The X-men run missions and work together with the NYPD, striving to maintain a peaceful balance between humans and mutants. When it comes to a fight, they won't back down from protecting those who need their help.
Haven presents itself as a humanitarian organization for activists, leaders, and high society, yet mutants are the secret leaders working to protect and serve their kind. Behind the scenes they bring their goals into reality.
From the time when mutants became known to the world, SUPER was founded as a black-ops division of the CIA in an attempt to classify, observe, and learn more about this new and rising threat.
The Syndicate works to help bring mutantkind to the forefront of the world. They work from the shadows, a beacon of hope for mutants, but a bane to mankind. With their guiding hand, humanity will finally find extinction.
Since the existence of mutants was first revealed in the nineties, the world has become a changed place. Whether they're genetic misfits or the next stage in humanity's evolution, there's no denying their growing numbers, especially in hubs like New York City. The NYPD has a division devoted to mutant related crimes. Super-powered vigilantes help to maintain the peace. Those who style themselves as Homo Superior work to tear society apart for rebuilding in their own image.
MRO is an intermediate to advanced writing level original character, original plot X-Men RPG. We've been open and active since October of 2005. You can play as a mutant, human, or Adapted— one of the rare humans who nullify mutant powers by their very existence. Goodies, baddies, and neutrals are all welcome.
Short Term Plots:Are They Coming for You?
There have been whispers on the streets lately of a boogeyman... mutant and humans, young and old, all have been targets of trafficking.
The Fountain of Youth
A chemical serum has been released that's shaving a few years off of the population. In some cases, found to be temporary, and in others...?
MRO MOVES WITH CURRENT TIME: What month and year it is now in real life, it's the same for MRO, too.
Fuegogrande: "Fuegogrande" player of The Ranger, Ion, Rhia, and Null
Neopolitan: "Aly" player of Rebecca Grey, Stephanie Graves, Marisol Cervantes, Vanessa Bookman, Chrysanthemum Van Hart, Sabine Sang, Eupraxia
Ongoing Plots
Magic and Mystics
After the events of the 2020 Harvest Moon and the following Winter Solstice, magic has started manifesting in the MROvere! With the efforts of the Welldrinker Cult, people are being converted into Mystics, a species of people genetically disposed to be great conduits for magical energy.
The Pharoah Dynasty
An ancient sorceress is on a quest to bring her long-lost warrior-king to the modern era in a bid for global domination. Can the heroes of the modern world stop her before all is lost?
Are They Coming for You?
There have been whispers on the streets lately of a boogeyman... mutant and humans, young and old, all have been targets of trafficking.
Adapteds
What if the human race began to adapt to the mutant threat? What if the human race changed ever so subtly... without the x-gene.
Atlanteans
The lost city of Atlantis has been found! Refugees from this undersea mutant dystopia have started to filter in to New York as citizens and businessfolk. You may make one as a player character of run into one on the street.
Got a plot in mind?
MRO plots are player-created the Mods facilitate and organize the big ones, but we get the ideas from you. Do you have a plot in mind, and want to know whether it needs Mod approval? Check out our plot guidelines.
"You could have wagered it. What would it have cost you to toss an unwanted cup of coffee as opposed to showing your boss how considerate of the details you might be...?" Roland dismissed this with a mental handwave. It was a little late in the game to be second guessing an employee. He surely didn't take any of her gestures as genuine niceties either. he suspected that most new male employees, and possibly some of the females, got this kind of coy gauntlet in order to see how easy they could be shaped by lust. While Lori was a very attractive girl, Roland would never stick his neck out like that to a boss. It was weak. If she ever came, she would have to do the coming.
Why pantomime when there are more efficient means of communication?[/i] Roland's eyes narrowed slightly. Was she a psychic after all? Or was this merely another electron trick courtesy of Dr. Science. Either way, he hemmed up his thoughts until he knew for sure. In response to his request for a name, he received one. Adwin. Dean Adwin. the name repeated itself in his mind like a mantra, as most aliases did until he could be woken up from a deep sleep and answer to it."I suppose I'll have to find something a bit more challenging for you next time." Yes, something more challenging and something worth breaking a sweat over. Or not. if Lori wanted to waste Roland's talents on courier business, that was fine too. He could workout on his own time, if need be.
She strolled by him, her scent wafting in the air between them as she placed her reading glasses on the small bedside table. "Welcome aboard. You want a room? Or will you be staying elsewhere?"It was a bit of a surprise to Roland that it was so easy to get into this place. He should have just tossed the reporter gag and walked in the first time. He could have been sitting pretty by now in this band of brigands. No time for retrospection with the open party line on, though. He straightened himself up and answered the question."Sure, I'll take a room. May not be in it often, but I'll be close enough. How close would you like me to be?"
"Good job." Of course it was. It was nice to hear the voice behind the door verify this, however. " No coffee for me?" Civility and a dash of impressed. Expected, but still a perk. Roland waited for the door to open before responding. Once it did, her eyes took a long look at him. No longer the impressive office setup, power pyramids and all business. A book sat earmarked in the room, athletic clothing over freshly washed skin. He was glad to see she could relax as easily as she could give orders. Always the sign of a good boss.
" Maybe you are a tea girl. Or amaretto. Or ice water. It would be presumptuous of me to bring you something until I know what you like." Service minded to a fault, the killer was. Keeping the heads groomed meant more leeway in the long run. The room was one of function, not form. Of course there was the giant bed in the foreground. Was this where all the real business dealings got done? He handed her the envelope as he entered, turning the chair at the desk around and straddling it as he sat. " You plan on talking to me? Or should I just think the rest of the night out and let you play charades?" A chitter of chuckle escaped his innards.
His eyes consumed the boards, the books, the bed. He was no psychic, but Roland had more than enough experience in reading people to do a bang up job on a guess. He had been a good dog, so it was time for a treat." That was too easy. Fun too, in its own sublime way. Now, what's my name?" He asked it in a nice way now, though maybe at a later date, he could ask it in a different way, there in the large silken boardroom.
Her mind continued to work on him. As a fellow interpreter of tells, Roland could see that Lori's movements at the desk were a well orchestrated feint to cover the idea that he was fairly unassailable. This was the type never to admit defeat. probably not even mutual surrender. She was interesting. Electrons were a great and powerful thing, as they spun within every atom of everything that was. Perhaps she was a third of the Goddess Incarnate. The dirty third.
Her lean body reached over the desk for a piece of paper. The principal's name etched itself in large capital slants as Roland listened to the parameters. It seemed as if it were too easy. Perhaps things would be scaled up. Perhaps she was used to dealing with amateurs. Perhaps she had no fathomable realization of the ends that the man across from her would go to see a thing come to fruition. His eyes remained on the paper and then rose with it as it was held in a way to seem as a bone for a dog. Or a stick to fetch. All of this without a shred of judgment or ego inflation. Or deflation.
His own fingers reached out to pluck the paper as it was pulled away. " Let's make it 11:59 then. I'd hate to be late." The fingers locked on the edge of the paper, a slight, nearly imperceptible give and take, push and pull displayed before he promptly pulled it free, as a magician would swipe a tablecloth, leaving the flowers and crystal in place. The smile returned as his eyes looked into her own. "See you soon."
6:00
A few calls from disposable phones. A favor called that could not be retracted. A new pair of clothes. A suit, detective style, fairly current within a few years but showing the weather of a long stakeout. The complementary sidearm, slung from a shoulder holster. A badge. One of special importance to him, as the number was on the laundry list of Duskmoor's victims. Just a personal touch that all but the most perceptive might glean from his disguise.
7:00
A gray sedan from an auctioneer. Used previously in police work. At once unidentifiable and shining like a neon fire to the criminal types. A small red flasher which could be plugged in to the cigarette lighter. It was a shame that so many new models lacked a cigarette lighter. A map of the borough and a short drive around, noting the actual black and whites in the area and noting their locations using the police scanner that came as a bonus buy from said auctioneer.
8:00
Leonard Altman arrives home from a long day of work, consulting with developers and architects for the new building. His home is quiet, which is strange for a married man and father of four. He looks around and finds his family assembled in the living room, faces etched with nervousness and comfort. A strange pair, indeed. The wifey announces their guest as Frank Epps, a representative of the local Fraternal Order of Policemen, as well as a Jersey sergeant. Handshakes and pleasantries exchanged, children excused to their homework and computers. Wifey takes a few sidelong glances from the man before she gets the idea to go cook something.
9:00
Leonard has a drink. He needs one. His friendly FOP visitor has given him the insight he needed to realize that his recent reason to work late was actually the young, as in underage young, daughter of a reputable mob boss. One who enjoyed feeding bad parts to bad men. Papers are produced, which explain in a nutshell that the apartment building will be signed over to the boss's eldest daughter as a sign of respect and a desire to keep all reasons for working late attached and in their current condition. For anonymity's sake, the legal document is registered to a name that was as real as Sgt. Epps badge number was fake. Lori Faust.
10:00
A drink is shared between the men and they make their way to the stoop outside, as wifey needs to clean up and get the kids ready for bed. Between a few cigarettes, the local politics are covered as are the responsibilities of Mr. Altman to keep his mouth shut. Mentions of other men being friendly with girls around the age of the girl in question were discussed. Girls like the young Altman girls. Roland painted the possibilities with a wet brush and wide strokes, clearly and disturbingly describing the awful scenes that could be readily avoided with discretion and a few signatures.
11:00
The sedan and the costume are discarded at one of the new safehouses. Clothes are changed to a new wifebeater and black jeans. The relative economy of the clothes is purposely accompanied by a pair of eelskin cowboy boots, as he suspected Miss Faust could appreciate. A few right turns out the door and a cab was hailed, returning the man to the golden doors of the Sanctuary. Lisa is still there, typing away. An automaton of some sort? Who could say?
11:30
"Miss Faust has left her office. her room is near the end of the hall, seventh from the end." Her room. Interesting. Perhaps it was another test, the more difficult half of the egg. A manila envelope in hand, Roland took a seat in the foyer. Not a drop of blood spilled. Only the release of fear. Fear, like a howling angry dog full of rabies, pulling nearly free at a weathered chain, inches from a man's sense of safety. He snickered softly to himself as he sipped a coffee.
11:55
Roland stood outside the door. he suspected the telltale clicking of the boots' heels would be enough of a calling card. He savored the four minutes prior to knocking, imagining Faust stepping from the shower.
Lori Faust. If ever there was a cover, that was a fine one. If Lori Faust was her given birth name, Roland Hornbuckle wash is. Nonetheless, that is what she went by and what he would call her. Maybe after they were better acquainted, she could clear that up. Virginal corruption and her eyes synched up nicely as she did her best to toss a quip back at him. She really did try. She was just too young. Give her a decade and she would really be dangerous.
She did come up with a smashing name for him. Of course, anything beat Blinky. "Dean. Dean it is."Lean. Mean. Clean. Obscene. Dean seemed to work well. "Get me a last name and I'll have a social and a birth certificate the next day." If it was important, he could have it in an hour. Didn't seem so important, though. More a fancy for a lovely lass."You're right about where you're from. It really doesn't matter as long as you know where you're going." Perhaps she was psychic. That or she just wanted to burn through his skull with her piercing eyes. He had enough chatter going on to keep any real probing to a minimum, though he wasn't sure. One way to find out before he thought more on the subject.
He smiled and blinked at her. " Pardon me for asking, but are you trying to read my mind? I know you are a mutant, since everyone here is. I showed you a trick and short of taking off your pyramids there, I am unsure of yours. If you can read minds, I'd like to know. Seems like the best thing to do at the beginning of any fruitful relationship." Maybe business. Maybe pleasure. No longer being confined by money let Roland focus on becoming an artist with the grand medium of violence.
"If you are such an eager beaver, I do have something that could use immediate attention. There is a renovation project on an apartment complex not three blocks from here. We're very interested in the community, you see, and I've been working on the foreman to ensure that the apartments renting to humans are kept under construction... indefinitely. He doesn't seem to see it my way, though. Could you be a dear, Dean, and change his mind?" A wide smile stretched over Roland's face as his eyes darkened and his eyebrows arched. "A proper test. I like tests. Give me the principal's name and a time. If you like, I can go down there and have it done by the end of the day or the week. You tell me the extent you would like me to go to and the time in which to do it, also known as the parameters. Sounds more like fun than work." A simple shakedown. A tad disappointing, but Roland had the idea that it could only get better.
Once she took a seat across from him, Roland began to get the vague inklings of deja vu. She seemed very familiar to him for some reason. In the meantime, he made an effort to ignore her question and ask one of his own. "Speaking of being dodgy, what's your name? This isn't exactly the type of place where people wear name tags, but while I am here to work without supervision, I like to know the boss' name.." She wasn't so made up and fitted when he saw her last. Where was it?
She was reading him, or trying to. Whether or not she had telepathy was hard to tell with her poker face, but he maintained his unused alias and dossier, similar to interrogation tactics. If you believe you are a person enough, even the sodium pentathol would reveal it as your given from Mom and Dad. " If you need an alias for your files, I will be happy to give one that will come out as clean as a virgin's underwear. As far as where I am from, I don't think it is really relevant. The relevance is that I can work for you, on or off the books, and get the things you need done accomplished. i am sure a young girl like yourself could use a hand." But where to put it?
Roland eased back in his seat as the face clicked in his mind. The girl curled up in the Escalade. He had saved her and her male friend with the mouth from a lynching one night. He had then dropped them off at the Mansion. Only the new face kept him from being outed on the spot, to a point. While she would only remember him as the snarky stranger, her mention of such a blond haired Brit to others in her circle could definitely get the wrong word of mouth around. New York was getting smaller by the second.
She didn't back down. It bought her some respect and made her vastly more attractive, as if she needed help in that department."That is my business.and we just happen to be hiring."Roland put the trademark half smirk on that suited him best, regardless of the face it stretched over. "[color=Must be my lucky day.[/color]" He took the offered hand and returned the strong grip he had expected to receive. The doll had a penchant for making sure no one took her lightly. Who had a chance with all of the chest puffing? Whatever the case, he was already in like Flynt and just had to play the interviewee, something else he excelled in.
"I'd say you should just go by your mutant alias, but what are you? Blinky?" She was testing him, trying to find out if he was a short fuse or a cool character. Roland intended to mold the persona into whatever made him most attractive, so he continued to play with her until he found the right method, the sweet spot that produced results."I've gone by many names. You pick the one that suits me best, but let's give it more than a minute and it might not be Blinky. Of course, Blinky is just as efficient as anyone else."
Carrying the clipboard and papers with him, he easily followed as directed. He wondered if the silken strut of her hips was practiced for his benefit or natural. He'd have to make a point to watch more intently and more often to be sure. For scientific purposes. As they entered an office, Roland took care to ease the door closed behind them. It made for more pleasant conversation , though the room could easily be bugged. It had been easy enough for him to bug these places. he took a seat and waited to hear about Blinky's future.
"And what is your last name Smith?" The voice was smoky and sultry. It licked Roland's earlobes as it slinked from the shadows. The secretary quickly became background. " Pick a last name for me. Or a first if Joe doesn't suit you. Either should be as valid." The form that followed the voice was shorter, but was no less potent. her energy was through the roof. Call it charisma. Call it moxie. Call it yum. Thsi was the boss and Roland could think of nothing else than where all that untapped aggression could be put to better uses.
Papers came in his direction and he looked at them with a hint of distaste before placing them on the desk. Aliases galore could be filled into the blanks, as they had been time and time again. Roland's interest was on the blond. He was sure she would cater to that and he felt like staring for free. "I lie, cheat, steal, kill...misbehave in general. What do you do?" He closed the distance between them by a step or two." Better yet, when do you do it? Is it off the clock or always business?" he could almost smell her scent from his position.It was something like sweat and ozone.
A metallic clipboard, formerly on a nearby cabinet, found its way to Roland's hand, as did the pen from the secretary's hand. the papers had to be picked up, but he pretended to do so on purpose, for dramatic effect. Clipping them into place, he began to make nice with the bureaucracy while moving ahead with purpose. "Word is on the street that this is the place for mutants looking for work to come. Is that the case?"
The golden doors of the Sanctuary.Once a mystery, hidden from him due to his failed interview with Miss Duskmoor. He had been approaching things the wrong way in general. In Australia, after several weeks training with boomerangs, it occurred to him that having a unique, indestructible weapon would tie him to events and crimes. He could hardly wash himself clean of identities lugging such a deadly anchor. So he quit the school and sold the adamantium ore on the black market. Money would no longer be a problem and this time it was so clean, seeing it would make one's eyeballs squeak in their sockets.
It had taken some time to master the whitewashed American accent. A solid month of it cleared out every single lilt of Britain, leaving him to blend in seamlessly with the humdrum populace. The idea of the Kabal was moldy. The Mansion was repulsive. he had displayed his talents on both fields and could be remembered, however slightly. The Order rejecting his advances had been a blessing in disguise, as his fresh face was now the ultimate icebreaker.
Stride unbroken, Roland opened the golden doors, surveying the foyer and the chairs that he had inhabited so long ago. His eyes then turned to Lisa, the dutiful and everpresent secretary. A smile graced his face, stretching the stubble. A small knapsack of second hand clothing and simple toiletries was slung over his shoulder. He stepped up to the desk and in response to a raise of eyebrows, he took the initiative. "Name's Joe. I heard I could hang my hat here."
Being a woman had given Roland quite a perspective on the fairer sex and their needs. Not like he was going to start caring about their needs, but still, he had a better idea. Pleasure was over and now it was time for business. After settling up with Gershon and procuring his rock, Roland had to decide on which weapon such a fantastic substance could be applied. Many hours of research went into it. everything from kukris to spears to sais. But after throwing a book in frustration, Roland had wished that the damned thing would just come back.
A few days later, he had booked the flight to Brisbane. There was one place to seek the weapon that would become his new falcon of striking. This one came back on its own, even if he didn't demand it. Australia was to boomerangs as ...something else was to something where it came from. The warm weather and general lack of assassins was more than enough to allow the man some time to relax.
While it might seem logical to come down under to seek some wizened old aboriginal man, Roland was more interested in learning from Roger Perry, the team captain of Australia's own boomerang team and a prolific crafter of all sorts of the weapons. Of course, many saw them as toys or sports equipment. Roland could easily go this route as well, until it came time to coat the thing in unbreakable metal.
Cheese wasn't so smart after all. Gershon was on the phone when the gunshots echoed through the interior of his midnight speakeasy. He felt no fear, as no stranger was good enough to make it past the three men in front of his door. Anyone who wasn't a stranger surely hadn't the stones to come in full on like this. Besides, the five armed assassins in the room could easily dispatch the fool that was about to cash his own ticket in. There was always....but no, he was long gone.
A familiar face appeared in Gershon's security screen. He depressed the button, allowing entry to his men and the dumbest man alive, He was a strapping bloke, cold shark-like eyes surveying the grim situation before him. " Well, you're a dead man. However, since you made it this far, I'll let you tell your tale." A bag of stones flew from the man's hand, landing on the desk before him, its contents spilling and sparkling before the fat fixer. " The tale's told. Your stones from the botched wholesalers.You're welcome."
Gershon had little to say. The sparkle returned to his eye. His tell, as any card player would call it. The men in the room were no less ready to pull their weapons and gun the man down who was in front of them at their master's word. " Very good. Very,very good. Before you die, I wanted to tell you about another man who tried the same little stunt. It didn't turn out so well for him either. In fact --" The next phase occurred in seconds. Perhaps it was a minute. Regardless, five spent cartridges hit the floor. One for each man.
Roland launched himself up on the desk, crouched on his haunches, his blue eyes burning holes in the man's own. "In fact, you should keep a much closer eye on your Colombian spa handlers, you miserable f***." The barrel pressed firmly into Gershon's forehead, a wider and more shit eating grin was not possible on Roland's face. The gun was for show, though. He could as easily have simply burned a hole in the man's face with his steely eyes of revenge. " Open the vault and you can go with a limp." A coward to a fault, Gershon only opened his personal vault and then stepped away, his eyes wide with shock. "How? You were a dead man." Roland snickered. " Still am. Time to join me in the afterlife."
Katrina looked around at first before taking her seat. It made it seem as if she were going to the Headmistress' office as opposed to a simple counseling session. Anxiety was written in volumes across what appeared to be an otherwise cheery face. Perhaps it was her hair that made her so uncomfortable and awkward. It looked as if someone had taken sheep shears to it, making her look like as much of a little boy as a girl. A simple movement and the child was seated, her eyes shallow.
He had seen eyes like that in children. Growing up on the streets of London, most of the children had that lost look in their eyes. It struck Roland as odd though here, considering what seemed to be luxurious standards for any child, orphaned or not. The crooked road on the child's face looked like a hideous attempt at a smile. Forced it was, manufactured no doubt to attempt to sway what appeared to be an authority figure. If she only knew.
“I'm not sure what to say. I didn't really want to come here.” From the mouth of babes. Roland appreciated truth. It made life so much easier. He couldn't help but grin at the deadpan honesty of the girl before him."Well, that's understandable. You probably feel like you are in trouble. Nothing could be further from the truth. If you like, we can just sit here until the time is up. I am not going to make you talk." She would probably guess at some weak version of reverse psychology aimed at her. This was not the case. Roland really didn't give a damn. The sooner the kid left, the sooner he could get back to his vacation.
Counseling. Once Roland had hunted down his office and name, he had shifted around in the drawers of the desk to try to fathom what exactly his/her role was in this place. Apparently he was both a music teacher and the school's counselr. Though his voice was beautiful now, the idea of singing and dancing just seemed to push the envelope, even for him. So, listening to the problems of mutant children would have to suffice. Looking at his appointment book, it appeared that one Katrina Dumonde would be arriving shortly.
His gaze lingered out on the great estate grounds before him. Two kids were on the grass, doing a bit of shoving. One , who seemed smaller and easier prey, brought a fist up in anger. When he did, flames wreathed his hand. The two of them looked at the flames and a realization passed over their features. It seemed that the school truly did have ah and in the use of control. No adults were needed for the two kids to realize the power they could wield and what that meant. His focus and attention was so intense that he did not notice the young girl enter. Good thing she wasn't an assassin.
" Close the door please, Katrina." He turned his attention toward her and attempted a sweet smile, unsure of his success. Shifting in his seat and crossing his legs, he bumped a knee rather fiercely, since it was such a foreign movement. A string of expletives ensued out of habit. He cleared his throat and folded his hands before him on the desk. " Sorry about that dear, I am so clumsy today. So, have a seat and tell Miss Raina what ails you."
It wasn't often that Roland had erotic dreams. Usually he popped enough Benzadrine that sleep was just an omission of time. This dream wasn't overtly sexual, but it was so sensual and real that it sparked his flame. He could smell, touch, taste and hear pure woman. He rolled over, the sheets against his baby soft skin. Wait. Where did the dream end and reality begin? Roland bolted upright, his eyes opening to light and pastel colors. And breasts.
He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. Opening them again, there they were. The shock of the moment wasn't nearly enough to stop him from utterly staring at his breasts. Of course, that meant.....
About an hour later, he finally pulled his body from the sheets. They were all gnarled up from the time it took for Roland to really get to know himself. The sheets needed a bath almost as much as he did. Some aromatic bath salts and a bubbly tub later and the assassin found himself luxuriating in the sweet soup. He couldn't stop chuckling. Whether this was a dream or not really didn't matter. He was a stunning redhead. Just like the one from the video footage.
Fun took a backseat to logic. Was he the girl who sculpted ice with sound? He had recalled watching her among the other party guests that night. Something else was wrong. Why were his legs feeling so odd? It felt like someone had wrapped them tight with tape. He arched his back and heaved the legs until they broke the bubbly surface. A tail flopped where feet would be.
The taxi slowed to the curb in a district that appeared to be the home of the night people. From the looks of them, this was their step into the wild side. They lacked the track marks and scars that real night people might sport. Neon crackled overhead, casting an eerie blue glow down on the sidewalk. Trois Soeurs appeared to be little more than a typical seedy nightclub. A piano player sang something that sounded both morose and beautiful and a veil of cigarette smoke hung in the air. He hadn't entered yet.
Outside of the place stood a large man who seemed to be carved from obsidian. It was one of Gershon's most long-lived employees, a huge East African known only as 'Cheese'. Even the native speakers called him that because when a seven foot man who looked like a living statue said to call him Cheese, it was a good idea to do so. His monolithic frame became a wall once Roland was standing before him. "Members only. Take a walk." Roland smiled wide. "Fair enough, Cheese. Tell the man I have his stones. He can come out here and meet me on the sidewalk if he prefers."
The mention of his name and stones didn't seem to impress Cheese. " Take a walk. You don't know anything." Roland nodded and stepped back toward the curb. Eyeing a storm drain nearby, he produced a cut diamond. Not too large, perhaps a carat or two. He tossed it to Cheese, whose massive hands greedily snapped it up. He seemed impressed now. He took a size seventeen toward Roland, who promptly flashed the insurance policy hanging from his shoulder beneath his jacket." The bigger they are, Cheese. Now go be a good freak of nature and get your boss. Or let me in."
