He was a disgusting coalesce of stereotypical characters, spread in a way that would even draw a sneer from writers of melodrama. In terms of real character, he had none.
He had a job. He hated it, by the way. He worked too much and didn't get paid shit.
He had a name. It might have been John or Bob or Bill or something like that. Something plain.
It would have been his childhood which was to blame. Perhaps it all had something to do with how his parents treated him. Perhaps something would occur between him and some older school children that effected him in his later years, turning him into this utterly pitiful entity. Perhaps somewhere, deep down, below all that typical statistical existence, there was something controlling him. Perhaps there is some character to him after all.
A mind warped by society. He is attempting to find himself through inner conflict, living a statistically blank existence. Perhaps he is hiding from someone or something.
No.
I am totally to blame. He has no character. That is the truth of it all. He is totally blank and plain merely because I'm too damn lazy to bother thinking about him. Too damn lazy to create a facade of realism. Too damn lazy to conjure up some motivation for his exitence. He had been damned to his own personal hell because I can't be bothered.
Does he blame me? Does he hate me? Does he dream of grandness?
No.
Why would he?