My GameFAQs Character
Character Name - Thetique Salieri
Age - 37
Gender - Male
Height - 5'10"
Weight - 160lbs
Race - British (half-French by birth)
Picture - http://img103.imageshack.us/img103/391/saddamobjection4lo.jpg
---
Personality Traits - demonstrates an inferiority complex as well as a paradoxical superiority complex - the result of being British and, worse, partly French, respectively. Outwardly pretends to be proud of heritage, but cries at night due to French name. Developed combative nature as result of childhood persecution for womanly name. Hopelessly addicted to violence as well as several brands of narcotics. Has no sense of humor whatsoever but a very blase sort of wit. Enjoys sound of own voice; will use ridiculously extended metaphors to get a point through.
Attack List/Arsenal - fights with hands and quarterstaff; dislikes using bladed weapons or feet in battle. Can also speak French to torture opponents into submission - in desperate cases, a French accent can be also attempted.
---
Famous Quote - "... What has just come out of your mouth, and pardon my "French" (just a colloquialism, I assure you, nothing to do with our noble race) - that sequence, that syntax - all of it was just fucking amazing. Monsieur Ressalier, I mean this in the sincerest way: you are so full of shit I wonder if your piss is brown. You're so full of shit I wonder if you'll sink in water. Bloody hell, monsieur, if you'll pardon my saying it... you're so full of shit we could use your stench to drive off wild boars, mad dogs, little children, and - why not? - the entire fucking Third Reich. Though I must commend you as well, monsieur; the bullshit that spews out of your mouth indeed does so gracefully, forming a veritable arc of absolute crap, such that the air of your general vicinity becomes unbreathable with its repulsive aroma. The visual effect is stimulating, old chap! Monsieur, as you speak, I can envision the proverbial shit coming out, fountain-like, wilting plants and animals alike, darkening the entire skies, knowing full well that you can indubitably go on and on with your incredible waste product of the proverbial digestive system! Don't be insulted, monsieur! - You have a talent that will take you places, clearing out anyone who doesn't want his ears - or noses, as the case may be - totally destroyed with your shit!! ... Capital commendations, wot?"
---
Biography
"PAPA! PAPA! WAKE UP TOI! IT'S MY ANNIVERSARY!" The voice was piercing, whining, French-accented... perhaps three years old.
Thetique Salieri woke up drearily and shoved his son off of him, causing a loud crash. The effervescent voice turned instantly sober; in a very hurt voice, Salieri's voice called out helplessly, complaining about how his birthday sucked so bad.
Salieri got out of bed, stark naked and disturbingly hairy. He looked down beside his bed at his son, who was in a crumpled heap, probably with a broken wrist. Scratching his nuts, Salieri spoke: "Junior, you must get your act together if you are going to be a proud Frenchman."
Writhing on the ground, Thetique Salieri Jr. replied, "But Papa, it makes hurt to ze wrist!"
Salieri kicked his son in the elbow, eliciting another distinctively French whimper. Sneering, wiping his spit-encrusted mouth, Salieri walked toward the bathroom. On his way, he ripped another page off the calendar: June 20th, 1923. Salieri continued to the bathroom to shave his legs and to put on some "L'Eau de Cochon" ("The Manliest Perfume Known to France!").
---
Thetique Salieri limped home, wiping blood from his cheek with his right hand and cupping his right elbow with his left hand. He knocked on the door with his forehead; God knew that the forehead had taken its fair share of abuse today.
"Papa, I am arrived!" he wailed pitifully at the closed door.
There was a loud fumbling sound from within as if Papa Salieri had dropped a television. The door swung open, hitting Salieri in the face and knocking him clean off his feet. Salieri flew some six inches into the air and landed solidly on his gluttus maximus on the dirt. Salieri looked up at his British mother: two solid metres in height, wide as a tank and as dense with muscle as ... well, a tank. Her eyes were heavily lidded, and her nose was long, like a tank's turret. Her massive, thick legs moved with a rolling motion, like tank treads. Her skin tone was unusually dark for a Brit; it had a greyish tinge, similar to a tank.
When Thetique Salieri Jr. saw his mother, he saw an angel.
Christine Salieri scooped up Thetique in her gargantuan arms, bearing him high above her head. "What have I told you about saying 'I am' with past participles?" she said, smothering Thetique's face with a massive kiss, "It's so French."
"Pa.. papa told me to-"
"Papa, eh?" boomed the mother, "Papa disagrees with Mama? Last time we 'disagreed', he didn't get sex for a week! Partially because I snapped his ulna in two, wot! Oh, and call him 'Father'. It's just more English."
Thetique hugged his mother's cannon-like bust, forgetting about all of the persecution that had plagued him for his first week in school.
---
This became a recurring trend. For five full years, Salieri would go to school, and as soon as class let out, kids would make fun of how gay the name "Thetique" was. Salieri, refusing to fight, would receive incredible beating and would crawl back home, barely alive. His mother would then sweep away all of Salieri's troubles and fears with her loving smooches and hugs, and his father would smack Salieri around when his mother was away. Salieri, overridden by guilt, would say nothing of school antics. Things had settled into a nice pattern by 1931, when Salieri entered sixth grade.
"Little Tittie Frenchie", the boys in his grade called him. But Salieri was used to the treatment. He had a high pain tolerance capacity, and he was very good at pretending to be hurt, French-style.
But it was becoming just a little too much when, after the first day of sixth grade class, a boy kicked Salieri in the groin. Salieri dropped to the ground, genuine numbing pain creeping around his brain. Salieri watched in horror as the other boys backed off to their leader's presence. The leader was holding a knife, licking it as Salieri struggled to his feet. Salieri looked behind himself, finding himself trapped by more boys.
"Come hither, my little Tittie," said the boy with the knife. The blade glinted a little in the light, blinding Salieri for a moment, and then knife was buried in his bicep, the foot slamming itself behind Salieri's kneecap. Salieri's scream was feral, horrified, louder than the pain he actually felt. The psychological damage, physical pain, and unbridled fear of five years shot up to the surface, and in his whitehot adrenaline, Salieri grabbed both of his aggressor's shoulders, crushing the deltoid muscles, and slammed him heavily to the ground. He kicked out viciously with his right foot, the same foot which had been broken during his first week at school, snapping his tormentor's wrist like porcelain. The knife shot out of the loosened grip, and Salieri caught its blade with his teeth like a bulldog on a particularly juicy thigh. Salieri slid it out with his hand, ignoring the vibrations caused by metal scraping against his teeth. Again he kicked his opponent, this time in the ribs, causing him to curl up fetally.
Salieri bent down on one knee, pinning down the boy's right hand with a knee, and carved the boy's face apart. Slowly and adoringly, Salieri made a beautiful image of flowing, trickling blood all over the face of his enemy. The process seemingly took hours; the boy stopped screaming long before the gruesome image was complete.
Salieri looked around at the crowd, coming out of a trance. The other boys bore exactly the same expression on their faces, and as Salieri took a step toward home, the path parted like the Red Sea.
But first, Salieri turned back. He threw the knife down roughly and with surprising accuracy; the knife landed in the boy's eyeball. Ruthlessly, Salieri stomped down on one of the boy's legs. The crack was like a whip. Salieri vomited, went home, and moved to Italy.
---
T. A. Salieri woke up. At age 37, in a definitively post-war England, his services as a lawyer were now indisputably the greatest. Everyone loved his defenses, because they managed to mix colloqualism with that beautiful native Britishness. No one even knew about Salieri's past... right?
Well it were that they did not! Salieri did not care to trouble himself about any deaths that may or may not have ever occurred, despite that all around him, people died wherever he went. People joked about the "Thetiquan Plague". Salieri never made comment on the expression, but he always winced at the sound of his first name.
It was the childhood memories that plagued Salieri. He had never heard again from the youth who had taken such sadistic pleasure in leading the offensive against Salieri... seven years of war had made that difficult. But the media knew well that Salieri's past was perhaps Salieri's greatest weakness. And Salieri's personal enemies knew that the only way to beat Salieri was at Salieri's game.
Was beating the man even possible?
They would find out.
---
Court Case: The People of London vs Thetique Salieri
We, the people of London, demand that justice be done against Thetique Salieri... for the heinous sins of torture, adultery, murder, vanity, alcohol abuse, and flagrant display of nudity!
We, the defense, would like to inform you that the enemy's defense is total bullshit.
Thetique Salieri, I, Jacques Ressalier, have absolute, indisputable evidence against your crimes against our Lord sovereign.
It is a distinctively French accent. The crowd chuckles.
I will speak only the truth here, today.
Good to here, Mr. Salieri.
The same to you, Monsieur Scarface.
Funny that you should mention my appearance, Mr. Salieri. In fact.. you gave me this face.
Do tell, old boy? You do know that I didn't get my hands dirty in that war, oy? I was abroad at the time. I was - God forbid - in France at the time.
The audience laughs.
Oh, Mister... very amusing. But let me tell you: I am British. And you are French.
Salieri is silent, for once in his law career. The crowd murmurs. Ressalier paces, limping as he speaks.
Let me tell you about myself. I was born in London. Both of my parents died young. In sixth grade, I moved to an elementary school at the south end of England. The children there were incessantly mean. I was dared to bring a knife to school, and I did exactly such a thing. Little did I know that after school, the little boy known as "Tittie" would punish me so.
A pause. There is dead silence as Ressalier raises an eyebrow at Salieri. Salieri's face is totally stolid.
I was cornered after school. Several boys ringed me in along with the other boy they called "Tittie". He was half-French, I believe, which was why he was so persecuted. There I was, helpless, with a knife thrust into my hand. Of course, before I know what's happening, Tittie leaps at me, grabs the knife, and kicks me in - as ze Americans say - ze balls. Then he jumps in the air! His knife like ze Grim Reaper! He slices my face open and plunges his weapon into my eye! But my indignity is not over! He continues to break each of my bones in turn, making sure to maximize ze pain - especially in ze knee!
He gestures at his bad leg. The audience bends over to look.
This will never heal.
He looks up at Salieri, eyes ablaze.
Then he flees the country! I try to take revenge on him - I have tried for the past thirty years to reach justice! But he has fled again from France! abandoning his family! This, this scum! This scum is what you call your greatest attorney!?
The silence spirals down at the potency of the tale. It certainly helps Ressalier's case that he bears wound-marks that are, according to the tale, thirty years old. And Salieri is dead silent. At last the judge speaks.
Mr. Salieri... you may respond to Monsieur Ressalier's charges.
Salieri only holds a finger up, thinking it through, before he begins to write furiously. It is a full ten minutes before he finishes response.
Famous Quote - "... What has just come out of your mouth, and pardon my "French" (just a colloquialism, I assure you, nothing to do with our noble race) - that sequence, that syntax - all of it was just fucking amazing. Monsieur Ressalier, I mean this in the sincerest way: you are so full of shit I wonder if your piss is brown. You're so full of shit I wonder if you'll sink in water. Bloody hell, monsieur, if you'll pardon my saying it... you're so full of shit we could use your stench to drive off wild boars, mad dogs, little children, and - why not? - the entire fucking Third Reich. Though I must commend you as well, monsieur; the bullshit that spews out of your mouth indeed does so gracefully, forming a veritable arc of absolute crap, such that the air of your general vicinity becomes unbreathable with its repulsive aroma. The visual effect is stimulating, old chap! Monsieur, as you speak, I can envision the proverbial shit coming out, fountain-like, wilting plants and animals alike, darkening the entire skies, knowing full well that you can indubitably go on and on with your incredible waste product of the proverbial digestive system! Don't be insulted, monsieur! - You have a talent that will take you places, clearing out anyone who doesn't want his ears - or noses, as the case may be - totally destroyed with your shit!! ... Capital commendations, wot?"
The crowd explodes, and the winner is abundantly clear, as Salieri strides from the room, smiling at his utterly defeated opponent.
SD
Feb. 13, '06
Home.