[Note - I do not own any of the canon characters presented in this fanfiction.
[There will be a few OC's to line the plot a bit thicker
[Character deaths are bound, do be prepared
Roanapur's Bane, The Punisher
An unknown third group had come in and fought heavily with Hotel Moscow and the Hong Kong Triad. The Italians and Colombians were in support, driving the third party out after two months of heavy fighting.
Various gangs went unchecked for the time that Hotel Moscow and the Hong Kong Triad were recovering from the deep-seated wounds left by the fallout from this war. Crime, despite Roanapur being crime ridden as it is, began spreading rampantly. News broke out when a diplomat from the United States was killed on a temporary visit to Roanapur, resulting in world-wide attention. This attention attracted many sources. The CIA was one of them, and as a result, Dinah Madani, too, caught wind.
She knew of one man, and one man alone who would be able to sweep the streets of this rotten city, and not have a single regret afterwards.
Frank Castle.
May 23rd, 2018
2240
Roanapur, Thailand
Adju's Bar
A small group of gang members, thugs, and other criminals had congregated here for a meeting. Small-time, but still on watch by many of the factions for their raging potential. It'd be a perfect start to a long list of casualties for a man, determined to rid Roanapur entirely of their infestation. Adju's had opened right in the middle of the two month war in Roanapur, being destroyed only once by miracle, and the owner having to rebuild it. Now, it was a hot spot for many to come and unwind. The Yellow Stripe tavern got shot up more - different characters showed up there.
No, Adju's bar is a place of common ground. Guns and drugs are ever persistent, but Adju is a formidable, tall man who's earned respect through his resolve. But, this place was safe no more.
"So, say, you got the drugs moved from Malaysia to the Philippines, yeah?"
"Course I do, wasn't hard, those ferries will transport anything for a decent buck."
The tall, broad-shouldered Hispanic gang leader took a drag from a cigar. In the center of their table, chips, cards, drugs and cash. Past time for the low lifers of Roanapur. Around him, four other men. A shorter, fat Hispanic man, and three slim white men with similar styles of haircut. Imposers, mainly. Running a small gang northward of military wannabe's. The Mexicans were from a cartel linked to the true Mexican cartel, their profession being pure vectors for the drug and human trafficking in and out of South Asia to South America.
One of the slim white men commented, cigarette in his mouth; "And our boys are on guard duty, whole way, makin' sure your shit gets in the hole." The cartel's leader nodded, glancing his way, but immediately back. "Yeah, and don't screw it up this time. One more time, and you're going to have a very bad day."
The slim man exhaled, glaring at the leader for a few moments, then back at the blank, wooden table. "Right... Let's get back to cards, tired of this." The man leaned over, grabbing the array of cards to deal. Stacking them, he shuffled, then began to deal to the four others on the table.
Outside, a taxi dropped off a man, The man paid in cash, leaving the driver the change to take for himself, departing with a mere nod. No words. The man wore a leather jacket, knee-high, and had it zipped to full up to his neck. Blue jeans, side sipper black combat boots, and a resting face of judgement as he looked at the shit-hole bar.
The man sighed, rubbing his hands together. The man started towards the bar, his hand slowly lowering the zipper on his jacket.
When he got to the door, the man slowly pushed it open, stepping in to the down-trodden bar. The men didn't stare at the man, didn't even look at him. The man by the name of Frank Castle was well-known, but nobody expected to see him, since knowledge of his livelihood was seldom spread due to his involvement in New York.
Everyone else, however, stared in a mixture of awe and fear. The skull emblem painted on his specialty vest, white on black, contrasting The Punisher's views on those in society.
He didn't speak, but soon enough, someone else did. "You..." Almost as quick, Frank drew an MP5A3 from his jacket, a 100 round drum magazine loaded in the magwell, and fired a single shot through the man's head.
Quickly, heads turned, and Castle had the floor.
He didn't say anything, just squeezed the trigger. Many of them didn't have time, or perhaps, didn't comprehend was about to happen. The men at the table went first, stitched across the chest with multiple 9MM round from the gun, and it swept to the rest of the bar, causing some to duck into cover, others to bleed out where they stood.
Castle stood there for seconds, dumping the magazine until it ran dry. Once it was dry, castle let it drop onto his chest, pulling an M67 fragmentation grenade from a pouch on his vest. Squeezing the catch, pulling the pin, he lobbed it into the bar and walked out.
Seconds later, the grenade erupted, ripping the small bar apart in a concussive, shredding blast.
It wouldn't take long for the whole town to hear of this.
Weeks went by after the explosion at Abdu's Bar. Nobody survived, and many of the other encounters the Punisher went through, not many survived them either. The ones who did ran off somewhere, didn't tell anyone. Gunfights, bloodshed, and restlessness were common in Roanapur, and The Punisher's thinning of the herd went unnoticed for the most part.
That was, until, he went after Hotel Moscow.