Originally a denizen of Milwaukee, Mort Sheaffer had a brief career as a Green Bay Packers linebacker before a knee injury abruptly sidelined him for good. As he had been counting on a long and profitable career in football, he hadn't done much in the way of preparation for a life outside of the NFL, and quickly found himself completely broke. Scraping together what was left of his pride, he took a job in one of Milwaukee's many beer bottling plants and soon abandoned the airs and arrogance that had marked his playing days. The only indulgence he allowed himself to work off his incredible rage at the way things had turned out was his decidedly antisocial habit of slipping small dead rodents into the occasional beer bottle when his supervisor wasn't looking.
This unpleasant activity tweaked the curiosity of the Nosferatu Kristian, one of the childer of the unpleasant Parovich, and a football fan who had been mightily impressed with Mort Sheaffer's crunching hits. The young vampire interrupted Mort mid-mouse one night and Embraced him, bitterly depressed to the depths which one of his athletic heroes had sunk. The shock of the Embrace, along with Kristian's palpable disappointment in him, shook Mort into some sort of moral respectability, and he quickly took it on himself to serve as a sort of guardian of the streets. This activity, of course, did not meet with the approval of dear old Grandsire Parovich, who went after Mort with the intention of teaching the neonate some respect for his elders. Mort, however, had heard enough of Parovich from Kristian to recognize his danger and hightailed it out of town. Bouncing from city to city, he son found himself in San Francisco, where he fulfills his role of street protector. Even though he has only been in the city a matter of months, very little happens to members of the street community without Mort knowing it.
Mort's face looks like a prune that someone left in a microwave for a week. He is the most hideous Nosferatu that the Bay Area has encountered, and as such has gotten very good at Obfuscate to cover it up. Six feet, three inches tall, he maintains his football players build and shows no ill effects of his long-ago knee injury. When he decides to dominate a room with his physical presence, it really doesn't take much effort.
His wardrobe is blandly simple. Usually he can be found wearing a long, dirty trench coat, blue jeans, shitkicker boots, and a Harvard University sweatshirt. More often than not there is a battered fedora pulled down over his wrinkled brow, and on occasion he carries a Desert Eagle tucked into the waistband of his jeans.
Mort is probably San Francisco's only jolly Nosferatu, and gets a huge kick out of the confusion this causes. He likes singing at the top of his withered lungs as he tromps down sewer tunnels (David Lee Roth's "Just a Gigolo" is a favorite), and if he falls in with others he'll insist they sing as well. He makes wiseass comments in a deadpan rasp, and isn't shy about letting others know when they've screwed up. He's got a heart of bronze (if not gold) and soft spot for the underdog, and he'll do what he can to help a struggling kid out. However, when push comes to shove, he's all business. In a fight he's deadly, and he'll use a knee (or a bullet) to the crotch without hesitation if it'll help him win a fight faster. All of the macho bullshit from his football days has been burned out of his system, and he takes grim pleasure in his talent for putting others down efficiently. Still, that only happens when people piss him off, and he doesn't like to get pissed off. If people would just leave him to his business, he'd be much happier. Probably, do would they.