This Jerry. He is surly and disaffected. He also happens to be a ninja.
Weight: 265 pounds
Breath: Not good
Experience: Former investment banker. Became a ninja in 1987 after the Savings and Loan scandal left him homeless but inspired him to seek vengeance against corporate greed. Jerry learned ninja skills such as mind control and levitation from the ancient texts, and has used them to mysteriously amass a personal fortune. He maintains a white trash facade and often speaks crassly, both qualities lending him an element of stealth. He lives off the grid somewhere in Alabama.
Politics: Independent, but leaning towards Libertarian
Specialty Ninja Move: the two-fisted monkey
Jerry will be providing commentary on the state of the world when he sees fit. Today is one such day.
"Looks like these mothers are at it again!" Jerry screams through an ale-filled belch that brings bile into his throat.
"What's wrong?" you ask, naievly.
"Fools! Are you blind!" Jerry screams, his voice momentarily cracking before he spits out bile. Unfortunately he forgets about the ninja mask covering his face, and the bile flashes back, choking him.
"Are you okay, Jerry?" you ask with concern.
Jerry pulls down his mask for a moment and vomits violently into the middle of the room. He shakes the spittle from his chin and then replaces the black ninja mask. He gives you the thumbs-up before resuming, "Looks like the market got killed today." Jerry takes a swig of the warm beer in his left hand, sucking it through the black cloth covering his mouth. "Maybe I should get off my fat ass and regulate the subprime lending industry."
You have a hard time imagining Jerry regulating anything in his present state, but you dare not underestimate the power of the ninja skill he obviously possesses. You cautiously ask, "How would you fix things?"
Jerry farts. His gaze is distant. "These bastards loaned money to reckless people buying overpriced houses. Now they can't collect their money, and the housing market sucks, and the world is about to tip into a recession."
You are worried about your stock portfolio. You want to retire someday. "Should I sell?" you ask.
Jerry lifts his leg. His skin is hot and moist and stuck to the cheap vinyl chair that squeaks under his weight. Jerry reaches under his thigh and separates his skin from the chair, a ninja escape move he didn't want you to see.
"Buy low, sell high, and prepare for my two-fisted monkey."
Suddenly Jerry rises up from the chair. "I'm so sorry, I didn't see anything, I promise!" you plead.
But it's too late. He's freaking levitating! Jerry's making gutteral noises as he floats higher and higher. Indeed, he sounds like a monkey. Oo - Oo - Oo - Aa - Aa - AH! And before you can hide the fear in your eyes, Jerry is upon you with his two fists simultaneously - the left to the solar plexus which paralyzes your diaphragm, the right to the groin which blinds you with pain.
Several hours later you awaken, sore and debased, but thankful for your life. Suddenly your concerns over the stock market seem remote. Jerry is nowhere in site. Presumably, your insolence has served to awaken him. He has apparently "gotten off his fat ass" to go regulate the subprime lending market. You wish him godspeed.