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❝ you punched me in the face , you made me walk through 𝘀𝗵𝗶𝘁𝘁𝘆 water , brought me to a FUCKING CRACKHOUSE ( ! ) . . . and now , i’m gonna have to kill this fucking clown . ❞

𝖑𝖆𝖞𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖓𝖊 . dossier .

full name: richard james tozier.

nicknames:

primarily known as richie.

rich.

trashmouth.

bowers’ gang’s slew of derogatory nicknames.

‘chee.

age: twenty - one.

date of birth: march seventh.

place of birth: derry, maine.

nationality: american.

occupation:

college student.

bartender.

regular on the local college’s radio station.

sexual & romantic orientation: he’s gay, totally gay !

gender identity: cisgender male, using he/him pronouns.

hogwarts house: ravenclaw.

𝖑𝖆𝖞𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖜𝖔 . biographical .

richard james tozier, known affectionaly as richie or trashmouth, is the only son of wentworth and maggie tozier, and for the most part they’re a relatively unassuming family. wentworth is a dentist whose attitude towards his own son’s dental care is simultaneously strict and lax, and maggie makes a life out of spoiling the fuckshit out of her boys but she loves it. there’s nothing out of the ordinary about the little family they’ve built ; established in their routines, in their practices, the toziers are nothing to write home about.

richie’s a handful, admittedly. diagnosed with adhd when he turns four, he’s hyperactive, loud, histrionic, a sarcastic little smartass before he knows what any of those things are. he keeps himself entertained with comic books, drinking in their bright colours and their intricate storylines and develops an infinite love for their careworn pages and their impossible tales. they keep him grounded, strange as it is — - when all goes to shit, as it inevitably will, he’ll thumb through an old copy of uncanny x-men and the world doesn’t seem so heavy anymore. when he gets his first pair of glasses, thick - rimmed plastic frames and lenses more like coke bottles than actual lenses, he spends two hours spiraling deep into the familiar world of his comics. when he gets tripped up the first time, when he gets called fuckface or four - eyes or worse, he swallows back the lump in his throat and legs it home for his comics. when he’s reading, he’s not so hyperactive — - he still frantically jiggles one leg, but he’s quiet, introspective — - the silence is rare but comforting.

his sense of humour is sharp as anything, practised daily on his poor mother and father. he’s developed a slew of Voices, little impressions that differ only in tone and intention, but wentworth and maggie encourage him to keep working, keep building on them. his wit gets him into trouble at school, and numerous teachers have written in reports that richie’s got a bit of a reputation for being a class clown. ( humour is a desperate attempt to grab out, to latch onto a friend because really, he’s so fucking lonely it hurts and he just wants someone to laugh at him and entertain his endless bullshit and be there. )

shouldn’t have wished so hard for friends, because they come along in the form of the losers’ club. richie moreso stumbles across them than anything — - knew bill denbrough because they lived on the same block, found him fuckin’ round in the barrens with some other kids and hey, it’s like they’d been best friends forever. there’s bill, big bill, stuttering bill, de facto leader and richie’s unspoken idol. there’s stan, preternaturally neat and it’s like he came out of the womb like that, already a coherent amalgamation of smiles in his voice and rolled eyes. there’s mike, with his killawatt smile and good intentions and comforting voice that sets ease into richie’s perpetually rattled bones. ben, whose creativity and quiet reassurance is something richie pines after desperately. beverly, the only girl, cigarette-scented voice of rhyme and reason and rationality. then there’s eddie, and richie swallows up anything he can say about eddie before the words come out.

it’s painful, realising you’re in love with your best friend. it starts early, a quick glance here and there that lingers, a breath that catches in your throat when you see him smile. you try and push the feelings down, swallow them whole before they can infect every part of you but darling, it’s never that easy. by the time summer arrives, you are in far too deep. you never really recover from your pre - adolescent tango with love, and it develops into an adolescent waltz with it, and — - you get the picture.

what’s worse is knowing that you’re not the same as the others. you don’t look at beverly like bill and ben do, and you hate yourself for it. you wish you could find joy in the sweet smile of the girl that sits in front of you in english, but you find yourself drawn to the boy who snorts behind his hand at your mistimed joke. you hate the way it makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside. you hate yourself, but you won’t speak that into existence / choke on the jokes that burn like acid, swallow down the insults you hurl at yourself when you think no one is watching. trash the trashmouth --- - first one to hit the trashmouth where it hurts is the trashmouth himself.

summer brings — - well, it’s been years now and richie’s still lost for words that fit what that summer really was. it starts with a few kids going missing, ending up dead and then it’s george denbrough, little georgie, one arm chewed off and yellow slicker tainted sticky red and then the whole world seems to fall apart. bill’s a madman on a mission, and richie follows — - follows when it means getting taunted by a demon clown alien thing, when it means fucking fighting said demon alien clown thing, snapping eddie’s broken arm back into some kind of place whilst bated breaths are held back in case it hears. they beat it, and richie’s still not sure how but he knows that for six months after, he can’t look at a clown without digging bitten fingernails into calloused flesh of a palm. a year later, he still jumps at too - loud noises. two years later, he starts seeing a therapist because his parents have noticed he can’t sleep in the dark anymore.

he remembers the entirety of that summer in vivid clarity. he wishes he could forget.

high school, college applications, they all become a blur. the losers spend most nights together, endless double features, piling into cars, growing up and together and apart until the first one of them leaves, and it feels like taking a fucking bullet. slowly, they all scatter to the wind, memories firm but never forgotten and richie’s planning california, hot summers and comedy shows but he ends up in castle rock, only a stone’s throw away from derry.

he studies political science, because he’s got a weird aptitude for it. he finds comfort in arguing about trotskyism and writing essays about the fall of the third reich at 4 am in the morning, buzzing on caffeine and glued to the crackle of the tiny little television he bought with the majority of the money he saved for textbooks. he barely attends lectures, and manages to ace his classes because despite everything, he’s brilliant ( and no i won’t let this point go ). despite a well - earned reputation for clownery, he’s always been a brilliant kid and he never chose to go to school, so he never bothered applying himself. he chooses college, therefore he works and it shows.

the nightmares persist well after he thinks he’s over the events of that summer. he wakes up in a cold sweat, throat sore from screaming and clutching ripped sheets, and he can’t chase the nightmares away because they’re too real, they’re out there and he can’t stand that knowledge. he can’t deal with it, so he drinks instead. there’s a few jack daniels bottles stashed under his bed, and he won’t let anyone know about those or how painfully dependent he gets on the hot burn of whiskey down the back of his throat when the nightmares are bad and he’s sticking to threadbare sheets.

and yet, despite everything, he does his best not to change --- same sense of humour, all bark and no bite, tinged with a wide grin and sleep - tousled bedhead. despite everything, he’s still the same old richie, still loudmouthed and too quick for his own good and too much fun to be around.

anyways i love richie tozier a lot thank you for coming to my ted talk

𝖑𝖆𝖞𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖊𝖊 . fun facts .

he currently has a radio show on the college radio station, played in the early hours of the morning. it keeps him up and keeps his nightmares away, for the most part. his Voices have been getting gradually better, and he’s been considering doing a segment on his radio show using them.

his entire room that he rents in a sharehouse is covered in film and music posters, not in frames yet bc he’s not that kind of adult yet. he fucking loves star wars, and he thinks empire strikes back is the coolest fucking thing he’s ever seen. he’s an avid pop culture junkie, swallows it all up and ingests it until he’s glowing with it all.

he works as a bartender to make ends meet, amongst other things. he hasn’t been fired for drinking bourbon from the bottle yet, so that’s good for him.

he bought his first car when he was about seventeen, and he loves the damn thing even though it’s pretty much worthy of nothing but the local trash heap.

dresses like a fucking idiot but has that ever changed

slowly he’s thinking about veering out into comedy n i support it for him. ur not jerry seinfeld but try ur best sweetie

a girl blew him a kiss in high school and he pretended like he got shot and ‘ died ’ in mike’s arms. end scene