Wild Dog (Vol. 1)

Issue #2: Peace At What Cost?

In Raze's car, the hockey mask vigilante drove to a brick house in the suburbs, pulling into the driveway. He takes Claire's body out of the car and buries her in the backyard. Once the grave was marked, he crossed the street to a house with 'Valley' on the mailbox and let himself in.

The owner came downstairs to find the vigilante washing his hands in the kitchen sink. The homeowner heard movement and came downstairs with a prop crossguard. At first, he thought it was a burglar or worse. When he saw the jersey, however, he calmed down and dropped his weapon.

"Jesus," he sighed. "I could have killed you."

The vigilante looked over his shoulder. "Doubt it."

"What are you doing here?"

"I can't go into my house, so I came here." He turned around and now the small drops of blood on his blue Wild Dogs jersey were visible to the homeowner.

"Is that blood?"

"It's not mine and he had it coming."

"You killed someone?"

"Affirmative."

"Who?"

"I didn't get his name. He killed Claire and then I killed him. He worked worked for Shellcase."

"SHELLCASE!? Are you insane? He'll tear down the city to get to you."

"He'll be dead too."

The homeowner gulped. "Do you have a plan?"

"Yup. You're not a part of it." He headed to leave.

"Good luck."

"I don't need it, JP."

The vigilante took Raze's car and drove to the outskirts of town. There was a small house on a large piece of dead land surrounded by high-security fencing. The gate was remote-controlled and had an intercom. He pulled up to the gate.

"What do you want?" A grouchy voice from the intercom asked.

"I need guns."

"What makes you think you'll find some here?"

"Don't Peacemakers carry guns?"

There was a few seconds of silence, then a loud buzz sound came from the gate. It slowly opened allowing him to enter. After journeying on the long driveway, he arrived at the small house. The paint had fallen off over the years. A seventy-year-old man stepped out with a pump shotgun.

"Who sent you? Red Panzer? Per Degaton? Cadmus?"

The vigilante tossed Raze's guns out the window and got out of the car.

"I'm gonna kill a lot of bad people. I need guns. Better ones."

"Oh yeah? How do you know who I am?"

"I read the Living Assault Weapons as a kid."

The old man lowered his gun. "Fuck! I told Hank that was a shit idea! Well, come in, I guess."

The vigilante entered the house. The living room had a recliner, a television from the nineties, and medals framed on the wall. The old man walked toward his kitchen.

"During the eighties, the government brought me and a couple of other patriots to form the Living Assault Weapons. I was called Peacemaker because I believed in achieving peace through guns and violence. We fought Soviet super agents and some scumbags here in the States, like the Fourth Reich. I stabbed Captain Nazi in the eyes. The only survivor of that team was Kid Karnevil, even though I think the little psycho deserved the chair. That kid tried to put cyanide in baby food."

"I'm here about the weapons."

"I know." The retired Peacemaker crossed the kitchen to the basement door and the two descended. "After the Cold War ended, all the weapons we confiscated were brought here and sealed away. I was stationed as part of my retirement."

In his basement was a large vault. The old man turned the dials to the right numbers and it slowly opened. Within were walls of dusty weapons from the eighties, but still in functional conditions. With an old gym bag, the retired Peacemaker was giving the vigilante some assault rifles and a few pistols.

"What do I owe you," the vigilante asked.

"Fuck up the mayor for me, kid. Piece of shit has been trying to get me out of here so Shellcase can get his slimy, shitty hands on the place. I'm not going nowhere."

"Deal." He grabbed the bag and hung the strap over her shoulder.

"What's your name anyway?"

"I don't want a comic book."

"Fine. Call if you need anything else, Wild Dog."

At the ice rink, Captain Niles Davidson watched as Raze and his two goons were sealed within body bags. The bloody, broken hockey stick was being taken for fingerprints. As gruesome as that scene was, the captain was drawn to the blood in the middle of the rink.

"What happened here?" He asked.

The closet officer looked at him coldly. "It's not important."

"Why?"

"Shellcase says it's not important." He reached for his gun.

"...Fine."

When the officer wasn't looking, the captain took a blood sample. No matter what Shellcase had ordered, there was a new mystery to solve.