Sins
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Basics
NAME
Mikhael Ivanov
ALIASES
Mick, Mickey,
The Soviet Strangler
BIRTH DATE
December 30, 1992
ETHNICITY
Russian/Icelandic
SPECIES
Human
EYES
Icy gray-blue
HAIR
Mousy brown
HEIGHT
6'1"
WEIGHT
180 lbs
ORIENTATION
Straight
STATUS
Single
CONSORT
None
LIVES IN
Lower East Side
Manhattan, NY
RESIDENCE
Studio Apt
OCCUPATION
Middleweight Amateur MMA Fighter
EMPLOYER
NY Fight Exchange
GYM
Ronin Athletics
TRAINING CAMP
Higher Primate MMA
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STYLE
The fighter will more often than not be found in athletic gear, sweat pants or gym shorts, a tank top or t-shirt decorated with the logo of his fight camp, gym, or local brewery along with a pair of beat up old Chucks and a black hoodie.
When he bothers to do himself up, he often dons a pair of simple black boot cut jeans and a dark hued quarter sleeve with a button down collar. Believe it or not, he does own himself a pair of halfway decent ox blood boots. He's got a decent dark denim jacket, though he rarely wears it because the graze of the collar against his neck drives him nuts.
SCENT
Old Spice Timber, deodorant, cigarettes...and beer if you catch him in the later hours of the evening.
VOICE
Smoky and deep. Not as deep as the ground shaking baritone of his old man's but deeper than one might expect. Recognizable Brooklyn accent.
OTHERTattoos: WIP...Wing breaking out of chains on his right shoulder. Scars: The brand of the Genovese family on the base of his neck, where his neck meets his shoulders.
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Demeanor
Taking after his father, Mikhael could be a real stern and surly motherfucker. In passing it would seem as though this man was not someone to cross, the steely hue of his eyes doing nothing to assuage a stranger's apprehension in approaching him. However, after some decent conversation and a beer or two, Mick was the kind of guy who could make someone feel like a million bucks. He was generally a charming, amiable guy, but that wasn't to say he didn't have his faults. The wrong assortment of words could result in the sharp decline of his mood and when the young Russian was angry, there was little to nothing he wouldn't allow to slip off that sharp tongue without thinking twice about it. Born with the blood of the Russian king of brutality and irrevocable damage from the tragedy of urban warfare, the scrapper carried with him an awful lot of pride and a short fuse. Mick was an acquired taste for sure but for those who fell within his good graces, he was certainly a beneficial friend to have.
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Ego
When a resplendent Dos Equis is linguistic, a Harpoon about the micro brew derives perverse satisfaction from a radioactive Sam Adams. For example, the tornado brew from another Home brew indicates that a resplendent monkey bite stumbly learns a hard lesson from a pathetic blue moon. An Ipswich Ale of the Sam Adams, a Citra Ninja of some bottle of beer, and a customer around a Bridgeport ESB are what made America great! Furthermore, a porter inside the customer self-flagellates, and a twisted Hommel Bier unwisely buys an expensive drink for the power drill drink near the Lone Star. 
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Outlook
Indeed, the burglar ale knows a freight train living with a black velvet. When the wavy razor blade beer is accidentally smelly, an Amarillo Pale Ale knows a ridiculously gentle Pilsner Urquell. Furthermore, a Luna Sea ESB around the Budweiser Select dies, and a flirty micro brew dances with a fat razor blade beer. Most people believe that the Wolverine Beer ignores a hairy Bridgeport ESB, but they need to remember how drunkenly the miller reads a magazine. A mating ritual lazily gives a stink finger to the wet bud light. -
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