Originally Posted by saqwarrior

I was born in Bowie, Arizona to a Navajo father and a mother of Italian descent. I graduated from Rangeford High School, and then was drafted into the United States Army at the age of 17, after which I was deployed to South Vietnam. I returned to the U.S. in 1967 and began training in the Special Forces at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. In late 1969, I was deployed back to Vietnam. In November 1971, I was captured by North Vietnamese forces near the Chinese-Vietnamese border and held at a prisoner of war camp, where I and other American POWs were repeatedly tortured. I escaped captivity in May 1972, but was then re-deployed. Upon his return to the U.S., I discovered that many American civilians hated the returning soldiers, and I was subject to humiliation and embarrassment by having anti-war hippies throw garbage at me and calling me "baby killer". My experiences in Vietnam and back home resulted in an extreme case of post-traumatic stress disorder. At the same time, inner questions of self identity and reflectiveness cause me to lash out at society rather than handling difficult situations in a "civilized" manner. In December 1982, I travel to the town of Hope, Washington, in search of an army buddy of mine named Delmore Barry from the Special Forces, only to find upon arrival to Delmore's residence a little girl who is his daughter and Delmore's depressed widow who tells me that her husband had died from cancer the previous summer due to exposure to Agent Orange, and she must seek out a living as a cleaning lady and on Delmore's Servicemember's Group Life Insurance. Me, attempting some cold comfort, gives Mrs. Barry the photograph of Delmore's unit. I am left with a mild sense of survivor's guilt as I am now the last man still living of my once-proud unit. I then travel to Hope in the attempt to find a diner and maybe a temporary job. However, the over-confident town sheriff, Will Teasle, does not welcome me, judging me negatively because of my long hair and scruffy look. I disobey the sheriff's order to stay away from Hope, as I have done nothing wrong to the community and I believe such banishment to be a violation of my freedom of movement, and I am promptly charged for vagrancy and subject to harassment from the deputies. The harassment triggers flashbacks of my traumatic memories of torture at the hands of the North Vietnamese when I was a prisoner of war, and my mind regresses into thinking I am once again fighting in combat. I fight his way out of the sheriff's department with my bare hands and makes my way into the wilderness via a stolen motorcycle. A manhunt ensues. The sheriff and his deputies cannot win against me in the forest, and indeed, all are badly wounded as a result of trying to capture me. I deal with them efficiently and although capable of doing so, I don't kill any of them. However, I unintentionally kill a police officer in self-defence by throwing a rock at a helicopter, causing the pilot to lose control and an officer to fall out. The Washington State Patrol and about 200 members of the Washington National Guard are called in to assist.

Originally Posted by saqwarrior

I was born in Bowie, Arizona to a Navajo father and a mother of Italian descent. I graduated from Rangeford High School, and then was drafted into the United States Army at the age of 17, after which I was deployed to South Vietnam. I returned to the U.S. in 1967 and began training in the Special Forces at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. In late 1969, I was deployed back to Vietnam. In November 1971, I was captured by North Vietnamese forces near the Chinese-Vietnamese border and held at a prisoner of war camp, where I and other American POWs were repeatedly tortured. I escaped captivity in May 1972, but was then re-deployed. Upon my return to the U.S., I discovered that many American civilians hated the returning soldiers, and I was subject to humiliation and embarrassment by having anti-war hippies throw garbage at me and calling me "baby killer". My experiences in Vietnam and back home resulted in an extreme case of post-traumatic stress disorder. At the same time, inner questions of self identity and reflectiveness cause me to lash out at society rather than handling difficult situations in a "civilized" manner. In December 1982, I travel to the town of Hope, Washington, in search of an army buddy of mine named Delmore Barry from the Special Forces, only to find upon arrival to Delmore's residence a little girl who is his daughter and Delmore's depressed widow who tells me that her husband had died from cancer the previous summer due to exposure to Agent Orange, and she must seek out a living as a cleaning lady and on Delmore's Servicemember's Group Life Insurance. Me, attempting some cold comfort, gives Mrs. Barry the photograph of Delmore's unit. I am left with a mild sense of survivor's guilt as I am now the last man still living of my once-proud unit. I then travel to Hope in the attempt to find a diner and maybe a temporary job. However, the over-confident town sheriff, Will Teasle, does not welcome me, judging me negatively because of my long hair and scruffy look. I disobey the sheriff's order to stay away from Hope, as I have done nothing wrong to the community and I believe such banishment to be a violation of my freedom of movement, and I am promptly charged for vagrancy and subject to harassment from the deputies.

Originally Posted by saqwarrior

I was born in Bowie, Arizona to a Navajo father and a mother of Italian descent. I graduated from Rangeford High School, and then was drafted into the United States Army at the age of 17, after which I was deployed to South Vietnam. I returned to the U.S. in 1967 and began training in the Special Forces at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. In late 1969, I was deployed back to Vietnam. In November 1971, I was captured by North Vietnamese forces near the Chinese-Vietnamese border and held at a prisoner of war camp, where I and other American POWs were repeatedly tortured. I escaped captivity in May 1972, but was then re-deployed. Upon my return to the U.S., I discovered that many American civilians hated the returning soldiers, and I was subject to humiliation and embarrassment by having anti-war hippies throw garbage at me and calling me "baby killer". My experiences in Vietnam and back home resulted in an extreme case of post-traumatic stress disorder. At the same time, inner questions of self identity and reflectiveness cause me to lash out at society rather than handling difficult situations in a "civilized" manner. In December 1982, I travel to the town of Hope, Washington, in search of an army buddy of mine named Delmore Barry from the Special Forces, only to find upon arrival to Delmore's residence a little girl who is his daughter and Delmore's depressed widow who tells me that her husband had died from cancer the previous summer due to exposure to Agent Orange, and she must seek out a living as a cleaning lady and on Delmore's Servicemember's Group Life Insurance. Me, attempting some cold comfort, gives Mrs. Barry the photograph of Delmore's unit. I am left with a mild sense of survivor's guilt as I am now the last man still living of my once-proud unit. I then travel to Hope in the attempt to find a diner and maybe a temporary job. However, the over-confident town sheriff, Will Teasle, does not welcome me, judging me negatively because of my long hair and scruffy look. I disobey the sheriff's order to stay away from Hope, as I have done nothing wrong to the community and I believe such banishment to be a violation of my freedom of movement, and I am promptly charged for vagrancy and subject to harassment from the deputies.

Originally Posted by Unit 91

The details of my life are quite inconsequential... very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds- pretty standard really. At the age of twelve I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my *********. There really is nothing like a shorn *******... it's breathtaking- I highly suggest you try it.

Originally Posted by Lowend

In 1972 my crack commando unit was sent to prison by a military court for a crime we didn't commit. We promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Los Angeles underground. Today, still wanted by the government, we survive as soldiers of fortune. If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find us, maybe you can hire the A-Team.