bad- I'm going insane with nothing to do, alright? I'll take whatever-"
"Well then ya can pester folk who ain't me. Learn an' change all ya want, but I ain't forgot the way you treated folk. Way you looked at me an' my husband like we were a sideshow, kinda words you had fer people like us- you know, I've half th- mind to-" He stops, reeling himself in as another person approaches their... very public argument outside the outdoors shop. "Evenin' Bri." He greets- tone kind once more- as Ziggy chokes on his words. Rusty looks between them. Scoffs. "Have th' day ya deserve, Calhoun."
"I- Brianna?" it's disbelief, really- last he'd heard of her, she'd been famous, making albums, selling out arenas. And now, on the cragged sidewalk of their hometown- Brianna Ryan was the one ghost he'd hoped no longer haunted this place. "I thought you were... I thought you woulda been-" He almost wants to go back to arguing with Russell- the other man's nowhere to be found now. "you... you look... good. uh. Christ."
His history with the Ryan family is... Complex, to say the least. It's a family home he never quite felt welcome in belonging to a girlfriend who looked past the fact he was a particularly terrible young man- at least until she vanished without a warning for nearly a year and the anger that lived in him- that he'd fed like a starved wild animal- quickly turned on her, as well. It's why he's not exactly shocked that when he walks into the hardware store, the man at the counter turns to glare daggers at him instead of continue whatever conversation he'd been having with an employee. Ziggy swallows, bending to pick up the butt of the cigarette he'd been smoking from the sidewalk and throwing it in the trash outside. "...Afternoon." He clears his throat- the dimly lit store sprawling in front of him as he holds up the bag slung over his shoulder. "I uh. Was told y'all might get use sellin' this stuff. It's the toolkit I kept in the freighter... And some a' the shit scrapped off of it, considerin' I'm not leavin' anytime soon."
He can't remember the last time somebody had leveled him with a gaze that felt pockmarked with Hate. Louis Ryan's pretty well nailed it though.
