General
Name: Tyler Bellford
Age: 27
Sex: Male
Race: Caucasian, Human (Irish/Gypsy descent)
Height: 5'11''
Weight: 165lbs
Hair color: Brown
Eye color: Blue
Appearance: Attractive, rugged, and generally the type one would not want to confront in a dark alley. He has lengthy hair, a scruffy light beard, and a smile that could make a woman's heart melt.
Equipment
Current Weapons: 10mm autoloader, Desert Eagle .50, combat knife, brass knuckles, grenades
Current Armor: Bluejeans, dark gray ringer t-shirt, leather jacket
Current Items: Zippo, cigarettes, multi-tool, lockpicks, stimpacks, radio
Background
Birthplace: Chicago, Illinois
Occupation: Drifter
Background story: Joshua Bellford, reknowned street musician, hummed a tune that had been playing over in his head as he walked down the streets of re-populated Chicago. Under one arm was a box, containing a present for his son´s thirteenth birthday. Young Tyler had expressed an interest in the guitar, and Joshua wanted to give his son a present that fit such an interest. Inside the box was an automatic tuner, designed for the busy musician who had no time to play with imperfections. It was a rare gift; an expensive gift, but Joshua was determined to let his son´s creativity grow and flourish. It was his mindset to have more men with passion in the world, so as to make it a better place to live. After all, it was men without the ambition to create who destroyed society in the first place.
Joshua was a handsome man in his early thirties. He had a magnificent head of brown, flowing hair, and a smile that drove women wild. His voice was smooth and pleasant to listen to when he sang, and even more so when he talked. On the surface, he looked like a man who would be easy to bring down in a fight. But deep down, Joshua Bellford was a warrior, and someone not to be taken lightly.
He hummed another verse of the tune in his head and pressed on to the Bellfords´ mid-town residence. Little did he know that it would be the last time his son would ever see him alive again.
* * *
"Do you like it, son?"
"Like it?! I love it! This is awesome, dad!"
Joshua grinned. "Son, what do we say?"
"Right, this is fucking awesome, dad!"
"That´s my boy!" Joshua always cursed. He had always said that the world was far too bland without a liberal amount of profanity. His wife, and Tyler´s mother, hated it.
"Joshua, why do you insist on teaching our boy to be like those thugs outside?" a voice came from behind. It was Tyler´s mother, Anna.
Joshua grinned and turned around to face his wife´s indignant look. "´Cause a man´s gotta curse, darlin´. It´s just something we do."
Anna frowned and folded her arms, but she knew that this ploy at being angry would not stand. She loved Joshua more than anything in the world, and couldn´t hide it, no matter how hard she tried. Joshua immediately picked up on her false emotions and swiftly picked her up by the waist, spun her around in the air, and set her down to give her a long kiss on the lips. "´Sides, I think you secretly like it."
Anna rolled her eyes and smiled. "Bastard..."
As he held Anna, Joshua turned to Tyler and said, "Ty, go ahead and try that tuner out. I-" a knock on the door distracted Joshua. Anna cocked an eyebrow and walked over to the door, and answered it.
She screamed; a scream so horrifying, it made both Tyler´s and Joshua´s skin crawl. The scream was followed by a gunshot, and then, silence.
All Tyler could see was his father´s eyes widen in disbelief before he disappeared in a mad dash towards the door. Sounds of fighting came from behind the wall separating the living room from the hallway, followed by several gunshots. Silence crept in once again, and Tyler froze, listening desperately for any sign of his father. Just then, Joshua stumbled past the living room, clutching his gut. Tyler´s eyes swelled up with tears at the sight of his father, but Joshua just stood there and smiled. He knew that his boy was alive, and that was all that mattered. With one last bit of effort, Joshua extended his hand and pointed to the window in the living room. "Run."
* * *
Sadness crept over Tyler. Not only had he lost his father, but he had lost his best friend and rolemodel as well. Everything Tyler had hoped for was destroyed in an instant, like a candle blown out in a gust of wind.
He cried. He cried until he had no tears left. All he was left with was dry sobs and whimpering to mask the pain of being orphaned.
And then, a voice came out from the distance. "The hell´s your problem, kid? Cryin´ ain´t ever done anyone any good. Stop being such a faggot and grow the fuck up."
For the first time, Tyler felt something build up inside him: rage. His hands balled into tiny fists of fury, and his red-with-tears face shot up from the fetal position he was in to glare at the man behind the voice. "FUCK YOU!"
The man Tyler was shouting at was definitely not the person to yell at. He was well over six feet tall, had arms like tree trunks, and reeked of bourbon and dried blood -- blood that was definitely not his own. "What was that? Your balls just drop or something, kid? Or are you just stupid?"
"LEAVE ME ALONE, ASSHOLE!" Tyler shouted. Thinking clearly, he was not.
The man couldn´t help but laugh. "You´ve certainly got guts, kid. I´ll give you that. But you really should go run home to momma before I break you in half."
That last comment was the last straw. Tyler leapt at the man with unbridled fury, swinging his fists wildly. The man sidestepped the attacks with such ease that the effort was made entirely pathetic. His boot shot out to kick Tyler square in the back, into the pavement face-first. But this did not deter Tyler. The enraged youth sprung to his feet, nose bleeding, and hands scraped from the gravel. He attacked again, furiously, and once again failed. The man just stood there and laughed.
"Kid, you are something else. There are honest-to-god adults who don´t even get up after something like that."
"Whoopty fucking do!" Tyler snarled as he wiped the blood from his nose.
"You know, with a lot of work and a few years, you might actually be worth more than the pile of maggot shit that you are right now. Hell, you´ve got the guts to attack someone even after being humiliated."
Tyler´s sarcasm started to shine through. It was his only defense. "Yeah, and who´s gonna teach me how to fight? You? Suck my fat one, mister."
The man laughed. "Yeah, you know what? I will teach you. And you know what else? You ain´t got a choice, you little shit. I´m gonna whip that faggoty little ass of yours into a stone-cold fighter if it kills you." The man beared his teeth, not so much a grin as a threatening display. "So tell me your name, punk. Not that it matters, ´cause you´ll always be maggot shit to me."
Tyler spat at the man´s feet, but found that retaliation was something he was going to be living with for a long time to come. The man smacked Tyler with an uppercut so hard it send him flying nearly five feet off the ground. "Do that again, and I´ll fuckin´ break your neck."
Tyler winced. He was experiencing pain he had never known before. "Tyler..."
"I´m Jorad Kull. You will address me as MASTER Kull at all times, or you´ll need a prybar to get my boot out of your ass."
"Great. What do I get out of this, aside from a daily beating?"
Kull laughed, bent over and grabbed Tyler by the collar, pulling him to his feet. "You get to learn how to fight, and be the best at it. I won´t lie to you; I´ve never lost a fight. And neither will you after I´m done with you."
Kull grabbed Tyler by the back of the neck and shoved him forward, then pointed straight ahead. "Now move it, maggot shit. Today is just the first shitty day of the rest of your life."
* * *
Every day since the fateful evening when Tyler met Jorad Kull was a living hell. Kull -- the master of a revolutionary fighting style that encompassed elements of Shotokan Karate, Israeli Krav Maga, Indonesian Silat, Jeet Kune Do, and pure brutality -- had trained Tyler so hard and so relentlessly, that the young man´s mind was about to snap. Tyler was good, definitely, but not yet powerful enough to defeat his master and break free of his forced training. The only way out was for Tyler to learn the martial art so well that he could kill his master in a fair fight.
He trained every day, learning the intricate tactics employed by Kull´s fighting style. His strength increased as the days went on, as did his resolve to fight the man who held him captive. He was fourteen, and had grown a significant amount since the first day he met Kull. With his increasing skill came increasing belief that he could defeat Kull, sooner than he had expected. It was that fateful day during training that Tyler decided to test his skills against his master.
The usual sparring session ended with Tyler kicking Kull in the back and sending him crashing to the ground. Tyler wasted no time in diving at the man, but Kull was too quick for him. He rolled out of the way before Tyler even hit the ground, then proceeded to beat Tyler mercilessly until the boy was no longer moving. Kull got up and spat on the boy´s bloodied face. "You try to get the jump on me, boy, you gotta be a lot quicker than that."
* * *
Months passed by like years. Tyler´s injuries healed, with the help of Kull´s expert training in living anatomy. Aside from fighting, Kull knew a considerable amount about the world and living in it. On days when Tyler wasn´t being bullied or attacked by his teacher, Kull would actually impart his knowledge of mechanics, science, and medicine unto Tyler. There was no better teacher than Kull and his brutal method of beating information into his student until he knew it perfectly.
Tyler´s fifteenth birthday passed by, and Kull decided to celebrate by buying him a prostitute. "You´ve earned this, boy. Just don´t forget, that pussy don´t come free. I want you to work fucking ten times as hard tomorrow."
Although it wasn´t the most ideal way for a boy to lose his virginity, it certainly did the trick. All those months of being brutalized and frustrated seemed to go away with a simple hour-long session of sexual activity. Tyler emerged from the brothel a new man, and one more able to focus on the task at hand: killing his teacher.
* * *
"I´m going to kill you now, Kull."
Six months had passed. Tyler was stronger now, faster. He was able to concentrate his attacks and fight with such fury and skill that no one on the streets could match him. It was time now for his final test. Tyler checked his surroundings; noting the bookshelves and chairs lying around the room. Kull was standing in a corner reading when had Tyler walked in.
"´Bout time, boy. Come on and show me what you got." Kull replied, and he tossed the book over his shoulder and walked over to Tyler.
"You´re a cocksucking faggot."
Tyler knew exactly which switches to hit. Never was there more a biggot than Jorad Kull. He hated everyone, especially people he deemed as less than him. The anger Tyler´s insult caused was enough for Kull to make a mistake and attack first, giving Tyler the perfect leverage to sidestep the attack and smash Kull´s nose in with a straight jab. Kull doubled back and Tyler struck again, this time hitting Kull´s jaw and sending a tooth flying along with a spray of blood. Tyler followed it up with a roundhouse that knocked Kull back into a bookshelf.
Tyler gave a superior smirk as Kull lied there amongst the broken wood and scattered books. The young man´s mistake, however, was to hesitate and savor the moment before getting closer to strike again, as it gave Kull enough time to recover from the assault. Kull´s legs shot out and struck Tyler square in the gut. Kull got up and then made a dash forward, shoving Tyler into a wooden chair. "You´re just too cocky, you little shit. You´ll never beat me, you cumsucking worm."
Tyler groaned from the impact, but as Kull had taught him, there was no time to feel pain when facing an equal or superior opponent. Tyler shut it out and grabbed a splinter that came from the chair, then hurled it against Kull´s face. The splinter stabbed through Kull´s cheek, but the bruiser of a man just pulled it out and tossed it over his shoulder like it was nothing. Tyler, shocked that his attack did not phase Kull, staggered back and started to retreat in the opposite direction. Kull was too quick, however, and Tyler found himself in a Full-Nelson lock with his arm at the mercy of Kull.
"Say uncle and I might kill you nice and quick, boy."
Tyler yelled in pain as his arm bent back unnaturally far. But just then, as his arm was about to break from the stress of the hold, Tyler bit down on Kull´s arm and took a massive chunk of muscle out. Kull released and stared at his bleeding forearm, giving Tyler enough time to gain enough strength to jump up from the ground and give Kull a final crescent kick. The martial arts master fell back, stunned and suffering from whiplash from the jerk to his spine. With a half-cough, half-laugh, he uttered, "Prouda you, boy."
The next thing he knew, Tyler was on top of him with both hands around his neck. Tyler squeezed Kull´s windpipe, harder than he had ever squeezed anything before. "FUCKING DIE!" Tyler screamed. Jorad Kull had no fight left in him. A few moments later, he was dead.
* * *
Freedom: Tyler knew the word, but did not know the meaning on the level he did at that moment. Kull lie dead at his feet, along with every bit of what he knew to be wrong and cruel about the world. Tyler felt something that he had never felt before: righteous. Killing Kull was doing the world a favor. The world was rid of an evil person, and for the first time in his life, Tyler felt right about something.
For at least one person, the sun shined a little brighter that day.
The streets of Chicago seemed much smaller to Tyler. The feeling of being overwhelmed or being small was gone, for the one person who symbolized everything that was holding Tyler back was dead. He felt alive, and able to do anything. There was no fight he could not win, no foe he could not defeat. The world was his oyster, and he wanted to enjoy every last bit of it.
The bar he walked in was extra seedy. He could have chosen any of the other bars in the city and had his drinks in peace. But this bar, with its gritty cast of grizzled thugs, was exactly where Tyler wanted to go. He wanted to be able to go anywhere without fear; to prove that his skills would outmatch anyone that chose to pick a fight with him.
Tyler walked up to the bar and took a seat, flipping the collar of his leather bomber jacket over his neck. "Whiskey."
The bartender eyed Tyler carefully as he poured a shot of the bitter liquid into a glass. "This stuff´s a little strong, kid. Maybe too strong for you."
Tyler smirked, took the shot glass, and downed it in one gulp without even flinching. "Really now?"
As always was the case with seedy bars and young men, there was a grizzled thug who chose to get on Tyler´s case. Tyler noted the man´s appearance -- which was comprised of filthy skin, a stained white shirt, and bluejeans that had seen far better days -- and thought to himself how every lowlife in the world seemed to look exactly the same. The man grabbed Tyler by the left arm and said very loudly, "I don´t like punks like you, comin´ in here, actin´ like you´re hot shit. You´re nothin´ but a punk, an´ you´re way overdue for an ass kickin´."
The scenario was almost too cliche, exactly why Tyler chose that particular bar. "Watch the jacket, asshole." As quick as the end of his sentence, Tyler´s right arm shot out and his fist smashed right into the thug´s nose. As the thug released his grip, Tyler´s other arm grabbed the man from the back of his neck and thust his face onto the bar. The thug was out like a light, but Tyler had even bigger problems now. The law of the wasteland was for every lowlife to have an even bigger bastard as a partner, who was armed to the teeth. Tyler turned around and noticed three even bigger thugs armed with assorted firearms pointed at him.
Tyler shut his eyes, anticipating his impending doom, when suddenly three shots rang out. But the shots, Tyler discovered, were from another gun across the room. Tyler opened his eyes to see the trigger fingers on each of the thugs blown off. Tyler´s eyes shot to the left and spotted a big man with pale skin and dark black hair holding a pistol. "You´d be smart to watch yourself, boy. C´mon, before the bartender decides to use that Ithaca twelve gauge under the counter."
* * *
Tyler was stunned. The man before him aimed, fired, and shot off the trigger fingers of three men in less than two seconds (his best guess, as he had no way of knowing for sure). The stranger looked indifferently at his weapon, gave it a loving pat, and spun it on his finger before holstering it. "You all right, boy?"
"How´d you do that?"
The man grinned and said cryptically, "Practice."
The stranger started to walk away, but Tyler followed him. "I´ve gotta learn how to do that. You saw those guys in there, they would´ve killed me if you hadn´t-"
The stranger stopped, turned around and cut Tyler off mid-sentence. "I wouldn´t have had to do that if you´d have stayed out of trouble and stuck to a regular bar. Your problem ain´t that you´re unarmed, it´s that you´re too damn cocky to know when to stay the hell away from a bad situation. Who the hell told you to go into that bar anyway?"
Tyler looked at the stranger and grinned. "Nobody. I went there on my own accord."
The stranger rolled his eyes and continued walking. "You´re either a complete idiot, or some punk with a deathwish."
"Pick one. The end result´s the same, I want to learn how to shoot like you."
The stranger stopped again and paused, as if contemplating Tyler´s request. After a few seconds, the stranger lowered his head and let out a sigh, which turned into a slight chuckle. "I guess I ain´t gonna talk you into stayin´ away from a bad situation, and sometimes shit happens where it´s unavoidable anyway... Ah what the hell, why not? You got a gun, kid?"
Tyler grinned widely and shook his head. "No sir, I´ve never even fired one."
"All right, I´ll find you something. What´s your name?"
"Tyler."
"You can call me Sol."
* * *
Tyler took aim with the revolver Sol had given him, squeezed the trigger, and missed his target completely. "Fuck!"
Sol shook his head and adjusted Tyler´s grip. "First off, you gotta stop treatin´ this thing like it´s a foreign object. You know how your body moves in a hand-to-hand fight? Think of this gun as a long-range punch that goes a lot faster and does a helluva lot more damage."
"It´s hard to think of this thing as my fist. I mean, I´m holding onto it for Christ´s sake."
"Stop thinking about the mechanics of it, goddamnit. If you treat this thing like a gun, then that´s all it is. But if you treat it like a part of your body, then you´ll be able to hit your targets dead on, and lightning quick." Sol pointed out to the target. "Now go ahead. And focus this time. Think of your target as someone´s face, and the bullet as your fist."
Tyler nodded, breathed in, and took aim with the weapon. In his mind he began to visualize the target, and the gun, then tried to let the weapon relax in his hand as if it were a part of him. He squeezed the trigger, this time winging the target, and exhaled.
Sol nodded in approval. "It´s a start."
* * *
Time went on as Tyler trained, but for some reason training seemed to go quicker than he remembered it. The agonizing days and nights of martial arts training under Kull made the rigorous training in the use of firearms seem incredibly easy. Tyler learned fast with each weapon Sol handed to him. His training went from the precise timing and aiming of revolvers, to the ease and speed of automatics, eventually to sub-machine guns and rifles, and finally, to massive vehicle-based weapons. Tyler learned all of them, their inner workings, and how to fire them with pinpoint deadly accuracy, all within a matter of months.
Then one morning, Tyler came to Sol´s apartment for a day´s lesson, but found his instructor was gone. All his belongings were gone, save a 10mm pistol and a letter next to it. Tyler slowly opened it and read:
Tyler,
I must go now, for my journey to find myself cannot be avoided. But as I go, I want you to understand that my time teaching you will never be forgotten. Not only are you a worthy student, but you are also a good man... and my friend.
Remember, Tyler, that friendship and being a good man are probably the only things in this god-awful shitty mess we call a world that´re worth a damn. Be a good man, Tyler, because there´s too much bad in the world. If that´s the only thing worthwhile that I´ve taught you, then I know my time spent with you was not in vain.
I leave with you this pistol. It´s not much, but at least it´ll help you get started. Hopefully it will help you do some good.
Your friend,
Sol
A flood of mixed emotions went through Tyler´s head. He felt abandoned, just as he felt when his parents died, but he also felt strangely motivated. Sol´s words echoed in Tyler´s head: "Be a good man, because there´s too much bad in the world." Tyler understood this more than anyone, as he was forced to live with the bad for over two years. The motivation, therefore, was natural. Tyler had to be one of the good guys, for the sake of friend, and for his departed family.
Tyler took the pistol in his hand and gripped it firmly, resting his head against the barrel in a prayer-like motion. "I´ll avenge you, mom, dad. I´ll find those bastards who killed you and I´ll send them to hell; even if it´s the last thing I do."
* * *
Sometimes I hate that chaos surrounds me
When all the answers that I seek are around me
Am I drowning?
Am I fading away?
Or am I living up to all your dreams that made me this way?
-Crazy Town, Drowning
* * *
"Where are they?!" Tyler´s query came with a shout coupled with a swift pistol whip. The man at his feet was already battered and bruised, and the extra sting from the cold gun against his skin did little more than spray blood without any feeling.
"I don´t know!"
Tyler´s young eyes were like blue flame; inside them burned a rage that had been building for three years. He had been following the clues to his parents´ murder for months, learning about the gang activities in his old neighborhood through a combination of sly investigation and brutal interrogation. He had learned that his father was in debt when he was murdered; that the man who had killed his parents was Chicago´s most prominant hit man, working for the Camarillo gang. The only name given when asked about the man was "Repo", but it was more than enough for Tyler to get a lead.
His search led him to the man at his feet. The skinny, short-haired bookie for Repo cowered at the several pounds of sinuey muscle Tyler had over him. Even though he was only sixteen, Tyler had the body of a man in his prime.
"One more time, motherfucker! See this gun? I *dare* you to tell me you don´t know where he is. I fucking dare you!" For emphasis, Tyler pulled back the hammer on his 10mm and pushed it against the man´s skull.
Beads of sweat trickled down the man´s forehead, wetting the tip of the gun. "I- I swear! I fucking swear, man!"
Tyler snarled, "What good are you to me then?!"
With that, Tyler moved the gun over the man´s right arm, placed it over his elbow, and fired. The range, combined with the expanding 10mm bullet, was enough to completely shatter the bone and nearly separate the forearm from the bicep.
The man didn´t even scream. His agony was so intense that nothing but soundless air left his mouth. Finally, a croaking cry bellowed from his lungs, followed by yet another brutal strike by Tyler´s hand, against his temple. "What about now? You listening?"
The man didn´t answer, he had passed out from the pain in the middle of Tyler´s sentence.
"Oh for fuck´s sake..." Tyler grabbed the man, dragged him from the middle of the alley, and threw him in a large puddle of still water in a road embankment. The man woke up with a cough, and he rolled over belching muddy water.
"You pass out again, I blow off the other arm. Capiche?"
The man looked at Tyler with utter horror and nodded in compliance. "T-T-they´re in t-t-the alley building, on Belmont and Clark... T-that´s all I know!"
Tyler grinned and walked up to the man. "You did the right thing, buddy. At least you´ll die knowing that much."
The man´s eyes widened in horror. "WH-?!"
Tyler left the corpse on the road, one bullet for every year of agony that he lived since his parents´ murder. The feeling of quiet emptiness rushed over him as the adrenaline faded, and Tyler shivered in the cold of the ruined streets.
But the feeling left him as soon as his goal became clear. Tyler knew where his parents´ killers were, and now he was ready to make the kill.
* * *
Tyler knocked on the door to the old, boarded-up gothic clothing store. His Colt felt like a cold lump under his coat, and his heart started to race with anticipation. It felt like an eternity before someone answered the door, but when they did, Tyler´s instincts took over. The sliding hole in the door was barely cracked in opening when Tyler gave the doorknob a swift kick. The wooden replacement of a door gave way like a deuce before a Royal Flush. The man who answered the door was flat on the ground, practically smashed by the door landing on top of him. Four men stood up and pulled out their guns, but only one of them noticed that the young man standing in the doorway was holding a grenade with the pin already removed.
"Don´t shoot!" the man yelled to the others, waving for them to lower their weapons.
Tyler went straight to the point. "Two options: you shoot me and die, or you let me fight Repo one on one."
"Hang on, kid. Let´s talk about thi-"
"Gee, my arm is getting really tired here... If I don´t put this grenade away, I might just drop it."
"Okay okay!" one of the men yelled. "We´ll get Repo for you."
Tyler cracked a wry smile. "You´re too kind."
* * *
Repo was not the sort one would expect to be a stone-cold hitman. He was attractive, very attractive. His face looked like something from an old Calvin Klein ad, and his body was well-formed and powerful-looking.
"Well, what do you want, kid?" Repo´s voice was smooth as silk.
"You, me, no weapons. One on one. You comply, you die. You don´t, you still die."
Repo smirked. "Fair enough, kid. What´s this all about? I fuck your girlfriend or something?"
"Three years ago you killed my parents."
Repo shrugged. "I kill lots of people, but if you´re so eager to die too, then I don´t see why I shouldn´t indulge you. I could use the exercise."
Tyler nodded and pointed to the door. "Shall we step outside?"
"Lead the way."
* * *
Considering Tyler´s luck, the set of circumstances that had just transpired should not have occured. Nobody followed them outside, no snipers were positioned on any of the buildings; it was the perfect set up.
Repo shed his jacket and tossed it on the sidewalk, and Tyler did the same. Both men were prime examples of masculine beauty, and now they were both ready to kill each other with their bare hands.
Repo swung first with a roundhouse that would have struck a lesser man, but hit nothing but air when thrown at Tyler. The young combatant countered the attack with a savage uppercut that smashed Repo´s jaw and sent him flying backwards. The handsome hitman hit the wet pavement with a loud crack, scraping his elbows and the back of his head. Tyler rushed towards Repo for another attack, easily dodging a handful of muddy gravel that Repo flung at him in desperation, and landed on him with a brutal elbow drop.
"Trying to fight dirty?! Because of you, I wrote the fucking book on how to fight dirty!" Tyler rolled over and grabbed Repo by a clump of his neatly-groomed hair, then proceeded to smash the back of his head against the pavement.
"Had enough, pretty boy?!" Tyler smashed Repo´s nose with his fist like a hammer. As the blood sprayed from the attack, Tyler grabbed a clump of gravel with his other hand and ground it into Repo´s eyes. Blood oozed out of Repo´s eye sockets out his nose, and from the back of his head. The first bump against the pavement had caused a concussion; every time afterwards had made it worse. By the time Tyler was done, Repo was gone. Once he stopped moving, Tyler finished the job by stomping on his face until brains leaked out of his ears and his once beautiful face was nothing but a flat pancake of blood and flesh.
* * *
"Hey, Repo´s been out there for a while. Maybe we should-"
The door knocked.
"Oh, that´s him now."
One man walked over to the door, while another arched a brow and said, "Hey, why didn´t Repo just come through the door that the kid kicked in? And why did he bother to knock?"
"Huh?" the man by the door said with confusion as he opened the door. Noticing that no one was standing before him, the man looked down to see a paper grocery bag at the doorstep.
Six napalm grenades, two sticks of homemade dynamite, and a pipe bomb exploded on the doorstep, sending a fireball through the building and nearly an entire city block and incinerating everyone and everything in its path. Justice was served, char-broiled.
* * *
There was nothing left for Tyler, save a ruined city and a few hookers that he had gotten familiar with. The only family he had ever known was gone, vanished one by one like ghosts in the light. As Tyler packed the few things he owned into a duffel bag, he took one last look at the place he knew as home. Somehow, although he didn´t want to admit it, he knew he would be back one day.
Misc
Mental disorders: Acute schizophrenia (at least, that's the closest thing his particular condition comes to). The benefit is that the voice in his head actually offers sound tactical advice now and then.
Personality perks: THE embodiment of a post-modern cowboy, Tyler carries a code of honor that has all but died out in the wasteland. A living legend in the west, and still notorious among those who remember him in the midwest, he uses his fame and glory to make the wasteland a better place... one scumbag at a time.
Personality quirks: Stubborn, smokes too much, drinks too much, curses like a sailor
Fighting style: Rattlesnake Kung Fu (an ever-adapting style that incorporates Krav Maga, Karate, Silat, Ju-jitsu, Jeet Kune Do, Shaolin, and regular American boxing into one lethal package)