No, you wouldn't, and your dumb character doesn't either.

Story behind this man: Ceeb Niggen.

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Ceeb Niggen, aka "Desmond Stone", "Bane of Portlandia", and "The Gayniggen from that Other Place", was born in Portland, Oregon to John and Wuamawuawah Niggen. John was an accounting firm consultant and Wuamawuawah made her money selling novelties such as fake lottery tickets and sticky hands. Ceeb lived a very ordinary life, he played outside, watched television, and went to bed before 8. But once he entered Elementary school, something devilish awoke within him.

It started off with Ceeb talking out of turn once in class. A one time occurrence and normally something not to be regarded. But soon Ceeb began to talk at completely inopportune times to anyone he met. He never talked about anything in particular, just comments like "Oh yeah!" and "Sounds nice!". It became a nuisance as the normally socially acceptable quips occurred in such a volume everyone around his neighborhood began to fear and loathe him. People were scared to leave their houses in feer that Ceeb would pop out of nowhere to say nothing of importance.

"Why would this bother anyone to such a degree?" You might ask yourself. What you, the reader, need to understand is it wasn't really WHAT Ceeb was saying that made him annoying, but how he said it. Every would uttered from his insipid voice-hole has this horrid faint tense of pure smug. This deep-seated superiority was so embedded within this child's words that every syllable spoken from him was like some kind of eldritch abomination emerging from the city of R'lyeh to enter one's household and rape their mother.

This went on for a few years, with the Niggen's neighbors asking themselves if they were wrong for hating this child with such an immense severity that they wished a plague to infest him and his household. They soon decided, no, they were totally cool. After chasing the Niggens out of house and home, the family relocated down south in San Francisco, California.

In this more accepting climate, the Niggens thought that their life would change for the better. Unfortunately the San Franciscans were more annoyed by Ceeb's constant blithering than the Portlandians. It finally came to a boiling point when Wuamawuawah, after suffering a nervous breakdown when Ceeb mentioned how cool he was for reading Naked Lunch at the age of 12, believed her son was an incarnation of Tsathoggua, and began to hallucinate that he was trying to devour her soul. Fearing her life, she kicked Ceeb out of her minivan while driving home from school, and never looked back.

The next decade for the young Ceeb was a comedy of constant failures. Ceeb went from foster home to foster home (As the Niggens themselves feigned insanity so they wouldn't have to look at him any more), but each one was met with hostility and fear. No one could stand to be in Ceeb's presence for more than a few weeks. Attempts at rehabilitating Ceeb proved fruitless, as the instructors got fed up trying to sympathize with him after he kept talking about how cool he was. Forced to wander the streets, looking for scraps and shelter, it seemed that the end was nigh for the young bastard.

That was until a shady man appeared in front of Ceeb one day as he was scavenging. The man, only known as "Slade", had previously experienced the lad's "abilities" after he held up a McDonalds by being obnoxious to all the patrons, and made it out with $5.29 in change and something called a "McGangBang". Slade, experienced in all forms of swindling, extortion, and hustling, took the now 15-year-old Ceeb under his wing...but not before investing in a good pair of noise-canceling headphones.

Slade had made a name for himself in the San Franciscan underground. He was known for being a two-bit crook who didn't even have the balls to steal a purse from an old lady. But that wasn't Slade's style; he preferred a more "personal" approach to theft. But he needed a couple of clients before he could make his mark. He sent Ceeb out to do a little recon work, and boy, was he surprised what the kid turned up with. It turns out that with Ceeb's way with words, he could easily extort any information from a person as they would blab anything to get away from him. Soon, Slade had tabs on every crook in the city. So he made his rounds wandering the back-alleys to collect hush-funds from various "clientele". In three years, the two had a very nice $2,500,000 sitting under their belt.

This didn't go unnoticed. A major crime lord who specialized in dogfighting and "exotic sex adventures", Klaus Dickie, wasn't too thrilled about giving away more of his monthly gains to some sleazeball and his teenage fuckbuddy (his words). So the hit was placed on Slade, and was carried out that night. Ceeb returned home from holding up a KFC by asking what the secret spices were, only to find Slade eviscerated with his own butterfly knife. Devastated, he took the knife and the hidden funds away, and went into hiding. Mr. Dickie's crew couldn't locate the cash or the kid, much to his chagrin. Later that year, Mr. Dickie succumbed to a terrible sexually transmitted disease caused by, as he called it, "exploring the unknown".

The adult Ceeb wandered to a moderately nice neighborhood and purchased a house, telling the real estate agents that his money was inherited, under the moniker of "Desmond". Despite his new-found financial security, Ceeb continued to gather bits and pieces of info and constructed them into a "web" of rumors, secret business dealings, and blackmail. Ceeb soon gained prominence in the underground world, and the various criminal organizations saw him as both a useful tool and a threat.

Over the years Ceeb wandered around the dilapidated streets by day, taking note of any slip of the mouth he overheard, and returned back to his home by night to record it. He also offered a service of "house calls" and delivered information in private. Often times these calls could take hours on end, but it didn't matter much to Ceeb, since his social life was all but non-existent. For a few years, Ceeb tried to fill the loneliness in his heart by writing erotic stories of man-on-man love, but it was considered "shallow, narcissistic, and offensive", even by the San Franciscans. He decided then to stick with what he knew best.

Ceeb came across many interesting people after the escapade. One of them was the notorious druglord "Brenton Escaroso" aka "Gato Viejo", who wanted information on some idiotic show called "Batton: the Ultimate Warrior." Ceeb had known this beforehand as he was sent a mysterious envelope marked "Ender's Building Surplus", which told him to give the location of Toucan's Beak to Brenton. Ceeb did as he was told, although he did have some fun making a fool out of Brenton, who didn't seem to have much of a spine. He even got the loser to cough up some "hush money" to get him to stop talking. Really, this job was too easy for Ceeb. But the initials "EBS" stuck in his head for some reason.

It seemed to shake him, and over the years the quality of Ceeb's information dwindled. What were once elaborate smuggling schemes and the affairs of adulterous political figures were now mere pickpocketing schemes and license plate numbers. Ceeb became desperate and began to hit on anything that moved, in hopes that a fleeting relationship would squeeze some more juicy details out of the underworld. But it was no use. People saw Ceeb as more of a pest than ever before. He thought his job was over, but while wondering by the bay, he found an old warehouse that belonged to one "Mr. Escaroso". Call it a hunch, but he knew he would be using this information soon.

Indeed, he was right. A meek little creep by the name of Arnold Wesker was directed to him by some of his former clients, and wanted the scoop on Brenton Escaroso's past. He delivered, and felt satisfied he could once again fulfill his thirst for knowledge. But something about this felt wrong. Arnold had mentioned the EBS when he was drinking his prune juice with him in the bar. They had something to do with all this crazy activity in California. And he aimed to find out.

A week later, Ceeb learned that the warehouse had burnt down in what was said to be a "chemical fire". It sounded fishy, and he set off to discover the truth of what happened with the Arnold kid. When he arrived, he only saw the charred remains of the building. Something, however, was amiss, and Ceeb looked around. Suddenly, he stepped on a piece of loose floorboard, which when removed, revealed an underground staircase. He descended the staircase, oblivious to what lie ahead.

After what seemed like forever, he reached a door at the bottom. Inside was the biggest weed facility he had ever laid his eyes on. All types of ganja and kush known to man covered the walls and halls of the place. Ceeb smiled; if he got his hands on these delightful buds, he would certainly be living the "high" life. But as he reached for one of the plants, he heard someone enter the room. The man wore a nautical coat and was speaking to someone on his phone in a grizzled, almost incomprehensible voice. He could barely make out the words "targets...almost eliminated...initiate protocol -OWNEDNERD-". These words meant nothing to Ceeb, as he noticed an insignia on the man's coat, the "Eaglestone Boating School". It didn't take an idiot to know that it must've been the EBS. Now was his chance to shine.

Unfortunately, Ceeb made the grave mistake of assuming The Lifeguard, one of the EBS' main lieutenants, was the only member there. He felt a gun barrel press against his back. The would-be killer insturcted him to rise with his hands behind his back. The Lifeguard turned around, finishing his phone call. "Thought you had me so easily, did ya kid? We aren't that stupid to leave our backs completely vulnerable. Carrie, mind escorting this gentleman out the door?" And so Carrie did, if you equate "escort" with "forcibly eject via trebuchet". Ceeb somehow had the good fortune to land near his house, even if it was in his neighbor's kiddie pool. Safety or not, the EBS had messed with wrong guy. As he had seen The Lifeguard's face, he knew it was time for some revenge.

Ceeb began to spread word about the underground marijuana farm and the identity of The Lifeguard. People didn't take him seriously, but eventually he was able to convince some attendees from the nearby THC Enthusiast's club to spread the word. Once he gathered a posse of potential weedlads and weedlasses, he herded them off to the facility.

Entering the underground room, Ceeb and the Weedies were devastated to find that all of the wonderful weed had vanished. The now completely sober ganja groupies were none to happy about Ceeb lying, and they chased him out of town. Furious, he gathered what remained of his assets and headed off to Los Angeles, where he had heard the EBS' main facility was located via a mysterious letter.

Reaching his destination, he discovered that he had been duped. The EBS had learned of Ceeb's intent to expose them to the public, and planned to have him "removed". He tried to run, but again ran into the experienced assassin Carrie Famas. She shook her head, "Mr. Niggen, people like you need to learn their place in society. Your named implies that you have jack shit, and that's exactly what you have amounted too. If only you hadn't interfered with our plans..." She pointed her diamond-encrusted FAMAS at Ceeb. Enraged, he lunged at the assassin, attempting to disarm her.

But it was in vain, and Ceeb was shot.

A cleaning crew seemed to materialize out of the walls themselves. Carrie sighed, and a hand was placed on her shoulder. It was The Lifeguard. "Carrie, I know it must be hard. But like all of us, you have a role to play in life. You are employed under the Electric Birth Syndicate, and you are an assassin. Those are all that matter in this line of work." Carrie felt somewhat relieved, and marked Ceeb's name out of her list. To him, today was the end of his life. To her, it was just another slow Wednesday.

Ceeb's name slowly faded into obscurity. People forgot the man that wandered the streets and the bars, asking questions and trading answers. It could've been the end-all of a good informant; you only care what others are saying, not yourself.

Eventually, the fog of smug began to break up above that San Franciscan suburb, and the people roamed freely without having to watch what they said and did, lest the roving Ceeb would be there. Was this for the better? Or was it just a happenstance, a mere occurrence in their lifes? They supposed it didn't matter. They would move on and forget about the whole thing eventually.

Back in Portland, John and Wuamawuawah, now beginning to gray, had a peaceful dinner with their younger two children. They had forgotten about Ceeb after their simultaneous nervous breakdown, but on the day he passed on, they both felt a heavy burden alleviate from their bodies.

It was finally all over for them.

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(If you aren't too learned on slang, "niggen" means "having jack shit".)