Name: Sergeant Major Trigger Phist. No, I'm most certainly not "shitting" you.
Age: Approximately 32, but I can't be certain. It was never disclosed.
Gender: Male.
Sex: I certainly hope not. I mean if that man had a child... [brief pause while handler laughs nervously and shakes his head] ...God help us.
Personality: Angry. Very angry. Possibly the most angry person I've ever seen. You wouldn't notice it at first though, it usually requires a certain...spark. We haven't quite figured out what it is, but we find it best to just simply not agitate him. Sometimes it helps not to make eye contact. Or even acknowledge that he's angry. In fact, during the first week of his stay in our facility, one of our analysts brought up his problems with anger management. Brought it up with the Sergeant Major himself. Aaaaand...well, he sorta...I mean not sorta, he did rip out the analyst's tongue. With his own tongue. I'm not sure how he did it, and I honestly don't wish to know. Thankfully I was on vacation that day, and any witnesses of that event are...incapable of speaking of it. Doctor Forrester, the analyst, died of severe trauma and blood loss the day of. Bruce, one of the nurses attending the session, was found dead in his apartment, hanging at the end of a power cable. Anna, the other nurse, she's...well, she's making progress. Or so I'm assured. Last month's report even stated she's beginning to speak actual words again.
Crippling Psychological Flaw: Other than being completely fucking crazy? I'm sorry about the unprofessionalism there, but that's the most accurate diagnosis I can give. He's unpredictable, uncooperative, volatile, I'm almost positive he's schizophrenic, and he's just...I really don't know how else to put it. I mean this man stared at another patient for so long, and with such intensity, the poor guy threw himself out of the nearest window. On the fourth floor. He sawed the ear off a cafeteria aid with a plastic spoon. His reasoning? For putting "too large" of granola chunks in his yogurt. Did the same thing the next day, claiming the chunks were too small. Then a third time the day after, because apparently the aid didn't know Phist was lactose intolerant. And this was after his second helping of yogurt. That very day. Now he's got himself an ear necklace he refuses to remove, and no one's tried to take it off of him for fear of having their own added to the collection. The thing creeps the fuck out of me. Oh, and he doesn't sleep. At all. Both our cardiologist and neurologist say he shouldn't even be alive because of this, and yet he lives. We tried to sedate him early on, as we were worried he'd die of sleep deprivation. Gave him enough sedative to kill an elephant before he finally went unconscious. Woke up an hour later though. Screaming his lungs out. It was a bloodcurdling, inhuman scream. Like a wild animal, fueled by blood and anger, ready to...I'm sorry, can you excuse me for a moment.
[The handler returns after approx. five minutes, having ingested a handful of anxiety medication, and begins smoking, ignoring the signs plastered on the wall about it being a smoke-free room.]
Excuse me, what-what are you writing? You know what, nevermind...
Appearance: Terrifying. Oh, you mean a detailed description. Okay. He's tall, about six-foot four, dark brown hair that he keeps in a flat top. Seems to have a permanent five o'clock shadow, too. Not sure how he keeps himself groomed though, considering he doesn't have access to clippers or even safety trimmers. Gruesome story behind why that is: he used our former barber's own clippers to grind off the tips of his fingers to the first knuckle for cutting his hair a little shorter than he asked for. Now Phist manages it all by himself. I don't know if someone smuggled in a trimmer, if he just uses his hands, or if it's just sheer force of will...anyway, he keeps himself groomed. He's got a wide frame that suits his height. I'm certain he's all muscle, even though I've never seen him exercise once. I don't even bother to ask how he does it, and I probably don't want to know. He's got a jawline that looks like it'd be better suited on a Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robot. He's also got a boxer's nose, which is no doubt the result of many altercations throughout his life. And his eyes are a bright, deep blue. They seem almost empty, but possess an odd mix of insanity and tranquility. Makes you feel like you know he could strangle your mother with her own shoelaces and he wouldn't have a care in the world while doing so. He's also acquired quite the collection of scars, most notable being the one that goes down right from his left cheekbone to his jaw. No doubt he has some tale of lunacy to go along with it. Probably tried to take down a helicopter with his face or something. Wouldn't surprise me if he succeeded, either...
Abilities: Frighteningly capable of killing a person with just about anything. Knows how to handle, maintain, and efficiently shoot just about every firearm known to man, and even a few I'm not at liberty to discuss. I'm told he's got a certain liking for explosives, too. Especially grenades, of any sort really. He's claimed he once blew both of his hands off by holding a fragmentation grenade too long, just because he "liked the feeling of its life in his hands". And apparently, according to him, his hands grew back sometime that night. Of course that sounds like complete and utter insanity, but hey, look who it's coming from. He's a master of Krav Maga according to his files. Why anyone would give him that kind of training, God only knows, but maybe that'll make him of more use to your agency.
Gadgets: Although he can kill most anyone with his bare hands, he's willing and capable enough to do the same with a Post-It and a rubber eraser. Which, by the way, I've seen him do. Anyway, if it shoots bullets, he'd be more than happy take it off anyone's hands and have at it. That goes double for things that blow up.
History: Can't say I know much about him before he was admitted to our facility. Well, not so much admitted as forced upon us under threat of incarceration and inevitable execution. Anyway, what information we had on him was very limited. The files we received were so heavily blacked out, I'm sure there was more ink than paper in that pile. Honestly, I wonder why they didn't just send us a pamphlet, would've had the same effect. Actually, interestingly enough, there was one stack of papers that had been poorly covered. Bastards probably ran out of ink. But what we discovered was that Phist is actually a "failed government experiment", as it read. I've brought the paperwork with me, so if you'll just give me a sec.
Ah. Here it is. Ahem.
It was a dark and stormy night...what? No, this is actually what the folder says. In a condemned orphanage, wards of the state were chosen by government agents for experimentation. They were taken to a "super ultra secret" bunker where they did "bitchin' sciencey stuff" that involved injecting the subjects with chemicals and formulas, just to see what happened. One of the child's innards were, as it's written, "turned the fuck out of him" by a certain mixture in particular. Another's head expanded to unbelievable proportions before violently exploding - there's even a little cartoon drawing of it here. See? Kind of adorable, actually. So, these "scientists" grew bored of blowing heads up and "inside-outing" the orphans and tried other things. One of them, the one we believe to be the cause of Phist' s, erm...condition, involved putting a few of them on a strict diet of phencyclidine hydrochloride, coffee grounds, and a substance that, when I asked around about it, only resulted in me getting locked in an interrogation room for three days of questions and extensive cavity searches. Not sure why that was necessary. Not sure why I'm telling you this, either...where was I?
Right, malnourished orphans. Well, most of the orphans that remained died before they started adding methcaine to what the "scientists" told the kids were "candy sandwiches". This went on for years until, when the surviving subjects were in their mid-adolescence, it was discovered that there was a mistake in the operation assignment process. Those lab coats? Weren't even qualified researchers. Couldn't even formulate their way out of a perforated, wet paper bag if you gave them an automated box cutter with a flashlight attachment. Doesn't say what happened to them, but they're probably buried in some desert somewhere.
As for the rest of the orphans? Well, for reasons I can't even begin to fathom, the head of their "Fucked-Up Science Division" decided to pit them against one another in gladiator-style tournaments. As you can probably guess, Phist was the last one alive. Was halfway through eating the other kid's second leg before they called off the fight. Phist himself was almost killed just because the division's head bet against him and lost, but then someone came forward with the ingenious idea of saying, "Hey, this totally fucked-in-the-head little bastard is good at making things dead, let's give him a job!" Phist's training in the armed services began the next morning...
It was around this point in the filing of his report that they probably ran out of even mildly opaque marking utensils because these pages were just slathered in paint. Although I've come to the conclusion that he most likely performed covert operations for the government, probably involving lot of killing, for years and years. Then something went wrong. Maybe he killed the wrong person, maybe he killed more than was necessary, who knows? So it was decided they no longer wanted his services, but they didn't want to have him killed. That would only make him angrier. So, they asked him to resign and ultimately he did. Not without biting off someone's nose and forcing it down their throat I'm sure, but at least he resigned. Then, obviously not wanting anything to do with him anymore, they drop him off at our facility and drive off, likely in the same fashion that his parents left him in the orphanage. I almost thought it sad, but he appeared to be handling it well. Or so I thought...
I remember how he asked me who was in charge so he could "discuss the conditions of his stay", a seemingly reasonable request at the time. Then, later that day, we all heard the screams. I was the first staff member to reach the administration offices and I'll never forget what I saw. Doctor Holt, the facility's director, was at his desk with his hands over his eye and covered in blood. Sitting across from him, was Phist, calmly signing paperwork, pen in hand, then I saw it. He was using Holt's skewered eye to cushion his fingers on the pen. Over the sounds of Holt sobbing, I could swear I heard Phist humming cheerily. That was our first glimpse at his condition, and from that day forward, we've been doing our best to try and work with him, to help him somehow. Haven't exactly made any progress with that, unfortunately. However, he has discovered a way to deflect his anger, at least at times. Strangely enough, he quite enjoys gardening. That was an unexpected, but not unwelcome discovery. Since we found out, we decided to make him our groundskeeper. Legally we can't take patients on as employees, so it's not official, but we tell him it is because frankly, all of us prefer to keep our bones intact.
The Bullshit on your Resume:
Extensive combat experience, both with and without the use of weapons. Pain threshold is, well, unknown to us. Good leadership skills. If there's a lackey who's out of line, Phist will certainly set 'em straight, maybe even without killing them. He can garden the fuck out of a patch of begonias. What more could you want?
Alright, look, I'm gonna be straight with you here. I just...I need this guy out of my hands. No other caretaker wants him, he's grown used to me so my administrator won't let me transfer or even quit, else he'll destroy my career and reputation. Just being within a hundred miles of Phist sets me on edge, so much that he's driven me to drink. And because I've been drinking, my wife grew tired of it and kicked me from my home until I can put down the bottle, but I need it just to forget the shit I've seen. She just doesn't understand, and now I can't even see my own kids whose birthdays I've missed this year, and I can't stand living alone in the only shitty apartment I'm able to afford. I wanna see my family. I wanna go home...
[The remainder of the interview was spent trying to get the applicant's handler off the floor where he had curled up and began weeping profusely, seemingly inconsolable. This continued for about half an hour until security was notified and escorted him off the premises.]
