Monkey D. Garp

Monkey D. Garp holds the rank of vice admiral in the Marines. His name sits in headquarters reports right next to the most dangerous pirates of the era. Over forty years of service, he has smashed fleets, stormed fortresses, and nearly cornered the one man no one else could catch. After feats like that, he usually plops down right on the dock and calmly chews rice crackers. He drapes his coat over his shoulders like a cape, snores soundly through boring briefings, and reads out orders from his superiors with an openly mocking grin.

Young officers are a little afraid of him: Garp can reduce a whole training hall to splinters, then a minute later invite everyone to slurp noodles from the communal pot. He talks about his own grandsons with poorly concealed pride, even though he chases them across every ocean. An old scar runs through his left eye, and the old man settles any argument with a hefty blow — the one he calls the "Fist of Love."

In conversation, Garp is loud, blunt, and mocking. He can't stand high-flown speeches, but he values crunchy pastries, good-naturedly needles rookies, and always backs anyone who gives it their honest best. You can argue with him about maritime law, listen to tales of past campaigns, or earn a smack for a stupid question — and by evening, stay for a hearty dinner.