Hugh J. Morningwood "Bubba"
Hugh was born and raised in a small town in Alabama. His mother, Stephanie, died due to complications during childbirth. He was an only child. Because of this, Bubba feared he would never find true love, so he simply gave up hope. Instead, he concentrated on making others as unhappy as he was. He bullied his way through school, later becoming one of the finest patrons of "Uncle Larry's Timber Tavern" (the local bar). While having made several visits to the county correctional facility for numerous minor felonies to include, but not limited to OUI, public intoxication, public urination, criminal trespassing, minor theft, and J-walking; sometimes all in the same night.
He is now in his forties and lives alone with his beloved dog, Cuddles, a pure bred, registered pit-bull. His hobbies include studying firearms and explosives, building bombs, and blowing shit up.
I'll never forget what my daddy said to me that day. I was three years old when he told me, "Never let anyone push you around!" or was it, "When push comes to shove, hit back?" Anyway, what he said wasn't as important as how he said it. My daddy wasn't a brilliant man, but he never took any shit from any body. He passed away soon afterwards in an accident involving a chicken, a farm tractor, and an empty bottle or beer. [Trust me - you DON'T want to know!] After that, I was forced to move out of the trailer, by the Dept. of Human Resources, was placed in a group home and put in school.
School? School was a fuckin' joke! After several years, I was kicked off the rugby team for unnecessary roughness. Apparently, there was some confusion about a pass I caught and ran into the end zone. I still don't understand what the fuss is all about - he's been eating solid food for the three month, now. It's all good.
Several years after that, I found myself working in an Army surplus/gun shop. I learned all I could about firearms and explosives. It was there that I found my deep passion - Demolition! I found a lot of work in the "Big City," blowing up building, setting charges in the quarry just to the north and anything else I could find to blow the shit out of.
Since then, I spend most of my time in the gun shop. Oh did I forget to mention Bob Finley, the owner of the gun shop, was killed in a controversial accident when his propane tank exploded and he was burned alive inside his house. I am comforted to know that he probably died of smoke breathing before the skin melted off his bones by the 2000+ degree heat of the flames. At least he didn't suffer.
When the fire was put out, they found his last will an testament in a fire proof safe that stated the he was leaving all his belongings to me, because I was the only family he had, boy did that ever piss off his sister in New York. He also left me the code to his hidden underground vault, where he kept all of his "special" firearms. So I rebuilt the house with some of the money he "left" me and has lived there ever since.