If I were Gerry Conway, I'd own the Punisher. But I don't. So tragic.
New Year's Day.
A wonderful time of year.
A week after Christmas, when all the joy of getting gifts, being with family, and sharing riveting tales across the dinner table was winding down and the time to start anew was coming.
That's how it should be.
But it wasn't. For some.
11:35 PM- New Year's Eve 2050
Six gang members, two to three racing motorcycles each, and two more in a pickup truck streaked down the highway firing their Uzi submachine guns at pursuing police vehicles, .22 Long Rifle and nine millimeter rounds shattering glass and penetrating metal. The punks successfully managed to disable one cop car and fatally wound a motorcycle officer as they headed toward the Pennsylvania state line.
For the entire month of December, these teenage punks had been on a carnage-filled streak of home invasions and robberies. They didn't care who they hurt or who stood in their way, as long as they got what they wanted.
Homes were broken.
Families were ruined.
And some would never get to see another Christmas again. Or a New Year.
Now was the time to bring these guys in. These officers were getting frustrated as their attempts were being made in vain.
Detective Eric Sanderson was about to gun his engine for the PIT maneuver when he saw two of the gangsters twitch and fall off of their bikes. The detective couldn't hit the brakes fast enough as he felt his car go over the bump that was the gangster. And that's when he saw him.
A skull on the back of the jacket and a white-skull shaped motorcycle helmet.
This individual was all too familiar.
Derek Aiona.
The Punisher.
Son of the famed Heartbreak.
Grandson of Damijin Spade.
The unofficial disciple of Frank Castle, the original Punisher.
When Derek had heard about how the Punisher went missing in action with other vigilantes while on a mission in South Africa to put an end to a known mercenary who had set out, through fear and efficient weaponry, to take over the country. While their mission had been successful, Frank and Derek's parents didn't return. Ultimately, their fate was unknown.
When New York's underworld got word of this, crime had went up.
More people were being terrorized by scum.
Innocents died at a rapid rate.
Until Derek donned the Skull.
To become the Punisher. To live in honor of the family business. In honor of Frank Castle.
But most of all, in honor of the innocent.
Det. Sanderson's face formed into a smile when he saw the Punisher's motorcycle catching up with the gangsters, who turned around and opened fire. He got on his CB.
"Give the Punisher some backup!"
Derek raised his 12-gauge FP6, gaining a bit more ground on the punks as he pulled the trigger once more. This time, fragments of a third punk's helmet and nearly all of his brain matter flew across the pavement.
"Shit! We lost Spank!"
"Man, get that motherfucker!"
"That's the fuckin' Punisher, Gary! I ain't fightin' him!"
"You a bitch-ass nigga. Ain't no skull-wearin' motherfucker gonna kill me!" Gary said as he turned his bike around, a Colt Python being illuminated in the moonlight.
But before the biker could do anything, he was also subjected to the shotgun treatment his buddy received earlier in the fight. Derek. looked up at the truck ahead of the bikes he had just taken out.
There was one bike left to go.
He looked back at the officers, watching as they had long since crossed the state line into Pennsylvania.
"Take the last bike! I'll get the truck!"
Derek throttled the accelerator on his motorcycle, going nearly 100 mph as he followed the truck off of the freeway as it split up from the bike. He knew he couldn't risk a gun battle on busy streets, so he followed the truck from a distance. Eventually, they managed to lead Derek to an abandoned warehouse.
What is it with criminals and warehouses?
Derek removed his helmet, checking his armament. So far, he was armed with a pair of .45 ACP Model 625 revolvers, two frags, a smoker, and a CQC-6 fighting knife. He watched the two thugs rush out of the truck, heading toward what looked like an office. He stuck to the shadows, not wanting to be caught in any light and alerting the two home invaders.
"Damn, that was close," said one of the thugs looking out of a window with a shotgun in his hand.
"Man, I wasn't expectin' the motherfuckin' Punisher," the second thug replied, armed with a standalone version of the M26 Shotgun System. "I thought he was supposed to be dead."
"When you say the Punisher..."
The two home invaders turned around, staring into twin revolvers. Behind the twin revolvers was a man of what looked to be black and Hawaiian decent, his light brown eyes filled with anger but sadness for the lives lost because of these two criminals.
"Do you refer to Frank Castle?" Derek sneered. "In that case, you're half right. You weren't expecting the Punisher to come, but I am far from dead."
The two punks weren't sure what to do. They were standing face to face with the Skull himself and were wishing they were wearing black as he spoke.
"As long as scum like you that prey on the innocent exist, I will never die. You two, I cannot say the same for."
The two criminals grit their teeth, knowing this man in front of him was Death Incarnate. He would claim their tainted wicked souls, and these thugs knew damn well they would not escape their predicament alive.
However, in their minds were a small glimmer of hope. Although death was certain for them, they wouldn't have to die alone. Even in death, these two home invaders saw a chance to become underworld legends, famous for snuffing out the Black Light of Justice.
Yes. If they were going to die, the Punisher would take the journey down the River Styx along with them. So, with their minds made up, the thugs raised their shotguns. The Punisher's fingers put vice grips on his triggers in response.
He was quicker.
A bullet each right through the Adam's apple and out through the spinal cord, dropping them like cordless puppets. He walked over to the broken bodies, putting an extra two rounds into their skulls for good measure.
"Enjoy hell, you fucks," Derek muttered, putting away his revolvers.
He turned on his heel and exited the office just as police cruisers were advancing on the warehouse. Detective Sanderson's car was also pulling up. He ran up to Derek, who nodded.
"They're finished," Derek replied, walking back toward his motorcycle. "What about the bikers?"
"Left us no choice," Sanderson replied.
"No sympathy here for pieces of shit."
"Go on, get outta here."
Derek nodded, heading back toward his bike. Sanderson watched as the Punisher put on his helmet before rocketing away. He smiled, realizing now more than ever that law enforcement needed vigilantes since Frank Castle and Heartbreak's fate had not been known. Though they were criminals, Sanderson knew they were playing for the right team in this everlasting battle of good versus evil.
One way or another, the innocent would be protected.
And the guilty would continue to be Punished.