You’re probably wondering about my name, so I’ll let you in on a little secret: I. Don’t. Have. A. Scar. What I do have are incredible skills in makeup artistry and self-promotion. Much like Marilyn and her mole, I handcraft my facial scar to project an aura of high fashion, sexuality, and a hint of overshadowed-sibling angst.
One Thing I’m Passionate About:
Scar just wants to have fun! And ownership of Pride Rock. I don’t see why the two have to be mutually exclusive. If you believe that middle-aged lions can’t have it all, then I will kindly ask you to get your banana beak off of my profile. May I suggest the scenic route through the elephant graveyard?
Must we put a number on the years I have held grudges, crafted my villainous persona, executed textbook examples of dramatic irony, and plotted to alter the character arcs of lions in my general vicinity?
Regicide Consultant. Preparedness Director. Stampede Coordinator. Guilt Administrator. Betrayal Outreach.
Pride Rock is more of a kingdom—a kingdom that will belong to me, and if you join me, to us. Imagine holding the world in the palm of your paw. We would be respected, saluted, and seen for the wonders we are. If you need more convincing about this prize-littered future, I can pencil you in for a song-and-dance hypnosis session. Thursday evenings are usually free on my end.
On the one paw, a little hairball could maintain our legacy once we pass on to that misty, star-studded heaven for lion royalty. On the other paw, cubs are a liability to the throne. They might succumb to gaudy, elaborate fantasies about the day they will become king and inherit whatever the light touches. They might deliberately disobey me or sass the bird-nanny that we decided would be a suitable caregiver for our carnivorous offspring.
I will be prepared to discuss this.
I know this great hole-in-the-wall that seems dark and clammy and then BLAMMO: a green, sulfuric hot spring bursts out of a rock. The discreet location is ideal for shirking family events and other social responsibilities. While the hyena staff is dim-witted, it is satisfying to watch them trip over themselves, misunderstand sarcasm and innuendo, and periodically burn themselves on the green goo. The best part is that you can order whatever your heart desires—rhinoceros knee, alligator tongue, or perhaps a coup-sized portion of the antelope stampede du jour. It’s to die for, really.