James stumbled into the recruitment office and after convincing security forcefully, maybe too forcefully, that he was there to join, found one of the forms. Sitting down on someone's abandoned chair he pretended to read all the small print despite not being able to concentrate on it in his intoxicated state.
"Well the bastards want my soul... lets give ‘em what they want." he muttered to himself audibly enough that people glared. James casually pulled the finger, took a swig of the whiskey and started filling in the form with a pen from the desk in front of him.
Name: James Lynch Background: I was born on Leeds. I belong to a large extended family that is quite respected in the Irish community. I lived with my mother, father and brother. Father died when I was 17 so I worked for a while as a bouncer at a nightclub to support the family and for the free booze. When I turned 19 I left home to work at a mercenary firm for a time. Stayed on for a while until the agency collapsed and now I find myself out of work and drinking money. I know you BPA need help, so here I am. Junior constables may not mount lethal weaponry until they patrol 3 times with a senior officer. Ambitions: To shoot up some bastards, to smash some unlawful heads and earn drinking money while doing so. Pet: A Border Collie if I could. Unfortunately most tenants do not like large pets. Skype: GamerCatz
James finished by signing the form in his messy scrawl and considered pocketing the pen. It was a nice pen and he would probably receive one just like it working here. Just then the chairs owner arrived back from his tea break. James hastily excused himself as to avoid the glares from the owner. He stopped to mock salute security on the way out.
