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Summary
“I swear there’s some kinda conspiracy,” Wade said. He flipped through the available assignments with a scowl. “How the fuck did all the decent jobs dry up all at once?”
Weasel industriously polished the counter instead of answering, swiping the cloth between Wade’s elbows. Sister Margaret’s School for Wayward Children was pretty quiet on Sunday mornings because some mercs liked going to church, possibly for the shits and giggles. Wade usually spent his Sundays sleeping in and/or watching Nickelodeon at the highest volume setting. Now that mercenary work had dried up though, Wade had hauled ass early over to the bar in the hopes of getting in before the competition.