Name/Nicknames: Harold "Streak" Larsen
Age: 20 (Born 1949)
Sex: Male
Ethnicity/Nationality: Caucasian/United States.
Appearance: Rugged, long-haired (blonde) and bearded. He is never entirely clean and is invariably clad in jeans, leather and motor oil. Big and mean-looking, he is everything the 'give America a haircut' John Bircher types fear in a biker. He stands out just about anywhere, it's a pain in the ass sometimes.
Personality: Always something of a simmering cauldron of discontent, Streak, in the course of his experiences in Vietnam and his induction into the Wild Hunt, the club he has since taken leadership of in a very primal sort of way, now has access to the resources to live off the grid and on the outside. He grew up ostracized from the mainstream of werewolf society. The renegade outlook of other bikers has gotten him to thinking that they should use what they have to carve out their own little bit of society. That, of course, is a fight. He's good with a fight.
Bio: Larsen was born in Minnesota after the War. His mother, Janet, fell in love with Carl Larsen, a quiet fellow that didn't talk too much about his war in the Pacific and had a hard time holding down a job. Harold grew up on the wrong side of the tracks as a result. He had a spotty schooling but learned, from his father, how to repair engines and farm equipment as they scratched out a living on the outskirts. During the War, Carl took a job as a factory mechanic and managed to maintain it until cutbacks in production during the Korean War. Janet waitressed to help make ends meet, which was considered less than respectable. Harold, as a teenager, spent a lot of time in the shop class learning vocational trade type work.
When he graduated, it was safe to say that the draft board was waiting on the stage at high school graduation right behind the principal; he was practically inducted into the military from the moment he was eligible.
Harold's dad was not much of a talker, but he told his son a few things about the ugly fights on the islands, the impenetrable jungle, the savagery. He shook him when he said, "Survive." He was pretty drunk; he'd always had an alcohol problem.
And so he found himself doing basic in San Diego. After training he was assigned to 3/5 Marines as an individual replacement and found himself in B Company, which was deployed into operations in Phu Loc province in November of 1967-January of 1968. As things started to brew up at Firebase Paul, the support grew thinner and the attacks picked up, there was talk of what went on during the full moon when corpses would show up, animal and man.
As Viet Cong attacks intensified and they found more and more fresh Chinese gear among the troops, indicating resupply and stockpiling for an offensive, the mood got bleak. The men started talking among themselves about how the REMFs were leaving them out to die in the mud, and Paul was going to turn into a slaughter. Some of the guys that'd been in other fights, like X-ray, stated their fears, especially as the attacks stepped up against Paul
Salvation came in the form of one of their own platoon members who came clean as to why there were so many chewed up carcasses around the firebase during full moons. An offer was made, not everyone took them but Larsen did. He wanted to live.
The night of Jan 28 and morning of Jan 29 was when the Vietnamese really came out in at least battalion strength, but they weren't prepared for opponents that raked with claws and tore with teeth and did not die when shot. They had no response for a thing that could leap on a DSHk position and rend the crew apart. Paul stood by the time relief arrived on the morning of the 3rd, and the survivors were evacuated.
Whatever the official reports, there were two things that happened as a result of the battle at Paul; reports popped up of man-eating tigers and the PAVN didn't assault Paul ever again, even after 2nd Platoon B Company moved on to fight in the Battle of Hue, where the nighttime acts of the pack were hidden from replacement platoon leaders and other Marines alike, covered in the fire, smoke and hell of the fight in that city.
In the meantime, Larsen served the rest of his tour with other survivors of the platoon as it dwindled and some started to go home. He watched as the replacements came in and out, while the survivors of Paul learned to conceal themselves and control the change.
When he finally got back to the world, his tour done, he stayed in California with some of the others, out of instinct. One of them had a brother in the Wild Hunt MC, a small motorcycle club. It had a heritage back to WWII, but lost a lot of members along the way. They were looking for new blood and were friendly toward veterans. He became a prospect, along with some of the others from 2nd platoon, and earned his membership the hard way.
Soon the old leadership stepped aside for the Alpha -- that was natural. Other clubs started to stay away, as the Hunt got a spooky reputation for ferocity. Mess with them and they came back, again and again, relentless and ferocious.
All the same, things got hot and they decided to take time out from their activity in California and do a trip out to New Orleans. It was Mardi Gras, a huge party and it was an adventure.
Note: Why "Streak?" Because there isn't a situation where Larsen won't strip down to the buff and ride past. He's done it in front of church groups on Sundays. He's considered getting something tattooed on his other cheeks to make it even more worthwhile a pastime.
