Marvel owns the X-men, no profit is to be made by this work.

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"You're him?"

It wasn't so much a question as to who he was, but the affirmation for the man that he was right. Most people that had the pleasure of knowing his name fell into three categories, clients, a small group of people who provided the kinds of services he needed, and everybody else that had met an untimely demise. The man before him fell into the second category at the behest of the first, an arms dealer acting as a courier in this instance.

"Whaddya got for me?" Victor asked.

Wearing gloves and hitting the keyless entry for the trunk, it popped open to show a few of his favourites. Four high caliber pistols, a pump action shotgun that gave the right emphasis with every chambered slug, and the one thing his client had asked be the piece du resistance. A bottle of Cristal, and not the low end either.

"I mean no disrespect sir, but you know what you're to do?" The courier asked with a shaky voice.

"Oh you got no idea kid, sometimes the classics are the best." Victor purred, ages since he'd been asked to send a message like this.

"I just, forgive me. I just had to be sure, the client was very...specific." The courier prattled on trying to explain himself.

Slamming the trunk and taking the keys, Victor left him behind in the parking lot to the sudden stench of piss that carried on the evening breeze. Having a look at the man in the rearview, he had to wonder just who his usual clientele were, the stink of gun oil and machinery marking him more as a craftsman than anyone used to dealing with the hatchet men sent out to work with his wares. With a truck full of them to test out, if he liked them enough he might just bother to remember his face after tonight.

Never one for guns unless they came mounted on the side of a chopper or a humvee, he'd make an exception tonight since it was what he was getting paid for to keep his beast from getting the better of him again as it had for so long ever since the big W W 2. Prowling through the streets in the black Caddy, he was far from his usual hunting grounds by the time he pulled up to the club staring at the lineup.

He could smell the party drugs on them as if it was the 70s and 80s all over again. Picking out the ones that had been pre-drinking was easy, the girls welcomed in while the men had to work to get past that velvet rope to the playground of this new breed of Gangster.

"Wait till ya get a load of me." Victor growled, grinning the whole while as he walked back and popped the trunk and strip out of his jacket.

Popping the bottle of Cristal in its supplied satchel, the first one that made any crack about him carrying a purse was going to be spitting their teeth like chiclets to the sidewalk. Strapping the holsters on sheathing the pistols, he pulled his jacket on and grabbed the shottie for a leisurely stroll up to the door with it slung over his shoulder. Never one to bask in the limelight, he smiled to all the punk kids pulling out their phones to record his procession on up to the club.

The bouncers took the better path to valour, radioing for help and turning tail showing their hulking muscles were just for show or kicking the crap outta some partygoer too drunk or drugged out to defend himself. There was a time he'd already be spitting blood and feeling the hot sting of bullets riddling his chest, that he guessed would be fashionably late as he strode into the noise, sweat and smell of so many bodies grinding against another on the dance floor.

The first of this posse to see him was still reaching for his pistol slung in his waistband, lowering the shottie and breathing in the fear that he'd never draw in time. Gripping the stock tight and squeezing the trigger, the screams joined the echo of the belched hellfire that sent one gangbanger to his grave. Pumping to chamber another round as the first shell danced through the air, he could see now just how many of them there were as they stood against the tide of humanity rushing for cover or just fleeing for their lives.

"One for the money." Victor sang as he sent another to his grave, "Two for the show."

Shifting the satchel behind him and wading in with another shot fired, he saw some trying to overturn the tables like in the movies to find them just bolted to the floor or just toppling over. The bullets that bit his flesh were nothing more than gnats, slinging the shotgun and reaching for the first of his pistols to show them how it was done. The recoil alone would likely break their wrists, but in his hands he picked his targets and sent them off one at a time.

"Three to get ready..." Victor carried on, casting off the spent pistol to take up another all the while keeping an eye on the prize.

The fifties had been a good time to be alive, watching Rock and Roll get born, the sixties something else between all the hippies and a people rising up to say enough was enough. A word he used to use to get a rise outta Wraith was something thrown around by these kids like it was nothing. Not for the first time he wished he hadn't ripped that man's heart right outta his chest, but he consoled himself with the fact that it was what people got for sticking their noses into family business. Seeing his mark trying to make a bolt for it, he ended that with the mess that became his knee with a scream that sent shivers down his back.

The club was empty other than the dead and dying, the people huddling in corners crying with eyes closed praying to see another day. Looking down to the sobbing man at his feet, Victor pulled out the bottle of Cristal and set it before him.

"Do you know why I'm here?" Victor asked as he crouched to stare into the panicked eyes.

Reaching down to grab the mess of shattered bone, cartilage and rent flesh he gave it a squeeze just enough to hear a pitiful scream of wounded prey not worthy of all the effort he was putting into this. He missed the real gangsters, the ones that would curse you full of spittle and blood on the lips before he snuffed the light from their eyes.

"Focus, don't make me ask you this again. Do you know why I'm here?" Victor asked in a surprisingly level tone.

"No, I don't know why the fuck you're here!" The man wailed.

"Roughly about nine months ago you fucked my employers daughter, drunk off her ass on this shit. Good news is you're a daddy. Bad news, neither live through the birth." Victor announced, holstering his gun to take the bottle and pop the cork.

Offering it to the man at his feet, he drank like a man that had never known water in his life and drained it down with the expensive champagne running down his chin. Waiting until it was over, just like he was being paid to be patient, he took the bottle by its neck and with his ever impressive strength shattered it over his prey's skull. Mercy wasn't his thing, but it was what the client had asked for. Ending the man with one last round fired, he showed himself out through the back entrance.

His ride was waiting for him right where he was supposed to be, all kinds of fun left in that car back at the club to screw up the investigation. The videos that were likely already getting thrown up on the internet would be interesting enough, thinking he'd have to talk to that geek in his pocket tomorrow. For now all he needed was a long hot shower and the sort of fun that got the recently deceased into all the trouble in the first place. Noticing the box of cigars and the bottle of Bourbon on ice, he was half way through lighting one up when a thought came to him inspired by everything that had just happened.

"Shit, wonder if she's on the pill..." Victor mused, his memory of the past night hazy for different reasons but clear enough he hadn't cared enough back then to bother with a jimmy hat.

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