Where the Wild Things Are:

The Monster with No Friends

On Tuesday, John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmit (his name is my name too) found his way to the underside of Raccoon City bridge to help himself to a toke on a blunt laced with PCP. Mr. Schmit, contrary to popular belief, wasn't a bad man. He was a janitor, making minimum wage in a city claiming to boast the highest minimum wage rate in the country, cleaning up spills and shit stains at a mansion in the middle of nowhere.

The job was fine. The hours were long and he was limited on his visitation with his friends or family, but none of that really mattered anyway. Because Mr. Schmit was a loner, a loser, a proverbial turd in the toilet bowel of people that basically went unnoticed until the higher ups realized no one had been scrubbing their world until it sparkled.

He was just a guy without a future.

On this particular dreary day, he found himself high and careless, lazing away beneath the hustle and the bustle of the world above him as he attempted to channel the universe and create a better path to greatness for himself. Sadly for Mr. Schmit, he really had no skills. He was ugly and freakishly tall, fat and rude. He was pocked with old acne scars and that often times resulted in small children screaming, "TROLL!" and "MONSTER!" as he went down the street on his merry way.

He had no children and no woman and real drive to do anything beyond scrubbing floors and toilets. He was lazy and often times disrespectful to his superiors. He had an enormous disrespect for the heavy burden of police presence in the city. In fact, he was often the guy found toilet papering and clogging the commodes in the S.T.A.R.S. office in a passive aggressive attempt to show them what he thought of their elitist ways.

Frankly, he was a nemesis to anyone wearing a badge.

And so it was, fortuitously if you will, that he would soon come to realize his great purpose in the world would be, indeed, to stalk those he'd once reviled unto their very demise.

For on this day, beneath the bridge, John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmit (his name is my name too) had cleaned his last toilet and smoked his last doobie.

Because one of those S.T.A.R.S. he'd been pranking had finally had enough.

Lord knew, the one person you didn't want to piss off was the man in the sunglasses.

It was then decreed that the janitor would become the monster he purported to represent. He was shot full of drugs, kidnapped admist the bored faces of the homeless that gathered beneath the bridge, and taken away to be made into greatness.

On this auspiscious day in 1997, he stopped being Mr. Schmit and instead he became:

The Nemesis.

When he awoke? He had one simple phrase to signal his single minded purpose in a perverted new world. He had one reason for being, one reason for existing, and one reason for revenge.

Sunglasses and..."S.T.A.R.S.S.S.S.S.S."