Tiffany "Fran" Franzetti
Of course I can fix it, but do we really want to drive around in that piece of crap?
Fran limps up to you, her face pinched into a scowl. She shakes her shoulder length hair and tugs at the edge of her mock turtle neck.
“You forget to put oil into her?” she sneers, looking up at you and dropping her tool kit heavily to the floor. Her granny glasses are smudged on the edges from her greasy fingers.
She doesn’t let you respond, before nimbly sliding down under the jeep for a look at the undercarriage, her hands opening the kit and retrieving tools from memory. You notice her sawed off shotgun laying alongside the hex tool. Before long, a steady stream of obscenity berates you from under the vehicle, intermingled with wheezing and purred apologies to the Jeep for how badly (according to Fran) you’ve treated the vehicle.
Smarts : 10
Edges: MacGyver, Ace, Alertness
Hindrances: Coward, Lame, Anemic
Here’s Fran’s prize possession, her bike. She has racing leathers that match the color scheme of the bike.
Midwest woman, working as a Teamster for her whole life. Union driver and mechanic from her early twenties. No glamour, solid pay, reliable benefits… until lately, at least. In the last decade her Local was squeezed more and more by the market and Marco Patele into alternative revenue streams, i.e. crime. Fran was willing to turn a blind eye as long as she and her retirement plan weren’t put at risk. She could’ve driven another 10-20 years, if it hadn’t been for love.
Atherton. Holy shit, built like the statue of a Greek god, but with a bigger dick. Sure he was the boss’s son. Sure he was a little young. But if you saw him warming up for JV Football with his shirt off, you’d understand. And despite being literally three times younger than Fran, he was into it. Into her. Holy shit was he into her. Junior Year was the best year of Fran’s life. Senior year was also pretty good, though Atherton was starting to talk a little wild about “going to college” and “getting out of the state, like to a coast or something.” Whatever – as long as Fran could move and join him…
And then one week away at college, Atherton breaks her heart. Tells her that he doesn’t want to date any more. That he wants to date someone closer to his age. Tells her that she is going to start stealing cash from his father or else Atherton is going to tell Marco Patele that one of his employees has been sucking off his son. What’s Fran to do? Atherton has clearly been thinking about this for awhile, he knows exactly how much she’s supposed to skim and exactly when. And it’s obvious that eventually she’ll get caught, and Atherton doesn’t care – he just wants a bigger allowance for 6 months, a year, however long he can squeeze her.
So Fran panics, gets up her resolve, and does what any sensible woman in trouble would do. She follows Atherton’s instructions, gets access to the cash, and takes 50 times as much as she’s supposed to, clearing half a million in $100 bills. In place of the money, she leaves printouts of Atherton’s threatening emails, along with a few dick pics to drive the point home. Then she buys the motorcycle she’s been dreaming about since she was in her 20’s, and bugs out of town with nothing but a sawed off shotgun and a Coach bag carrying five hundred grand to keep her company.
Very loosely, she thinks she can get into Mexico, live on the beach. Maybe she should thank Atherton? She’d never have had the courage to rob Marco Patele if she wasn’t already sure he’d have her chopped up and fed to the dogs for “taking advantage of his underage son.” Now she’s got a lifetime of lounging on the beach in Mexico to look forward to – and maybe a young cabana boy wouldn’t mind keeping her company? Maybe she can name him Atherton.