InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "i would be a good mission..guy"

Full Name: Mundungus Fabricio Fletcher. Oh, his parents had a grand old time thinking up his monicker.
Goes By: Dung, Gus, Dungy, Dungface, Fungus, and a number that just aren't proper for ladies and virgin ears. Let's not forget his plethora of aliases, though, for when a simple duck and cover isn't going to save his hide from being found out and dragged out. His favourites are Scott Bradford, a frustrated Ministry employee just looking for a way out, Scotty Ledouche, an unfortunately surnamed sailor, Astafa Hassan, an Egyptian man whose accent he is devastatingly close to nailing, and Raisa, an old hag who long ago gave up eating children, but still likes her meals bloody rare.
Age/Birthdate: 28/29 November, 1957.
Blood Status: Halfblood.
Former House: Gryffindor, believe it or not.
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual.
Occupation: A scoundrel, a scamp, a deviant, and a thief.
Residence: Why would he tell you that? So you can come along and rob him of all his worldly possessions? Not bloody likely, thank you very much.
Alliance: The Order of the Phoenix, please and thank you. Way back in the day, Dungy saved old Dumbleface's life, or something or other, and, upon viewing his magnificent skill set, the batty old codger said, "Dungy, my good man, my dearest friend, what would you say to joining up with this ragtag bunch of vigilantes out to save the world from the dark forces like Darth Vader and such." Appeased by the flattery, Dung took him right up on that offer, and now that the old bloke up and croaked, he can't very well turn them all out, now can he? He will, of course, offer his services to the guys and gals of Grindelwald, or the servants of Lord What's-His-Face, for the rightest of prices, but the problem is, no one else seems to appreciate these talents of his. Ah well, at least he got Malfoy's wallet.

Was your life worth it? Were you content?
Family history: What? You want his entire family's history? Because oh boy does his family have history. All undocumented, of course, aside from their births, deaths, and occasional arrests. Most of what the family's been known to do was strictly illegal, see, and very much on the down low and off the radar of the normal folks in this land of Western Europe. His mum's side is a big mash up of ideals, religions, nationalities and customs, from northern Ireland, all the way down to the Republic of Ireland. Didn't say the nationalities was the biggest part. She grew up with Travelers, circus folk, witches and wizards, priests and nuns, and the everyday working man. Her father was a blacksmith, her mother was a flight risk, and her aunts and uncles were the extended family that taught her how to survive in any situation, in any trade, at any point in her life. So why she grew up and married an Army boy kind of threw them all for a loop.
Dung's daddy dearest aired a bit more on the cautious side, though his family wasn't exactly the "straighten up and fly right" type. There were hundreds of accounts (mind you, they were unofficial, but still 100% as true as the day they really did actually happen) of his ancestors getting run out of this town for losing all his money in gambling, another one disappearing because he wandered off for a drink and a smoke and never came back, or that one about his very much upside-down-pear-shaped aunt who liked to bathe topless on the roof of her house. But Daddy Fletcher, without really much of an option, unless he wanted to take up a trade he knew hardly a thing about, headed out at the age of 18 and signed his name up to join the British Army. Mr. Fletcher bounced around quite a bit while in the ranks of Her Majesty's Armed Forces, from Germany to Turkey to Sweden to Ireland and back to England, and while in Ireland, he met the future Mrs. Fletcher. Just as she had been taught (by the nuns and priests, no less), she charmed her future beau, and convinced him to take her right along to England, where he was to be stationed next. Two months and a few recklessly drunken nights later, a shotgun wedding was set up for the happy couple.
These days, there's no telling how many Fletcher kids there are running around. Dung remembers growing up with, what? Five, six siblings? Hell if he knows, he could have sworn one of them only showed up for dinner time, and one of them was black. Not that he was racist. Maybe that really was his brother, he was just a reverse albino. Poor bugger, having to deal with racism when he was just suffering from reverse albinism. Dung probably does know the names of all the siblings (and "siblings", as a few were undoubtedly strays) he grew up with, but every time he rattles off the names, the number, the genders, and the names are likely to change.

Could you make everything feel perfect in your own head?
Personal history: Born right smack dab in the middle of jolly old London's East End, within the sound of the Bow's Bells, Mundungus was something like the third (fourth? eighth?) child of Ma and Pa Fletcher. His mother was a small, harried woman, always with a story to tell and a lesson to teach, and she cared for the children with a swiftness that was admirable, though not always enough for the ravenous bunch of ankle biters she had borne. His father was a gruff man, with a scar across his eyebrow he never talked about, but Dung always suspected was the result of some horrific knife fight that got him kicked out of Germany, and he kept them moving a hell of a lot in their younger years, all the way up until they decided to fuck off and join the Army or a monestary or something. It was up to Ma Fletcher (her real name, Doreen, was never used, even by her husband) to do the cooking, cleaning, shopping and sewing for the ever-expanding herd of Fletchers, while Pa Fletcher (who Dung always tries to dub Igor or Boris, despite his real name being James) took care of the money and the discipline.
Pa Fletcher was old-fashioned when it came to his disciplines -- probably because, it being the 60's, old-fashioned was so in. Saying the wrong thing while their mother or sisters were in the room earned the boys a spot on Daddy's knee as he yanked off his belt and told them, "Don't. Fucking. Swear. Around. Ladies." Sometimes it was longer. He usually got in one lash per word, see. When Pa was home, though not perfect, the boys were usually grudgingly polite, and made sure they wore all their clothes to the dinner table, but they took screeched threats of "JUST WAIT UNTIL YOUR FATHER GETS HOME!" from their mother rather lightly. There were so many kids running about, and so much going on, that their poor mother hardly ever even remembered who did what, and their father never seemed to get the message that Johnny and Jimmy had convinced Larry and Dung and Derryl and their other brother Daryl to jump off the roof. Dung's memories of his childhood are scattered and blurred together, though he will tell stories of his early life as if he recalls them with crystal clear perfection. He does remember, though, contracting rickets at the age of about eight due to a Vitamin D deficiency and having the most godawful concoction of cod liver oil and fuck knew what else shoved down his throat in hopes of reversing the effects. He's got that to blame for the poor posture and bowed legs everyone feels so obliged to recall about him.
About the time the, what? Dozenth child? Something like that. Well about the time that kid appeared, Ma Fletcher seemed to have had enough. But, this was the 60's (or was it the 70's by that time?) and no one got divorced or left their children. No, she called in reinforcements in the form of her beloved extended family. It was the Travelers who were best able to answer her cry for help, with the family constantly bouncing around the little country like that, and they were Dung's favouritest people of all. These cousins of his taught him all the ways of that seedy underbelly of London, and how to use this nomadic lifestyle to his advantage. He didn't need to take advantage of people in every new town they hit just yet, and Dung used those short times he had in each new little location to make a new contact, form a little circle of friends, make himself unforgettable (usually by saving someone's life), then fuck off. In the future, they would be his best contacts, and his best advocates for when he was accused of dirty dealings. "No!" they would cry, as Dung sat idly by, wringing his hands and sighing discontentedly at the fact that someone had attempted to soil his good name. "This man here is a saint. He hardly knew me two weeks and he saved me from drowning in a lake filled to the brim with piranhas!" Ah. It was good.
Of course, there was a bit of a bright spot for worn down Ma Fletcher. Her kids were, for the most part, magical (though one or two might have ended up squibs, or really weren't reverse albinos and hadn't even been theirs to begin with), and could run off to Hogwarts for most of the year and give her a break. At least half of the Fletcher kids didn't make it to their seventh year without dropping out or being expelled, but Dung took to Hogwarts magnificently. At first. It was a new chance to make contacts! To explore his skills and scam pretty much everyone out of their hard-earned pocket money from Mumsy and Dadsy! To make himself unforgettable! But cor blimey, he was expected to spend how long on that one little spit of land, locked in a castle with that same ol', same ol' routine day in and day out? You've got to be fucking joking, because that just ain't right. Dung got itchy. Dung got fidgety. Dung got restless. Dung was fucking bored out of his bleeding noggin! He stuck it out for as long as he possibly could, but when it came time for "career counseling(!!!)" and picking out what he was going to be doing every fucking day for the rest of his blooming life, Dung got the fuck out of there. He went home for Christmas holiday that year, and never came back. He was sure they would miss his presence.
Dung's daddy wasn't too pleased with another son dropping out of his prestigious school, especially when he could hardly see Dung's veritable array of skills, and told him to get back, or get out, just like the others. Well what was he supposed to do? Go back to school and complete his education? Codswallop. Dung took to the streets! He tested his skills with old friends nearby, got picked up by a gaggle of cousins in the Traveling business and fucked off from them in the middle of Lambeth, only to pick up with others. He learned how to scheme and scam and pickpocket with the best of them, to fence stolen goods for twice, maybe even three times what they were worth, to disguise himself and lie through his crooked yellow teeth.
About the age of 20, Dung split off from the family folk for good and headed off on his own, to do what he did best. He got in with Dumbledore the same way he got in with every old friend from all over England, by making himself unforgettable and indespensible. He even got the old bat to teach him how to Apparate, though it goes without saying that he never got around to getting that pesky old license for it all. And for the past eight years, that's just about what he's been doing -- popping all around England, though mostly sticking to his favourite spots on the East End of London, where his Cockney accent and horrid rhyming slang are no more than just another just another, and doing what he can to stay afloat. His income is by no means affluent, but it seems to be enough to keep him fed and clothed, and he's never without a spot to sleep in all of the Pan-European Ministry.

But now after all, can you just forget?
Personality: Dung is a me-me-me-me-me-me-me first kind of bloke. But can you really blame him? No one else is going to be around, looking out for the little scoundrel and picking him up when he takes a bit of a tumble, and no one ever really was. "Every man, woman and stray dog for themselves!" was the motto of the Fletcher household, what option did he really have other than to take that to heart and apply it to every twist and turn his short run of a life has taken? None, I say. None! Without a steady income, or even a real financial cushion to give him some comfort, Dung very well can't afford to run around and play the knight in shining armour for every damsel in distress. He'd much rather hock that shining armour, and he'll pick the damsel's pocket as he rescues her, then ask for just recompensation for helping her out of her spot. Dung is not the most reliable of folks, and don't expect him to be there for you in a tight spot unless you've got something for him, or on him, and even then, you've got to play the carrot on a string bit and drag him along to complete the task.
Dung's actions have always had a bit of a... seedy and underhanded tone to them, and some have even gone so far as to call him downright suspicious and wrong! Alright, alright, so he'd sell out his best mates for the right price, but come on, he always starts high with those sorts of deals! And he has made many an enemy by giving them a raw deal or scarpering off with the money before rendering the services promised, but with the shady people he deals with, he can hardly be blamed. Some of them are convicts and give him the heebies, and, the way he looks at it, by overcharging them a spot, he's helping them to repay their no doubt substantial debt to society. When it comes down to the nitty gritty, when he feels the need, or really just the urge, Dung is far from being above lying, cheating, stealing, fighting dirty, and using blackmail to help things go his way a tad. He's naught but a shady businessman in his own mind, and a scoundrel in reality, and he never went to church, and his pa whacked him so often, any lessons he might have learned were knocked right out of his bleedin' head... what morals has he got to contradict exactly? Yeah, he will attack a man from behind if he feels his livelihood is about to be threatened because he's got the right to eat same as everyone else, and if he overhears old Lordy McLorderson of the House of Lords talking about what to do with his bastard brat while that deal with the dragon's egg was going down, then who is he to give up such a valuable piece of information?
But, underneath all that slime and suspicion, Dung is actually kind of a true Gryffindor, much to the probable chagrin of old Goddy Gryff. Oh, no, don't worry, we're not saying this charming little blackguard's chivalrous in the least, but he's got those annoying bits of a Gryffindor personality right there for everyone to see and admire. You know, bold, brash, stubborn, hotheaded, even fucking brave, to an extent. He's not going to be putting his neck on the line to save someone else's sorry little arse without a fuck of a fight, but he's got nerve. You know, as in "the nerve of that fucker!" Because that fucker is usually someone just like ickle Dung, who ignores things like social protocol and subtlety and goes for the jugular, love. If he feels the need to, Dung will stand right up to Lordy McLorderson (you remember him, he's the one with the bastard kid he was trying to hide) in the middle of a crowded restaurant and rattle off all the details of his secret son, and his plans to pay the boy's ma off, or, when confronted by an officer, he will look him in the eye, grin, and tell the most boldfaced untruth you ever did hear. And it's with these bold, almost absurd lies that Dung has escaped by the skin of his very teeth so many times. Then again, lying is nothing but the art to weave fact and fiction and present it with such unwavering certainty that no one could ever doubt you.
Oh, but Dung can do much more than fool a PC plod with all the little tricks up the sleeves of his stolen shirts. Never quite willing to take that nasty word "no" for an answer in any language, that little thing known as stubbornness (though Dung always seen it as grit, moxy, determination!) and a dash of that nerve has saved his hide in many a deal. Don't you dare lowball old Dungykins. He'll do more than fire right back at you with the price he really wants, he'll just keep raising it until you stop trying to cheat him. Give him a straight out no, and he'll keep going until physically assaulted, or the deal is made. Try to walk away, he'll make you come back. Call the cozzers on him, and armed with the Cockney slang he throws around like a madman, he'll talk his way right on out of it and out the door. "Honest copper, it was just a misunderstanding, see. I was talking about having a bit of a laugh and she seemed to think I wanted to sell her all sorts of horrid things. Nasty habit that, assuming things about an innocent young lad like myself, like I don't have enough troubles as it is, with me ma on her deathbed and me pa gone long before her, and all the little ones running about with no one to feed and clothe 'em." Like it or not, Dung's got your number.
Dung's an opportunist and a self-preserver, but every once in a while, he'll pick a bloke or a bird and he'll stick to them like cement -- and not that flimsy rubbery stuff either. Don't let anyone know, but it's almost as if he's got a heart hidden away behind all those layers of grime, or he just wants some sort of a mate to pal around with that doesn't think he's gonna sell him off to a forced labour camp. Dung is an extraordinarily talkative and social person, but the only real friends he's ever really had have just been his family, and that's just downright sad when you get around to thinking about it. Most people just seem so finicky and start to get a bit turned off by a few of his quirks, like the smell of the pipe he smokes, or the amount of money he's stolen from their pockets. But those who do embrace him and trust him fully (none of this half-arsed, don't touch anything, don't move, you're not gonna steal my things, are you? kind of thinking) will get a Mundungus they can actually fully trust. Yeah, that's right, Dungy will actually live up or live down to any and all expectations set for for him. He wouldn't want to disappoint you lot, now would he?

But now after all, what have you got to show for it?
Appearance: A squat, bandy-legged man with long, scraggly ginger hair, Dung just might have a face only a blind mother could love, kind of like a gnome, or a mushroom, though he'll argue it's all just a part of his disguise. All right, maybe he's not quite one of those anorexic model boys you see prancing about, wagging their willies on the big boards around the cities. After all, he's just a man, and he quite enjoys his meats and potatoes. If that makes him a bit plump -- fluffy, if you will, -- then fluffy-plump he will be. And don't you start ragging on his height, either, just because he needs a little help reaching the top shelves in the shops. He's a very average height of 5'8", he just tends to slouch a bit, and his legs are a tad bowed out, and everyone just has freakish expectations for a man's height. His hair, he likes to say, is nothing more than misunderstood and unexamined. Reaching down to about his shoulders on most days, though it has been longer, his long, shimmering locks couldn't look clean if they sparkled in the bleeding sunlight. The colour is the problem, he says. His beard is quite clearly red, but the hair could be anything from red to dingy, dishwater blond, and the fact that most attempt to classify him as naught but a ginger leads them to believe his hair is in dire need of a good scrub to return it to that shining red. And maybe he doesn't wash it that often. He's rather pale, with a lack of proper sleep (but plenty of booze and fags around to make up for it) giving him bloodshot eyes, accompanied by dark bags beneath them. Should Dungy ever go missing, leaving nothing but a milk carton photo behind with his big, bloodshot blue eyes pleading that he be found, his distinguishing marks would be one long list of tattoos (too many to properly list, but enough to merit a mention or two), and a handful of scars found on any bloke who was once a reckless young lad -- knees, elbows, dent in the forehead, wooden left pinky toe, you know the type.
PB: Ryan Dunn

To darkness, to suffer, when I fall... I will see you in hell.
Strengths: He's fantastic at lying, stealing, eavesdropping, blackmailing, drinking, smoking, swearing, and making people laugh. He really attributes most of his skills to those pikey cousins of his, they gave him the things he really needed to succeed most in life. One thing they didn't give him, though, was his rather strong memory for faces and events, which helps him with that little "blackmail" bit, even if he has been off a time or two on just who did what and what went where and whose baby is this again? It helps that he's shoved all those memories of his childhood out of his head. Less cluttered by nonsense, more room for business.
Weaknesses: He can hardly tell the truth, compulsively steals, can't stand still or live in a single place for more than a blooming month without going absolutely bonkers, and has a bitch of a time sticking to just one side of the fight. Dung looks for opportunity wherever he goes, and if it just so happens to be knocking on the other side of the fence, then what kind of idiot is he to stick around and let it slip along to some other, less-deserving bloke, eh?

There’s no second chance to write away that anger, take it.
Boggart (greatest fear): Dementors. He's terrified of dying, but he's even more terrified of the dreaded Dementor's Kiss. What kind of life would that be then? No, kill him before you give him that Kiss.
Mirror of Erised (greatest desire): Money and plenty of it, of course, so it's basically him swimming in a pool of money Scrooge McDuck style with a big fuck off crown and scepter.

I found comfort in this broken glass.
Five things your character LOVES:
1. Smoking. He smokes a pipe that emits something awful and purple, and he won't be giving that up right quick. How could anyone even expect him to? Being named after a tobacco and all that.
2. Freedom. Don't tie him down, don't tread on me, don't... just don't!
3. Money. Truth be told, if he ever really did get all the money in the world, he'd be bored out of his fucking mind, but the way things are now, he loves every cent he brings in.
4. Swearing. Jesus riding on a raptor does he love his swear words.
5. Tattoos. Don't judge his tattoos, he likes those things, even the math problem on his foot. It helps to remember that 5+4=9.

We're soaked in ash.
Five things your character HATES:
1. Staying in one place. All five and a half years he spent at Hogwarts were bloody miserable for him, and he got the fuck out of Dodge as soon as he possibly could.
2. Vegetables. He's an adult, he doesn't have to eat that shit anymore.
3. The law. Aurors, hitwizards, cops, security guards, they all have it out for him, man.
4. Dementors. Oh yeah, who the fuck doesn't love those little buggers?
5. Splinters. He's allowed one inane dislike, all right? So get the fuck off his back already and stop bothering him about his apathy towards life and less-than-exciting final answer.

Would you catch me if I fell hurting?
Five things about your character that no one else knows:
1. One of the reasons he still sticks to the Order of the Phoenix is that they are the one group dedicated to tearing down the current world order, and he's sure it will eventually end in anarchy.
2. He gets his hair professionally cut, because every time he tries, it ends up uneven and mullet-like.
3. His magical abilities were highly doubted until he got his Hogwarts letter. He probably did some unintentional magic, but everything was so chaotic in his family that there was no way of knowing if he had done shit.
4. Dung has held a number of fairly legitimate jobs, from painting houses to working at a petrol station. The petrol station was his last one, though, and he quit after getting shot at. That's e-fucking-nough, yeah?
5. Loves cars, can't drive 'em. It's shite, but he always drives them into a ditch or up on the sidewalk and everyone just gets all pissy at him. You'd think it was against the law to be a sketchy driver or something.

You won't be there when I fall.
Disclaimer: I am not Mundungus Fletcher, I am not Ryan Dunn, but I sure as hell like to play with them. All graphics by me (24601/haggardassicons), so if you take them be sure to credit there. Also, please forgive the horrid cockney used herein. Hopefully, it'll get toned down in time.