The one who has a high opinion of himself, thinks he’s witty, astute, poignant in his position. He moves fast, talks more speedily, and often just makes things up. Con artistry incarnate. Establishes association, then turns if it him benefits. Snake, wolf. Crocodile. Devil.
Authority expands to self-endowment, entitlement. Clouded brain. What annoys me about this character, is that he doesn’t see any flaws about his person. None. No remedy needed. He’s flawless in his “authority.” The grin is death, if you believe it. Does this character deserve this entry, this much analysis, focus? No. But you, the innocent, should be informed. His vocalizations are rapid, don’t permit him to blind you.
I sit here, disgusted. Not just with this character, but with my Self. Why has it taken me this long for an enriching and therapeutic deconstruction of such a filthy fiend. He, or she, loves to hear their own words. Each syllable is a bucket of savory opiates. Put this character in my fiction just so I can kill him, her. Take out a certain Shakespearian vendetta. Delight in my commission of homicide.
They think they’re incredible, when they’re really quite innocuous. Here is where my irritation, pique, dissolves to laughter and entertainment. This character is a clown. A clumsy buffoon, which is glorious for me because s/he thinks the self (notice no capital, this pig doesn’t deserve it) rather adroit, graceful, skilled. They are one of my favorite shows.
The best way to kill this character? I’d have to think. It’d have to be marketable, for a manuscript. The reader will want them dead. Maybe even butchered. Poison, Shakespeare might approve that. But what do I want? Maybe I won’t commit literary lethality, because they are so comical. Maybe this haughty hog will burn out, and self-conclude. Brilliant.