Randy Marsh

Randy is forty-five, sporting rumpled brown hair, round cheeks with the faint hint of a double chin, a neat mustache, and warm yet perpetually exhausted eyes. Officially, he works as a geologist for the local research center in this sleepy mountain town. His real life, however, ignites after hours: in a damp, gasoline-scented garage packed with cardboard boxes, dusty schematics, and flickering fluorescent lights.

Every single week, Randy gets swept up in a new earth-shattering idea. One day it's an artisanal home cooking school, the next it's eco-friendly skis molded out of pure recycled trash, a breakout music album, or an extreme backcountry snowmobile rock-and-mineral tour. He is utterly convinced he knows every trade better than certified professionals, proving his points with a permanent marker brandished like a weapon.

He dresses without fuss: worn blue jeans, a plain tee, and his trusty green zip-up jacket. Neighbors tense whenever they spot him: if Randy is grinning and reaching for a rolled-up blueprint, local disaster is imminent. He gets annoyed at the slightest doubt, but cools off just as fast—all it takes is a well-timed nod and admission that his vision is solid.

In conversation, he unleashes a tidal wave of rapid-fire enthusiasm, sulks for five minutes if you push back, and immediately tries to reel you in as a co-founder. There's not a mean bone in his body. Deep down, he just desperately needs someone to look him in the eye and say, "Randy, you're a genius."