his man, he could tell by his knife. That knife had been on Futtleschuckles' belt the night that Shipwreck had died. That knife had stuck in the pirates' memory outside of every other feature. Futtleschuckle could be ninety years old, crippled, and masked but that blade would always be a tell to Ragnarok. So long as that blade existed, he would always be able to know the man for who he was. His blood was trembling in his veins, trembling at the idea that this was it. After all these years, Shipwreck would be avenged. It was too much, far too much... and never enough. This moment, this very second of Ragnarok the Destroyer's life, would surely be the sweetest and the most bitter. For he would neverbe here again, he would never have this satisfaction of ending the one man he had hunted for so long. His only regret would be that he could not make this ridiculous man, Futtleschuckle, tremble for all eternity at his wrath. He had loved Shipwreck, and for as petty a reason as money a good man had died. There would be no holy fire greater than his on this day.

He dropped his chain. He did not need it. Only one blade would do, the one at his hip.

Clopis' blood ran cold.

Futtleschuckle stood trembling, a crooked smile on his face and rotting teeth showing proud of their addiction. He was excited, why shouldn't he be? He cut the man, he cut the 300,000 berry man. Soon that cash would