[center][IMG]http://imageshack.us/a/img833/8950/qdzb.jpg[/IMG][/center]

[b]| Identity |[/b]
Greg Saunders, the Vigilante.

[b]| Attributes |[/b]
None. Greg Saunders is an old man with a decent right hook and some marksman skills, but that's it.

[b]| Origin |[/b]
Greg Saunders was born in New York City on a cool November day in 1941 to Mort and Thelma Saunders. Tragedy struck quickly, as just a few short months later, Mort was one of the first American soldiers to be killed in action in the Pacific theatre of war. Thelma was left to raise the baby alone, but fortunately, Mort's father Pat came to her aid. He moved in with the family of two, providing money and care.

Pat Saunders had been a frontiersman, a minor legend as a gunslinger and deputy sheriff that later turned to acting in Westerns during the early years of cinema. A rather uneventful career, it must be said, but one that would shape most of Greg's youthful imagination: Pat loved showing his old films to his grandson (he also taught him a few things about guns). Especially inspiring to Greg was a short cowboy flick entitled [i]Vengeance of the Vigilante[/i].

In the film, the titular hero covered his face with a red bandana and meted out justice to those who killed his family. Was it any surprise when a twenty-five year old Greg Saunders donned the same disguise when hoodlums severely beat his grandfather? The thugs had been dealing drugs and accosting women and Pat had felt it necessary to say something. For beating his grandfather and mentor into a coma, Greg - calling himself the Vigilante - dismantled the entire gang and handed them over to the police.

In the years afterwards, Greg - now running his own small maintenance shop - would don the disguise time and time again. An urban cowboy working outside the confines of the law. He even picked up a sidekick for a while, Jimmy Leong aka The Chinatown Kid. Together, they became fearsome foes against injustice in the working class neighbourhoods of New York. Their fame was local, the only tangible evidence of their existence a short profile piece in The New York Times. That, and the lives changed of those they'd helped.

Shortly after his sixtieth birthday, Greg Sanders left New York - and the Vigilante - behind. By then, he had done well for himself. He was a respected man in the community, had run a good business, married a loving wife (Marie) and raised a good son (Pat, Jr.). He retired along with his wife to Florida (her idea). She passed away a few months ago, the victim of an inoperable brain tumour. 

Greg Saunders is well into his 72nd year on the planet.

He is tired.

And he just got a letter from The Chinatown Kid.

[b]| Goals |[/b] 
Let's just say I've got a story I want to tell.

[b]| References |[/b]
None, besides, y'know, Byrd.

I can offer this, tho:

[hider=It wasn't right.][b]SARASOTA, FLORIDA 
MARCH 21ST, 11:32 AM[/b]

It wasn’t right.

It was supposed to be cold in March. It wasn’t cold in Florida.

Greg Saunders sat out on his porch with a pitcher of lemonade, his newspaper and a grimace. While he had to admit the sun’s rays felt nice, warming his leathery old face as they did, they were not particularly welcome. He preferred New York. It was cold, sure, but didn’t that make you look forward to the spring even more?

He was sure it did.

“Hey, Mr. Saunders,” a couple of the neighbourhood kids said as they walked past, carrying makeshift bats and a ball. He waved back to them before turning back to his newspaper. It was the usual story. It was all superheroes and supervillains.

Did anyone still bother to stop the everyday criminal?

Greg looked at his watch and sighed when he noticed it had only been two minutes since he had last looked. He fidgeted some in his chair. A group of middle age women walked by. Or rather, [i]speed[/i] walked by. Greg raised an eyebrow and shook his head. What happened to walking to get from A to B?

This used to be the point where his wife told him to stop moaning. To enjoy life. Wasn’t the sun just perfect?

It’s supposed to be cold, he’d say. She’d laugh.

“Hey, Mr. Saunders, I got a special one for you today.” It was the mailman, coming up the lawn. “It’s all the way from China, can you believe that?”
“Thanks, Toby,” Greg replied, accepting the envelope. He looked on the back. It was a familiar scrawl, even if he hadn’t seen it in twenty years. It read ‘Jim Leong’.
He moved to open the letter, when he noticed Toby was still standing there, his curiosity getting the better of him.
“A man’s mail is a private affair, Toby.”
“Oh, of course, Mr. Saunders,” the mailman replied, a little surprised. “Sorry about that. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thanks again, Toby. And don’t worry, I’ll probably tell you all about it then.”
The mailman smiled and waved as he left. Greg nodded, waited till Toby had really moved on and then opened the letter.

When he’d finished it, Greg carefully folded it twice and placed it in his shirt’s front pocket. He got up, took the lemonade pitcher back to the kitchen and threw the paper in the trash. Out of a kitchen drawer, he took a revolver and tucked it in the back of his jeans, under his shirt. He picked up his gloves, his hat and a red bandana, which Greg tied around his neck. He stepped outside and closed the door of his house behind him. When he’d put the key under his doormat, he turned to face the sun.

[IMG]http://imageshack.us/a/img833/8950/qdzb.jpg[/IMG]

Then he started walking.[/hider]