It was almost a textbook case when it came to Molly Dwole. Her husband found in pieces across her kitchen. Mr. Dwole had a reputation of being loose on his wedding vows and Molly had a jealous streak. Personally had to kick her out of my own establishment after trying to get a few of my own gals.

Everyone knew the cooky broad was the one that had done the deed. But she had enough of her crooked friends to vouch to her to give her a shaky alibi. And with no murder weapon around, it seemed like she’d played it smart enough to get away with it. Crime without punishment, free to hit the streets like it never even happened. The smirk she wore just ate away, a cat’s grin after eating a fat canary.

Those kinds of folks think that they’ve got it all. Just able to do what they want in front of the whole world and get away with it, scott free. Run by their own rules, take what they want and take out whoever tries to stop them without thinking twice.

This Hatchet fella wasn’t too far off from ol’ Molly Dwole. I had taken a look at the drawer that only a crumb like him could fill. If there was a crime worth comitting, he’d taken the cake on them all. Never caught, never ashamed, just as slippery as the broad had been. No one had been able to pin him down, and with his cronies he always just seemed to slip away.

In the end though, his house of cards was set to come crumbling down.

Molly thought she had done well at hiding the weapon, keeping herself clean of any immediate trouble. If those flatfoots hadn’t brought me in, she would’ve. She had no way of knowing that I was gonna be brought in, and my sharp eye caught it tucked away in a place where no man would’ve thought to look.

And that’s the one thing this Hatchet ain’t gonna be prepared for: me. He’s used to the world being chaos, having a hundred hands and getting away with bumbling fools unable to keep up. But for me? I’ve seen better, fought badder, and dealt with uglier situations. No ring, no problem. Most of my world’s been in back alleys and run down shacks, tracking down the scum of Arcadia where the grime builds. Street fights are greeting cards for me, just how I spend my evenings.

Hatchet won’t even know what hit him.

Molly certainly didn’t. It got ugly fast when that hatchet came out of the house, her hand printed all over. She fought and screamed, tried to beat down the cops to get it back. That earned her a ride back to a cold concrete cell, left to rot down below.

A fate that they’ll both share. He’ll have to tell me what the concrete tastes like after he’s regained consciousness. Haven’t added that yet to a case file.