Bradford Ulysses Chadwick Kensington the Thirteenth aka Brad aka BuckAge: 20
Archetype: A Perpetually Prickly Prepster with a Penchant for Pissing People Off and a Cardigan Covered Creep with a Combustible Cash Flow
Background: Bradford is a complete and utter douchebag, and he knows it! He actually embraces his role as the resident d-bag, that way there isn't any expectations to be had for him to be anything else but an asshole, and he's pretty much been like this from the moment he reached puberty. Oh, who am I kidding? He's
always been a bit of a wanker, pretty much from the day he was born. Just ask his mother, who attempted to breastfeed him, only to have him nearly chew her nipple clean off.
Born to ridiculously wealthy, aristocratic parents, Bradford was initially raised to be the heir apparent, that is, until he decided that drinking and doing drugs, and dicking around inside whatever hole he could find, was a much better way of living. No, really, if his dick fits, he's sliding it in...deep.
Anyway. Ashamed of their son, Lady and Lord Kensington shipped their eldest overseas to live out his tempestuous college years with a distant cousin, twice removed, on his mother's side.
Hellbent on making the least of the situation, Brad did exactly that. He did nothing, absolutely nothing that could redeem himself in the eyes of his parents. It was as if he were looking to drag his family name as deep as he could through whatever mud he could get his sadistic little hands on. To make matters worse, his parents insisted on keeping him financially sound. They may have sent him far away from the posh pomp and circumstance of England, but they certainly didn't want him living like a pauper in the gutters, regardless of the fact that that may have actually taught him a lesson. He was still their son and, like it or not, he would one day lord over the family fortune and countless estates attached to such a title. Disinheriting him was just not an option, especially with the media keeping a close eye on their every move.
Knowing full well that he held most, if not all of the cards, Brad continued right along his path of self and social destruction. Not giving a flying fuck who he hurt along the way, he often sought out the best possible situation to inflict the most harm. Granted, such situations usually had to be pretty far down on the social spectrum for him to feel even remotely like a king - seeing that his talents were fairly limited - but he was willing to stoop pretty low to come out on top.
So while summers for him could've easily meant trips abroad, rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous - essentially being a mediocre fish in a vast pond - he instead remained close to his newfound step-home in America and found the perfect outlet to set up shop.
Camp Crimson Lake was going to be his kingdom, er, plaything...uh, summer fling for as long as he could stand it. Securing...okay, essentially buying his way into a position as a camp counselor, Brad played up the fact that he was fully trained in first aid and CPR, just to give a bit of weight to his name. A total bullshit lie, he figured he could just talk or buy his way out of whatever trouble arose from him not being able to actually save lives. Besides, at the interview, he looked fucking brilliant in his ever-so-tight, speedo swim trunks, so who really cared that he couldn't do what he claimed. Nobody actually expected a backwater camp counselor to be a trained professional. Did they?