Chapter Text
“Knives Millions, huh?”
“Yuh. You heard of ‘im?”
“Vaguely,” Wolfwood says. “Through the grapevine.”
He’s lying. He hasn’t but a prospect looks better if you know a thing or two.
“Yer lucky, then,” Jimmy Twoshot grumbles. Or at least, Wolfwood thinks his name is Jimmy. It might not be Jimmy. “He’s a real prick!”
Wolfwood offers a solemn nod. He drinks his frothy red beer in solidarity when Hank (it’s definitely Hank, the guy looks like one) raises his.
“So you want me to take him out, then?” Wolfwood confirms through a belch. He wipes his mouth free of foam.
Hank (fuck, maybe it’s Steve) slams his mug down. “Damn right! They call you the Undertaker?”
Wolfwood makes a non-committal noise, shrugging. Undertaker. Punisher. The people will say what they want. As far as names go, he’s been called far worse. Some warranted (almost always). Some not (never).
Steve gives a heavy nod, all wide-eye foal awe. The seriousness of his face looks out of place because of it. “Then Take him Under.”
Wolfwood pauses to consider, fingering the condensation on his glass. He hasn’t really taken a job like this in a hot minute. He much prefers his own stride, hunting down wanted posters when he wants. Being on someone else’s dime feels a lot like being leashed.
“I’ll bed him down for a pretty penny,” Wolfwood eventually sighs, “Upfront. None of that half-now, half-later bullshit.”
Jimmy (it’s definitely Jimmy - fucking, Steve Twoshot sounds dumb ) gawks and squawks. His face goes pig pink.
“Upfront?! Now, I get it, you come highly recommended but with that price, that’s just bosh.” He smacks a hand down on the table. “Upfront?!”
Wolfwood narrows his eyes.
“Been burned too many times. You want the man singing with the angels, you cough up the goods first.”
Jimmy hems and haws but ultimately shakes his hand when he holds it out. They chug their beer. Jimmy pays him heartily, and Wolfwood takes an extra wad when the man slumps over, drunker than a skunk and talkin’ nonsense after he thinks he can beat Nicholas D. Wolfwood in a whiskey chugging match. The Bride has always been his favorite bottle and he’s not one to be outdone.
The next morning, he sets out, chipper and in for it. As he leads Angelina through the tumbleweeds and dunes of Augusta, he squints at the writing Jimmy left him on a cloth. Their night of drinking had made it soggy so he had to dry it for an hour on Angelina’s rump. Some of the ink has bled, making a few words entirely illegible but he gets the gist based on the sentences around them.
Knives Millions gets his name from the throwing knives he uses. Evidently, he’s a deadshot with ‘em. He’s about 6’foot somethin’. He’s quick. He rides a mare, some sort of paint. Not a man’s horse, if you ask Wolfwood. Blonde, bad attitude, every bit by the book a hard case.
These are all things Wolfwood puts to memory as he sniffs him out. In Inepril, he hears that Knives has gone east, leaving behind his brigade of folks who call themselves The Gung-Ho Guns. A damn stupid name but some would say the same for him. In Lewistown, he gets a few lost stares over a name like Knives Millions. That’s a dud. He moves on. In Voldoor, Wolfwood gets enough to track the bastard down. Angelina may be only a horse, but in another life - she must’ve been a bloodhound, because she leads him right to the guy.
In a church of all things. A church in Octovern, a town with quaint folks who don’t even know the danger they’re in.
Wolfwood can’t help rolling his eyes.
If Knives Millions knew Nicholas D. Wolfwood, the Punisher of the West, the Undertaker of the Damned, was at his back, singing his last rites - he doesn’t show it. Honor is a story only meant for young boys to give them something to strive towards. To lead lives of gold. Wolfwood is no such boy, as he spits in honor’s mouth and shoots Knives in the back of the head. He leaves him in the same position he was praying at the bye-alter in, some of his splatter putting out the votive candles around him.
By the time the people realize what they heard was a gunshot, Wolfwood’s already slipped out of town with only God as his witness.