GUNRUNNING | BODY TRAFFICKING

PROTECTION | SCRAPYARD SMUGGLING

“Every dog barks. It ain’t nothing new. But,

when a dog barks too much, steel meets

bone and   you get deadjawed.”

    Las Vegas was never built to last. The neon it

     shines with is nothing more than a miasma of

     lies—dreams burn out faster than the festering

     desert sun.     Beyond     the   glamor,   past   the

     cracked pavement    of    highway    and   rusted

     chain-link   fences,    the   city    bleeds   into the

     wasteland—a no man’s land of broken industry,

     sunbaked steel, and silence. In those lands, far

     from the glamor and light, something mean had

     been bred.

    They call it the Deadjaw Syndicate.

    From the wreckage   of a failed dream—a city

     expansion    gone    dry—is    where    the   group

     propagated.      Half-finished      factories,    rust-

    stitched warehouses, abandoned fuel depots. A

     graveyard of steel.   Bones   of industrialization

     forgotten by time. Here is where the first fires of

     Deadjaw were lit. Welders turned mercenaries.

     Union men turned killers. Prisoners who never

     forgot the weight of a pipe in their fist. A gang

     wasn’t built   in   the   ruin—a   goddamned   war

     machine was forged. A religion of rust.

    And in the heart of it all rides the twenty-two

     year-old bastard from the swamps of Louisiana

    —Joaquin Baptiste Moreau—its prophet born of

     the bayou, forged from Vegas and baptized in

     fire.

    Bastrop, Louisiana never made saints. It made

     monsters. Joaquin was born in a shotgun shack

     soaked in the pungence of moonshine and the

     hydrogen sulfide of swampwaters, raised on the

     snarl of gators and the gospel of blood. His kin

     comprised     of    smugglers,    murderers,    and

     of the local gang Voudon Wolves. By

     the time he was ten, he was cleaning guns. By

     twelve, gutting catfish and county sheriffs with

     the same exact blade.

     His father died with his throat full of buckshot.

     His mother sold curses to drunks. Joaquin sold

     bodies to the river.

     At seventeen, he vanished after a deputy went

     missing—only to reappear two years later in the

     Nevada desert, his steed an oil-leaking Harley

     and behind him he drug a coffin full of bones

     and crow feathers. At twenty, he had burned the

     old Deadjaw leader alive in a steel drum, sealed

     shut.

    And now?

     Now they call him. Warchief. Supreme President.

     The Revenant.

    The Deadjaw Riders MC.   A   pack   of chrome

     wolves with rust kissed leathers and matte black

     helmets that roar down the freeway like a plague

     of engines. Their colors consist of not only their

     name, but a 1% patch and a screaming skull with

     its jaw bolted shut by metal on   the back.   A

     Deadjaw.

    Although   menacing   at   the    surface, what is

     underneath is the source of terror. A syndicate

     older than its name, and meaner than its legend.

     Gunrunning.         Body trafficking.       Scrapyard

     smuggling. Protection   rackets soaked in   fire,

     blood, and steel. They don’t just move product–

    they   carve territory. Every warehouse on the

     edge of Vegas, every burnt-out chapel, every

     empty gas station–it’s all part of the grid. Part of

     the body.

    The Deadjaw syndicate is a creature with plated

     fists   and   a    steel-spined   soul   prepared   for

     damnation.

    SUPREME PRESIDENT : JOAQUIN MOREAU

    Unquestioned leader of the Deadjaw Syndicate.

     He balances the Syndicate’s bloodwork with the

     club’s mechanical front. Strategist, warbringer,

     and final   judge   on    all    decisions—business,

     blood, and brotherhood. He   is the crown, the

     cross, and the coffin.

    VICE PRESIDENT / THE LOCKJAW : OPEN

    The voice that speaks when the Joaquin is busy

     breaking necks. Handles internal affairs, conflict

     resolution, and disciplinary coordination. Acts as

     Joaquin’s right hand and shadow. Loyalty to the

     Lockjaw is loyalty to the Syndicate’s spine.

    TREASURER : OPEN.

    Master of blood money. Keeps track of funds,

     payouts, bribes, and   laundering    through   the

     scrapyard   and    mechanic    fronts.    Runs   the

     underground     betting   pools   and    high-stake

     deals. They decides who eats, who bleeds, and

     which business burns next quarter.

    ROAD CAPTAIN : OPEN.

    Both a tactician and   navigator. Oversees MC

     rides, escape routes, and cross-state trafficking

     runs. Organizes   scrapyard    smuggling.   lines,

     weapon stashes, and burner garages. In times of

     heat, they get   the Syndicate out alive.   They

     know every desert   backroad   and every dirty

     cop’s name by heart.

    THE WARLORD : OPEN

    Strategist   and   violent   hand      of   the   gang.

     Oversees all armed operations: retaliation, raids,

     transport   protection,   and   contracts involving

     violence. Commands the enforcers and soldiers

     along side Joaquin.

    THE VICE : OPEN

    Sergeant-at-Arms.     The     gang’s   iron   spine.

     Maintains        discipline,         handles      internal

     punishments,    security     for     meetings,    and

     organizes patch protection. Also the go-to for

     guarding secrets.

    STEEL DOGS

    Bruisers and killers who follow orders. They’re

     not thinkers—they’re blunt weapons made for

     fear. Enforcers are the first in, last out. Most are

     wired, scarred , and    infamous    for   silencing

     traitors.

    JAWED

     To be Jawed is to wear the mark—blood-sworn,

     oath-bound, and ironclad in silence. These are

     the Syndicate’s core   operators, fully patched

     and fully trusted. Unlike simple foot soldiers, the

     Jawed are handpicked for purpose, each with a

     role as defined as the bolts that hold a machine

     together. They’re   specialists   in   the deadliest

     sense, welded into the daily grind of keeping the

     Syndicate oiled, feared, and untouchable.

         RUNNERS —        High-speed    couriers    and

          smugglers. They move weapons, body cargo,

          and burner tech across state   lines or city

          grids. No GPS. No witnesses. No stops.

         MEDICS — Combat-trained healers. Patch up

          knife    wounds,    bullet   holes,   and   busted

          knuckles   in   garage   basements   or desert

          trailers. Equal parts trauma doc and poison

          maker.

         REAPERS —    Hitmen, fixers, silencers. When

          someone needs to disappear—fast, loud, or

          clean—Reapers are called. They bury truths

          as quickly as they dig holes.

         TORQUEHANDS —   Mechanic enforcers. Not

          just wrench-turners, but modders of death

          machines.   Bikes,   cars,   drones, and traps.

          They weaponize anything   with   a motor or

          spark.

         VULTURES —        Scavengers and scrubbers.

          Strip    bodies,   clean   scenes,   dump   heat.

          Experts in dissolving the past, they make sure

          the Syndicate never leaves fingerprints.

         WATCHERS —                 Scouts, snitches, and

          surveillance.   Handle   recon, stakeouts, and

          wiretaps. See everything. Speak only when

          told. Their silence is sharper than their scope.

         PRIESTS —      The spiritual sick. Handle rites,

          blessings, and voodoo for those too far gone.

          They   whisper   to ghosts, burn candles for

          sinners, and hex enemies in silence.

    RUSTBLOODS

    Not yet worthy of a patch. Do the dirty work.

     Ride tail, wash bikes, dig holes, clean blood, and

     keep their mouths shut. To be Rustblood is to be

     tested—three trials: one of loyalty, one of blood,

     one of bone.

    GHOST DOGS

    Non-patched   allies   or    contracted    s.

     Includes     mechanics,     hackers,     fixers,   and

     mercenaries who provide resources, shelter, and

     information. Trusted—but not family. Break trust,

     and even ghosts can get caught.

    KNOWN D OFFICIALS:

    — Police Commisioner

    — Head of City Council.

    — Sheriff of Outer Districts

    — Depity Mayor

    A jaw wired shut still speaks in loyalty.

    1. Loyalty Above All

    Betrayal is the only sin with no absolution. Blood

     in, blood out. Once you ride under Deadjaw, your

     life, death, and everything between belongs to

     the patch. Leave, and you leave in pieces.

    2. Speak Loud, Die Quiet

    Run your mouth and you’ll lose it. Loose lips

     aren’t just a risk—they’re a death sentence.

     Anyone caught leaking business, gang affairs, or

     names to outsiders gets “Deadjawed”—their jaw

     wired shut with steel pins, the Syndicate’s brutal

     form of permanent silence.

    3. Respect the Chain

    Every patch has its place. Orders run downhill

     and respect climbs up. Challenging rank without

     cause or sanction earns a cage fight—or a burial

     in the scrapyard. Rank isn’t given; it’s earned in

     fire, grit, and sacrifice.

    4. No Cowards, No Cops

    No one wearing a badge, no one who’s rolled

     over, flipped, or fed the pigs, may ever sit a

     Deadjaw   table.   Cowards   get   beat. Rats get

     buried. All are expected to protect the

     gang by any means, even if that means silence

     or steel.

    5. Earn the Cut

    Prospects are dirt until proven otherwise. A

     prospect must complete three sanctioned trials:

     one of loyalty, one of violence, and one of

     silence. Only after all three is he branded and

     patched into the brotherhood.

    6. Family Is Protected, Not Weaponized

    Wives, children,   blood   kin—they’re   off-limits

     from violence or leverage in gang affairs. But if a

     brother uses family to manipulate, bargain, or

     dodge ability, he forfeits both his patch

     and his protection.

     7. Steel for Steel

    When a brother falls, the one who dropped him

     bleeds next. If one of ours is killed or crossed,

     the whole Syndicate rides.   No hesitation. No

     diplomacy. No delay. Retaliation is a sacred rite,

     swift and merciless.

    8. The Garage Is Sanctuary

    The scrapyard, the garage, and the clubhouses

     are   off-limits to   internal beef. No blades, no

     bullets, no blowouts within sacred grounds. The

     space where we build and bleed is not where we

     destroy each other.

    9. Respect the Dead

    Deadjaw buries its own. Funerals are patched-

    only affairs, held under moonlight with a ride

     through the   wastes. Those who dishonor the

     dead—by      name,    memory,    or       theft—are

    sentenced to silence or six feet.

    10. Vote With Violence, Rule With Vows

    While the President holds final say, big calls—

    war,    alliances,    excommunications—require   a

     unanimous   table    vote.   Every vote must   be

     backed with blood, and every vow sealed with a

     blade over the fire drum.

     Regular   gang    operations   are foreign to   the

     Deadjaw Syndicate. Rather they are seen as a

     temple of violence. The creed they   follow and

     abide by is simple:

         — The old ways are the only ways that last.

         — Noise is fear, silence is control.

        — Nothing’s dead until the crows fly off.

    Disobedience is punished with steel. Talk too

     much and you   get   Deadjawed—mouth   wired

     shut, tongue split, and your   lips   welded with

     chrome. Those who go against the grain are hun

     from cranes, sewn into tires, and buried under

     the rust of the scrapyards.

    are marked   with veves etched into

     either steel they own, or ink on their bodies, this

     is known as Bonebranding. Every mark tells a

     story: kills, betrayal, but most importantly oaths.

    THE BLACK CHAPEL — At one point the location

     was a roadside church asino hybird for truckers,

     but now it has been   fully   repurposed.   Half-

     steeple, half-pit stop, pews have been replaced

     by pool tables and weapon lockers. Deadjawed

     initiates pray here before their jaws are pined.

     Sermons   are   found   in   the   screams   of the

     tortured.    The   neon, red    cross   still   flickers

     occasionally outfront, but inside is a den of oil,

     whiskey.

     THE RUSTYARD —   What once was a booming

     steelwork, is now a graveyard of molten metal

     and under the rule of   Deadjaw. Cranes hang  

     rusted chains like nooses and furnaces continue

     to roar during “quiet deals”. Most notable are the

     pit fights that happen weekly. Blood spilled is

     blood paid, and the ground remains tinged with   

     remnant of conflict.

    HOLLOW BRIDGE ORPHANAGE — Once it was a

     place for children to remain until finding their

     forever homes, now it is a hideout that reeks of

     criminal    activity   and    cadavers.   Beneath its

     structure lies an elaborate system of tunnels; yet

     the Deadjaw pay   them   no mind, rather they

     focus on running dog fights above.

    OLD LOCHRIDGE PENITENTIARY —         Despite

     being condemned by appearance and on paper

     the Deadjaw still make use of it. Converted into a

     fortress, it    holds blacksite   prisoners,   stolen

     gear, and pit fights. The steel gates that kept

     prisoners from the outside world still functions,

     and on those gates are the bodies of those who

     spoke far too much.

    LAZARUS FREIGHT YARDS —      Beneath graffiti

     rusted   bridges   sleep steel giants. The trains

     are   used   by   Deadjaw for   moving guns   and

     corpses. And rumor   has   it   that   the old   rail

     control tower   doubles   as   a   command post.

     Those he turn their attention to the freight yard

     allege screams coming from between the cars.