Corrupted and Content
Polish Arms Dealer
Profession: Arms Dealer
Organization: Russian Mafia
Mental Attributes: Intelligence 2, Wits 3, Resolve 1
Physical Attributes: Strength 2, Dexterity 4, Stamina 1
Social Attributes: Presence 2, Manipulation 3, Composure 3
Mental Skills: Crafts 1, Investigation 1, Politics (mob) 2
Physical Skills: Brawl 1, Drive 2, Firearms (Soviet weapons) 3, Stealth 1
Social Skills: Animal Ken 1, Persuasion (cutting a deal) 4, Streetwise (working the black market) 3, Subterfuge 3
Merits: Language (English) 3, Language (Russian) 1, Quick Draw, Professional Training 2, Contacts 2 (Russian Mob, Crooked Cops), Retainer (Katya) 1, Resources 1
Flaw: Nicotine Addiction
Wladyslaw Adamczyk was born in 1971 in Gdansk, under the boot of communist oppression. Young Vlad (his preferred moniker) was unable to stay out of trouble after pa-pa was jailed in the dissident crackdown that emerged in the wake of the Solidarity movement. He fell in with a smuggling operation, moving Kazakh opium west and Belgian guns east. It was a living, until the curtain fell. The nascent Polish mob was quickly and brutally crushed, this time by the Russian mafia. Vlad fled to the United States, where he was fast-tracked to citizenship (these were the daddy-Bush years: mumble something about “dissident” and “always believing in America” and they practically taped a green card to your ass).
After living for a few years in Hamtramck, Michigan, Vlad made contact with some former mob friends, Muscovites, that had moved to Philadelphia. Problem was, they needed someone who knew the arms networks, and Vlad was still sharp from running cheap AKs to the drug gangs up in Detroit. Before long, shipping containers laden with beer and vodka (Vlad’s favored smugglers all use booze companies: explains breakages and metal detector hiccups easily) were producing lethal cocktails in North Philly streets, comprised of equal parts Wyborowa vodka, FN Five-Sevens and Hispanic votary candles. Vlad has never lost his affection for the old country, sending back remittances frequently to his jaja and babcia (grandpa and grandma), and to his niece Nadja at Oxford (he’s very proud of her). As a result, his lives well below he means, seeing as his lucrative business could enable him to live a life of considerable luxury. He sees himself as a supplier of whips to Russian torturers, but it’s a living.
One night, though, Vlad saw something that shook him to his old, neglected, Catholic core. He was walking back from a night out with some of his more-decent Russian acquaintances when he spotted what he thought was a man holding up a woman who had taken too much to drink. A chance passing headlight revealed what the pale man was really doing, and Vlad’s babcia’s old voice echoed in his head, telling him of the “Wampir” that lived deep in the Białowieża forest. His blood raced almost as fast as his hand, grabbing the old Tokarev from its concealed holster. He roared at the thing to stop, but it just turned to stare at him with demons’ eyes. Vlad would never know how lucky he was that he had loaded that 9mm with incendiary rounds that night to spook the Russkis. The girl recovered and raced off, with Vlad running the opposite direction. And the bloodsucker? Greasy ash and cloth, scorched into the brickwork and quickly washed away by rain.
Now Vlad knows a terrifying truth, made all the worse by the fact that, as far as he knows, he faces these things alone. If other hunters would find him, he might be inclined to give them a bit of a discount. Or maybe he would just deny what he saw, bury it with the bodies of all those poor Mexican boys that his guns laid low, and be done with legends and monsters once and for all.