Ever want to break even? If life’s kicking you when you’re down, you can only try to remain calm. Try counting to 100.

I wish I would’ve met you
now it’s a little late.
what you could’ve taught me
I could’ve saved some face

You’ve seen this. A thousand times over. Life gets to be unbearable, and someone pops off like an errant landmine, destroying everything around them in a blaze of ‘glory’. School shootings, mass murders, and workplace violence all run like rivers of blood into the sea which is the occult underworld.

And down that river, floats a briefcase, soaked in hate and levelled fury.

The men and women who deliver these cases do so under duress at times, but sometimes, appear to be grateful to be doing a service to the community. All wear a charcoal-colored suit, matching the briefcase. None have more than a six-letter name, and it invariably starts with ‘Mister’ or ‘Misses’. All wear a wedding band, none show their eyes. As to their duties, they are simply working off a Karmic debt; if they deliver the cases, nothing done by them appears in a public record, for as long as they deliver cases, and forever afterwards, provided that they did such a deed, while delivering cases. As to the cases, it’s a locked briefcase, about two feet long, eighteen inches across, and three inches deep. Lock combination is “333”.

In it, you’ll find:
A photographic record of the men, women, and children involved in the worst event of your life, ranging from the abusive spouse, to the cruel rapist. Anyone. No mortal is immune to it’s power of detection.

Full records, deep in enough detail to convince even the hardest of hearts, and sway the toughest of wills. Pacifists find it almost impossible to avoid it’s lure.

One hundred nine-millimeter bullets. Unremarkable in all respects, save each one is labelled with a sigil: in all languages, one word, reduced to 9pt. font — LOVE.

A handgun, of unknown make and model, but of matching caliber to the bullets. It is fitted on the bottom portion of the briefcase, in it’s own foam holster, alongside the ten-by-ten patch of 9mm holes for the rounds to slide into.

Four empty twenty-five round magazines, fitted for the unknown gun.

Now, the catch: in order to use this, you must give up your life, forever. And you will be required to deliver the briefcase to a number of people equal to the number of rounds you fired from it. If you fire off all one hundred rounds, you get:
A briefcase, and a list.
The list is the current (and constantly updated) U.S. Census.

Once in a week, a name will flare up, burning away all others from the list; as such, it will be the only name readable, along with the appropriate location for a proper and discrete meeting.

Effects of the briefcase:
The case itself can be reused. The combination remains ‘333’ forever, however.
The gun is traceless. As the Clandestine Gun.
The bullets, if not used to ‘settle the debts’, so to speak, will fall to dust, and be unusuable afterwards, after the last case is delivered. This gun is designated for the use of anyone who has suffered; in the hands of someone who was not delivered a case, or is not the current legitimate owner of the case, the firearms roll suffers a -50% shift, with failures resulting in not just simply a missed round, but an equivalent amount of damage inflicted as the bullet ricochets around, repeatedly striking it’s victim’s original target, if available, and the shooter, if not. It will bounce a number of times equal to the sum of the owner’s Soul stat (a 59 is ’14’, meaning : 14 bounced rounds. Each will do only 5 points, but still… it’s going to hurt severely.

When the gun runs dry, the action slides back, revealing a black shell casing, which twirls upwards.

At this point, your clothing switches to a charcoal suit.
And you just drew some severe Helplessness checks.

Vengeance is sweet, but you’re a dolt for thinking it’ll be coming cheap.