The Gentleman Raptor
Approximately 71 to 75 million
A character who came into existence via a typo asking for a recent "chaptor" of Wolverine. It was interpreted as being a gentleman raptor who solves crimes with his maid, Agnes.
The biography is his history told from his perspective and based on what he remembers, what comes after that is how a Utahraptor came to be in Victorian era Britain and later the 2000s.
It is hard to believe, but I was once one of those deranged dromaeosaurids who still occasionally ravage the countryside. Jumping on poor, unsuspecting vagabonds, feasting of their flesh, stealing cattle in the dead of the night... it was not much of a life, I confess, but I did not know any better. Running around stark naked and preying on the weak was all that I knew.
That all changed on the morning I got the hat. It had belonged to this stately gentleman, if I recall correctly. He was a fine, aged fellow, with his silver hair neatly combed back, his mustache neatly groomed, and on top of it all was the hat. It was a remarkable thing, really. When I attacked the old man, blood spilled everywhere and his clothes were dirtied considerably by his thrashing about. By the time I was through with him, he and his clothes were in a wretched state. Everything was disheveled and ruined... except for the hat.
A strange compulsion took hold of me. I simply had to wear the hat, like it was calling out to me. To this day, I do not know what drove me to don that headgear-- the most I had ever thought of fashion before was years earlier, near Caernarfon, when I had done my best to roll in the mud and hide from the watchful eyes of a vengeful shepherd. Hats had never come into the equation before then, and I doubt that they ever would have if not for that fateful day.
The instant I donned that top hat, my demeanor changed. With a hat like that, you simply MUST act gentlemanly, you see. This is not some unwritten social standard, nor some observation noted by a writer for one of those London rags, but a law of the universe! I can find no other explanation for what occurred. I became a gentleman, a theropod of class and distinction as soon as that hat rested firmly upon my head.
Awed by the social grace suddenly bestowing upon me, I stumbled away from the scene of my transformation and trundled up the road, compelled by some unknown force. Near Ornithampton, a vagrant spotted me and, unlike in previous encounters where people such as him had simply run away in terror, doffed his tatty bowler and politely murmured a greeting. More shocking than that, however, was my own reaction. Instead of letting out a bestial roar of hunger and jumping on the poor man, I doffed my hat in return and made a comment about the weather. I had even spoken in the King's English, a truly phenomenal feat for a being such as myself.
As I approached Eusauroton, a chimneysweep accosted me and complimented me on my “choice of gear, guv'nah”. I frowned. “My hat alone is hardly worth such compliments, sir”.
The cockney chuckled. “Nah, mate. Yeh whole get-up is the bee's knees, i' is. Cor, what I wuddn't do feh a suit like that!” With that, he doffed his soot-covered cap and went on his way.
Now, although my social skills had rapidly improved, my intelligence was still struggling to keep up. That Dick Van Dyke-lookalike had complimented my suit, and I certainly did not... but there, when I looked down, was a pristine tuxedo jacket and bow-tie worn over my own torso. How did it get there? To this day, I do not know for certain.
I had scarcely recovered from my shock when a peculiar putt-putt-putt'ing off the distance got my attention. Automobiles were a relatively new phenomena back then, you must understand, and humans, much less most dinosaurs, were still struggling to get used to the bizarre machines. As the motorised runabout approached, though, I was surprised to see a small therapod in the driver's seat. He was far too small for the vehicle, but still managed to see over the dash by sitting on top of several stacked books. He waved a clawed hand as he rattled by. “Hellooooooo!”
I struggled to come forth with an appropriate response. Later on, of course, I met many other affluent and intelligent dinosaurs, but Mister Compsognathus was the first, and I had not a clue of what to do. Of course, Mister Compy was already halfway to the horizon in his automobile by the time I managed to emit a weak “Cheerio, old boy”.
The last stop I made before my final destination was in a small hamlet on the edges of Psittacowick. It was the midafternoon by the time I reached there, and as I had not had a single meal since the morning's events, I was in a rather foul mood. Glancing about for a place to eat, I espied a local establishment named “Limehouse Inn”. Gentlemen such as myself do not normally frequent such places, but as I said earlier, I was famished.
I walked straight into the middle of a robbery. Several Ceratopsians were roughing the elderly barkeep and having their way with the liquor. “Give us the money, or we skewer you like shashlik!” bellowed the Russian-sounding leader of the rapscallions, a stout fellow whose dull brown scales contrasted sharply with his white-and-red-striped sailor's shirt. I politely shoved him to the floor, and turned to the barkeep. “Pardon me, sir, but would you happen to serve tea in this establishment?”
The Russian got back on his feet, angry roaring “Hoi! Do you know who you are messink wi--!” This time, I landed a solid punch into his gut, knocking him out cold. The rest of the Russian ne'er-do-wells quickly converged on their befallen leader and dragged him out of the Limehouse Inn. One turned turned to me and, shaking a fist, declared that “Vladimir will be hearink about zhis!”
A sigh from the barkeep brought my attention back to the elderly man. “Cor, thankee sah”, wheezed the old man. “A'course, now you've probably got Valdimir all rightly p---'d off at you, but that t'ain't none o' my concern.”
I chuckled lightly. “What do I care about this 'Vladmir' fellow? Worrying about such roughs is beneath me. Now,” I said, pausing to reach for some change, “How about some tea?”
A short time later, I carried on down the road, following my strange compulsion in the hopes that it would soon come to a brilliant conclusion. Through Biggleswade, past Helow, over the River Hiz near Icthyoford, I slowly made my way south. Ultimately, I found myself in front of a manor in the midst of Hertfordshire pastures. The gates to the manor grounds were open, and the building itself looked inviting, almost strangely familiar. I proceeded to the door. A sharp rap, and soon a petite young maid answered the door.
She quickly glanced me over, her eyes resting on the hat. “Ah,” she said in a peculiar French accent, “You must be the new master of the house. Bonjour, sir, and please come in.”
I was a bit surprised by her welcoming. “How...?”
“Your hat, sir,” she replied. “Only a gentleman could wear such a hat, and only a gentleman can be master of the house.” She paused, and gave me another look-over. A slight blush appeared on her face. “If sir can pardon me... what is sir's name?”
I hadn't given it much thought, to be honest. After a brief moment's consideration, however, I knew what to say.
“My name is... Chaptor.”
London, 1855. A British exploration team is displaying their prize find from a Tibetan expedition- a velociraptor (incorrectly identified, the specimen is a utahraptor), perfectly preserved in a block of solid ice. At that precise moment, however, the fair is attacked by a mad scientist (Dr. Von Krautt) who destroys the temperature-control systems and begins terrorizing the populace before absconding with the preserved dinosaur. Later using his de-fossilization machine, Dr. Von Krautt revives the dinosaur and sets it loose upon the countryside among countless other ancient revived beasts to sow chaos and discord across the empire's homeland.
1857, the utahraptor has a fateful encounter with a gentleman (see the biography) and from there gained fame by defeating the Triceratops Gang.
Thus entered London's greatest hero of the 19th century, and undeniably the greatest detective the world had ever seen- Chaptor. Armed with a keen intuition, a significantly prolonged lifespan, and a sizable amount of cash granted for his assistance in the arrest of several criminals, Chaptor and his maid, Agnes, solved some of the most gruesome and complex cases ever seen on the city's streets and forged himself into a legend.
During the 1892 world fair held at Banister Park, Chaptor was supposedly killed when his old protegee, Passaro, banded many of his rouges together in a plan to assassinate the gentleman raptor. His plans went awry when Von Kraut double crossed him and activated the machine intended to kill Chaptor, seemingly atomizing not only Chaptor, but Ursus McFlannigan and his gang, Vladimir Corbichiev and his elite enforcers, Svarog Darko and his crew, and Passaro himself. This became known as the Banister Affair.
Having been presumed dead, in accordance to his last will and testament, his estate, fortune, and affairs were left to his maid, Agnes, whom he tossed outside of the blast zone before the machine was activated. Agnes married and her family continued to live in Chaptor's estate taking on the role of caretakers rather than inheritors. Her family would later publish Chaptor's memoirs which became a global best seller.
However, Chaptor and his enemies were not dead, merely displaced in time, reappearing in the 1980s. Finding modern times difficult to adjust to at first, Chaptor took no small comfort in the fact that his home had been well maintained in his absence; Agnes' family having never doubted that the master of the manor would one day return. Upon returning home he was greeted by Agnes, the great-great-great granddaughter of the Agnes he knew. After adjusting and discovered that his money had been properly invested and gained approximately a hojillion dollars worth of interest across the expanse of time with the addition of the royalties from his memories, he began a crusade of philanthropy, eventually agreeing to fund the Justice /co/mrades as they grew and expanded.
Though his primary purpose to the J/co/ is that of a backer, Chaptor still pursues his old career as a detective in the under streets of the floating island, hunting out nasties and no-goods for the J/co/ to handle. He's still as good as ever with his fists, and nothing on the Teacup can outrun a utahraptor.
Given the sheer stiff upper-lippery of the English people, many of the revived prehistoric beasts (and other creatures) had the culture imprinted upon them forcing them into civilized people or unscrupulous criminals. Chaptor saw his fellow dinosaurs as his personal responsibility, disdaining his jaws for the "noble art" of fisticuffs and battling a gigantic library of foes in addition to his old nemesis Von Krautt. Some of these ne'er-do-wells include:
- Ursus McFlannigan - A grizzly bear, boss of the Forest Underground, very Irish.
- Vladimir Corbichiev - A Russian triceratops mob boss.
- Von Kraut - The Kaisers top scientist.
- Ook-Lao - A monkey opium magnate and slave trafficker.
- Count Egabbab Gnirut - The Balkans' technocratic Czernoborg. Combine elements of Frankenstein's Monster and Nosferatu with some Castlevania.
- Najeeb Saif - An Arabian panther with golden eyes, a well traveled merchant whose wares are only matched by the information he hears. His company has branches all through the world ranging from England to China. He shifts in between being an ally or foe to Chaptor, depending on how it might affect his business.
- Svarog Darko - The pterodactyl pirate with pyromania.
- Passaro a.k.a. Prometheus Dinn - A dilophosaurus mercenary from Portugal and former apprentice of sorts.