The dirt being moved above the coffin irritated Cooper slightly. Was he going to be cut again? The voices above ground were muffled with nothing in particular sticking out to him. However, when he felt the familiar movements of something scratching against the wood, he knew who it might be. His limbs protested as he stuck three fingers through the small gap the coffin lid had. He then forced himself out with a grunt. His muscles struggled with the force he used. The IV needles that kept the RadAway flowing, were forced off his arm. He coughed and hacked at the feeling of fresh air invading his lungs. Being in one place for almost all 365 days of the year had atrophied his muscles severely. It was made worse with being a ghoul. He slowly twisted and turned himself, allowing for his bones to crack and his jaw to get back into place. He lifted his gaze and settled on the three people before him. Two of them looked like they were debating between pissing themselves or firing. They were smart enough to do neither.. yet. But they did raise their guns. "Well, well, well. Why, is this an Amish production of The Count of Monte Cristo, or just the weirdest circle jerk i've been invited to?" He asked as he flexed his gloved fingers to rid them of discomfort. The man in the middle, couldn't help but start laughing. "Welcome back. I'm Honcho. Now you don't even know us-" "No. I do not." The Ghoul paused as he spotted a chicken. The chicken that Honcho and the other men had brought in case the Ghoul lost his mind to becoming feral. He licked his lips absentmindedly as he approached the chicken. Honcho raised his gun with the other two when he knelt down in front of the chicken and gently picked it up. The Ghoul studied the chicken silently as Honcho brought up his 'proposition.' "A bounty came down. A huge one. Enough to be a.. last score for me and whoever's with me." That got the Ghouls' attention. "Now, somebody made a run from the Enclave." The Ghoul raised a nonexistant brow. "Well, what makes you think i'd give a god damn about that?" "It ain’t where they’s running from I figured you’d be interested in." He unfolded a piece of paper: a hand-drawn sketch of this 'Dr. Wilzig' and a dog. "It’s where they’s running to. That witch, Moldaver. In California. That’s where you from, ain’t it? Originally, I mean." The Ghouls' expression hardened. His eyes gleamed and his lips tightened for a moment before speaking. "Now what the fuck would you know about where I’m from?" Honcho's smug look grew with his tone. "Well that don’t sound likegratitude, do it boys? How ‘bout we put you right back in that hole, so Dom Pedro can have his fun with you for the next thirty years." The Ghouls' eyes wandered from one man to the next, looking for holes within their body language. "Well I tell you what, boys," He began as he put the chicken down. "Whenever somebody says they’re doing “one last job,” it usually means their heart’s not in it. Probably never was. But for me, well... I do this shit for the love of the game." They weren't fast enough to react. He took the two men at Honchos' sides out, in the process, the rope gagged Honcho. He took the fallen saddlebag and hoisted it over his own shoulder. He smirked as he pushed the coffin back, causing Honcho to jerk backward harshly and into the grave. He was going to do everything his way from now on.