Meet Fennel. He laughs too loud, runs with dogs, leaps into puddles like he’s trying to make the world feel him. He goads doctors, mocks preachers, and always seems to be one wrong word away from throwing a punch—or reciting a poem. He’s not easy. He’s not kind. But he’s unforgettable.

Fennel is the kind of character who doesn’t just inhabit a scene—he charges it, like static before a storm. His contradictions burn at both ends: arrogant yet playful, petty yet somehow poetic. He is a dreamer. A mean dreamer. He picks fights not just for the thrill, but because something in him needs the friction. As if conflict were a form of intimacy.

Toni Morrison once said, “Characters are not conduits for ideas. They are shaped by their own hungers, fears, and contradictions. Their tensions create the heat that warms or burns everything around them.” That’s Fennel. A walking tension. He’s not just up to no good—he is no good, and also maybe something better. Something tragic. Or holy. Or deeply human.

There’s a chip on his shoulder, sure. But he wears it like a crown. He’s infuriating and magnetic, base and high-minded, a street prophet who can't stop laughing. I won’t tell you how to feel about him. I can’t. I don’t even know myself.

But I will say this: watch him closely. He’s the kind of character who sets fires just to see what might grow in the ashes.