Vanocka Ciabatta

• Careful! His teeth are real sharp! He keeps them to himself, but a bite from him can draw blood without any effort.
• If you're close enough to him- or he's drunk enough, you've probably had to listen to him cry. Or tell you about how much your corpse would be worth. It's a gamble!
• He doesn't really care to share much skin, perhaps from all of the scarring.
• The stitches on his face and wings are real! They burn slightly to touch. Doesn't seem to bother him much.
• He often sends friends and those close to him samples of his new products. This is often unnerving.

Vanocka Ciabatta was never one to feel that gore was anything other than a natural part of life. A calm man, even before his fall, he took on medical science and became quite aware of all practices in their goriest of details. It had never initially been that of violence, but as his mortals continued on their way, he became quite undisturbed by that which may disturb many others. It was all in a days work, for him. Work that he took pride in, and work that his brother found to be absolutely inspiring. He worked to provide for the two of them, simple as that. He worked so his brother got to have all of the things a kid could ever want. So it didn't bother him, the way some of his mortals behaved. Usually. If he needed to help set them on the right path, it would be simple, and easy, and he could just move on with his life quickly.

Yet one of his mortals seemed to bother him intensely more than usual. Perhaps it was the butchery profession itself, or perhaps it was simply that the meat used wasn't always typical farm animal. Animals of all kind were used. It was more of an exotic dealer, his last mortal was. A rude one, too. Cruel, almost taking joy in the job, watching the life leave their eyes with a snarling grin. Vanocka found it chilling, in all honesty. He didn't speak much of his last job to his brother, despite his frequent curious inquiries. Perhaps, if he were to look back on it, he'd recall some concern from his little brother showing through from his voice. Despite being so young... he may have had a better understanding of the situation than Vanocka hoped he had.

Regardless of the circumstance, the stress, this didn't bother him that much. Mostly. He could shove it to the back of his mind for the most part. After all, people of all sorts existed, and it was his job to guide them. However, one night, something... startled him. Perhaps the dog was simply just too small, so young, so it broke his heart. It wouldn't get a life to live. Perhaps it was how scared the little thing was, shaking and whimpering for a mercy Vanocka knew it wouldn't recieve. Trembling with a raw terror that Vanocka hadn't seen in a long time. This one didn't have the same drugged or already dead look the others had. There were many reasons why he'd done what he'd done that night. Perhaps it was the fear, perhaps it was the trembling, perhaps it was the whines and whimpers that came from a soon to be slaughtered animal. Or perhaps... perhaps it was the look in its eyes, so frightened that Vanocka could only beg that it wasn't the eyes of his little brother.

As the door creaked open... he couldn't take the risk.

The man had fallen. So far below had he fallen. Some would say he got off easy, being judged about the same as all who fell from a deceased mortal. But the weight on his mind wouldn't cease. The stares he'd get, the knowledge that some knew just as well as he did, what he'd done to fall. Not just that his mortal had lost his way, but that it had been a brutal beating by his own hands. That scared him more than anything else. That they knew. And they were disgusted with him. Now he had no way to support himself, nevermind his brother. To be a guardian was all he knew. Perhaps he could go into the medical field, but with his violent act, people weren't quick to trust him with a patient. So what was there to do?

There were the corpses, he supposed. The mortals did -unfortunately- seem quite interested in buying from the now dead man. Simply taking over at the front counter was more than enough to make ends meet, which did disgust him at first, but eventually it became as natural as most medical procedures. But soon he had a problem. He needed more supplies. Perhaps he took on some unsavory favors. Perhaps he was beaten for failing to make some payments, nearly killed in some scraps as well. But it did pay off. Soon he had enough supplies to gain a fortune and a half.

Soon, it was him hiring people, instead of being the scrappy employee. Soon, it was him laying down the law. Ridiculously soon, even. It was actually a little startling to some, how quickly he rose up the ranks from distraught wreck to a true force to reckon with. Perhaps some of it was just how little the man had left to lose. Perhaps it was simply how adept the man actually was at making a profit. Maybe it was that he was taking out his competition and selling their remains to Mortal and Angemos customers alike. There were a lot of reasons why Vanocka Ciabatta soon became someone many didn't want to fuck with. Good reasons. Even those who cared about him started to realize that he was changing, quickly. Perhaps it just turned natural to him, as with all the positions before it. Just a new job. A new job, where he got to have a lot of fun. Wine, winnings, games that'd ruin lives, the man had more money than most could ever dream of, there was nothing that could truly be better than this.

The only thing that ever truly haunted him, the one thing the man had ever once regretted... was not going home sooner. Perhaps, when he'd opened that door, if it had just been a few days sooner, he wouldn't have come home to an empty house. Vanocka chooses not to remember much of the drunken rambles of how fucked he'd truly become. How he'd do anything to change it all. The bloodstained nights of when the man had simply forgotten to change out of his drenched, disgustingly stained apron, hacking and coughing from cigarette after cigarette. He tries not to remember the looks of surprise and horror slowly turning to dread and disgust the more he'd bothered coming home. That was why he stopped after a while, he could probably recall. But does he want to remember that? No. Anything that could convince him it was simply a random, spur of the moment decision from his brother to run far, far away from home- anything would be better than thinking up the truth. Because the truth stung of failure. Truth that can be drudged down with alcohol and the adoration, respect, and fear of all around him.

Vanocka Ciabatta isn't a failure, and he'll be sure to let you know exactly that.