Haling from the blue-collar, rural world somewhere between Winchester, MA and Ipswich, Randall Zawadski has always been a forced to be reckoned with.

He was raised by the lovely  Gracie – along with her trusted shotgun, but found himself in the care of a battle-worn Uncle Iain, and equally tortured and traumatized Uncle Drew after she took ill and, well, she died.

This incensed redhead is known for making sordid decisions from time to time, sticks fiercely to those who stick with him, and harbors a deranged lunatic believed capable of more heinous actions than himself.

Speaking of heinous actions, you’ll probably find Randall’s number tucked away in a grungy pocket or on a blood-soaked screen, but the organizations running through the underbelly beyond the shadows known exactly how to find him when they need certain deliveries.

When not enshrouded in some hovel of psychosis, Randall typically finds his solace in his son’s oddities… well he did.

You know, this guy’s had a pretty shitty mortal life so far. Guess he’s learned to weather those storms, including Peklenc, the rabid tornado in his skull. If he can manage to get their shit together, maybe they could share a cup and a cigar over a sack of donuts and maintain their calm. Maybe not.