[center][b][h1][color=green]Jonah Hex[/color][/h1][/b][b]Major Jonah Hex (Ret.), Bounty Hunter/Suspected Vigilante[/b], 30 (b. 1938)
[i][sub]Vigilante based in California
Active since approximately Late Spring, 1968[/sub][/i]

[img]http://cdanews.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/01/Legends-of-Tomorrow-to-Give-Television-Debut-to-Character-Jonah-Hex.jpg[/img][/center]
[hr][hr][center][img]http://i.imgur.com/q71wVxn.png[/img][/center][hr][hr]
[color=999999]Jonah Amos Hex is a USMC Major who was caught in an explosion in January 1968 while surveying a battle scene in Vietnam. The explosion killed four other marines but Jonah survived, all ligaments and senses perfectly intact. The right side of his face however was horribly disfigured. He received a medical discharge and a medal upon returning to the states. After finally being released from the hospital in March, 1968. Jonah was incredibly bitter at...well, everyone. Vietnam. The Viet Cong. The Vietnamese. The United States. That one asshole just walking down the street. You name it, Jonah hated it. He despised the bizarre the looks he would get from people as he passed, so much so that he knocked a guy out for bringing it up. 

After a disappointing search for no work, Jonah was walking the streets of downtown LA when he was approached by a desperate man who begged him to help. Gang members had taken his son because the man refused to pay their extortion fee. Even if Jonah was definitely the most bitter son of a bitch on planet earth, he wasn't heartless. Jonah agreed to help and followed the man to the gang hideout. What started out to be a reasonable negotiation turned into an all out fight and when a gun was pulled, it got bloody. But during the crack of ribs and the occasional gunshot, Jonah realized he hadn't felt this good since the explosion. He loved to fight, that's why he joined the Corp. And as he wrestled a pistol away from a gang member and turned it on him, Jonah considered that maybe there was a purpose in life after all. He smiled as the gangster's head exploded from a point blank shot. Killing bad guys. 

Never mind the fact that most people would consider that as crazy and he now had a temper that was like a stick of dynamite next to an open flame, this felt good. [i]Really[/i] good. The man had no money to thank him for rescuing his son. Jonah didn't care. He'd found a purpose he hadn't had for months. So he took contracts for the government to capture crooks for whatever and bring them back alive. But by night (and on his days off) he slaughtered anyone who he deemed to be hurting people. He acted as Judge, Jury, and Executioner...and he loved it. [/color]

[hr][hr][center][img]http://i.imgur.com/rOBXEpI.png[/img][/center][hr][hr]
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Equipment:

- Jonah's Bounty Hunter Outfit: Looks like a typical cowboy, with subtly armored jacket and vest underneath shirt.

- Two Colt 1911 Pistols.

- Bowie Knife and K-Bar Combat Knife.

- Scoped Springfield Rifle.

- Harley-Davidson Motorcycle

[hider=Jonah's Theme][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eJlN9jdQFSc[/youtube][/hider]

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Lightning cracked across the night sky. Rain fell from the clouds like a thousand mortars on a battlefield. A lone rider sped down a desert highway, his duster billowing in the downpour. Water smashed against his hat, dripping off the brim and smacking the black pavement. The rider gripped the throttle and ripped back, flying down the highway. He had spotted his target. A club, with a dozen motorcycles outside of it. It was built low with a rustic look to it, but looks are deceiving. The rider pulled into the lot, parking a small ways from the rest of the motorcycles. He shut off the engine and patted himself down, everything in its place. He touched the rifle in its sling which hung from the back of the bike. For luck. The rider dismounted the motorcycle and sauntered up to the entrance, surveying the burly white man standing guard. The lightning illuminated him, greasy long brown hair and an unruly beard. A swastika on his arm. At least he had the right place.

But the rider wasn't here for him, he was here for someone in particular. Everything would be fine if the man would just let the rider in. But as he approached, a strong arm gripped his bicep to stop him and a stern order came. "Tattoo." The rider rolled his eyes, wrapping his right hand around the hilt of his Bowie knife and said in a rasping voice with a hint of southern twang "What? You don't do walk-ins?" he asked, looking at the man. The rider almost had to resist grinning as the lightning illuminated his own face, revealing his scarred right side. Ghoulish, some might say. The bouncer recoiled, loosening his grip. The rider swung the Bowie with strength, speed, and accuracy. The knife pierced the bruiser's throat and the rider drove it through, blood flowing over his fingers, his eyes locked onto the bruiser's and the big man slowly slunk to the ground as the rider ripped the knife out. Crimson liquid poured from the Aryan's throat and he slumped to the ground with a soft thump. 

The rider holstered his knife and pulled out twin pistols, flipping off the safety of each. He figured if the bouncer wouldn't let him in, none of the others would either. The rider holstered one and hid the other in his coat. He opened the door and felt the warmth of a heater and the smell of beer. Music flooded his ears as he closed the door. Every head in the bar turned towards him. A dozen burly Nazi bikers. "I'm only gonna ask this once!" declared the rider "Where is Ned Schneider?". There was a low growl from the men and the one nearest to him, a rough looking redhead said "None of your damn business, cowboy. How did you get past Os-" he was cut off by a bullet entering his mount and blowing the back of his head out. The rider didn't play games, he was on a schedule and didn't have time to play tough with some skinheads.

He ripped out his second pistol and blasted the barkeep, who had reached for a shotgun. Glasses fell from the wall as the barkeeper slammed into it and dropped to the floor. The bikers stood up and three of them charged with bats and knives. Well no one said they were smart. The rider's bullets ripped through the three men like a knife through butter. They crashed into bar tables and tumbled to the ground like dominoes. The remaining eight bikers looked at him dumbfounded, the rider had just dropped four of their men like it was nothing. They exchanged glances and reached an agreement. The rider saw it and another four of them charged as the other four retreated into the backrooms. They split off and were much faster than their fellows. One went for the shotgun under the bar, the other three were bearing down upon the rider. His pistols went two different directions, the left one blasting the biker at the bar, sending him stumbling to the floor. The one on the right put a bullet in another biker's face.

The four were down to two and as the remaining two looked down at their friend, who was currently missing an eye and very dead, they started to back up. The rider pulled the trigger twice, pumping two in one of the biker's chest, that same biker falling backwards and landing with a flat thud. Then there was one. An amused look came over the rider's face as he started to beg, a swastika tattooed on the bald man's neck. "Please, please don't kill m-" the rider shoved his colt into the man's mouth, all amusement from his face gone. "You lynch a black man not ten miles from here and you beg mercy of [i]me?[/i] He cackled without humor. "I'm gonna take this gun out of your mouth, and when I do, you're gonna tell me where Ned Schneider is or I'll fucking castrate you. Understand?" The Aryan nodded. The rider took the gun out of his mouth and the bald man stammered out. "He was with the group that left out the back." Sure enough, he heard bikes erupt to life and screech away. The rider groaned and turned to leave but was stopped when the bald man asked "W-Wait, who the fuck are you?"

The rider paused and slowly turned around, considering the man. "What do you care? You're dead anyway." With that, he rapid fired his right pistol, three rounds right through the bald man's skull. The man's head flung backwards and painted the floor with blood and the rider pushed the door open, jogging to his bike. The hunt wasn't over yet.[/color]