Name: Lassar Calhoun
Gender: Male
Age: 60
Birthplace: New York, New York
Appearance: Lassar stands at 5'11, 161 lbs.
Personality: Lassar doesn't give a shit. He does what he wants, when he wants, damned be the consequences. He loves booze, pot, guns, and not giving shits. He likes the girlies, punks the fuckwads, and asks for spare change whenever possible, because dammit, pot ain't free.
Occupation before the breakout: Hobo, former Green Beret.
Skills: Crack shot with firearms, knows knife fighting.
Fears/incompetencies: Lassar sucks at everything he isn't good at. There's a reason he's a hobo. Man is too incompetent to hold down any job.
Equipment: Pfeifer-Zeliska .600 Nitro Express revolver, Sig Saur MPX rifle, foot long deer horn handle bowie knife, six inch adjustable shaving mirror, a leather belt, various bottles of liquor and bags of weed, an old dusty overcoat filled with holes, steel toed boots.
Group: Unaffiliated
History: Lassar grew up an only child, and he liked it that way. A loner, a rebel, an outcast. It was as if he were a separate species from other members of the human race. Perhaps in some ways, he was. He operated on a level entirely different from others. How so? He simply had no shats to bequeath. He joined the Marines at 18, after having competed in several state shooting championships.
When he left the core at age 38, he was a Green Beret who had seen death in Afghanistan, South Africa, Syria, and Korea. Regardless of his record, he knew of nothing else but war, and descended into a stupor of substance abuse to force his inner badass into hiding, lest he be driven mad like a caged tiger. Not that he gave a shit. Then came the zombies. Now Lassar has returned for one last crusade, to kill shit and not give said shit away.