Chapter Four

Dr. Arnold Ellinger sat wearily at his desk. His rounded chin sat atop his crossed arms, balancing a pair of square, wire-rim glasses on his nose. His half-dead, deep brown eyes watched the smoke rising from his cigarette. Twisting and swaying as it rose to the ceiling of his dreary office. In a strange way, it was the most lively thing in the room, he thought. He would have laughed, had it not said so much about his office, and himself. His computer was dirty and aging. Otherwise, his desk was only populated by two mugs and a downturned picture. The first mug, at his left, held his pens and pencils. Most of the pencils were green, with dried out erasers, and many of the pens were those cheap blue things with questionable ink life. The picture, just behind the writing utensils, was of his wife and son. Clara and Jordan. He didn't like thinking about them while he was at work. Which was strange. One would think that keeping loved ones in mind would help with a stressful job. On the other hand, it only enhances any guilt you may feel.

Arnold was a surgeon. He used to be a good one. Top five in his graduating class. His diploma had once hung proudly on the wall behind him. He'd started up his own private practice on the East side. Manhattan, New York City. He'd anticipated good business, and he had been right. About the business part, at least. Arnold was no stranger to violence. He had seen the results of some action during time in Operation: Desert Storm. And New York City held its fair share of crime. But as the months rolled by, Arnold noticed that more and more of his patients wore greasy suits, and traveled in groups. But the Hippocratic oath never distinguished friend from foe. He'd never asked any questions, and kept his eyes down when possible. Organized crime was a reality one had to be accustomed to in today's world.

He'd been able to stay neutral until one night. It was a late one, and his secretary Jean had gone home. He was just locking up when someone tried to bash in his door. They did so, and a hail of gunfire followed. The men that had helped themselves to his hospitality were being pursued by a gang of rival killers. Hitmen, mobsters, gangbangers; he didn't know or care. But in that situation his first instinct was to get low and call for help. He reached the office phone and called the police.

The gunfight lasted only minutes. With his guests coming out on the losing side. Afterward, the attackers came in to examine their handiwork. When they saw the phone in Arnold's hand and heard the distant wail of the siren, they left a lead souvenir in his thigh and made quick their escape. The police arrived just in time to clean up.

After that, Arnold's ordinary clientele dried up. All but the suits in a stream only just steady enough to let him keep the office. He had been made to let Jean go. He wouldn't put her at risk. And in an attempt to save himself more grief, he removed his diploma from the wall, and usually kept his family hidden. But two months prior to this night, his wife had decided she had had enough of the late nights and the secrets. He understood, and knew it would be best for Jordan, who was only eleven. But understanding rarely creates as much comfort as you would think.

Now Arnold sat in his chair, a week's worth of stubble on his face and a half-finished pack of cigarettes in his pocket. The walls were all a sickly egg white that had begun to dull. He leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee, which occupied the second mug on his desk. The one thing he could pride himself on these days was his ability to make a damn good cup of coffee. But with no one to share it with, it was a hollow victory. The office was quietly. So uneasily so, that even his groan as he rubbed his tired forehead was comforting. But as he placed his coffee mug on back on the desk, he heard a knock at his door.

Half of him wanted to shout "I'm closed," and reap the consequences that would transpire. But the other half, the half that had kept him from shaving his neck with a scalpel these past two months, made him get up. He rubbed the bald spot that encompassed the top of his head, and exited the little office. Stepping out into the patient waiting room, he could hear the faint scream of sirens. An intermingling of police and firefighter sirens. The knock came again. But as he approached his door, Arnold's analytical mind flickered. The knock was a slow, methodical one. It spoke of patience and calm but firm intent. Normally his customers didn't bother to knock at all.

He opened the door and came face-to-face with a six foot man that looked like a modern, living version of Frankenstein's monster. Dead black eyes beneath equally-dark hair. A stark grimace seemed etched into his face, and a large leather jacket shrouded his massive form. "You open?" came the deepest, harshest, most calculating voice he had ever heard. But even so, he heard the twinge of Italian. He exhaled slowly and stepped aside, allowing the large man to enter. When it was only he that came in, he closed the door behind him. "No back-up tonight?" Arnold said half-heartedly.

The man shot him a cold glare over his shoulder, before shedding the jacket. "I don't have back-up." As he saw the jacket drop, he noticed that the man also carried a duffel bag. Boy, those brought him back. Must be an ex-marine working as a gun-for-hire, he thought. The man wore a black t-shirt beneath the jacket, and his musculature certainly indicated someone with a dedication to physical fitness. The skin was aged and marked with strain, but the muscle beneath was powerful nonetheless. It was a nice change from all the overweight, under-muscled goons he usually treated.

With a rub of his eyes, Arthur led the man back into the room beside his office that served as the operating room. This room was slightly better-kept, but the air of hopelessness permeated it regardless. The tools sat orderly on the right wall, while the table sat in the middle of the room. Portions of the comfort padding had been ripped, torn, and stained with blood that Arnold had not the money, nor the will, to repair. He turned his back and prepared a set of gloves as the man climbed on to the table, which released a slight squeak with the wait. "What'll it be this time?" he said as he turned around.

"A few deep scratches on my left shoulder, buckshot in the right. One bullet in my right thigh; moderate bleeding. Think you can handle that?" The voice was no less cold, hard, and calculating. When he had turned around, the man had stripped his shirt off and laid flat. The dark, steely eyes stared at the ceiling. He expected to be treated, but managed to keep out any sense of demand. He had decided to be cordial. Well, at least it wouldn't be so bad.

Arnold took a moment to examine him. The man had spoken the truth. Everything was where he had pointed out. But the wounds dated back to what he estimated to be close to two hours old. "Taking chances tonight, eh friend? You might have come to me sooner." He snapped on his gloves and readied the syringe of morphine. "I had work to do." He turned back around to face the man, moving the operating lights into position. "Oh yes, you're work is always so important to you boys." The man looked at him coldly, his mouth tightening up.

After a silent moment wherein Arnold gave his best returned glare of weariness and resilience, the man asked "what's in the needle?" He sighed and replied "anesthetic." The man reached down to his side for the duffel bag and pulled a small pistol from it. "Look, if you don't want it, just say so. No need to threaten me." Frustrated, he replaced the needle with the other instruments. "I wasn't." With a quick motion, the man removed a single bullet from the clip and replaced the gun in the bag, placing the bullet between his teeth. "Get on with it." With yet another sigh, Arnold got to work on the man.

First came the scratches on his left shoulder. These looked to be the freshest wounds, and were bleeding the most profusely. It looked like the man had been mauled by a dog or something. He had always been good with sutures, and this would stop the bleeding and keep the man from going into shock from blood loss. It was done within moments. Thankfully the brute wasn't squirmy. Next, he focused on the single bullet in the man's thigh. Thankfully it was the outer thigh. The man had managed to bandage it up fairly well for a thug. The bleeding had almost completely stopped. And strangely, the man made no noise or movements as he unwrapped the tourniquet. He could tell that the flesh was tender, but even so. The man had quite a lot of self-control.

A further examination of the man that he subconsciously compiled while working, revealed that he was quite up there in years. The stress lines, breathing, skin coloration and texture, and the slight natural movements of the body indicated that the man was probably in his late fifties, if not pushing sixty. And Arnold could not help but silently marvel at the man's physicality. Such a good body wasted on such a harmful vocation. It was a pity.

The bullet thankfully came out cleanly, with only two fragments. No serious injury. He cleaned and wrapped it up good and tight. Finally, he looked at the buckshot wounds in the right shoulder. This would be the most difficult and tedious. His only solace was in the fact that it wasn't birdshot. Buckshot was small enough to elude all but the most practiced hands, and birdshot was even smaller. Anyone who came to him with birdshot was given a pain prescription and nothing else.

After the fifth little ball had come out, Arnold's fingers began to ache. Working around muscle, tissue and bone this high up on the shoulder was delicate work. But the only sound the man made was a low grunt when he had been forced to scrape a tendon in removing a pair of balls. He was once again forced to admire the man's tolerance for pain. He was practically a machine.

When the operation had been completed at last, the man's shoulder looked like a sponge. But he managed to soak up most of the blood and bandage everything accordingly. The instant his gloves were off and his hands washed, he lit up a cigarette. The man spat his bullet, almost entirely bitten through, into the pain containing the other bits of bloody metal. He lifted himself mechanically off the table and replaced his shirt while Arnold's back was turned, placing his instruments into sterile, hot water. "What do I owe you?" came the hard voice. Arnold almost laughed. None of the thugs had ever actually paid him. The higher-ups only funneled enough cash into his account to keep the clinic open and his bills paid. "That's funny champ. But I-" Arnold's words caught on the inside of his throat as he once again faced the man, this time with a view of the front of his shirt. Painted in stark white across the chest was a craven-looking skull. And suddenly it hit him.

Frank Castle, aka The Punisher. The man who had been slowly eradicating every mob outfit in New York over the past few decades. At first he stood in shock, but that quickly gave way to fear. What would the suits do to him if they found him here? He doubted very highly that they would sympathize with the Hippocratic oath. "No charge, just hurry out. They'll kill me if they find you here." He genuinely hated to be rude. He appreciated what the man did. But the Punisher's presence was simply detrimental to his health. Castle hefted the bag on to the operating table and replaced his jacket wordlessly. As he opened the door, he said "They won't be back. And hopefully neither will you. Thanks for the sutures." And with that, the door closed and the man disappeared into the blackness.

Arnold stood there, slack-jawed for a moment, until the cigarette between his fingers burned him. He dropped it into the trash and thought over the events, ensuring himself that they had actually occurred. He leaned wearily against the wall and slid into his operating chair, exhaling softly. As he rubbed his eyes, he noticed that the duffel bag was still on the operating table. His first instinct was a bomb. The Punisher did kill people for a living, after all. To him, he was probably just another enemy. But his curiosity claimed victory, and he unzipped the bag. What was inside made him rub his tired eyes even more vigorously. Money. Hundreds. Probably thousands. Enough to get him out of here. Maybe there was a soul in that killing machine he had just treated.

Arnold's thoughts drifted back to the picture on his desk...