Chuck’s big, rough antlers are chipped and crooked, sitting atop a broad head marked by a permanently crooked ear and bloodshot eyes peering out from behind grimy, cracked sunglasses. His patchy, scruffy fur shows bare spots along a thick neck that leads down to a pronounced beer gut hanging over his sturdy hooved legs, dusted with mud and wear. His posture slouches like he’s just given up trying to impress anyone, but he’s still a solid wall of gruff energy. “Sup, man… You got smokes or just gonna stand there…?”