The boss. Born from nothing. Spent his youth building fences. Then poured concrete. Boxed for sport, weight class unknown. Word spread he was throwing fights--disgraced somewhat. Bet on dogs for a while. Hit it big. Then on horses. Lost it all. Turned to poker. Onto high stakes poker. Then poker in an illicit underground circuit with stakes unfathomable to civilized beings. Traveled the world on a five card credit line. Istanbul. Amsterdam. Mozambique. Argentina. All the while developing a palate and deepening his tongue. Took the jerky recipe from his youth to the next level. Offed a Rhinoceros that owed him money, developed a lime teriyaki jerky from Rhino belly. The same year, bedded first supermodel testing pheromonal frequencies in the flavor spectrum. A bell hop by the name of Roberto was the first life he took while pairing jerky with a glass of human blood. Came to helm of RF in 2012, does whatever the fuck he wants whenever the fuck he wants. A distinguished example to us all.
Every ragtag squad of criminal scamps has one. A guy with an itchy trigger finger, an unpredictable bastard with no self-control. A loose canon with loose screws and a set of eyes that won’t quit shifting. No composure. Can’t be reasoned with. Pure volatility. A goddamn liability. Well, like the rest’m the Cartel has a man of this description. Turns out, it’s a heck of an asset. Keeps the boys on their toes and stokes fear in the competition. Not a bad thing to have, a guy in the background literally sharpening his knife when the rival syndicate stops by to break bread. Turns out Barbara was on the path to salvation. Nearly became a clergymen. But the devil on his shoulder was a little more persuasive than the angel - “to hell with it,” he said. Wrath was a sin, so Mike was a sinner. Pray he doesn’t get to you and subject you to his ‘interrogation methods.’ Pray he doesn’t absolve you with fire and brimstone. Trust us, you ain’t been waterboarded ‘til you been holy waterboarded. He’ll force atonement out of you yet, so talk willingly before it’s your last confession.
Mover. Shaker. Hustler. Macher (the good kind). Savvy salesman. Untamed outlaw. Bristles at authority and the Old Guard. Ropes you in with a disarming smile, sharp wit, and never-ending stash of potent snacks. He deals in jerky, but this is no one-trick pony. Poached from a rival cartel to create new distribution networks and alternate revenue streams. Always armed with the best of the best - dried fruit, nuts, chocolates, cookies, gummies, chips, and bars, the salty and the sweet, the savory and the spicy, the familiar and the obscure, the safe and the risky. A mensch with a big heart, he has done plenty a favor but is sure to warn against confusing kindness with weakness. Connections in high (and low) places with a Rolodex so thick, he has people at Rolodex in his Rolodex. Fixing son of a (hired) gun who, legend has it, bribed the admissions office with a tractor trailer load of snacks to get into the nation’s premier Crook College. Promises to find what you need, no matter the ask. Rogue Renaissance Man who goes with his gut, especially when the tank needs filling.
The trigger man. Fascinated by insects as a child. Tore off their legs and slid them into microscopes. Tortured squirrels. Became versed in the caves and mine shafts of his West Virginia comeuppance. Pushed best friend down mine shaft then became like a son to best friend's family as they worried, grieved, accepted loss. Fused modern mechanics to his grandaddy's rifle. Target practice with rabbits. Decorated soldier in Afghanistan when time. Cashed in on sight and trigger when time. Mercenary work, contracts in saudi Arabia, iraq. Eventually homeward bound with a fatwa on his head. Target practice with US Congressmen, Senators, CEOs. Formed a résumé in the trail of dead that followed behind. Then the money came. Cohen's barrel got so hot seemed like the entire Northeast had a bodybag to fill. Suspected to be instrumental in assassination of prosecutors in 'Matador,' 'Chemist' cases. Number of completed assignments for RF unknown, but estimated in the hundreds.
Arms dealer. Upheavalist. Thrillionaire. Ties to the Russians, the Saudis, and of course, the Canadians. Self inflicted Freemason's tattoo on left butt-cheek at age 11. Linked to The Skulls, The Red Brigades, factions that inspired the Arab Spring, and icons associated with The New World Order. Responsible for the recent doxing of high-profile political leaders. Instrumental in the acquisitions of enriched uranium for several questionable nations. Great, great grandson of the inventor of the Luger pistol. A vengeful revolutionary and across-the-board scoundrel. Claims to speak Shark and travels by water on a feared sea-bearing vessel aptly named "War Machine."
Speed demon. Learned to work an engine in his Uncle's garage. Dropped out of school to start chop shop, age 11. Personality traits include a stoic directness and punctuality. Never late in his fucking life. First getaway job at 17, blew the doors of a Dodge Challenger getting three Irishman out a city bank with a burlap full of presidents. Acquired first bullet wound. First casualties in '97: The milk went sour when his finger man tried to pull a double cross. Blood spewed across the cab of a Corvette Stingray, bundles of cash sopping it up. His boys shot dead. Sirens screeching from behind. Punching the throttle and bursting off a bridge, the wheel man tumbled out the driver's side door as he watched the most beautiful carriage he'd ever steered plunge into the Delaware. Tried to break good. Just wasn't in him. Tried to go clean but gets his rocks off on the dirty. Met with El Jefe in 99. Been running jerky ever since. PPK on his person. Never been pulled. Kid's too damn fast to need it.
Flavor banger. Won his third grade science fair making napalm from sheep's milk. Torched two childhood homes, contributing to parents' bankruptcy. Money from a renegade fragrance company brought him back to school. Honored as first to develop hot sauce from orchids. After a brief love affair with sharks and the writings of Chepotle Guevera, he dropped marine biology and public disobedience to peruse chemistry full time. Failed out. Spray painted 'fucking fascists' on college laboratory while cooking highly potent synthetic stimulant known as VIVID (mother's maiden name). Formative gustatory enlightenment attributed to apprenticeships with Givaudan, Bruichladdich, and Wylie Dufresne. All ended with mysterious disappearances of volatile chemicals and equipment. Currently linked to multiple poisonings in metro Philadelphia and a recent string of arson activity Brooklyn. America's most wanted molecular gastronomist terrorist. King Abdullah has requested his services in unknown capacity. This year, VIVID was statistically the most abused amphetamine by traders, bankers, and politicians. Sources confirm The Chemist works in conjunction with RF's notorious gastronomy unit.
Guerrilla scribe. Propagandist. Trickster. Fabricated a civil war in the lower Amazon to protect tribespeople from a hellbent rubber harvesting conglomerate. Spotlit corrupt CIA practices when leaking confidential records. Has a penchant for the little guy. In fact, is a little guy. Spent two weeks in the Oval Office, hidden, collecting information, exploiting flawed White House security, becoming a legend when he revealed himself. 'To think,' they said, 'that little guy is this generation's Houdini.' Achieved personal life goal at age 23 when he shook the hand of Chepotle Guevera. The world awaits. What will he do next?
Dynamite Enthusiastic. Explosions is all he knows. Made a C4 boo-boo in Nicaragua, 1986 - left him with a hook for hand. Loose Cannon. Pyromaniac. Insatiable thirst for the incendiary.
Client: "I gotta bank job I wanna do."
Deathwish: "Blow it up."
Client: "Huh? The vault, the doors... what? You haven't even got the particulars yet."
Deathwish: "Whatever I'm doing. Whatever I'm running. I have one condition - I. Blow. It. Up."
Had a cheating wife. Tried to blow her up, left him with a peg for a leg. Some boozebag at the cantina made an 'argh matey' crack one night, so, you guessed it, he blew the prick up right where he stood. Classic all-or-nothing son of a bitch with an undying wish to meet his maker. Boom.