Made a few changes. Hard to find a picture of the guy I'm playing. Feel free to suggest some! Slight details made on the history and appearance. The boat that he "inherits" from the Agency job is left vague for the GM to decide which boat we're using.
Cassius "Cash" Walker
Weapons of Choice
Glock 18 w. Extended Cliphttp://www.militaryfactory.com/smallarms/detail.asp?smallarms_id=495
HK MP5-N w. suppressor
-has a mix of subsonic and standard 9mm loadouts, depending on the mission. Name:
Cassius "Cash" WalkerAge:
Cash spent his time during the Vietnam war in the Navy. He mostly spent it on the deck of a PT boat (Riverine) disrupting supply lines and running arms from one patch of jungle to the other. Taking fire from both sides of the river was an everyday occurrence, but casualties were fairly low, due to his LT Jack "Razorback" Thompson. Jack believed that wars come and go, but the lives of those he served under were the most important. It wasn't about getting everyone home more so than it was making sure that if they couldn't go home, that it be for the right reasons.
Cassius, on the other hand, was more cynical than that. He wasn't there for God or country, least of all the country that would rather see him killed in a country they didn't give a shit about than be happy in his own. He'd seen the reports. Racial tensions at its highest, people like him running up north to Canada to escape the draft. It put a different spin on life for him. It wasn't his war...he didn't slap a Vietnamese and tell them how they should run their damn country, but here he was and there they was. And that was all there was to it. An idea came to him when he noticed grunts bitching about the lack of good smokes, since the country's version was pure shit. That got Cash's gears turning.
The way he saw it, people were making money on this whole thing. The shit cigs they sold were selling because that was all that was there. The key was to keep his ear to the ground and listen to the sound of the herd. Motherfuckers were out there getting their asses blown to hell and back, and they couldn't even get a pack of Winstons for their trouble? Fuck that! That was more un-American than any of the propaganda the commies were throwing their way. So in the spirit of America and the almighty dollar, Cash made sure to include a few "extras" on his excursions out.
There was money to be made. Soldiers were getting paid, and had nowhere to spend it half the time. Getting any piece of leave was more rare than getting ass without itching afterwards, which was where he came in. He started with a few cartons of cigs, and some joints. Nothing hardcore. A little at a time was all he needed to keep his own little train a chuggin'. The problem with success, though, was the possibilities it lay before you, and the greed it prodded awake with a gold tipped stick. Some strange twist of fate would give him the opportunity to expand.
See, Jack's philosophy hadn't killed Jack as much as his penchant for self-sacrifice. During a resupply drop, the enemy had gotten the drop on them and the Marines they were supplying. It was a large force that was diverting it's troops to avoid US forces lying in wait. They had no idea the resupply was happening until they chanced upon it. Cash was working out a sweet little deal for some half used titty mags when they hit. The urge to live carried his feet straight to the machine gun on the deck, where he then laid down as much cover fire as he could in the dense jungle. Jack was piling as many bodies on the boat as it could take, but ended up taking a round right between the shoulder blades while loading a wounded man on board. The last sight Cash had of the guy was of his body floating lifeless in the shallow water.
He'd drank to the poor bastard's memory, then followed it up with another for the lesson the death taught him. The only way you could save others was to save yourself. Who knows how many more kids that guy could have helped if he hadn't put his ass completely out in the breeze? So some guy who bought the fucking farm anyway could have a few more seconds of life? Fuck that. Jack got a medal out of it. So did he, amazingly. He kept it somewhere...he forgot where. He couldn't melt it down, and it was only worth something to the dicks who wanted to pretend they saw the big grey ass of the elephant.
Some of the brass called him a hero. Said his quick thinking after Jack went down saved lives. He took it as just trying to survive, but that didn't matter. They gave him the boat to command, and he made it his personal ice cream truck. He served the best, the worst, and the blank-eyed in betweeners. if it wasn't cash, it was shit he could turn to cash quick. The money was piling in so many places, he couldn't hide it all. He had to switch tactics, and focused on getting the money to a bank without attracting attention. Turns out that was easier than he thought. They had a whole delivery system for getting unmentionables out of the country. He paid the price for the delivery, and spaced that shit out in case something disappeared, and that kept things flowing even better. He turned his crew into true smugglers, and because of it was actually called on the most sensitive of ops! Who knew being a sneaky bastard could be useful on so many levels!?
Some of those ops were, without a doubt, agency related. Secret men in too-clean BDUs pretending to be something everyone else knew they weren't. It was ridiculous, but orders were orders, and the jobs got done. They gave him funny looks sometimes. Like they knew...they probably did, but they already had their fingers and dicks into so much shit, some small time guy like him probably didn't warrant the attention. It all went fairly flawless. For god's sakes they had payments made to certain guys on the other fucking side for safe passage! The whole damn thing was a meat-grinding circus, and he couldn't tell if he was the monkey, or the motherfucker cranking the box.
When it was time to leave, he did so with pockets full and head raised high. He didn't go home. Couldn't. War, even with his outlook on life, changed certain people in certain ways. The allure of the nine to five, thanksgivings with the family, and baseball hadn't pulled on his heartstrings. He liked 'Nam. He just didn't like where it stood at the time. He found a few islands to hop. He had an assortment of girls, booze, and random acts of violence to kill time with, but the day he saw some suit sitting across from him after a particularly nasty bender, he knew it must have been time to pay the piper.
The guy said he had a mission for him that paid if he was willing to not ask questions. Apparently they were in a market for someone who knew how to get in and out of places quietly and with minimum loses. What could Cash do? Even with the cost of things being so cheap, the money he'd saved was only going to get him so far before it started to run low, and he could use the spending money. One job turned to two, then to four. Time flew without him realizing it, until his crew eventually got burned. Cold war secrets were traded like baseball cards, and word of their shipment was in the wind.
Half his crew went out the hard way, and Cash had to drive a limping boat back with one good arm while his shoulder filled the cabin with the smell of burning flesh. To say that he and the agency had a falling out would be putting it mildly, but good resources were hard to find, and so were paying customers. Like it or not, they were tied together. Once Cash took enough time to see it, the truth took a few bottles of rum to swallow. Funny enough, no one took notice of the boat after the incident. That was one good thing about working with a shady entity. They kept just enough of an eye on Cash to know that he wasn't talking, and more importantly, no one was looking.
With the good news of not having to look out for a hit squad at his door in the immediate future, Cash paid off his remaining members and told them to scatter. He honestly couldn't look at their faces without wanting to blow their brains out. He was going to stay in the transport business, and he was going to do it right, from the ground up. From there, Pacific Logistics was born. He spent his savings refitting the boat and adding a few helpful extras and quietly put the word out that he was hiring. His next crew was going to have to be more than mere cut-throats. To survive when things went bad, he'd need those that have already seen their share of shit, and saw the world in shades of gray.Personality:
Cool, calm, and calculating. Everyone's got an angle, even if they don't know it yet. When not on a job, he's very laid back about how the crew would enjoy themselves. His only rule is that if there's anything unlawful done while in-between jobs, that it not be traced back to him, the crew, or the boat. Especially the boat. You lie in the bed you've made, or you'll find yourself out at best, and very out at the worst. Appearance:
6'2" African American male. 190 lbs, athletic build, but not sculpted. More like the build of someone made strong working and not through a gym membership. No discernable tattoos. Burn scar on his left shoulder from the botched mission. He keeps it there as a reminder. He keeps his hair cut low, and very neat. No mustache or beard. He'd be easily be mistaken for a businessman in a suit, and even keeps a few handy when meeting certain clientele with more discerning tastes than normal. Weapon(s) of choice:
Glock 18 w. Extended Clip
HK MP5-N w. suppressor
-has a mix of subsonic and standard 9mm loadouts, depending on the mission. Fighting style/tactics:
Picked up Muay Thai after his tour and it's his choice of fighting style. Tactically, he strives to keep his crew and boat out of trouble that doesn't pay in advance. In a firefight, he'd much rather withdraw slowly, instead of taking a stand. Most of his battles were always against overwhelming numbers, and a tactical retreat meant you lived after killing a few of them. When all else fails, roll the hard six and make a deal. Where they were, someone was always after something, and favors had a way of coming back to you, for good or ill.