Where was Fucker Joe when the gunshots rang out?

Corpsing some poor fucker, the fucker in question had been fucking with the wrong survivor. Joe brought down The Corpser on his skull, throwing gore into the air as the man fell limp under the bat. "Fuck you." The old man spit as the younger, scrawny twig of a bandit let go of the glass shard in his hand. It had not been the first time Fucker Joe had to corpse someone else than the runaway slaves, yet it started to feel like normal. Like oxygen in his filters death seemed to surround him, if it wasn't him killing someone it was someone killing someone else.

The man was quickly searched before his blood ruined the goods on him. Their wasen't much on him regardless, perhaps with the gunshots nearby there would be the salvation he was looking for. Or more corpses to loot, perhaps. There wasn't much to go off of, considering the situation. Adjusting his tie, he made forthwith through the snow.