James Brownstone

TUMB 01/1,2, 3

Also called The Granite Ghost.

Ugly - (looked like half-ogre). Mottled patterns and ridges on his face. Voice low and deep, gruff, sounded like an old jet engine and a steamroller having rough sex.

Photographic memory, and does not know the Ishidas. Practices telekinesis

Owns dog, Leeroy, who Alison found, returned to him. Drives black Ford F-350 extended-cab, gleaming paint job, high tires. (Older vehicles better. Less crap to hack). Nothing calmed him like the sound of his revved-up engine. Got a wonderful feeling of power he got when he revved his old Ford. Growing up in an orphanage, so didn’t know crap about fathers who weren’t the Catholic priest kind.

Lived in an older wood-frame place. Plenty of space for him, and a nice upstairs loft he used for storage. Used a physical lock. Most people on his block had gone to smart locks—more tech to hack and fail. Extender drones could even do it remotely With a physical lock, you had to kick it open. Or blow it open. Both made noise, though—and noise would alert him that someone was there to kill him. A closet stood right next to the front door, and shoes and boots sat in a neat line on a multi-tiered shoe rack inside. Loves his leather jacket. Every pile of papers was where it should be, with no dust. There was a sealed weapons locker with a palm sensor in an alcove behind the St Jerome painting. Put his gun, knife, and necklace inside it. Didn't wear his necklace unless he had to.

Likes BBQ cooking, his favorite show: Barbecue Wars: New Generation. “We don’t see a lot of non-human competitors on Barbecue Wars: New Generation, so I’m excited to see what magic this Elf pit-master can bring to the competition.” (If he’d been born thirty years earlier, he wouldn’t have to deal with this barbecue sacrilege.)

Likes Irish Stout.

He kept to the philosophy of KISS (Keep It Simple Stupid). But a world going to shit more and more each year, maybe it’d help to reward a kid who’d gone to the trouble of calling him about his missing dog. It wasn’t that he cared about hurting these assholes—he didn’t mind taking down people who deserved it—but killing people, even scum, complicated his life…and that violated KISS. Sometimes the best way to KISS was to go all-in. No nuances meant no misunderstandings.

Bounty hunter (Could go find myself some rogue-ass Elf assassin and I’d make a shit-ton more money.) Always checking surroundings. He checked his mirrors for suspicious vehicles, drones, or shimmering spots of air. It was hard to guess anymore what kind of tools an individual criminal group might utilize, mystical or otherwise. To the bounty hunter, there was nothing simpler than a Catholic church. You knew exactly what to expect when you entered one, and what kind of people might be inside. This contrasted with the Church itself, one of the most complicated social organizations in history. Confesses weekly. Keeps up his contacts- meeting in bars, etc.

Artifact hunter. Meets with Doctor F.J. Smite-Williams, Professor of Historical Extra-Dimensional Engineering, which was a fancy way of saying he studied magical artifacts, other wise known as The Professor, or Father McCartney.