Now here's an odd figure. An infernape morph who, to be frank, looks a bit like a bum. His only garment is a ratty old pair of trousers, deliberately made to fit loosely on his form. He eschews shirt and shoes entirely, only on occasion seen wearing what appear to be fingerless gloves with the knuckles reinforced. The only other thing that always seems to be accompanying him is a bottle (or keg) of some kind of hard liquor or another. Yet, he seems to adamantly insist that he is 'like, the greatest pirate captain who ever lived', and will swear up and down that he actually owns an airship.
"C'mon, buddy. You look like you could use a good drink. I got just the thing~"
He's very laid-back, every inch of him exuding an aura of easygoing calm, in spite of the fiery nature evident from his 'hair'. He's only rarely sober, and hardly ever remains in such a state for long. But, rather than being visibly depressed, or irritable like many alcoholics, Flint seems to be genuinely happy and cheerful, exhibiting a reserve of energy that's nearly inexhaustible, and a personality that makes friends easily. He is the quintessential 'affectionate drunk', a fact that seems to endear him to some. He's not all fun and games, though; those whom he considers friends will often find him helping them out in his own way. Paying off debt collectors, gleefully leaping into bar brawls for their defense, even offering them a home in dire circumstances...
In spite of his vices, it's readily apparent to anyone who really knows him that he's a good man, even if he loves to drink and fight a little more than is entirely healthy. He believes whole-heartedly in giving everything in life one hundred percent.
There is, of course, no way a lazy drunkard, especially one so good-natured like that could actually seriously be a pirate, right?
"Whaa? Whar ya doin' pickin' on a helpless guy like that...?
"I'm gonna kick yer ass."
Wrong. Well, for a given definition of 'pirate'. Flint is known 'back home' for running a salvage operation out of his airship, the DisorderlyConduct. His pride and joy is a piece of junk largely held together by sovereign glue and happy thoughts, and his crew a ragtag bunch of misfits who largely have no idea how Flint's made it this far in life.
He doesn't often share his background, cheerfully brushing off inquiries with some comment about how 'it's in the past' and he prefers to 'live in the present'. But wherever he came from... He learned to be one hell of a fighter.
Flint practices a form of martial arts that, in all honesty, seems to only reach its full potency when the simian is completely hammered. Each successive drink seems to make him more resilient, more impossible to land a hit on... And, worse, make his fists hit even more like a truck. Flint appears to be a natural master of the 'drunken boxing' style, a fighting style that has the unique appearance of making him constantly look like he's falling flat on his ass, but at the same time somehow winning. He becomes damn near impossible to land a solid hit on, often performing acrobatics that would seem impossible for others, or suddenly showing up in unexpected places with absolutely no recollection of how he got there.
He has something of a reputation back home, for doing a lot of things that tend to piss the people in charge off, openly despising authority figures, and holding a special hatred of those who abuse their power over others. It's for that reason that he seems to make enemies just as easily as he makes friends... Of course, here in the Hollow, none of his old enemies back home really matter. In a place like this, he can simply relax, unwind, and probably get smashed with a brand-new drinking buddy.