This is Bullseye.
Lester Pondexter?
That was his name once.
Upon a time.
He takes a drag on the Parliament, and—
Did people even use the phrase "take a drag" anymore?
He makes this face where one of his eyes narrows and the opposite eyebrow pricks up and his lips purse out. It's an expression of annoyance. Then the opposite eyebrow drops and the lips take on a typical nonexpression. And he stares ahead. The Parliament is burning away, staked between his index and ring finger.
He knows it's horrible for him. And doesn't care.
The tobacco smells like shit and the diner is gaudy and smells like shit, too.
The Moondance Diner on 2nd Avenue.
He rolls his eyes and thinks they should have closed this place a long time ago.
The price of Bullseye's high standards is a healthy distaste for…
Most things.
He the crude oil grog from the stoneware mug, grimaces, and sets it down. Scratches his temple, and sighs. And checks the clock on the wall, the ugly neon bastard above the soda jerk.
11:45.
He's late.
Like always.
Like he always is.
Like he always fucking is.
A quick shot of air out of his nostrils. Annoyed.
Nothing tastes good.
The coffee is fucking horse piss. The waffles are cardboard. He can feel the grease and the grime and the filth on his skin. Like an infection.
His mouth makes itself a grimace and the lips shake.
He really wants to stab something.
Slender and pale fingers slide around the bitter knife and grasp it tightly. And the veins stand out. And he figures out a nice and convenient and no-frills trajectory for flinging the damn thing into the left ass-cheek of the waitress a foot away. The one in the hideous pink uniform with the red-streaked hair. Like that girl Saffron from the band Republica.
He smells Chanel No. 5 on her, and wonders what she's doing wasting her time in this urine stained hellhole.
"Lester."
The Vulcan death grip on the knife relaxes.
He stops and looks forward for a moment.
The eyes narrow and the skin on his forehead draws tight, and the bull's eye scar smoothes out.
He's there, at Bullseye's side. With a thermos tucked under one arm. Right above the Wall Street Journal.
Osborn.
All in black, except for the deep green tie in a Prince Albert knot. Hair slicked back like a damn guido. And he's got this weird thing going on where he looks alternately aged horribly and youthful as hell.
Then Osborn's sitting, and pouring out some coffee in the lid-cup for Bullseye, and sliding it across to him. And doing his shit-eating Osborn smile the whole time.
"How is it?" Osborn says, and his voice is nasal and flat and his smile makes the rest of his face look like a wad of used aluminum foil.
Bullseye takes a sip. "S'good. Where's it from?"
"Dunkin' Donuts."
Huh.
"So why did you ask me here?" Osborn says. "Or. Why not do this at the Tower?"
Bullseye looks up and drinks the coffee again. "Tower means 'on the books'. Tower means I gotta pretend to be one a'your saints. Believe me, I take exception to Clint Barton."
"And yet you signed on. Is it lack of options, or is this your resignation from my program?" Osborn cocks his head.
"No, I just need an hour off."
"A personal day?"
"Two hours. Max."
"What for?" Osborn says. He levels his eyes on Bullseye. His burning green eyes.
"I got me a debt to settle," Bullseye says it so Osborn doesn't take it seriously. Osborn keeps the leveled look.
"Lester."
"Trust me. I'm not gonna blow too much to hell."
Osborn looks at him for a moment longer. Then says, "Looking for Murdock?"
Bullseye lights another Parliament.
Makes his hand into a pistol. Index finger pointing right at Osborn, thumb bent up like the hammer. He jerks it upward. Bang.
"Aye."
He went to 34th street and jaywalked to the middle and just. Kind of. Stood there.
He took the liberty of standing in the middle of the intersection and just zoning out for a couple of minutes. Waited for it to come to him.
He frowned and looked at the sky, dissected by the tenements.
He was gonna need something drastic.
The usual would work.
He sat down. Pulled the Hoyle deck, the one he'd been using since the whole Elektra thing, from his jacket and laid out a Solitaire game, and flipped off every car that honked its damn horn at him and went around.
The truly unobservant…
Did they think the bull's-eye scar on his forehead stood for France or something?
It took an hour before a cop showed up, another fucking guido with a spare tire for a stomach and breath that smelt like salt and vinegar.
The fatass came strolling up, hitching up his pants as he went and sucking snot up a big nose. "Hey bucko, s'illegal to be doin that. Get up, c'mon, move your ass."
"I haven't finished the sequence yet, red." Bullseye didn't even look up at him.
"Get your ass up," the cop said and grasped his billy club. "Not askin twice."
Bullseye groaned as he stood. He took the King of Hearts between his thumb and index finger.
Put on his show face. The thin smile and the perfect teeth and the eyes, beaming.
He cocked his head.
The cop hadn't noticed the, ah, giant-ass bull's-eye scar on his forehead.
He must be new. Jesus Christ, they all know who Frank is, and all he's got is an artsy shirt with a fucking skull on it.
He scowled.
Another disappointment, Lester.
Guido: "Now move your ass. You're blockin the way, bud."
Bullseye put up his hands in the defensive 'okay, okay' way, and turned to walk away.
Then the muscles tightened and he turned on a dime. And the card was out of his hand.
And the guido cop was on the ground struggling to breathe, squirming around and grabbing his throat, and just…
Dying.
Bullseye pulled the dead guido's sidearm—a boring old Glock—from his waist holster and started shooting at the crosswalk, and only a few people went down. Little old lady wobbling on her cane (well, not anymore), a co-ed in a skimpy little miniskirt, and some Suit diddling on his Blackberry.
The rest of the crowd did that oh so predictable scream-and-run bit, and cleared the intersection in about two seconds. Bullseye smiled at his own magnificence and tucked his hands in his pockets and waited a couple of minutes for the shock she was writhing through to subside.
Then he strolled up and saw the pen sticking out of her eye.
He gave it a minute and looked around, up at the buildings.
Nothing.
"Well, shit."
Five years ago it was too goddamn easy to get his attention all I had to do was fucking breathe but now all these weirdoes gotta have names all these fucking knuckle-draggers gotta have gimmicks I mean really in a world of Stilt Men for fuck's sake what's the good gold guard supposed to do honestly?
He went back to the dead guido and strip-mined his fat ass for ammo and the nightstick and the radio. He fished the wallet, a sad little TJ Maxx number, out of the guido's ass pocket and made a face. The only thing in there was a dollar bill.
"Cheapskate."
And threw the wallet back in the dead asshole's face.
Tucked the Glock into his waistband.
He went to the cop car and popped the trunk. And saw the racked-up arsenal.
Thank God for that.
New York had been a rough place since it's denizens'd elected laziness to Gracie Mansion. A couple of angry mutants and civilly warring heroes and not-so-secret invasions didn't help things either. The damn city had become one big riot scene since the Avengers got blown half to hell. And now every NYPD squad car carried as much in their trunks.
So he pulled out the AK and slung it over his shoulder. Got the double-action Remington—at least the coppers had good taste—and loaded the bitch.
And started shooting.
It took another ten minutes, a couple or twenty dead civilians and Bullseye shooting up the corner bakery before another Crown Victoria of New York's Finest came tooling down the street.
He heard the sirens first and whirled around in place and traded the Remington for the AK. It was heavy and damn good and got the job done, and since he didn't really care what he hit, it looked like he was being entirely reckless.
He smiled a little, knowing that all those shots had been head shots.
His stats would be impeccable on this one.
He went from left to right in a big lazy splay: a couple of shots went into a fleeing crowd and took down another Suit running for safety, and then he stopped on the Crown Vic cop car heading his way. A second later, he took back all the bad things he said about assault rifles as the endless barrage popped the Crown Vic's tires and windscreen.
It was becoming a bad day for everyone but Bullseye.
A he felt a little less bored.
And then the car went all 'Blues Brothers'. Flipped over and skidded toward him.
He marveled at his own badass magnificence and simply sidestepped the useless hulk rolling toward him.
And smiled. Slung the AK back over his shoulder.
"Lester."
Time stopped and he allowed himself the weakness of being surprised. His brow and the bull's-eye scar furrowed and he turned slowly.
He relaxed and sighed and pursed his lips in that annoyed Lester way, and pulled the AK down and leveled it at the highly ridiculous looking bastard in the red unitard. His arm didn't quiver, and he took the time to make sure the barrel would line up exactly on Murdock's left eye.
"How long has it been?" the human mouth, the only thing sticking out of the otherwise red get-up, said.
"Eighteen months," Bullseye said. "You left me for dead."
"Don't be dramatic. It was a prison riot, what were you expecting?"
Bullseye gave a little chuckle, the kind that's guttural and comes from too many smokes. "Just you, Matty. Can I call you that now, by the way? You're not gonna sue me like you did everyone else?"
"Does it matter?" Daredevil started pacing, and Bullseye did too. Kept the shotgun leveled. And they made a nice little circle for themselves in the middle of 34th street. The place was still empty, and Bullseye supposed her heard sirens in the distance. They'd get here too late.
"Stark understood your little double-life, did he?" Bullseye cocked his head.
"Yes," Murdock said, from behind the comfort of his unitard and his ridiculous old mask that made him feel somehow like a man. "I take care of my business and he takes care of his."
Bullseye said, "Not anymore. Your friend Stark is out, boyo. Or haven't you seen the news?" At that last bit, he gave a cruel smile. It was a bad joke and an easy set-up, but he enjoyed it anyway. "I'd rather blow yer head out, Matty, but I'm gonna toe the party line on this one and be nice. Consider this your chance to come in from the cold."
"I don't recognize Osborn's authority," Daredevil said.
"Look," Bullseye said and snorted irritably. "Don't make me do the 'Or else!' bit, okay? I'm pretty pleased with m'self that you and I haven't started beating each other to shit yet. So take me seriously, Matty. Your friends don't run things anymore. My friends do. And we want you to come in."
"Is that so?" His red-gloved hands wrap around the billy-club at his waist.
"Yeh," Bullseye said. "Osborn had you figured a long time ago. Don't be a bitch about this, Matty. You know you gotta go register your red ass."
"The only thing I have to do," Daredevil said with some laziness, "is take care of my backyard. You can have Osborn and your Thunderbolts or whatever he's calling them. I don't care."
Bullseye grimaced a little.
Daredevil said, "The minute you come back to the Kitchen, Lester…then we can start beating each other to shit again. You get me?"
"Do you get me?" Bullseye said, emphasizing the 'you' and the 'me'.
He squeezed the trigger. And shot out a couple of quick exasperated breaths when Daredevil avoided them expertly.
And got in close. Bullseye allowed Daredevil the luxury of getting him in a chokehold and could deal with it. He wouldn't kill him, and the cops would be here soon anyway.
"I asked first, you little shit," Daredevil said and gritted his teeth. He was at his most tough right now, and Bullseye was pretty pleased that it had taken so brief a time to get there. Couple of years ago, it would've been a lot harder. Louder, more savagely, Daredevil yelled and tightened the chokehold. "Now. Do you GET me?!"
"Yeh." Despite the chokehold, Bullseye was bored. He cocked an eye and looked skyward. And sighed as much as he could.
It's nice that I'm bored with him now, he thought.
Daredevil, in a voice that was all very sturm und drang and smoker's lung: "I will ruin you, Lester. You come into the Kitchen with your goddamn Thunderbolts, it's open season, I don't care who runs things. A rat with his finger on the button is still a rat. I don't care if he calls himself Wilson Fisk, or Jigsaw or even Norman fucking Osborn. You bring your shit into the Kitchen, Lester, and I will fucking END you!"
"Sod off," Bullseye said with his squelched voice.
"Huh?!" Daredevil tightened the chokehold again.
Then there were a thousand decibels in Daredevil's ears, screaming "DAREDEVIL! STAND AWAY!"
He kept the chokehold on Bullseye and turned around to the source.
A G-man in a black suit, talking into a megaphone.
Surrounded by the Kree soldier Noh-Varr, the one that'd crashed into the middle of Central Park. And someone dressed like Ms Marvel. And Venom making himself look like Spider-Man. And The Sentry.
Underneath his mask, behind eyeholes he wouldn't have been able to see out of anyway, Matt Murdock scowled.
"So," he said. "This is it?"
Noh-Varr, in his two-tone silver and green suit and his platinum hair and his pissy attitude, was the first one to say anything. He stepped forward and threw the finger of accusation at Murdock: "You're assaulting an Avenger. You've cost thousands in property damage, and the death of at least twelve civilians and one policeman. Step away."
Daredevil stood his ground. He looked at the Sentry, the only one of them who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. "Bob," he said. "Come on."
Bob lifted off the ground and started glowing yellow. His eyes turned a very dark and very noticeable black and he made his hands into fists. "This isn't a joke, Matt."
Daredevil grimaced and turned on a dime and grabbed Bullseye by the collar on his duster and threw him toward Osborn's new Gestapo.
Then they were all in the air. Gone. Back toward Midtown and Stark Tower.
Or whatever the hell Osborn was calling it now.
Daredevil frowned.
This is…different.
He let out a quick breath and then tossed the billy club up on the closest fire escape. And was gone.
Sentry had left Bullseye on the roof of the Tower, and there Bullseye had stayed while the rest went in. He stared out over the city for a long time, and then found a couple of notable buildings he knew to be in the Kitchen and focused his gaze on them.
Longingly.
Then Osborn was at his side.
"We had to make a point. Show him what he was up against."
"Being up against me wasn't enough?"
"He's used to you," Osborn said. "Let him fight Noh-Varr--let him fight Bob--see how that works out for him."
Bullseye made a sound and lifted an eyebrow and kept looking. And eventually said, "He didn't take it too well. Your 'register or die' bit."
"I know," Osborn offered. "I didn't expect him to. Did you?"
"No." Bullseye's eyes narrowed. "He's unstable."
Another long moment.
"What's on your mind, Lester?"
Bullseye sneered in Osborn's general direction.
"What's on yours?" he shot back.
"Matt Murdock thinks he runs Hell's Kitchen." Pause. "Well. He doesn't. Not anymore. And I'm going to prove it to him. When that moment comes, the pleasure of serving him is yours, Bullseye." Pause. "Deal?"
Bullseye thought he saw the red-suited figure swinging around a water tower in the distance and heading toward the Daily Bugle building a couple of blocks east. He held back hyperventilation.
He was starting to freak out again.
Osborn said it again: "Lester? Is that a deal?"
Stop it.
Right now.
He's just a man.
Stop freaking out.
He'll send you back to Hell, Lester. He'll ruin you again.
"Yeh," he said, abruptly and without meaning. "Yeah, okay."
The End...?