PUNISHER WAR JOURNAL
ISSUE #1 written by D. Golightly
"Heartstrings"
Entry 070214a
The freshness of the New Year still nips at the back of my neck. It's only the middle of February but already I feel tired and worn, like a pair of running shoes. Even when they're right out of the box, after a few laps around the track they're starting to fade.
Goddamn, I'm tired.
The pressures of a filth-ridden world are beginning to pull away at what's left of my humanity. For each innocent life spared the touch of a murderous freak, I find three more broken and irreparable. It's almost enough to make a man want to give up. Of course, whenever I hear those thoughts start to creep in I always bash them back down with my boot. I'm sure every Freud-loving, Vicodin-slinging, head-shrinking therapist would say I'm bottling my emotions up and that it's detrimental to my health…but to Hell with them. The only thing I need to worry about is how many shells I have left.
After the last few months of roaming several cities in search of human refuse to take down I've finally decided to return to one of the few places I can actually call home. New York City. I find its cold nights and even colder populace slightly comforting, as only a fanatic like myself could. We used to spend a lot of time here, both business and pleasure. I've toyed with the idea of seeking out a few choice spots around the city, spots that Maria made enjoyable. Probably a bad idea.
Tonight I plan on visiting an old friend to see what's been happening while I've been gone. In order to find him, however, I'll need to squeeze the information out of a few made men. Not that I'll mind. Starting with the bottom feeders of society sits well enough with me. I'll make a quick stop at one of my depots to grab some ordinance. Nothing too crazy, though, as I don't want the guy to piss himself before enlightening me.
Most nights like this I can't help but feel a small weight lift off my back after I set out into the alleys on my hunt, as if the unrest in my soul constantly getting stirred up by my memories takes a little vacation. But not tonight. Tonight is one of those nights that sneak up on you and make you wish you were dead alongside those left behind.
Valentine's Day.
I remember the last Valentine's Day I had spent with Maria. I took her out to her favorite restaurant, a place named The Lamplighter. She ordered escargot and turned her nose up at the revolting little snails. I couldn't blame her.
Goddamn, I'm tired.
Samuel L. Carter was familiar enough with the film industry to work his way in to a cushy position at a production company in downtown New York. At film school, he had shown remarkable talent along with what his teachers had dubbed "the eye" – meaning he could spot a good shooting location with ease. His hopes and dreams were fueled by the optimism constantly surrounding his work, a nice perk of the industry. When you were good you were loved. Unfortunately, the inverse of that also turned out to be true.
"Where d'ya want these Viagra pills, Mr. Carter?"
Samuel set down his half eaten sandwich and turned to face his assistant, who was balancing three cases of the erectile dysfuction wonder drug. He had just been assigned to Samuel the day before and he had already forgotten his name. They tended to go through help quickly in this particular area of the industry. "Just put them in the corner. We'll take them with us to the next shoot."
He turned back to his sandwich, unsure if he wanted to finish it anymore. Where and when had his life taken such a huge dive? After bouncing out of the production company, a result of the internet digital video craze, he had been forced to find whatever job he could. A few commercials here and there but his tiny reputation hadn't yet built enough for him to take in any real income. In the last few months alone he had been forced to take on jobs for unsavory types, the kind of people his former instructors would have turned their noses down at. The industry was cutthroat in every sense of the word, especially in New York City.
The small office provided by his current backers looked like it had been lifted straight out of a low budget B movie. He should know; he had made his fair share of them recently. He had to admit that he enjoyed the whirlwind activity of filming a full-length feature in just fourteen days, and that his level of creativity had certainly gone up by having to do with what he was given. However, the poor quality of his work was showing and he couldn't help but shake his head as he polished off the rest of his sandwich.
At the very least he was still working. He loved what he did, even if it wasn't so respectable now. He recorded everything. Everything.
"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away," Samuel muttered as he wiped his mouth with a napkin. He smirked at his own sarcasm, remembering a time when he didn't give God a second thought. Now, when the chips were down, thoughts of religion entered his mind, as he was sure they did for everyone else that was going through a rough patch in their lives. He kept telling himself that's all this was, a rough patch. He would bounce back and leave all this filth behind him.
"You 'bout ready to take off, Mr. Carter?" his assistant asked him after stacking the cases of pills. "Boss says we need to swing by and--hold on."
A pair of knocks on the dingy office door caught the young man's attention and he turned to open it for whoever wished to enter. Once the door was fully open and Samuel could see who it was he immediately invoked thoughts of God once more.
"Sammy!" the thin man with greased black hair exclaimed as he pushed by the assistant. He tossed his arms open and threw on a smile that was just as wide. "Where ya been? We've been trying to get a hold of you, buddy. You don't call, you don't write…" the Italian man's smile faded in tune with his arms beginning to fall back to his sides. "…you don't pay. That's the one that hurts the most, Sammy."
"Mr. Carter's busy right now--Hey!"
A second mountain of a man pushed into the room, his arm extended to shove the assistant back against the cases he had just set down. The young man stumbled over the shipment of pills, quickly losing his balance and falling to the floor in a gangly heap.
"Too busy for old friends?" the first man said over his shoulder. "Sammy, I'm a little insulted here."
"What do you want, Costello?" Samuel asked hesitantly. He knew exactly what they wanted and his fear was growing exponentially.
"World peace, what else?" Costello answered. "But if you're all out of that how about the five G's you owe?"
"I…I can't pay you right now. My backers just sunk their money into the next project and I had to put in my fair share, too."
"You expect us to believe that?" the second monstrous man stated. "What the Hell you got backers for if you're putting your own dough into the pot?"
"Yeah," Costello added. "I think he's making us out to be a pair of chumps, Bruiser."
"I think you're right."
Samuel stood up and took a couple steps back, looking around the small office for some way out of his predicament. He knew that borrowing money from the mob had been a bad idea but he was short of funds and his backers didn't take kindly to being disappointed. He kept telling himself that it would just be a one time thing, just a small amount to help get the project completed so that his backers would want to invest again. He knew now that he should have paid better attention to his screaming conscious, but desperate times called for desperate measures, no matter how cliché it sounded.
Costello took a step forward as Samuel took another back. "Do you have the money or not, Sammy?"
Samuel's lower back bumped into a pile of VHS tapes he was saving for quick dubbing. He was cornered. "I, uh…well I can get it by the weekend. Monday at the latest."
Bruiser bent down and picked Samuel's scrawny assistant up by neck, strangling him with one massive hand. "You know that's not going to cut it," he said. His fingers easily wrapped around the thin throat of the assistant, choking the saliva out of his esophagus.
"Bruiser speaks the truth," Costello continued, his Brooklyn accent poking through. "You mean to tell me that all this fine smut you peddle ain't bringing a steady flow of cash? Shit, why even bother? So, you've got a choice to make. Either you give us all you got now as a down payment or you call an ambulance for the beanstalk over there."
"Please…" Samuel muttered, intense desperation showing in his eyes.
"I think we're a little beyond the beggin' at this point," Costello replied casually. "Big man! Rip his kneecaps off."
The assistant squirmed in Bruiser's grasp, his arms flailing wildly. The man mountain smirked as he caught one of the waving arms in his free hand, wiggling through the fingers until he had a decent hold on the assistant's index finger. With a quick twist and an ounce of strength, the finger snapped back just below the first knuckle, a sickening snapping sound hitting their ears. The young, thin man tried to scream in a combination of pain and panic but couldn't push the words through his closing throat.
"You're not stupid, Sammy," Costello said, turning back to face the cowering filmmaker. "You knew we was coming to collect. Just remember that you brought this on yourse--"
Another pair of knocks at the door caught Costello's attention. He shared a quick glance with Bruiser before moving in front of the door and asking whom it was. Placing his ear against the wooden door, he listened for the muffled answer. He expected to hear a voice reply to his query but instead was answered with a sharp clicking sound. He jerked his head back when he recognized the noise, the smooth contours of his face wrinkling in sudden horror.
The center of the frail door exploded inward, bits of painted wood flying into the room like shrapnel. Costello took the whole of the shotgun blast, his internal organs now shredded beyond recognition. Bruiser dropped the thin man wrangling in pain, diving for cover behind a pair of filing cabinets. The twin barrels of the shotgun poked through the freshly made hole, pivoting down to fire a second blast into the torso of Costello. The blaring noise blanketed the entire room, almost deafening those within. Blood splattered across the dirty floor, covering a nearby chair.
A steel-toed boot kicked in the remnants of the door and Samuel looked on with terror at a devil made real. His supposed savior was garbed in black, a long trenchcoat reaching to his feet like a cloak of darkness. His hair, his eyes, his features…they were all a deep, resonating black, which served to better accentuate the blazing white skull on his chest. In his hands he held a large sawed-off shotgun, which he casually dropped to the ground as he entered the room.
He knew who this man was. An urban myth that many thought was nothing more than just that. The Punisher.
"Shaking down your own," the vigilante stated. His hands flew inside the folds of his coat, quickly reappearing with a pair of fully loaded automatic handguns to replace the spent shotgun. "That's low, even for you boys."
The Punisher aimed his twin weapons at Costello's still and obviously deceased form, ready to guarantee his trip to the morgue. The whispers throughout the city regarded the Punisher as a ruthless executioner and Samuel was having a hard time disagreeing with that. Even though he looked worn and even somehow desperate there was still an air of righteousness in his mannerisms.
The triggers were halfway to their end when Bruiser yelled from beside the cabinet he had dived behind. The Punisher jerked his head back and swung one of the 9mm handguns in the direction of the noise, making sure to keep one trained on the other fallen mobster. Caught off guard, the vigilante stumbled backward while trying to avoid the desk chair Bruiser had launched at his head, barely sidestepping it in time to miss being hit.
"Goddamn punk!" Bruiser hollered as he followed the chair's path.
The guns fell from the Punisher's hands as he was forced to occupy them with the staunch muscle that comprised the mob leg breaker. He was a big man, toned and in excellent condition, but his physique was still no match for Bruiser. The man mountain simply overpowered him, wrestling the Punisher to the floor.
The pair grappled for a few seconds before Bruiser managed to bat the Punisher's defending arm away, opening a way to his throat. Strangulation was his favorite way to kill a man. His large fingers squeezed whatever air was stuck inside the Punisher's esophagus, regardless of the clawing fingernails that were being lodged into his forearm.
Blood dripped out of Bruiser's arm after another few seconds of the skin being clawed at. The Punisher tried to counter the large man's offense but he had no leverage when a three-hundred pound Italian was leaning on his chest. He felt the need for oxygen as his lungs began to burn and his eyes started to fall shut.
"Go to sleep, asshole," Bruiser said mockingly. "Just close yer eyes and--Hyuk!"
The same steel-toed boot that had busted down the remainder of Samuel's door buried itself in Bruiser's crotch. Pain exploded throughout his entire body and his legs buckled out from under him, freeing the Punisher. Not missing a steady beat, the vigilante rolled onto his feet and palmed the side of Bruiser's face, slamming it into the nearby steel filing cabinet. Again and again the Punisher bounced the punch-drunk features of Bruiser into the metal office furniture, blood speckling across the front of the white jersey the mobster wore.
If the brutish leg breaker would be given a funeral the Punisher would ensure it was a close casket ceremony.
Finally satisfied that the thug's head had been thoroughly caved in, the Punisher shifted his weight back to stand up. He was tall and obviously in good shape, his body visibly honed from the tight undershirt he wore that bore his emblem. He was breathing heavily, thankful for the sweet taste of oxygen once more. He wiped the blood off of his hands using his own coat and stepped back from the near dead Bruiser.
"Bastard," he muttered.
The Punisher looked Samuel over before dismissing him, perhaps thinking the filmmaker was beneath his notice. Picking up his dropped handguns, light flashed in the small and dingy office as the Punisher embedded two rounds into each mobster's foreheads. With each shot Samuel flinched, raising his arms and praying that he wouldn't be next. The Punisher turned to leave the way he had broken in, stooping to pick up his dropped shotgun. His movements were smooth and precise, as if murder was something casual and friendly.
"Uh…w-wait!" Samuel stuttered.
Pausing after he stood back up, the Punisher glared at Samuel. The direct look from someone who obviously had no qualms about killing startled him. There was nothing appropriate that he could say or ask. His mind was a total blank for fear that the wrong word would sign his death warrant. The Punisher turned again to leave, apparently aware of Samuel's self-doubt.
"How…how did you know that it wasn't someone else behind the door when you shot through it?" Samuel finally blurted out.
Stopping in the doorway, the Punisher shot a tilted glance over his shoulder at Samuel, a look of slight irritation. "Heard his accent when he asked who was at the door. Recognized the voice."
Samuel pondered his next move as he watched the Punisher slip out of sight. He was still shivering from the shock of the intense episode that had occurred right in his very office. He noticed the blood beginning to stain his floor and wondered if he should call the police or not. Would they even believe him when he told them what had happened? He doubted it. He didn't even know exactly what had just happened.
Clutching one hand in the other to try and steady himself, Samuel couldn't help but worry about what his backers would say when he would tell them that the next film shoot would have to be postponed.
Wrestling the address of the man he was looking for hadn't been too difficult. Before following Costello and Bruiser inside the Punisher had easily extracted the information he needed from their driver. Finding the mobsters hadn't been a problem, either. New York City had become so infested with them that they rolled around town without bothering to hide who they were.
Frank Castle, the man regarded with fear as the Punisher, rocketed around another corner in his bulky van as he drove deeper into the city. The bright lights of a city that was always bustling refracted through his tinted windows, at times catching his attention. Neon lights that promised relaxation for lonely men, highlighted signs ushering in innocent youth, storefronts filled with just as much smoke as they were advertisements…it was the part of town that Frank Castle knew all too well.
His destination came into view, a three story building that had once been part of an urban development initiative set by the mayor. The neighborhood apparently hadn't been so eager to better itself. Regardless of the project's failure the man who had made it such a large part of his platform still remained in office, feeding off of the general apathy the city held for it's slums. No one cared about this place, not even the drifters that occupied it.
Frank smirked, wondering if anyone would care about the waste he had disposed of barely an hour ago. Costello had been a target of his before he left the city last time and it felt good to finish what he had started. He made a mental note to check in on the rest of the "family" as he stopped the vehicle in front of the building he was searching for.
After hopping out of the van he walked up the front steps and through the front door, ignoring the sign marking the building as condemned. The first floor was completely dark, the worn drywall and piles of garbage barely lit from the street lights outside. Choosing to place caution before stupidity, Frank pulled out one of his 9mm's and slowly made his way to the staircase. The man he was looking for, a stumpy ex-con named Philip, didn't have the balls to actually attack him but it was his experience that being paranoid and safe is better than being careless and dead.
The steps creaked beneath his feet even though he climbed the stairs as quietly as he could. No amount of training would cover up warped floorboards. As he ascended, he noticed how the building became less and less decrepit, a possible result of the loiterers not wanting to walk up stairs to relieve themselves.
A light shone from the top of the steps, tossing badly needed light into the corridor. Frank positioned himself to see most of the hallway while keeping the majority of his body covered, his gun still leading the way. He saw a solid steel door, at least three inches thick, imbedded in the side of the wall. It was the only viable place a man like Philip would be hiding. The ex-con was a technical wiz but was also the most paranoid creature the Punisher had ever bumped into.
Lowering his weapon but keeping his guard, Frank pressed the button to switch on the intercom, the only other thing on the wall besides the bulky door. "Phil," he spoke. "Don't make me break this door down to come find you."
The intercom remained dead for a few seconds after he pulled his finger off the toggle button. He imagined Phil on the other side of the door, scrambling around the room and trying to decide what to do.
"Damn it, Phil, I'm not here to hurt you. I just need information."
How…how did you find me? the intercom finally crackled back at him.
Frank sighed, the tension inside him building. "The hit out on your sorry ass with the mob is still open. Trust me that I'm not here to collect…yet. Open the damn door, Phil. You're starting to piss me off."
A large clang sounded as the lock was undone from the inside. Phil, as protected as he was behind the giant metal door, was easily intimidated. The Punisher holstered his gun once the door was open enough for him to see that the man he had searched for was cowering behind the corner of a table, noticeably shaking with fear. The rest of the room was covered in expensive electronics like computers, recording and surveillance equipment, tons of stuff that Frank had no idea what it did; the works.
"What do you want?" Phil asked, his stocky frame bouncing as he spoke.
"What we all want, Philly. Answers."
Frank moved into the room, walking straight for the technical genius. "You're almost more trouble than you're worth. Almost. Mind telling me what the Hell you're doing in New York? Last time I saw you, you were telling me how you couldn't wait to get into Canada and away from the Italians."
"I, uh…well, that is…I didn't really have any way of moving all my stuff. There's a lot of it here, Frank. You have any idea how expensive it would be to get it over the border without drawing attention to myself? I mean, it's not like I can openly reserve a moving van or something. I'm in hiding!" Phil's words gathered in speed as he did in confidence, apparently convinced that the Punisher wasn't knocking on his door to kill him.
"Fine," Frank replied. "Look, I'm not here to bust your sack anyway. I need information about what's been happening in the city while I've been out west." He shot a casual glance toward a pile of video surveillance equipment, nodding with his chin. "I'm sure you've been keeping tabs on certain members of society."
"I figured you were coming back into town," Phil said as he plopped down into his desk chair. "Word out there is that Chicago recently had a sharp decline in organized crime."
"The sharpest."
"Right…yeah, well, let me call up everything I have of interest. Uh, hey, Frank? Mind if I ask you a question?"
"Yes."
"Heh," Phil choked out. "Right. Sorry."
Phil furiously typed away at his terminal, one of the most advanced that Frank had ever seen. The stocky tech reminded him slightly of another old computer analyst he used to be friends with, a man whose death he had been unable to prevent. At least, that was how he liked to think of it. Sleep came easier that way.
"Hard copy of everything I've got on the Italians is printing now," Phil said after a few moments of silence. "They've been real busy while you were away, Frank. Russians, too. Might be a major play for power coming up soon. When you left town the big guys took notice and then took advantage. It was all the spandex crowd could do to keep a lid on the city. Hey, you used to wear that skintight shit, didn't you?"
Frank glared at Phil, obviously not amused by the comment. "Different times. Different war."
"Right, right. Well, your info will be out in a second." The computer technician stood up and walked to a small refrigerator, the kind usually found in small dorms rooms. "Need something to drink? I've got some Jolt cola around here somewhere…"
Frank brushed by Phil, reaching for the computer terminal. He quickly grabbed the mouse before Phil could protest, clicking through windows on the display screen and opening the file that had caught his attention, a file that Phil had neglected to mention. A file named "Maria."
Blind fury washed over the Punisher's eyes as the digital information scrolled across the screen. Personal accounts, newspaper articles, even a copy of her last will and testament. There were no words or simple thoughts that could describe the anger seething within Frank Castle.
"Hey, what are--"
Frank's forearm slammed into Phil's throat, pinning him against the wall. Shades of red flashed before the Punisher's eyes as he tried to hold himself back from snapping the stocky man's neck.
"Why. The. Fuck! Are you digging into my dead wife?" Frank demanded through gritted teeth.
Phil squirmed under the pressure of Frank's arm. Even though he didn't exactly want to, he let up on the smaller man enough for him to respond.
"Like I said," Phil rasped, "I figured you…figured you were coming back into town. I was just looking into you. You know I collect information! I didn't mean any disrespect, honest!"
He wasn't sure if he should believe him or not but he had no real reason not to. Phil was a straight shooter and even though the mob wanted his blood for a multitude of reasons there was no evidence that the tech geek was crooked. Against his better judgment, the Punisher released Philip, dropping him to the floor in a heap.
"Don't ever cross my path again," Frank warned. Every word was dripping with heat, jabbing into Phil like a hot poker.
The Punisher turned to leave, making sure to stop by the printer and grab his hard copy of information. He grabbed the bundle of paper, spinning back around to exit when Phil stumbled in his way, still gasping for air.
"Wait," the tech mumbled. "Hold on. I'm sorry! Honest, okay? Look, there's something you should know."
"Don't fuck with me, Phil. You wouldn't enjoy being a corpse."
"Jesus, Castle! Just ease back for a second, will you?" Phil rubbed his throat in an effort to regain the feeling in his Adam's apple. His eyes stared straight into Frank's, something most people were desperate to avoid. "I messed up. Okay. I get it. But I found something out about your wife you need to know."
The mention of his departed lover made Frank's nostrils flare. This little speck of a man, this excuse for a human, dared to rub things in even deeper. It was like he had a death wish or a deep need to meet his maker…
"Downtown," Phil continued, despite the look on Frank's face. "The Rushmore Summit Bank. There's a safety deposit box in your wife's name. It's still there, unopened since a week before her death."
…and then the shades of red dissipated and Frank's world came crashing down around him.
TO BE CONTINUED NEXT MONTH IN PART ONE OF "RELICS OF THE PAST"