A bit rushed but this is the general concept. Switched it yet again haha

[hider=Lance McMahon]
[center][img]https://static01.nyt.com/images/2017/08/12/opinion/12vietnam-web1/12vietnam-web1-superJumbo.jpg[/img]

[i]Cpl. Lance McMahon of the 1st Battalion, 9th Marines - Da Nang 1968[/i][/center]

[b]Name[/b]: Lance "Big Grit" McMahon (but most people just call him Lance.)

[b]Age:[/b] 31

[b]Occupation/Cover:[/b] Owner of McMahon Transportation, transportation business providing truckers from O'Connor to Mobile

[b]Racket:[/b] Like everyone else in the county actually worth a damn, Lance runs moonshine: he stores it underneath the floorboards of his old house, and he ships it interstate through the trucks he uses in his business. But besides that, Lance acts as an “enforcer” of sorts for the county mafia: whenever there’s a “problem” that needs fixing, Lance is your man. Whether it’s thugs stealing from your supply, an uncooperative politician, or (God forbid) a snitch, Lance can take care of it. With a rudimentary knowledge of many other skills learned in Vietnam such as explosives, gun modification, poison, and body disposal, Lance is a more than likely candidate for the single most physically dangerous man in O’Connor.

[b]Public Goals:[/b] Anyone in O’Connor County can clearly see what Lance wants: money, plain and simple, and the Dixie Mob gets him a lot of it. 

[b]Private Goals:[/b] Honestly? He… really doesn’t know. He does know he needs to keep the ranch going for the sake of his pa, and he does like making a lot of money. But what he is really afraid of is not being able to move on from the war and what he saw there. While what he earns from his racket is proving a worthwhile distraction, he’s not sure how long it can last.

[b]Supporting Cast:[/b] 

- Janus “Calico” Marsen, 57: resident pimp and unofficial “mentor” to Lance in the Dixie Mafia.
- Billy Landers, 17: Calico’s nephew and Lance’s new hired muscle around the business.

[b]Personal History:[/b] 

On Lance’s first birthday, his father’s unit awoke to Japanese bombers roaring over Pearl Harbor. He spent the first few years of his childhood being raised by only his mother, who frequently saw other men while her husband was away fighting in the Pacific. The happy year of reunion that was 1945 for other couples was a year of anxiety and separation for Lance. Tarwin was a shell-shocked and occasionally physically violent alcoholic, but he tried his best to keep the peace in the house and raise Lance to be a real man, which the latter came to respect.

With no other siblings at home, Lance yearned for attention in other places. He became known as a troublemaker in school, and while his father often beat him for truancy and failing grades, Lance kind of liked the rush of adrenaline that fighting gave him. He was a part of his high school’s football team and had dreams of going pro, until he got to college and realized that chasing after a sack of leather for some clout wasn’t really what he liked. He dropped out and enlisted in 1963, to the indifference of his father. The first couple years of his service he spent whoring around in Japan and the Philippines, but 1965 was when he, in his own words, “really started to shine”.

For being one of the most momentous times of his life, Lance likes to think he doesn’t remember a whole lot of what happened in Vietnam. It doesn’t come back to him that way, mentally speaking. But his body remembers the mosquito stings earned from trekking through the jungle for weeks, the cramped spaces of the tunnels he crawled through hunting for VC, and finally, the fists and the rifle buttstocks of the Vietnamese soldiers that captured him.

His ears remembered the harsh sting of Vietnamese curses they screamed at him, day in, day out. His wrists remembered the burns of the rope which they used to lash him to a pole, giving him nothing but urine to drink for days on end. His stomach remembered the slow, deep cuts his torturers used to carve on his skin, leaving the wounds to be infected by god knows what manner of jungle bacteria. And he remembered the crisp, cool air rushing past his skin as he stumbled blindly into the jungle yet again, as flashlights and bullets followed him into the dark.

He came back in 1969 to a father six feet under from drink and a message scrawled on a notepad on the mantel: make something of yourself. Alongside it was a couple thousand dollars enough to start a small business.

Naturally, the first thing he went and did with it was to spend it at the nearest bar. 

And that was where he met Calico. He was an older man who described himself as a friend of his mother’s from way back. He approached a clearly drunken Lance and asked him if he knew anything about body disposal.

They both came out the back and in it was the body of a woman. Calico swore he didn’t touch her and was doing it for a friend who had booked it a couple minutes earlier. Half-drunk, Lance and Calico heaved the body onto the back of the former’s pickup truck and drove it to the creeks at his backyard, where Lance showed the old man how to chop up a body and bury it in different places for the worms to get at. He got paid a nice sum for his troubles, the first of many more to come.

As the years went by, Lance did manage to start a trucking and delivery business with the money his father left him. What his customers did not know was that in his trucks was moonshine, and anyone who happened to notice got paid a “visit” by Mr. McMahon and his “associates”. He also began to frequently trade in explosives, chemicals, and other “substances” from his old friends in the Marines. Such was the way he managed to reingratiate himself in the good graces of O’Connor County.
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