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Guess the Type of this Fictional Character

Mal12345

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From the book "Final Impact" by John Birmingham:

A born conservative, even as a kid in the projects he’d never had time for politically correct bullshit.
In his America men and women, black or white, got the chance to make a success out of life. And if
they didn’t succeed, it was probably their own fucking fault. He’d gotten no special treatment from the
corps, but he’d suffered no discrimination, either. Every decoration he had pinned to his dress
uniform had been honestly earned, mostly by killing people who badly needed it. The Bible at his
bedside table had lain beside his daddy’s pillow, and like his daddy he allowed himself one reading
every night that it was possible, starting at Genesis and slowly working his way through to
Revelation, before going back and starting all over again.

He had supported the same baseball team - the Cubs - for thirty-five years. The same basketball team - the
Bulls - for thirty-six. He loved his country, his corps, his friends, and his family, most especially
his wife who was, as he never tired of telling people, as white as the Grand Cyclops of the Ku Klux
Klan. By way of contrast General J. Lonesome Jones disliked whining left-wingers, network news
broadcasts, and steamed brussels sprouts all about equally.

He wasn’t the sort who saw himself as the victim of anything.

Yet nearly every time he had to deal with the ‘temps, it seemed like he was instantly cast in bronze as
the object of their fear and loathing. At the very best they treated him with a stiff reserve. That was
the standard response whenever task force business took him down to Camp Pendleton to meet with
the “old” Marine Corps brass. He was treated with courtesy, and every formality due his rank. But
never once were the informalities observed. Even after Hawaii, he’d never been invited to take a
drink or share a meal with anyone at Pendleton.

Jones pressed his lips together as his boots crunched along the gravel path. The insults to his own
dignity he could suffer in silence. He didn’t give a shit about the opinions of ignorant assholes. But
the endless shitcanning of his marines was intolerable.
 

hjgbujhghg

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wow...idk but I really liked it
 

Reborn Relic

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xSTJ. Tendency to be set in his ways suggests Si slightly, but Te/Fi is definite due to having grown up in the projects but not supporting the general mentality of the projects. TJ apparent in that he was able to pull himself out and avoided falling prey to risks. Dismissiveness is stereotypically TJ as well.


Probably ESTJ due to intimidation factor.
 

Mal12345

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xSTJ. Tendency to be set in his ways suggests Si slightly, but Te/Fi is definite due to having grown up in the projects but not supporting the general mentality of the projects. TJ apparent in that he was able to pull himself out and avoided falling prey to risks. Dismissiveness is stereotypically TJ as well.


Probably ESTJ due to intimidation factor.

Good point. But ultimately, resolving the xSTJ dilemma might come down to the desire to enforce and extend order over the external realm versus the more intellectual process of disagreeing with people who seem ignorant of the facts ("He didn’t give a shit about the opinions of ignorant assholes"). Both types do enforce order, but the ISTJ does so in a smaller realm of influence or control (as in an established home or business; "My house, my rules."), while the ESTJ seeks to extend this realm (take-over attempts). Saddam Hussein was an example of the latter.

I think "General Jones" is an ISTJ, but I'm not sure.
 

Mal12345

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By the way, 'temps are contemporaries, in other words, people from the present time and not from the future.
 

Mal12345

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As I read this book I run across more interesting characters including Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Various MBTI sites say he was an ENTJ, or sometimes an ESTP. But in this book he comes across as an ESTJ, committed merely to watching his back, defending his political allies, and screaming at an admiral when he goes off and does things without telling him about it first. The admiral in this case is Kolhammer, who is from the year 2021.

Kolhammer, alone in a meeting with Roosevelt, is pondering something...

...Roosevelt had known the murderer’s identity for well over a year, and Kolhammer had suppressed it
for the entire time, much to the disgust of the only other two uptimers [future people from 2021 - Mal]
who also knew: Doc Francois and Lonesome Jones. The commandant of the Special Administrative Zone [California]
felt sick whenever he thought about it. He had given his word that he wouldn’t go public with the information,
and he had extracted the same promise from both Francois and Jones, on the understanding that justice would be
done.

But it hadn’t been, and now he had to stand here being dressed down about Hoover when the vicious
old fag [Hoover, known for being a cross-dresser] had brought ruin on himself. It was enough to
make him throw up his hands and walk away. And he might have, too, if not for Roosevelt’s next move.

“I want you to sign this, Admiral.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

Kolhammer came back to earth with a thud. The president had taken a piece of paper out of a desk
drawer, and he was holding it out for the admiral.

That entire confrontation demonstrates an interaction between an ESTJ (Roosevelt) and an ISTJ (Kolhammer). The ISTJ is being severely reprimanded by an ESTJ and the most powerful man in the free world. But he still manages to go off into a reverie about an entirely different issue involving Roosevelt, until the latter brings him back down to earth "with a thud."
 

Mal12345

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Another super-cool character from this amazing book:

The planning room of the [Japanese battleship] Yamato did not run to flat-panel plasma screens or digital projectors. In
fact, it looked very much as it had in the first days of June 1942, before the Emergence.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. The plotting table looked infinitely worse for Imperial Japan. Yet
Grand Admiral Yamamoto betrayed none of the fears eating at his insides as he surveyed the situation.
Elements of the army continued their assault against Australian forces in northwestern New Guinea,
on Bougainville, and in Timor. But they had been reduced to a sideshow by MacArthur, and were
operating almost as guerrilla forces-a task made all the more difficult by their complete lack of
support among the native populations on those islands.

He bit down on a disgusted grunt as he pondered the situation in the Dutch East Indies, or Indonesia
as it was now calling itself, where that scabrous dog Moertopo had come back to haunt him.
Yamamoto could feel his heart begin to beat faster as he contemplated the depth of Moertopo’s
villainy. They should have just executed him in 1942, as Hidaka had suggested.

Instead he’d been installed as the puppet governor of some obscure Javanese province. From there he
had secretly built up his own peasant militia, which had arisen and stabbed the Imperial Japanese
Army in the back when MacArthur invaded in November 1943.

At first nobody paid them any heed. Loyalists under the local general Sukarno were dispatched to
deal with them-and were slaughtered to the last man. Only then did the scope of Moertopo’s betrayal
become clear. He had clandestinely hosted a large deployment of Australian SAS troops, who had
been training and equipping his rebels for almost as long as the little wretch had been taking the
emperor’s coin. Now he sat in Jakarta, the puppet president of the so-called Republic of Indonesia,
having declared independence from Holland and Japan-with the full backing of his new protectors.
Yamamoto’s humiliation at having been played for a fool by such a creature was compounded by his
total inability to do anything about it. The emperor’s forces were in retreat on so many fronts, they
didn’t have the resources to do anything about Moertopo.

For the moment all his energies were devoted to the looming Battle of the Marianas. If and when they
fell, two things would follow. The U.S. Army Air Force would begin its systematic destruction of
Japan’s industrialized cities, and the Philippines would likely be taken by Allied forces, robbing
Japan of her most important colonial prize and cutting off a vital source of raw materials. Staring at
the diabolical state of affairs represented on the giant tabletop display, Yamamoto wanted nothing
more than to collapse into a chair, let his head fall into his hands, and scream out his frustrations.

But he stood impassively as his underlings pushed markers around this miniature world, while others
argued minor points of strategy and tactics. Directly across the table from him generals Takeshima
and Obata continued their never-ending feud over the relative importance of reinforcing Guam,
Saipan, or the Tinian Islands. No matter how much he tried to get them to think in terms of “joint
warfare,” as the Allies now called their combined arms operations, the two men were emblematic of
the Japanese army’s failure to comprehend how much had changed in just two years. He regretted
ever inviting them to his planning meetings.

Soon, however, they would understand that no matter how formidable they made their defenses, they
would be overcome. Only the most ignorant xenophobe still believed in the myth of the decadent
democracies. They had proven themselves more than capable of inflicting and absorbing the most
grievous harm. Yamamoto didn’t know whether the arrival of the Emergence barbarians-to use the
popular phrase-had added anything to the hardening of the democracies’ warrior spirit, but he doubted
it. Everything he’d read from the documents of the future, about how this war would have gone, told
him that Japan and Germany had been doomed, simply because they couldn’t beat the Allies in the
atomic race.

As the iron behemoth of the Yamato pitched gently beneath his feet on the Pacific swell, he wondered
if he had done enough. Realistically, no. Despite everything that had changed, in many ways things
had proceeded just as they’d been “meant” to. He was about to fight the Battle of the Marianas at
roughly the same time it had been fought in Kolhammer’s world, and the Allies were actually ashore
in France a month earlier than would otherwise have been the case. He, of course, had had nothing to
do with the defense of the Marianas in the original time frame, having been killed in 1943. But he
spent very little time worrying about his personal fate. The world was now full of those who should
be dead, but weren’t, and those who were dead when they should have lived.

His old enemies Nimitz and Halsey were numbered among the latter, and he could not help but feel
some residual shame about that. Unlike many others, he did not blame Hidaka for the loss of the
Hawaiian Islands. The young officer had been appointed as the civil governor of the colony, not its
military ruler.

That responsibility had fallen to General Ono, and the phantom soldiers of the Negro marines’ unit,
the Eighty-second, had murdered him just before the first rocket impact. A terrible thing it had been,
too, the way they had ritually humiliated him in his death, and then openly proclaimed their savagery
as a valid punishment for his “crimes.” Yamamoto often wondered if that was to be his fate one day.
At any rate, Hidaka could not be held responsible for losing the islands. He could, however, be
blamed for the abuses of the Americans held under his control, which had done so much to enrage
their countrymen and allies, spurring them on to greater efforts in retaking the territory.

Similarly, all the blood and treasure spent in the failed conquest of Australia had come to naught. His
forces had been driven from that island continent, and Prime Minister Curtin had then turned around
and released the Australians who came through the Emergence, allowing them to assist in the retaking
of Hawaii and the hunt for the Dessaix-it was exactly what Yamamoto had hoped to avoid. All of it
attributable, in his opinion, to the ham-fisted brutality of Hidaka. Yamamoto’s vision glazed over. His
mind wandered away from the hot, rank planning room and back to the images of Japan’s short-lived
occupation of Hawaii. He could not help feeling some approval at the form of Halsey’s death. The
man had lived up to his nickname, charging like a bull at a company of Japanese marines, pistols
blazing in both hands as they shot him down. Nimitz, however, had been summarily executed, as had
hundreds of other high-ranking officers. It was an act of criminal stupidity, given the intelligence that
might have been extracted from them, and-Yamamoto fervently believed-it was barbarous. Unworthy
of a true warrior.

Hidaka had no excuses for that. Like Yamamoto, he had been educated in America, and he understood
the nature of his enemy with much greater fidelity than many of their countrymen. Perhaps, more to the
point, he did not understand himself and his own culture well enough. There was nothing in the code
of bushido that should lead a true samurai to commit such grotesque atrocities as Hidaka had visited
upon his vanquished foes.

A sigh at last escaped Yamamoto. A small exhalation of stale air, and a slumping of the shoulders
under the weight of his own responsibility for all that had transpired. Around him, preparations
continued without pause. Messengers arrived. Junior officers attended to the demands of their
superiors. Staff officers worked through scenarios they had examined from every possible angle
uncountable times before. Intelligence about the enemy’s movements arrived as the tiniest drops of ice
water on the swollen tongue of a man dying from thirst. It wasn’t just that the Allies had access to
unbreakable cryptography, thanks to Kolhammer. Not every unit in their order of battle could be so
equipped. But there was also a tsunami of disinformation to be picked through, hundreds of thousands
of false radio messages sent quite openly, to distract and disarm.

And regardless of the restrained but growing excitement around him, Yamamoto was transfixed by
something that frightened him more than all else, something nobody here seemed to see: the specter of
the world he was working to create. A world in which men like Jisaku Hidaka and Heinrich Himmler
were armed with atomic weapons.

What type? (Hint: "And regardless of the restrained but growing excitement around him, Yamamoto was transfixed by
something that frightened him more than all else, something nobody here seemed to see...")
 
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