Horace J. Trout
Horace James Trout was born on February 8th, 1896 and is currently 36 years old. He stands five foot 6 inches tall and weighs 275 pounds. His eyes are a light brown in color which are similar in color to his thinning hair with an ever increasing bald spot on the back of his head. On a daily basis Horace wears clothes that are slightly too big for him. Consisting of a tan trench coat, black fedora hat, badly scuffed black shoes, gray suit with a white shirt and paisley tie. Most days he has thick rough facial stubble.
Horace currently operates his own private detection agency. The agency is not always profitable so he lives in his office and sleeps on a murphy bed that looks like a plane wall with old photos from his glory days. In his desk he keeps a bottle of bourbon and a pouch of Tabaco for hand rolled cigarettes. He has very few friends and the few he does have are all too often used as informants.
He has not had the best of lives while growing up. His mother died and he had never know who his father was. After her death Horace was forced to live on the streets and fight just to survive. The only education that he ever had was his training as a Pinkerton detective. This was the best time of his life until he was severely injuring his right leg causing a permanent limp.
When most people look at Horace they see a disheveled mess. A lot of people think of him as a sleazy untrustworthy drunkard who is disorganized. Which is the complete opposite of what he see when he looks in the mirror in the morning.
On most mornings Horace wakes up mid-morning with a splitting headache. Stumbling from his murphy bed to the small half bath, he splashes water in his face as he chokes down a couple of aspirin. Adding water and coffee to his copper coffee percolator he places it on the hot plate behind his desk. Hand rolling a cigarette that he lights while pouring a cup of the coffee. Thumbs through the papers and files on his desk deciding which case to pursue for the day. Heading out to work his cases and press his informants for information. Eating the blue plate special for dinner at the corner diner. He spends the evenings at the local watering hole drinking bourbon on the corner stool. Stumbling back to his office to pass out on his murphy bed.
This is one of the many characters that freely wonder around inside my mind.
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