Roland was a soldier of fortune, going where conflict brought men like him to eek out a living spilling and sheding blood, always with his trusty Thompson gun at his side. He signed a contract to join the fray in the harsh African bush, fighting alongside the Congolese, not giving a damn about their cause, only that their cheques cleared.
Roland fought alongside a motley band of locals and internationals like himself willing to put their necks on the line, be it for patriotism, sentimentality or simply for cold hard cash. Roland stood out, cutting down swaths of Bantu with precise bursts from his heavy but trusty old Tommy.
Perhaps he was making too much of a name for himself, or it was just rotten luck, but either way he ran afoul of the perfidious CIA, who bribed one of his own comrades in arms, Van Owen, to cut him down. Roland went out into the thick of it and never came back, his head blown off.
But that wasn't the end. Roland's headless body rose from the heap, still clutching at the Thompson, animated by a supernatural instinct for vengeance and retribution. It hunted down its mortal enemy, the traitorous son-of-a-bitch that took away his life.
Roland