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Growing up in the "hood" really opened one's eyes to how cruel life can be to so many. Thaddeus Kane, 2nd son of four, grew up with the mentality that the only way to make ends meet was to hustle the streets at a young age. His father, George Kane, was incarcerated for dealing drugs and murder when Thaddeus was the impressionable age of 8--leaving an unfit mother to raise four boys. If not for his older brother, Jerod, Thaddeus and his siblings might not have made it as far as they have. Jerod held a particular animosity for his father, and instead of following in the man's proverbial footsteps, he worked two jobs to put food on the table for his brothers and to teach them that an earnest living pays off in time. Well, for Thaddeus--his nickname being T.K. for short--living such a lifestyle didn't seem to fit his champagne tastes. His brother was always exhausted, never had time for himself, and pretty much hated both jobs with a passion. T.K. didn't want to end up like him, even though he respects his brother tremendously, he just didn't want to find himself where Jerod was at the age of 20. So began the hustling of the streets that would inevitably turn his life around. 12 years later, T.K. had managed a formidable reputation throughout his small town. Having never killed a man, T.K. "ruled" a small portion of territory with the understanding of surrounding gang members that he's out to make everybody some money. Marijuana and small arms trade entailed a healthy profit for T.K., not to mention somehow unifying the various gangs to fend off would be trespassers from bordering towns when threatened. The only stipulation set before T.K. was his inability to sell anything to gangs outside of the three territories, which was not a problem in the least for several years. However, with outside influence growing steadily over the course of time, the altercations became more and more heated with each passing day. Tension continued to rise as more bodies turned up dead in the morning--riddled with bullets from the night prior. Sales began to wane considerably due to the fact that most of his comrades decided that if they didn't get out now, they'd never get out. T.K. also realized what this neighborhood was becoming a little too late. A late night drive-by laced his childhood home with bullets meant for another house, killing his mom and his 3rd brother. Word spread quickly of what happened, not to mention who's to blame for such a heinous act. T.K. gave Jerod and his youngest brother a substantial stack of cash and told them to leave town immediately and not look back. Jerod, distrustful of his distant brother, took the money and fled town with their brother on the next greyhound out without telling T.K. where they'd be heading… it's probably better that way. With what remains of his family out of harms way, it was time to get some payback for what those fuckers did… It took T.K. and his "crew" roughly two weeks to formulate a plan based off the gangs' routine movements. Thursday night rolled around with a certain thickness permeating the air as dusk broke. The South Street Hustlers, the alleged gang for the shootings, began to have a meeting based on territory gained and lost in the last few skirmishes. The bulk of the crew assembled in the basement of that dilapidated building; however, T.K. knew that some of the more "important" figure heads would be absent. CRASH! Home made Molotov cocktails crash through what few windows could be seen, instantly setting fire to the old furniture as the kerosene splashed everywhere upon the bottles shattering. Screams could be heard from the inside… horrible, twisted screams of agony. Oil burns gotta' suck. T.K. and his crew split into three groups of 4, knowing that they'd have to take out any stragglers before word could get out. That night rang loud with a hail of gunfire as T.K. and his boys made their rounds. By the time the three groups were supposed to meet up at the McDonalds on fifth street, only T.K. and 4 others showed up. The guys exchanged words on what went down, where, and the whereabouts of those that escaped. Maybe this wasn't as thought out as he originally thought. There were far too many members absent, meaning that by the time morning rolled around, the remnants of the South Street Hustlers cruised the streets in full force, taking out any of T.K.'s members via beatings and stabbings. Things went awry horribly, and before he knew it, he caught the last Greyhound out of town… on the run. Sitting in the back of the bus, he created a shoddy guise to conceal his identity due to the story on page one of the Chicago Tribune: Local gang wars reach an all time high. Known gang banger, Thaddeus Kane, has been linked with several shootings etc etc With no idea where this ride would take him, T.K. had no clue as to what he'd do when this bus reaches the end of its line. He could barely sleep, always alert incase anyone decided to try and stake claim on the $5,000 reward on his head. Things got a little too deep too fast. Jarred awake by the screeching of brakes, T.K. glanced about groggily and realized that they stopped at one of the stations. The bus was practically empty at that point, and without further delay, the driver made mention that this was his last stop… and that T.K. would have to pay for another ticket for a separate greyhound if he wished to go further. Broke, T.K. had no choice but to turn down the offer. Exiting the comfort of the bus with displeasure, T.K. quickly realized by some hanging signage that he was in Kansas somewhere. Shit. Equipped with nothing more than his clothes, wallet, and a sense of resolve to get away from his old life, he began to walk wherever his feet would carry him. He'd pass the occasional diner, offering his services to wash dishes and bust a couple tables for a meal or two. T.K. easily picked up the life of a nomad… very atypical for a man of his nature, actually. Currently, his ambitions begin to overtake him once more… not necessarily to get back into what he used to do exactly, but something else… he wanted to feel… important. Vegas… the place where broken dreams are made. Surely there must be something for him there, right? Hitchhiking his way across the country, T.K. eventually found himself in the "Sin City" with a gleam of hope in his determined green eyes. Standing at a height of 6'0", T.K. would soon come to call this place home in due time
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