Tactical Tuesdays: Street Casting
Tactical Tuesdays: Calling Central Casting, Extended Cut
Pulling the right crook for the right role in The Worlds of Pulp™
Fantasy game masters have it easy. When a war band of orcs crests the ridge, nobody at the table wonders whose side they’re on. Goblins, ogres, dark sorcerers in spiked crowns, and dragons the size of cathedrals all announce themselves on arrival. The monster looks like a monster, and your players reach for their dice.
Urban crime gaming offers no such courtesy. In a crime drama, the villain is just a guy. He’s waiting at the bus stop, ordering a coffee, or leaning on a lamppost with his hands in his pockets. Without the right details, the most dangerous man in the city looks exactly like the fellow who fixes your transmission. And “just people” are hard to define at the table.
That’s why crime movies and television lean so hard on visual shorthand. The gangster wears pinstripes. The gambler has the loose tie and the bloodshot eyes. Hollywood calls this central casting, and it exists for a reason. The audience needs to know who’s who before the first shot is fired.
Last time, we opened the casting office with five classic types. Today, we’re throwing the doors wide. You’ll find the original five plus the soldiers, street punks, cartel heavies, mob royalty, and specialists that every crime drama needs. Each one comes with a look, a voice, a lifestyle, and a ride, so you can drop them into a scene and have your players reading them in a single sentence.
Why Urban Crime Characters Need a Costume
Caricature isn’t lazy when you use it on purpose. A broad type gives your players a handle. Sharp details make that handle feel real.
Think of it this way. In a fantasy dungeon, the creature’s species does the heavy lifting. In a city, the details do it instead:
- Scars and tattoos tell your players where someone has been.
- Jewelry and clothing tell them how much money someone has, and how they got it.
- Speech patterns tell them whether to negotiate, run, or draw.
- The car at the curb tells them what kind of trouble just pulled up.
Two or three of those details, delivered with confidence, beat a paragraph of exposition every time. Here’s your casting sheet.
Street Level: The Ones You Meet First
These are the faces your heroes bump into on day one. They’re loud, visible, and usually the first thread that leads to something bigger.
The Street Punk
He’s young, angry, and trying very hard to be noticed by someone important. He isn’t in the organization yet. He wants in so badly he can taste it.
The Look: A hoodie or a thrift-store bomber jacket, ripped jeans, and sneakers held together with tape. A homemade stick-and-poke tattoo on his knuckles that’s slightly misspelled. A fresh split lip, a cheap knockoff watch, and a switchblade he flips open just to hear the click.
The Talk: Loud, profane, and full of borrowed lines from movies. He talks big because he’s small. “You know who I run with? You don’t want to find out.” He laughs at his own jokes before anyone else can decide whether they’re funny.
The Lifestyle: Corner stores, bus shelters, skate parks, and his cousin’s couch. He shoplifts, boosts car stereos, and runs errands for anyone who’ll give him twenty bucks and a nod. He’s the easiest NPC to intimidate and the hardest to predict.
The Ride: A stolen bicycle, a scooter with a busted headlight, or the back seat of a friend’s beater. If he’s got wheels of his own, they belong to somebody else.
The Street Thug
He’s muscle, plain and simple. He isn’t the brains, and he doesn’t want to be.
The Look: A heavy frame in a tracksuit or a battered leather jacket. Busted knuckles, a nose broken more than once, and a cheap chain around a thick neck. A teardrop or crude jailhouse tattoo on the back of his hand.
The Talk: Short and blunt. “Boss wants to see you.” “Wrong neighborhood, pal.” When he says something clever, it’s usually a threat.
The Lifestyle: Debt collection, door duty, and standing behind somebody important looking menacing. He lifts weights in a basement gym and spends his pay as fast as he earns it.
The Ride: An old muscle car with primer patches and a loud engine, or the passenger seat of whatever the boss drives.
The Gang Banger
He’s loyal to the block, the crew, and the colors. Where the thug works for money, the banger works for belonging.
The Look: Crew colors worn proudly on a bandana, ball cap, or jacket. Gang tattoos on his forearms, neck, or knuckles, each one a chapter of his story. Fresh sneakers, always spotless.
The Talk: Thick with neighborhood slang and coded language outsiders struggle to follow. Respect is everything. Disrespect him in front of his crew, and the scene escalates fast.
The Lifestyle: Street corners, parks after dark, and a tight circle closer than family. He knows every alley, shortcut, and rooftop in his territory. That makes him a terrific guide if your players can earn his trust.
The Ride: A lowered, custom-painted classic with chrome rims and a sound system you feel in your chest. Or a fast motorcycle that splits lanes like a knife.
The Street Informant
Every detective in fiction has one. He sees everything, hears everything, and sells all of it to whoever is buying.
The Look: Rumpled, forgettable, and slightly twitchy. A stained windbreaker, a wool cap pulled low, and nicotine-yellow fingers. A pair of mismatched earrings and a nervous habit of checking the street over your shoulder.
The Talk: Whispered, rapid, and always angling. “I didn’t hear it from nobody, you understand? But maybe, maybe, there’s a shipment Thursday.” Everything has a price, and the price goes up when he’s scared.
The Lifestyle: Diners, pool halls, pawn shops, and payphones that still somehow work. He plays every side against the middle and lives one bad rumor away from the bottom of the river.
The Ride: City buses and taxis he can’t afford. If he owns a car, it’s a rusty compact with a dead taillight and a passenger door that only opens from the inside.
The Gamblers and the Hustlers
These characters don’t break legs. They break promises, bank accounts, and hearts.
The Down-on-His-Luck Gambler
Every crime story needs somebody desperate, and nobody’s more desperate than a man who owes the wrong people.
The Look: A suit that was sharp five years ago. Frayed cuffs, a loose tie, stubble, and tired eyes. A lucky silver dollar he rolls across his knuckles, and a pale band where a wedding ring used to be.
The Talk: Fast and hopeful, always one bet from turning it around. “I got a system this time. Swear to God, this is the one.” He speaks in odds, spreads, and long shots.
The Lifestyle: Back rooms, racetracks, and all-night card games. He sleeps in a weekly-rate motel and eats from vending machines. He’s a perfect informant because he’ll sell anything, including the truth.
The Ride: A dented two-door coupe with a cracked windshield and a parking ticket under the wiper. On a hot streak, a rented convertible he can’t afford.
The Con Artist
She can sell you your own wallet and make you thank her for the bargain. The con artist doesn’t steal. She convinces you to hand it over.
The Look: Whatever the mark wants to see. Today, it’s a tailored blazer, pearl earrings, and reading glasses she doesn’t need. Tomorrow, it’s a nurse’s scrubs or a priest’s collar. The only constant is a tiny tattoo of a playing card hidden behind one ear.
The Talk: Warm, flattering, and endlessly patient. She mirrors your speech, remembers your kids’ names, and laughs at all your jokes. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly. Well, if you insist.”
The Lifestyle: Hotel lobbies, charity galas, country clubs, and online dating apps. She keeps three phones, five identities, and a go-bag packed by the door at all times.
The Ride: A leased luxury coupe that matches her current alias. When the con collapses, a plain rental sedan pointed at the nearest interstate.
The Crew: Soldiers of the Organization
Above the street, crime gets organized. These are the men and women who keep the machine running, day after day.
The Crew Member
He’s a mid-level soldier, a made guy or close to it. He’s no longer hustling on corners, but he’s a long way from the corner office.
The Look: Business casual with an edge. A dark button-down open at the collar, a gold chain with a religious medal, and a leather car coat. A knife scar along his jaw from his first year on the job, and a modest diamond stud he earned on his last promotion.
The Talk: Confident, loyal, and careful around outsiders. He speaks in euphemisms because phones have ears. “We gotta take care of that thing.” “He’s not with us anymore.”
The Lifestyle: He runs a piece of the business: a numbers route, a protection racket, a chop shop, or a string of vending machines. Sunday dinner with his mother, Tuesday nights at the social club, and every other hour on call for the boss.
The Ride: A late-model American sedan in a sensible color. It’s clean, fast, and unremarkable, with a trunk big enough for whatever the night requires.
The Getaway Driver
When the job goes loud, everyone’s life depends on one person. He doesn’t carry a gun. He carries the keys.
The Look: Driving gloves, aviator sunglasses, and a scuffed racing jacket. Calloused hands, a burn scar on one forearm from a crash he walked away from, and a toothpick he chews when he’s thinking.
The Talk: Minimal. He counts, he listens, and he watches the mirrors. “Five minutes. Not six. Five.” When he does talk, it’s usually about engines.
The Lifestyle: Garages, quarter-mile tracks, and scanner chatter at two in the morning. He memorizes city streets the way other people memorize song lyrics, and he never takes the same route twice.
The Ride: Something fast that blends in. A modified family sedan with a supercharged engine, swapped plates, and a police scanner bolted under the dash.
The Smuggler
She moves things from where they are to where they aren’t supposed to be. Guns, cash, artifacts, people: if it pays, it travels.
The Look: Practical and forgettable on purpose. A canvas work jacket, cargo pants, and steel-toed boots. A faded nautical tattoo on her wrist, a burn scar on one palm, and an expensive watch, because timing is everything.
The Talk: Clipped and careful. She speaks in schedules, routes, and percentages. “Pier 9, two a.m. Cash only. Be late and I’m gone.”
The Lifestyle: Warehouses, shipping docks, truck stops, and private airstrips. She has contacts in customs, a stash of fake IDs, and a firm rule about never asking what’s in the crate.
The Ride: A plain white cargo van with a fake plumbing logo and a hidden compartment behind the back wall. For quick exits, a cigarette boat tied up at the marina.
The Fence
Stolen goods are worthless until someone turns them into cash. That someone runs a pawn shop with a very interesting back room.
The Look: A cardigan, half-moon glasses on a chain, and a jeweler’s loupe always within reach. Rings on every finger, none of them his originally.
The Talk: Dry, unimpressed, and always lowballing. “Hot merchandise, hot price. Thirty cents on the dollar, take it or leave it.”
The Lifestyle: Behind the counter of a shop that sells everything from guitars to grandfather clocks. He knows which cops look the other way and which collectors don’t ask questions.
The Ride: A wood-paneled station wagon with a hundred thousand miles on it and a false floor in the cargo area.
The Cartel: Empire Built on Fear
Cartel figures play at a different scale. Their reach crosses borders, and their violence makes headlines. In fiction, they work best as a pyramid your players climb one level at a time.
The Cartel Enforcer
He’s the message the cartel sends when words stop working. Your heroes will usually meet him right after something has gone very wrong.
The Look: Combat boots, dark denim, and a fitted black shirt under a tactical vest. A full sleeve of skull and saint tattoos, a gold tooth, and dead eyes that never quite blink enough. A heavy watch and a rosary he never removes.
The Talk: Quiet and economical. He doesn’t threaten. He states facts. “You took something. Now we take something.”
The Lifestyle: Safe houses, desert compounds, and warehouses with drains in the floor. He trains constantly, sleeps lightly, and follows orders without question.
The Ride: A blacked-out pickup truck with a lift kit, a reinforced grille, and armor plating in the doors. He usually travels in a convoy of three.
The Cartel Lieutenant
She manages a region, a route, or an entire city’s supply. She’s smart enough to stay out of the spotlight and ruthless enough to stay alive.
The Look: Expensive and understated. A silk blouse, designer sunglasses pushed up into her hair, and a gold cuff bracelet shaped like a coiled serpent. A thin scar on her collarbone she covers with a scarf when she’s meeting bankers.
The Talk: Bilingual, businesslike, and fluent in logistics. She speaks about product, margins, and territory like a regional sales director. “Your losses are now my losses. That’s a problem we’ll solve together, or I’ll solve alone.”
The Lifestyle: A penthouse rented under a shell company, a nightclub she owns on paper, and a team of accountants who never ask how she pays them. She’s always auditioning for the top job.
The Ride: A white luxury SUV with diplomatic-grade tint, followed at a polite distance by a second car full of security.
The Cartel Kingpin
He’s the legend. Half the city believes he’s a myth. The other half has seen what happens to people who say his name too loudly.
The Look: Older, heavier, and dressed like a wealthy rancher. A crisp guayabera or embroidered western shirt, snakeskin boots, and a solid gold belt buckle. Diamond rings, a gold-plated pistol on display in his study, and a jagged scar on his hand from the day he took over.
The Talk: Fatherly, generous, and terrifying. He offers you food, asks about your family, and makes it very clear that he already knows their address. “In my house, you are a guest. Outside my house, you are on your own.”
The Lifestyle: A walled estate with exotic animals, private chapels, and tunnels beneath the property. He funds local schools and soccer teams, because loyalty is cheaper than bullets.
The Ride: A restored vintage limousine for show, an armored SUV for business, and a private jet for when things go sideways.
Organized Crime: The Family Business
The mob runs on tradition, hierarchy, and silence. If the cartel is a hurricane, the family is a slow, steady tide that never stops coming in.
The Flashy Gangster
He’s the boss, or he wants you to think he is. Everything about him says money, and most of it says new money.
The Look: A tailored suit in charcoal or deep burgundy, a silk pocket square, and a gold pinky ring he taps on the table while he thinks. A thin white scar through one eyebrow he never explains. His shoes cost more than your car.
The Talk: Calm, slow, and polite. That’s the scary part. He calls people “my friend” right before something bad happens to them. “We’re businessmen here. Let’s do business.”
The Lifestyle: A reserved corner booth at a supper club, cigars, espresso, and a driver who doubles as a bodyguard. He owns a laundromat, a car wash, and a restaurant, and none of them need customers.
The Ride: A black luxury sedan with tinted windows, polished until it reflects the streetlights. For a statement, a vintage convertible in candy-apple red.
The Underboss
He’s second in command and first in line. He handles the day-to-day so the boss can stay clean, and he’s always calculating how long the boss will last.
The Look: A dark three-piece suit, wire-rimmed glasses, and a tie bar engraved with the family crest. Graying temples, a wedding band he twists when annoyed, and a faded tattoo on his forearm from his days as a soldier.
The Talk: Measured and diplomatic, with a cold edge. He speaks for the boss and never forgets to remind people of it. “The old man is disappointed. I’m here so it doesn’t go further than that.”
The Lifestyle: The back office of a social club, the front pew at church, and a suburban home with a perfect lawn. He knows where every dollar goes, and where every body is buried.
The Ride: A dark European sedan, always freshly washed, with a driver and an armed passenger in the front seat.
The Consigliere
He’s the counselor, the voice of reason, and often the smartest man in the room. He isn’t blood, but the family can’t function without him.
The Look: An older gentleman in a rumpled linen suit, half-moon reading glasses, and a pocket watch on a chain. No visible scars. His wounds are all on the inside.
The Talk: Soft, thoughtful, and full of old proverbs. He asks questions instead of giving orders. “Before we act, consider what it will cost us. And what it will cost them.”
The Lifestyle: A law office with leather-bound books, long lunches, and quiet meetings in public parks. He brokers peace between families and argues the boss out of his worst ideas.
The Ride: A well-kept vintage sedan he’s owned for thirty years. He drives himself, slowly, and always signals.
The Fixer
When something breaks, he makes it go away. Bodies, scandals, witnesses, and paper trails all disappear the moment he gets the call.
The Look: Sharp, practical, and polished. A navy suit, a crisp white shirt, and a burner phone in every pocket. No jewelry except a plain steel watch, and a small scar under his chin from a client who didn’t like his bill.
The Talk: Direct and unflappable. He never raises his voice and never asks why. “Tell me what happened. Leave nothing out. Then go home and forget we spoke.”
The Lifestyle: Hotel bars, private airfields, and the private phone numbers of judges, coroners, and reporters. He works for the highest bidder and keeps very good records.
The Ride: A black town car with a partition, or whatever vehicle best fits the cleanup job. He keeps a cleaning van on standby across town.
The Hitman
He’s a professional. He doesn’t care about grudges, colors, or loyalty. He cares about the contract.
The Look: Utterly forgettable. A gray overcoat, plain gloves, and a face nobody remembers. A single small tattoo on the inside of his wrist, perhaps a date or a number, and a long scar on his ribs hidden beneath his shirt.
The Talk: Almost none. When he speaks, it’s polite and precise. “Nothing personal.” “It’s already done.” He never repeats himself.
The Lifestyle: Rented apartments, roadside motels, and long stretches of waiting. He reads classic novels, cooks for himself, and never stays in one city longer than he must.
The Ride: A beige midsize sedan rented under a false name. Nobody looks twice, and that’s the point.
The Wild Cards: Trouble on Both Sides of the Law
Some of the most memorable crime characters don’t fit neatly into any organization. They’re the twist that turns a plot on its head.
The Corrupt Cop
He wears the badge, but someone else pays his mortgage. He’s your heroes’ best ally until the moment he isn’t.
The Look: A detective’s wrinkled suit or a patrol uniform worn a little too loose. A wedding ring, a cheap department-store tie, and a very expensive watch that doesn’t match the rest of him. A scar on his knuckles from a suspect who “resisted.”
The Talk: Cynical, world-weary, and full of cop jargon. He calls everyone “pal” or “sport.” “Look, I’m doing you a favor here. Don’t make me regret it.”
The Lifestyle: Precinct break rooms, cop bars, and envelopes slid across diner tables. He’s got a vacation home he can’t explain and an internal affairs file that grows thicker every year.
The Ride: An unmarked police cruiser with a dashboard light, or a brand-new pickup truck that’s well above a cop’s salary.
The Femme Fatale
She’s the oldest trick in crime fiction, and still one of the most effective. She walks into the scene, and your players immediately forget what they came for.
The Look: Glamorous, deliberate, and always dressed for the role. A fitted evening dress or a sharp trench coat, red lipstick, and long gloves. A delicate necklace with a locket she won’t open, and a tiny scar on her lip she touches when she lies.
The Talk: Smoky, clever, and laced with double meaning. She answers questions with questions. “You want to know what I’m hiding? Maybe you should ask what I’m protecting.”
The Lifestyle: Jazz clubs, rooftop bars, and the arm of whichever powerful man serves her plans tonight. She always has a hidden agenda, and occasionally a hidden pistol in her handbag.
The Ride: A vintage roadster in midnight blue, or the back seat of a chauffeured limousine that belongs to a man who thinks he owns her.
How to Use Crime Archetypes at the Table
You don’t need every detail at once. When your players walk into a scene, give them two or three sharp images. The pinky ring. The cracked windshield. The rosary on the enforcer’s wrist. Their imaginations will fill in the rest.
Here’s a simple process for casting on the fly:
- Pick the role first. Decide what the scene needs: muscle, information, temptation, or threat.
- Grab the archetype. Pull the closest match from the casting sheet.
- Choose one physical detail and one speech quirk. That’s enough to make the NPC memorable.
- Park the right car outside. The ride tells your players what just showed up, often before anyone says a word.
- Twist the type later. Once your players think they’ve figured someone out, reveal what’s underneath.
That last step matters. Archetypes give you a running start, which frees you to surprise people. The flashy gangster who’s secretly terrified. The thug who quotes poetry. The consigliere who has been feeding the cartel all along. The femme fatale who turns out to be the only honest person in town.
Casting Mistakes to Avoid
- Overloading the description. Five tattoos, three scars, and a monologue bury the point. Pick the details that matter.
- Making every crook the same. A cartel enforcer and a mob soldier should feel different at the table. Use speech and lifestyle to separate them.
- Forgetting the human underneath. Even a caricature needs a want. Give each NPC one goal, and they’ll start acting on their own.
- Leaning on real-world prejudice. Build your types from costume, attitude, and behavior, not from ethnicity or nationality. Pulp works best when the shorthand is about choices, not origins.
Key Takeaways
- Urban villains don’t look like monsters, so details do the work that fantasy species normally handle.
- Every archetype needs a look, a voice, a lifestyle, and a ride.
- Organize your criminals into tiers, from street punks to kingpins, so your players can climb the ladder.
- Use two or three details per introduction, then twist the type once players think they know the character.
Roll Camera
This is exactly why The Worlds of Pulp™ plays so well as a crime drama. Character creation takes minutes, not hours, so you can pull a fixer, a getaway driver, or a cartel lieutenant straight off the casting sheet, assign a few quick numbers, and drop them into the scene before your players finish arguing about their next move. At Scaldcrow Games, we specialize in fast, story-first pulp gaming, because a good crime story never stops to check the rulebook.
Head over to Scaldcrow.com to grab The Worlds of Pulp™ core rules, and become a reader of The Cosmic Skull newsletter for more Pocket Worlds™ and tactical tips every week. Then open your casting sheet, call your crooks to the set, and roll camera.
See you next Tuesday.erence between victory and a headline in tomorrow’s newspaper.
If you would like to revisit past articles, look no further than the Geek Opera Index!
Duck the Alley Apples!