Jump to content
Server time (UTC): 2019-07-21, 13:49
Anthony Cleese
Character information
  1. Date of birth
    1985-09-10 (33 years old)


  1. Alignment
    Neutral Evil








"The West Virginia Slasher".

Prisoner #0911092.





Date Of Birth.

09-10-1985 (33 years-old).

Place Of Birth.

Stonewood, West Virginia.










None (They never last long).


Jenny Cleese (Mother, deceased), (Father unknown), (Grandparents unknown).


180 Cm.


72 Kg.








Neutral Evil.




Formerly with "The Toy-Makers/The Playhouse.".

Now with "The Gathering.".




Physical Features.

"0911092" tattoed onto his right arm. (Removed, very painfully).

Numerous small faded scars and marks along his back, chest, and the back of his legs. Leftovers from his childhood.

A small "X" carved into his left wrist, right at the place where the hand and wrist meet. (Scarred).



Numerous, very minor, bruises all over his body and face. (Healing).

A large, nasty bruise along the left side of his jaw and cheek. (Healing).

Another large bruised on his left cheek, this one higher up and with a row of several shallow scratches accompanying it. (Healing).

Bruised ribs on both sides and heavy bruising in general all over his chest. (Healing).

Two cracked ribs and one broken rib on his left side, the locations of which are easily identified by the large, splotchy, black-and-purple bruise that has spread out to about half his chest from the afflicted area. (Healing).

Two gun shot wounds in his upper left arm. (Healing).

Gun shot skim wound along his right shoulder. (Healed).

Gun shot skim wound along both the left and right sides of his collarbone. (Healed).

Stab-and-twist wound in his lower right leg. (Healing).

Two two-inch long infected claw marks on his left knee cap. (Healing).

A bullet graze wound along the inside of his lower right leg. (Healing).

A chunk of the inside of his right arm, beginning just below the wrist and ending at the start of the bicep, has been cut away, revealing the muscle below. (Removal of his prison tattoo.) (Healing).

Heavy bruising along the left side of his neck and jawline. (Healing).

A bullet graze wound along the outside of his lower right leg. (Healing).

A gunshot wound above his right knee. (Healing).

A deep stab wound in his right shoulder-blade. (Healing).

A "Glasgow Grin" carved into his cheeks. (Healing).

An "X" carved across his mouth. (Healing).

A deep gunshot skim wound along his left temple. (Healing).

A chunk of the skin on his left wrist has been cut away, removing the "X" scar that had been there previously. (Healing).

A "B.R." carved into his pec, courtesy of Bobby Kalo. (Healing).


Anti-social Personality Disorder.

Hates being touched.

Detests alcohol and drugs.

Has a high tolerance for pain.












(Work In Progress. More Will Be Added Here As Time Goes On).





Anthony was born in Stonewood, West Virginia to a crackhead mother and a father who vanished the first chance he got. For the first six years of his life, alcohol, crack, and the back of his mother's hand were all very common sights to him. He quickly grew to resent her. A poor, dirty, trailer park lifestyle meant that Child Protective Services didn't take notice until after she died. When his mother finally overdosed, dying choking on he own vomit, he just watched. His grandparents had disowned her a long time ago, and none of the neighbors cared for either of them too much, and as a result Anthony was quickly filed away into foster care.

His first set of foster parents were an improvement. They genuinely loved him, but Anthony's erratic, concerning behavior proved too much to handle after a while. By age ten, he had already gotten into numerous fights at school, one time even stabbing another student's hand with a pencil. The final straw came when the family dog dissappeared one day, and the foster father found the collar and tags in Anthony's shirt drawer. When asked about it, the boy only replied with "He ran away".
The second pair of foster parents picked up from where the others left off, and they managed to last into the first half of middle school. Anthony's behavior was still rather volatile, but he had started to tone things down a bit.


Until the bullying started.

Being the new kid in a new school made him a natural choice, and he quickly became the go-to bullying target. That is until he nearly beat one of his bullies into a coma, slamming their head into a locker over and over until the teachers pried him off. It was only while he was serving a one-year sentence in juvenile hall that Anthony found out that he had been put back into the system, which made him bitter once more.

Once his time was done, he was moved out and on to the third set of parents. They were more "discipline-oriented", and Anthony soon found himself on the receiving end of beatings yet again. This lasted for a couple years, until the end of eigth grade, when the mother wound up in the hospital after accidently electrocuting herself in the bathroom. The father, so in grief was he, didn't take the necessary precautions, and was rushed to join her a week later after the jack holding up the car he was repairing gave out, breaking both his legs. Too wrapped up in their own pain to properly take care of him, Anthony was moved.

By the time high school and his fourth set of foster parents rolled around, Anthony had figured out how to hide his violent tendencies better. He realized that tackling situations the way he had just landed him in trouble, so he put up a front of being a kind, friendly individual. He was able to do his own thing, no longer having to worry about bullies or his parents. His grades were poor, his work ethic poorer, but a smile, wink, and a bit of flirting with the smartest girl in his class, Amber, made sure he pulled through. Eventually, it turned into a relationship between the two, though a very unhealthy one. One that Amber quickly tried to find her way out of.

When she vanished mysteriously during the senior year of the class, everyone was worried. When her body was found weeks later, violated and stabbed forty-seven times, everyone was alarmed. The police found no leads for her murderer.

Anthony kept the knife.

The feeling of control he had was something he had never known. And he wanted more.
As the years ticked by, as he settled into a steady job and moved into his own home, Anthony killed again, and again, and again. Hitchhikers, prostitutes, students, it didn't matter. The power he had, the rush, the venting of his anger, the gratification, it all mixed together to create something undescribable. By the time the police caught him, he was only able to be convicted of thirteen of the murders, though everyone knew that there were many, many more out there.
Thirteen was enough, though. Enough to sentence him to life behind bars, throwing away the key and letting him rot.


Or so it seemed.

His last two victims he had taken at once. Sixteen year-old twins that were foreign exchange students from some rinky-dink country called Chernarus. Foreign exhange students who happend to be the nieces of a very powerful politician in the Chernarussian government, who loved them very much. He was furious to find out that they had been violated by some lowlife.

So an exchange was made. Chernarus was holding an informant that the C.I.A. desired to extract from the country, the politician wanted his nieces' murderer. It was as clean of a deal as any could be.
Anthony was content with the fact that he was going to spend the rest of his life in prison. Imagine his surprise a couple of years in when he was loaded into a truck, driven to an airport, and flown to some post-Soviet country, only to be locked up once more on some prison offshore.




Chernarussian prisons were much less sophisticated than American prisons. The guards were more liberal with their beatings, the cells were cold and dirty, and "fatal accidents" were fairly common among prisoners. He tried being careful around the other prisoners, but that only lasted so long. When some poor bastard tried shiving him one day, Anthony turned the blade around on him. The man was dead well before the guards stunned him, and he was face-to-face with the warden. The warden was a ditzy-looking blond a foot shorter than him, but she made up for that height difference with a mean streak a mile long. When she personally oversaw him being beaten senseless, strapped to a chair, having his prisoner number tattooed on his arm, and being thrown in solitary confinement, he decided he didn't like her very much.


Months passed by while the transfer paperwork was completed between countries, and all Anthony could do was sit there, and wait. He wasn't allowed to socialize with the other inmates anymore, but he didn't mind. A mandatory one hour period in the courtyard was the only time he ever got to see the sun.


It was during one of these free times that things went wrong. He'd heard bits and pieces in passing about some sort of sickness spreading around the country, but he didn't particularly care.

When an alarm sounded through the complex, when the two accompanying guards cuffed him back up and started leading him hastily back to the solitary confinement wing, he didn't particularly care.

When an inmate, frothing at the mouth and red in the eyes, rushed from one of the corridors, tackled one of the guards to the ground, and tore out his throat, that was when Anthony cared.

The other guard took out his baton and tried beating the inmate into submission, but instead was pinned against the wall, the two wrestling back and forth. Anthony took the opportunity to grab the keys and pocketknife from the dead guard's belt and make a break for it, undoing his handcuffs in time to burst from solitary confinement into the hallways of hell. Gunfire, blood, spotlights, inmates and guards, both living and dead, everywhere. A siren, every siren on the island, blaring at full blast. He slashed anything that got in his way, eventually stumbling into an office room and slamming the door shut.
Turning around, Anthony found himself looking at the warden. She was unarmed, and clearly scared out of her mind, hiding behind a desk and staring bug-eyed at him.

Anthony smiled, and locked the door.

She stayed alive until the very end. Anthony wasn't sure how long he was in that room. By the time he finished with her, by the time he was satisfied, the knife was completely broken, bent and blood-stained.

It was dead silent as he left the bloody room, as he left the halls, as he left the prison. Walking calmly through a courtyard smothered in corpses, Anthony made the climb to the top of the highest tower in the prison. Looking out across the water, Anthony saw freedom. Things were different now, that much was certain. But he was fine with that.

He knew how to use a knife, after all.









The Ones That Have Their Uses.










"The Plague Doctor."


Robin And "J.J."




Most Of The Other Toys and Toy-makers.






The Ones That I Am Trying To Figure Out.




Brandon Terrano.

From the way he talks and the way people talk to him, he's been around the block several times by now. Searching for a couple guys named Ian and Everest, and has history with Asher.

He's a pretty nice guy, all things considered. The less he knows about me, the better.


A kid who hangs around camp. Kind of dorky, and a bit of a trouble-maker, but he certainly knows his way around medical stuff. He sewed up my knee when it got injured by an infected's scratches.

Sweet kid, everyone seems to like him. Can probably use him to get to his mom if the need arises.

The Black Roses.


Most Of The Other Survivors And Groups He Has Met.






The Ones That I Want To Hurt.



You fucked everything up, you stupid fucking cunt. You not being able to take a few fucking punches made it so that instead of willingly bringing myself into the group, I got dragged around and beaten and taken just like all the rest. All thanks to you. And now I'm your toy and you're making damn sure I'm having a rough go-around of it.

I'm no-one's toy. You'll fucking see you smug, fucking, cocksucking shit. I'll be where you are soon enough, and you won't see the knife until it's buried in your fucking back and tearing open your throat.


You can play the "senile old grandma" game all you want. You know what you did.  You know where she went. And I'm going to get an answer from you eventually.


Stuck up bitch who sewed my mouth shut. I don't like her.


A cocky asshole who has history with pretty much everyone from what I can tell. We picked him up on the side of the road and asked him some questions while taking a pleasant little ride. Eventually let him go, because we didn't want to get involved with the beef Bobby Kalo had with him. Either way, probably wont be the last time we see him. That ego of his needs to be taken down a few pegs.



The Ones That I Want.


Lupe "Ace" Sepulvelda.






The Ones That I Have Had.



Before Infection:

13 (Officially).

During Infection Outbreak:



Give It Time...







Really enjoyed this read.

Share this comment

Link to comment
This character entry is now closed to further comments.
  • Create New...