George McCarson
rating: +24+x


M.E.G. sketch of George McCarson.

Name: George McCarson

Affiliations: B.N.T.G

Aliases: "The Pickpocket"

Last Seen: Level 5.1


George McCarson is an approximately 45-year-old male of European descent and a master of deception and violence. George has short, fine brown hair and hazel eyes, with gray stubble above and below the lips; he stands at 6'5 and has last been seen wearing a navy-blue sports coat with a white button-down shirt and khaki pants. George is described to have an extroverted and confident disposition, displaying himself as cocky and vain. Despite his personality, he is very talented in the art of stealth and trickery, commonly known as "the Pickpocket" among close friends and strangers alike.

George McCarson is the leader of the B.N.T.G and also rules the mysterious group dubbed “The McCarsons” with little to no known information regarding it. Due to the group being newly discovered, details are unclear on what this group's main focus is, but the current belief is this group functions as a crime group, selling entities and human corpses and organs, as well as functioning as an active hitman service. As for his B.N.T.G. presence, George is the primary manager of Object 85, a natural drug found on Level 194, and as aforementioned, completely in control of the entire business.

During George's past in the Frontrooms, he was a notorious member of the Sicilian Mafia, carrying out orders on a daily basis, as well as a big-time gambler with incredible luck. He supposedly lived somewhere in Italy, where he had been arrested multiple times for numerous small crimes such as smuggling, shoplifting, and illegal drug usage, but was never caught for his more large-scale crimes ranging from homicide and battery to organ trafficking. He was most known for his black market dealings and fully-operational business specializing in hitman services until he entered the Backrooms, and the illegal operation fell apart.

[This section has frequent mentions of blood and torture. Please skip this if you are uncomfortable with these topics.]

Uhm, hi? My name is Allison Conley, B.N.T.G. associate working with natural resources. I am here to give my account of the most recent interaction with George McCarson. I-I'll begin.

It was probably around 4:30 in the afternoon, and Robert and I were inside his office on Level 11. I've been in the B.N.T.G. for two months now, and as Robert is a higher-up, he was discussing with me some basic elements of the establishment. I mean, most of the conversation was normal, that is until his phone rang. Of course, it was George…

Robert and I glanced at each other before picking up. He put it on speakerphone as well so I could hear. I… I don't remember exactly what he said, but he-he wasn't okay. As soon as the call connected, he began asking where Robert had put his Object 85 stores, but he wasn't letting us speak. When Robert finally spoke, he started explaining how George had been scamming customers and using the drug improperly. To be honest, George almost always had an Agrugua smoothie in his hand, and it almost seemed he lost his grasp on reality sometimes.

At this point, George just went berserk. He was screaming about how he was "making them rich" and "Robert was tearing down the business". I heard that in the Frontrooms, George wasn't a great guy either; always being selfish and manipulative of the people who were close to him. Anyways, Robert tried explaining his reasoning for destroying George's Agrugua stores. It went on between the two for a few minutes, but eventually, George cracked. I-I don't know why he would do this. The drugs combined with his bloodlust got to his head, and he simply left the call, and said "you've messed up for the last time."

I can't explain it any more than that. After the call though, Robert got super paranoid and started getting really nervous. We didn't really do anything after that. Just waited for what would happen next. George is wild and unpredictable, but undeniably uncanny, and that's what scared us the most. I guess now I just have to cover the- the thing.

It was probably 5:20 pm at that point. A sudden knocking on the door. I don't like to curse, but it scared the shit out of us both. Of course, we weren't going to open it though, we'd have to have been crazy. And then the lock fidgeted a little bit, and then went quiet. A second later the door slid open. I- I guess George broke the lock; we had heard a loud smash right before it opened. Well uh, in walked George. Still with his thin, uncombed hair and ratty suit.

George looks like your average salesman at first glance- well-dressed, confident expression, all of the things, but George is anything but a nice salesman. He-he had his revolver by his side. In his other hand, he had a singular bullet. I had been told by others that he had a gun on him when he entered the Backrooms. I don't know why he had one… but he did I guess.

Back on topic, he loaded the gun silently. Neither Robert nor I had moved an inch- we didn't know what he would do. Well… he ended up aiming the gun straight at Robert's forehead, all while carrying this maniacal, even excited expression. He wiped the sweat off of his brow, and I vividly remember saying to Robert, "No one, haha… no one argues with me. No one argues with me, you hear that bitch? Any words you wanna say, bud?"

Robert didn't respond. I was so petrified I couldn't move or speak to tell him "Run!" When Robert expertly ducked under his desk and grabbed his pocketknife though, I knew someone was dying in that room. Robert lunged at George, tackling him to the ground. Maybe he was giving George one last chance to be good, but I knew it wasn't happening. George reached for a glass bottle on the table next to him and smashed it into Robert's chest. Blood flew from the wound, dotting the victim and his assailant in crimson.

Robert then drew his knife, slashing it across George's leg- which one I'm not sure of. More blood flew, and as the twins wrestled on the floor, I began to scream. I couldn't move, but the noise that came out of my mouth would surely attract attention. I shut my eyes and heard screams and grunts. It sounded as if the world was on mute and only the two men in front of me could break the silence. I slowly opened my eyes, horrified to see Robert pinned against the table, his knife in George's hand. He violently tore open Robert's stomach, laughing the same hoarse, high-pitched wheeze he always did.

I watched in pure terror as George played with his revolver in his fingers, staring at the still-breathing Robert. As he beat Robert's face with his knuckles, he noticed the box of Agrugua lying in the corner. Caught up in his rage, he rushed over to the crate and brought it to the desk on which Robert was lying. I'm pretty sure he said something like "So you did hide them here all along? Tell me, how do they taste?" before grabbing 2 of the fruits and shoving them into his mouth, nearly tearing his cheek muscles from the strain.


The stairs of Robert's residence after George fled.

I-I was terrified. Mortified. I had never seen a man capable of such torture and laugh it off. I wanted to run as far away as possible, but that's when George finally acknowledged me. He momentarily tore his gaze off Robert and focused on me. In an instant, a glass bottle was sent hurling toward my face, shattering on impact. Then another. And then the juicy squirt of Agrugua juice coating my face as a fruit collided with my nose. I was helpless and pathetic, watching as a glad, bloodied mess beat a man that had done no wrong.

Fortunately, it seemed that George had grown bored of the agony his twin brother was experiencing. He drew his revolver once again, tossing and catching the bullet in the air. A gun is a powerful thing in the backrooms, able to save your life when you need it. But it has to be used well, used in self-defense. I saw George drop the bullet into the revolver quietly, and place the weapon under Robert's chin.

Instead of firing, George spun the barrel, placing the bullet somewhere else in the weapon. I stared from the corner as he pulled the trigger, but nothing came out. He then spun the barrel again and pulled the trigger, but to no avail. He did it once more; still nothing. I couldn't take it. I was losing consciousness from the blood loss, and I would pass out any second. As my eyes closed, I heard the gunshot that killed Robert McCarson, as loud as a steam whistle and as quiet as the breeze. Before my consciousness slipped away to a quieter place, I heard George's taunts and jeers echo through the room, bullying the lifeless form that had been having a normal day just an hour ago.
Then I blacked out.

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