Caleb Storm
age....35
occupation....motorcycle mechanic
full fledged member of the Pagans. One of the largest most notorious motorcycle clubs.
hobbies...loud bikes, fast bikes,hot women, guns, guns, and guns

(a note: only those with connections in the right or very high places would know he is in the city. And only those would know how to contact him)

Story/history

-Caleb was born the hills of west Virginia. Not far at all from the Ohio river. He grew up an only child to a single father. Vietnam vet was his Ole man. All kinds of fucked up in the head. He had joined the army to become a diesel mechanic. Instead he found himself in the jungle packing a M-60 machine gun, up to his ass in commies. Calebs ole man never did het over the shit he saw or did. He was a delusional paranoid. Violent alot. Never to Caleb though. Never. -

Caleb grew up a true backwoods hillbilly. Grew up rough. Working on the farm since he could remember. Him and his pops pretty much lived off the land. Growing gardens, hunting fishing. They used an outhouse. Drew water from a hand well. Heated with wood. They had a generator they used for an old tv once in a while. They used canes and oil lamps for light. Pops was paranoid. He felt screwed by the government. They lived off the grid. Pops paid to have Caleb homeschooled. Just to keep him out of the system for as long as possible.

Never had alot growing up. Never wanted much. Pops gave him love. That was enough right? Something like that. Pops taught him to survive. Two things he always had growing up was a motorcycle and guns. Lots of fucking guns. He started off riding dirt bikes. Hunting by the time he was seven. His first kill was at eight. He even ate the raw still pulsing and warm heart.

He grew up a rough and tumble hick who took no shit from anyone. He was sixteen when his pot farming old man was killed by a local gang. He was cuttingin on their buisness. Caleb came home from hunting to find his dad. Dead. With the mark of the gang on him. Black panthers. Caleb had a viscious temper. Cold blooded heartless and ruthless. He hid the arsenal of weapons they had. Packed his Harley for the road. With him he took a sawed off Remington 870 shotgun loaded with 00 buck. Hand loaded real nasty rounds. He also had a forty five and his buck knife. He knew where the bangers hung out, well it wasn't hard to find out. They ran a drug house that he found.

It was night when the Storm hit. He hit the place around two in the morning. There were a dozen njunkies and half dozen bangers. The junkies lived. Anyone wearing black didn't. They didn't know what hit em. One minute they wearing enjoying their high. The next their was a pissed off hillbilly with a gun. "you killed my pops". That was all he said he started shooting. He went room to him. Not a banger made it. He left with six bloody scalps hanging from his belt. Nappy haired scalps.

he was sixteen when he rode out

he went west. To Montana. His dad hat friends there in the militias. He lived there among the Aryan brotherhood. When he was eighteen he fell in with a group of pagans that rode through his compound. Within a year he was a full member of the clan. He used his connections within the militias to start running guns. He made a reputation. He was the best there was. His orders always made it. He handled cops himself. He was a sure operator.

he spent time in Mexico. Made a name among the cartels. Caleb "the viper" storm. He was a mercanry as well. Hitter he had been known to do. He had warrants for his arrest. He was good at avoiding them.

now he was in the city. Under radar. Off the grid. Working for his brother of the road. Mikhail Calloway owner of deadmans choppers where Caleb was a wrench man. He had a thing for bikes. Fast and load and raunchy was his specialty.
the story continues here in the city where more will be written.