It's not the waking up somewhere unfamiliar that disturbs Wrench; the first signs that something is amiss don't come from the angle of the light pouring through the unfiltered window or the stippled texture of the pure white ceiling above his head. From time to time he wagers his luck and sacrifices a few dollars to hotels that let him pay in cash so he can stand under a scalding hot shower for as long as he likes and spend too many minutes staring at his reflection in the mirror.

But this isn't one of those places. There's no smell of old mildew, no sense that the wrong move will send the bedframe collapsing to the floor. In fact, the bed itself seems far too large for anything offered at a cheap roadside motel. And when he sits up, his heart drops into his guts. He's in a bedroom, in the kind of home he's only seen depicted on the screen of movies he and Grady used to sneak into as kids. And what the hell is he wearing?

husband

What catches his eye first is the photograph on the dresser. Wrench soon finds himself staring into his own green eyes, smiling comfortably. His arm is positioned congenially around the waist of a woman he's never seen before in his life, and (perhaps) his other hand rests on the shoulder of a child a pace into the foreground. Who the hell is this man who looks so at ease among these strangers? Who the hell are they?

neighborhood

As the morning sun crests higher in the sky, Wrench opts for a glimpse outside the walls of this Stepford-esque home. It's beyond his comprehension that there could be clothes in a closet suited to fit him, so he's still in his pajamas when the 6'4" man throws open the door of the quaint little house and pads down the front drive. A whole neighborhood of similarly-styled homes await him. Not that he knows what he might have been expecting, but somehow this manages to strike as the most baffling outcome.

Others are exiting their homes to pick up that rolled newspaper and Wrench watches suspiciously, trying to gauge if they're stumbling over their own uncertainty about this whole situation, or greeting the morning as a familiar and welcome friend.

How to explain to his new family this isn't the first time someone's squared up to him with a blade? Fortunately, there isn't much time for that. Wrench may not know these people, but he holds no moral quandries regarding what should be done with aggressors. Later he might need to explain to his new wife and possible child just why he entered this strange new world with a ↪ M1911 .45 pistol or how he's so good at using it, but for now he draws it from his hip and takes aim.

The first two shots explode with consecutive loud pops and embed themselves in the chest of the salesman, but Wrench watches in horror as the kife-wielding specter keeps right on coming. He shoots again, aiming for the thigh to stop the attacker in his wake, but it barely seems to slow him. The final shot hits just between the eyes and finally the salesman falls to the ground in a ring of steadily-pooling blood. Wrench shoves the gun back at his hip and moves forward to kick at the dead man's shoulder with his toe, just as the doorbell starts to buzz.

Maybe it's a mixed blessing that Wrench finds himself in the bowels of the strange little town he's inttent on escaping when the news comes. He'd been trying to figure out the boundaries of this place. Maybe take to the woods and formulate a plan to get the hell out of here. But the sudden sirens alighting the town in a cacophony of tones springs people into action.

He doesn't hear them, of course. Doesn't know what the mild voice is trying to warn them of. One minute Wrench is walking with purpose past the fire departtment, and the next minute he's being grabbed by the shoulders and steered inside. At first he almost fights the insistent hands that tug him further and further underground, into the dark space beneath the station. The panic and confusion is written all over the faces of those around him, but when he goes for the door to make his way back up he finds his way blocked again by a small group of men with their arms crossed and their stances widened.

The sight of the living room decorated for Christmas is like nothing Wrench has ever known, outside of television shows. Do people actually do this kind of thing? Trim a tree with lights and crystal and spend all day and night cooking a holiday feast? Give each other gifts wrapped in perfectly-folded paper and crisp bows? He could walk past the whole thing without a second's thought that any of it might be for him, but there's a present under there bearing his name, too. A small rectangular-shaped box with tidy handwriting.

He looks suspiciously at his new "wife." Did she do this? If so, he has to admit that he didn't return the favor. But there's something there for her, too, and Wrench is overcome with the sinking feeling these might not be gifts at all.

All of these prompts are wonderful, but I didn't want my starter to go on and on forever. If nothing I've written here gives a clean entrance for your character, please feel free to hit me up with whatever you'd like and I will respond accordingly!

The elevator pitch is as follows: Wrench is a former hitman and only surviving member of the Fargo crime syndicate. He and his former partner (who was also killed) were raised up in the syndicate and taught to kill at the behest of its leader, but Wrench has been living off the grid for many years now after escaping capture by the US Marshals. He is also Deaf. I have a communication FAQ page that further addresses that, if you'd like.