+++Age: 36
+++Gender: Male
+++Physical appearance: Lookin' French
+++Identifying Marks: I got me some nasty bite marks, courtesy of a 'gator down in the bayou. Tough son of a bitch put up a good fight, and mangled my left leg something awful. Took a goddamn long time to heal properly, but thank God I ain't got no real lasting consequences in my ability to walk.
In my days as a hot-headed young fool, I got myself in quite some scraps, often with knives out as a result. Got me a mean slashin' scar on my chest as a result. Doctor said I was lucky the canaille didn't stab me a bit more to the left. I sure as hell didn't give the guy who done did it a second chance, if you catch my meaning.
I got beaten half to pulp in military jail after my court martial, by some pricks up in the army. Didn't leave much of a permanent mark on the outside, but it still gives me some goddamn backaches every now and then.
+++Ethnicity: Cajun of the Bayou, and proud of it. My Maman used to say we got some Irish blood in us too, as well as some Choctaw native. And we even got one or two Negroes up in our family tree, or so the story goes. I don't mind none. Got ourselves a nice traditional, good ol' Louisiana Creole mixin' going on, it seems. That's how our French ancestors down here always did it anyway.
+++Religion: I have yet to meet the first red-blooded Cajun who is not a God-fearing Catholic, or at least officially proclaiming to be one. And since I am Cajun through-and-through, the answer should be obvious. Look for me in church in Sundays.
+++Birthplace: North Palmyra, born and raised in a stilt house up in the bayou. The bogs are my home just as much as my house is.
+++Criminal History: Desertion from active service in Vietnam. Yes, you heard me. I am not ashamed of it. Fuck the Army, we used to say back at base, and we meant it. If they could draft me and ship me halfway across the world to go kill some locals, I can decide whenever the hell I want out. I did my time for it, first as POW in Hanoi in 1972-1973, and then after my release and court martial in a military prison up until February '74.
Thank God they could never find a way to stick the death of my commanding officer on me. A real fils de pute, who got what was coming to him. What, you wonder if I did it? Let's just say it was awful convenient that he got a M16 bullet in the back of his head, and leave it at that.
Of course, if I gotta be honest, I did get in some trouble with the law before being drafted. Did some time for bootlegging, poaching and plain old knife fightin'. Typical hot-headed kid from the bayou stuff, really. Did some community service in my late teens and early twenties. Eventually got me three years probation back in '68 and near a year sojourn in local jail in 1970 for stabbing some prick and running some smuggling rings.
But since I got out of the big house a few years back, the law hasn't had anything on me. I would wager I got Old Man Faubert to thank for that.
+++Military History: Drafted and served in Vietnam in '71. Didn't last very long fighting for Uncle Sam though. Bolted as soon I could and spent some months in the wilderness, trafficking guns on the black market mosly, before being caught by the Vietnamese. Spent most of 1972 in a POW camp, and was released after the fat cats in Washington saw there was no way in hell to defeat them Vietnam bushwhackers. 'Course, the staff back home wasn't exactly happy to see a deserter come home to the States, so they dragged me to court martial soon as I came back and threw my ass in jail again for a year.
All in all, yeah. I been in the army. Ain't proud of it, though it did give me the know-how on how to get my hands on some firepower real cheap. And that comes in handy in Palmyra.
+++Psychological analysis: Don't mess with my kin, my land or my business, and we'll get along fine. I can't stand folk telling me what to do without a goddamn good reason and a hefty purse to pay for it, a result of my experiences in the army I suppose.
I do tend to lose control a bit when pushed around. The red fog has gotten me into quite a bit of trouble as a young man, and even though I have trained my self-control since then, word of advice: don't push my buttons.
+++Alignment: Mon ami, I live in the bogs near North Palmyra. What do you think? Old man Faubert is a good guy, a regular grand-pere to our community. I care little for the business of the two families, but the old man has always treated us swamp folk well enough, and he knows how to pay up. Could use some more faith in God almighty though.
+++Occupation: I like to think of myself as a procurer of quality firepower. But so guess you could call me a gun smuggler. I know how to get the goods, and distribute them around to whomever is interested. Provided Old Man Faubert hasn't put them on the no-go list. I am not stupid.
In my everyday life, I am a trapper and hunter, as well as hired muscle every now and then. The Fauberts know they can count on me, provided their deals aren't too shady for my blood, and the price is fair.
+++Biography: I was born on a sunny June day in 1944, in a stilt house deep in the Bayou. My papa was a trapper and maman would fish and cook a mean stew for the folks up in Palmyra proper. Her crayfish gumbo was famous all over Oxbow Parish and beyond. Maman raised me by herself for the first year or so, when my pa was out fightin' Krauts back in good ol' France.
We are simple folks, livin' off the land like our ancestors did. In fact, the Delacroix family tree goes back to the first Acadians settled here after the limey picks kicked us off her land up in Canada. My kin were coureurs des bois: French trekkers and fur trappers who settled this here land. That's where my Choctaw heritage comes in, since Grandpappy Patrice got himself a Native wife.
Anyways, back to me. I was a pretty bright kid, if I say so myself. Did pretty well in school as long as my folks could send me, and did a lot of self-teaching after my sixteenth birthday when I started helping my pa in the hunt. A Cajun boy has got to know his French and Louisiana Creole, my folks always used to say.
That's not to say I was a pushover, no sir. Got myself in a fair amount of fighting, and got more than my share of whacks by the local law enforcement. Did some community service at 17 for beating the crap out of a Bedard kid that done walked on our property, and some more for moonshining when I was near twenty.
While I was making my name as a trapper in these here parts, any man around here has got to deal with the Families one time or another. So I started taking odd jobs from Old Man Faubert left and right. Usually just hired muscle shaking down some idiots trying to cross the old geezer.
In '68 however, one such job went sideways as all hell. Some cretin with shit for brains decided it was a good idea to draw a knife on me. Bad plan. By the time the red fog lifted, the sonofabitch had about five extra holes. I count myself lucky that he survived in the end, for the judge decided to put me on probation for three years rather than kicking me in the dungeon right away.
Probation is all well and good, but you try to be on your best behaviour in a place such as this. The scum that done stabbed me first conveniently kicked the bucket not long after, but the coppers ultimately did nab me for a smuggling job I was running [editor's note: it is considered highly likely that Delacroix was behind the untimely death of the rival in question, although no solid evidence has ever been found].
The judge offered me a deal if I ratted out who I was working for. I told him to shove it, I ain't that dumb. The guys I work with, you end up at the bottom of the swamp if you try to screw them over. So there I went, straight into the big house for most of 1970.
When I got out of jail, I went back home to North Palmyra, built myself a nice stilt house of my own deep in the bogs and married a Southern belle. Got myself three kids so far, two girls and one boy.
Then came the draft, fucking flag wavin' buffoons dragged me off to 'Nam. You know much of the story already: deserted, POW, released and court martialed in the US. Honestly, I preferred the Vietnamese POW camp over military prison back here. [Editor's note: Delacroix' commanding officer at the time of his desertion was found shot in the head with a US Army issue rifle. Delacroix remains the main suspect in the murder case, but was released after doing time for desertion, due to lack of evidence.
In my moths as a deserter before being taken prisoner and hauled off to Hanoi, I got in deep with a weapon trafficking gang 'tween Vietnam and Laos. Made some good bucks and got some contacts in the business moving kalashnikovs and RPGs. All stuff that came in quite handy once I got back home to Louisiana.
I have set myself up a nice little trafficking ring back home. All that army surplus material left back in Southeast Asia has got to go somewhere, get what I mean? Old Man Faubert sure as hell didn't mind the extra firepower, and I even got some customers from out of our parish.
Speaking of which, could I interest you in a nice Chinese assault rifle? Dirt cheap, and sturdy as Old Man Faubert himself!
+++RP Sample: Newton Knight, ring a bell?
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