Kip Coradyne wasn’t terribly fond of anybody. If he really wanted to, he could find something nice to say about his closest acquaintances, the few there were, but he’s never wanted to. He was bitter, angry, and spent the majority of his time making up stories about the misfortunes and trials of the random passersby he saw on the street. “Probably going home to his 200 sq. ft. apartment filled only with a beanbag and his dildo collection,” he’d whisper as he watched a perfectly average man walk by. “Enjoy that abortion,” he’d mumble after a woman dressed to go clubbing.
He had particular disdain for his customers, the stoners, the tweakers, the bored and hopeless, who came to him with head down clinching a handful of bills. He found them pathetic, and wasn’t afraid to berate them as they made their purchase, to insult their intelligence, their appearance, and their filthy habit. He didn’t see the irony that he was basically feeding their habit, and whenever he it is mentioned to him, he plainly states that they would just get their drugs elsewhere if he weren’t around. “Because all the world is shit,” he’d say, as he grabbed their money, “and I’m the one behind the horse.”
Kip didn’t adjust his attitude for his compatriots, and was probably the only No One who was disrespectful to the Emperor. “Oh jeez, old man,” Kip said as he saw the kindly figure approach. “Does Fierce really want to play hardball with me?”
“Not exactly, Kip,” the Emperor replied.
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