NAME - Marty Graw.

AGE - 51 years young.

GENDER - Male.

APPEARANCE - Stunningly handsome, in a homely sort of way. Marty insists that he was far better looking when he was younger, but the truth is he has never been an exceptional looker, only exceptionally good at acting like it. Nowdays, Marty is getting on in years, belied by the wrinkles on his tanned, rugged mug and the aches in his bones. His male pattern baldness thankfully didn't end up affecting him much once it set in, thanks entirely to the fact he'd donned a buzz cut since his twenties. Marty's most redeeming physical feature, and the only one yet to have left him at all, is his eyes: the brightest blue most have ever seen, and somehow as sweet as an old grandma's at the same time as they were as exciting and impassioned as a man's less than half his age. The eyes are the window to the soul, and Marty's soul is eternally young.

PERSONALITY - Loudly jolly. Marty seems to be damn near incapable of experiencing any emotion except for utter bliss, and no one who has known him for any length of time could recall a moment he looked a tick any sadder than a sympathetic frown. Marty's limitless emotional resilience—well past the point of stubbornness—has won him a great many friends and a great many more kindred spirits. He seems to look at the bright side of everything, up to and including the nuclear apocalypse. He's also a loud and proud partier, living every minute of life to the fullest and doing all he can to make sure the folks around him are smiling too.

FACTION - None. Marty's got an especial loathing for the Order, but he's not too fond of authority of any other kind either. He's not beyond dropping the occasional favourable remark about the Revolution, however, to keep on the good side of at least one of Orleans' main tigers.

BIOGRAPHY - Marty's parents were drunk enough when he was born to think the name 'Marty Graw' was clever. The couple went on for the first several years of Marty's life exactly as they had for the couple years before he'd been born—stealing whatever they could, hocking it for what they needed and partying with whatever they had left over afterwards. Marty's parents never really sobered up until he was age 10, when his Dad, James, took a piss in the river just a little too close to a Boglurk. With her lover dead, Marty's mother, Ynes, decided to take the first boat out of town. She ditched Marty in the streets of the Millot District, and that was the day the young boy Marty Graw became a man.

Marty's first job was in his father's footsteps: petty theft. He stole, cheated or begged for what he needed to survive, in reverse order. Unlike his parents, however, Marty had a few braincells to rub together; whatever caps he had left after getting himself food and a place to sleep, he saved (excepting only occasional drug binges). By the time he was twenty, Marty was a relatively well known rogue in Millot, which was of course unambiguously horrible for him—besides that he'd already slept with all of the ladies in town who were worth it, he was also getting a reputation with the assholes in the red outfits. So, to celebrate his 21st birthday, Marty skipped town with all the valuables he could carry and headed off to Lambert District.

Once in Lambert, Marty decided to make something a little more for himself. Giving himself a promotion from pick-pocketing, he started doing odd-jobs for local criminal outfits, intimidating or robbing from no-good debtors, pulling heists, that sort of thing. Marty managed to both make himself a killing and keep himself under the radar for about two years, up until a botched job won him a grudge with a pissed off crime boss. A chem deal had gone south, and the two other guys working with Marty had gotten shot, Marty himself just barely escaping with his life, and neither the chems nor the caps. With no one else but two corpses to blame for the loss, the crime boss, Legrand, a fat bastard known for being especially petty, sent two of his thugs to Marty's apartment to either kick his ass half to death or trash the place. Lucky for Marty's priceless collection of rare Nuka Colas, he was home at the time, and lucky for his ass, he managed to put a knife into the forearm of one of the thugs the second he busted his door in, and and keep the other one pinned to the wall at gunpoint. Wise to the tight spot he was in, Marty sent the two beaten thugs back home to Legrand, and decided to do the only thing he could to both keep the (meagre) wealth he'd acquired in Lambert and keep himself from getting shot in the back of the head: he hooked up with the French Revolution.

Marty met a Revolution contact he'd both sold chems to and shared a night with in the past, Marie Rose, and decided to tell her about his bind and his interest in joining the organization. Marie assured him that Legrand would keep off of him if he knew he was running with the Revolution, and so Marty's days as a revolutionary were born. Mostly it was a lot of the same thing he'd been doing, breaking into houses to steal stuff or standing guard somewhere important, except this time he was stealing military dossiers, not jewelry, and guarding weapons caches, not drug labs. The work suited Marty well enough, but he was suspicious of the cause. As far as Marty could tell, the Revolution was as authoritarian as the Order or worse, Napoleon holding all the cards and all of the group's underlings kept as out of the circle as they could be. Marty didn't have many other options for work, though, so he kept on towing the line right up until he saw he chance to drop it.

At least a handful of folks in the Revolution saw things the same way Marty did, Marie Rose among them, and Marty pulled a few strings to make sure that those kinds of folks were the ones that accompanied him on his very last mission for the French Revolution. The job was a to hit a group of Order soldiers out on patrol outside the walls. They were supposed to killed as quickly and cleanly as possible, and their weapons and uniforms scavenged off of them so that an infiltration op could be conducted later on. Marty's original plan was to hit the squad as told and rip off their gear, but then make off, using the disguises to head elsewhere with his crew, maybe start an independent town somewhere. Providence wouldn't have it, however, and before the Order patrol walked into the spot Marty had picked off for the ambush, they were called off elsewhere to some kind of incident along the Mississippi. As luck would have it, some flagrant with a run down party boat had overdosed on jet while cruising down the river, and the boat crashed into the riverbank quite a ways outside of town, with a full accompaniment of chems. After stalking the Order boys down and finding the boat, Marty came up with a Plan B on the spot: take the boat and get really, really high. A few shots ringing out into the Bayou was all it took, and the Order squadron, their scarlet uniforms only barely showing the blood stains, dropped dead in the muck. Marty and Marie would've been happy to party for awhile and then nick the suits and head home, but a third member of their crew, Eugene Zemurray, would've have it. Zem, as he liked to be called, was a communications technician for the Revolution, and had a different idea for what to do with the situation. With Marie and one other member of the crew keeping guard on the boat, Marty, Zem and the rest of the Revolution hit-squad hurried back into town to grab as much of Zem's equipment as they could. A few trips and a lot of really good excuses to patrolling Order dregs later, they had all of the equipment and a small generator to power it hooked up in the boat. It was still just barely seaworthy, and so, with a load of radio equipment, a few loads of chems, and a circle of friends, Marty set off in the boat that would become the Cajun Queen for the first time.

Twenty one years later, Marty looked different, but acted much the same. The biggest change was that he was no longer worrying about keeping under the radar, but rather keeping the radar—and all of the other bits and bobs—in working order. His sporadic broadcasts of rock music and anarchist political commentary had evolved into a full-fledged radio show, and his crew had evolved over time, growing to become a little leaderless gang that Marty liked to call the 'Kindred Souls'. He was now something of a fugitive, although due to the pacifist nature of his objection to the Order, they were far too busy hunting down the French Revolution to worry about some chem-fuelled radio DJ. Marty's old enemies from Millot and Lambert were now long forgotten, and his all friends were all either off living happy lives somewhere else, or joining him on the Cajun Queen. Everything was well and things could only get better, just like always.

S.P.E.C.I.A.L

STRENGTH - 4
PERCEPTION - 4
ENDURANCE - 4
CHARISMA - 10
INTELLIGENCE - 7
AGILITY - 4
LUCK - 7

PERKS

- Explorer
- Gunslinger
- Inspirational

OTHER - Marty is a well-known radio personality, either loved or hated all throughout the Bayou Wasteland. He is the DJ of Radio Fantasy, a Blues Rock station, broken up with the odd remark from Marty—either recorded or live—about the state of events in Orleans and the Bayou Wasteland. Radio Fantasy broadcasts via the 'Cajun Queen', a souped up riverboat trawling the Mississippi, chock full of powerful scavenged pre-war military broadcast equipment, and decorated with emblems of Orleans, rock 'n' roll decals and more than a few embedded spikes and automatic turrets. Marty is not the only crew member of the Cajun Queen, having gathered together a small but tight-knit group of kindred souls with tech know-how, who are more than capable of handling both Her Majesty and Radio Fantasy in his frequent absences.