The Punisher and related characters belong to Marvel, Inc. Other characters are created by me, but I don't really care enough to tell you not to use them. Infringe away!
Though I don't see why anyone would want to.

I am well aware that my tense agreement is awkward. This is my first 1st person POV story, please bear with me.

Erm…review please? Thanks to Blakkstone for doing so on my prologue. I posted it so far ahead of the next chapter to sort of test the waters. Hopefully, I'll be able to update more often now.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall…

Normally, I didn't have a problem with heights. However, perched on top of a chain-link fence on a roof across from city hall, the only thing running through my mind was that old nursery rhyme.

The iron coils beneath my feet dug into my boots and my feet were already falling asleep. Unfortunately, this was the only favorable vantage point from which to see my mark: Senator Tom Wallace, New York. I try to stay out of politics most of the time, but Senator Wallace had forced my hand when he decided to buy heroin the night before. By chance, Microman had been walking through that part of town and had witnessed the transaction. When I asked him to look into it, he found out the good Senator also used mob ties to get the stuff into the state. I doubted it would be too difficult to get names out of him tonight.

Across the street, I saw Wallace step out of the building. He was alone. Time to make my move. Wallace walked across the street to his car. As soon as his hand went for the door, I sprang my trap. It was a handy little net device Micro cooked up. It wasn't dissimilar to the ones poachers use to catch unwanted visitors near their hideouts.

The cable I used to connect the net to the pulley mechanism was wire-thin so as to be undetectable, but it was as strong as steel. With the push of a button, the good Senator received a little shock to render his vocals temporarily useless, and he was on his way up. It took longer than expected. Wallace must have put on a few pounds since his last press conference.

I leaned over the fence and pulled the wire up the last few feet to speed things up. I let Wallace fall at my feet.

"Tell me everything I want to know, and you've got nothing to fear, Senator," I told him, "I have no problem with icing a heroin dealer, but the last thing I need right now is the death of a statesman on my hands to get the feds riled up. Your voice should work again by now. By the way; scream and I will plug ya."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he croaked back. A slap to the jaw made him more agreeable.

"Where does the heroin come from? Who are your contacts inside the city?"

"They'll kill me," he whimpered.

"Not if I kill you first. Besides, they won't be around long enough to find out it was you who ratted them out anyway. Come on, my feet are finally starting to wake back up and it's irking me. Finger's on the trigger, Senator," I waved my automatic in his face. Pins and needles were jabbing into my feet, and I just wanted to be out of there. Suddenly I started wondering if it was worth the trouble of letting him go. Was he in it for the money? Or were his suppliers pressuring him into it because of his status and influence? Of course, in the end, none of that matters, but all I knew was that it had been a long night, and I needed sleep.

"The stuff comes through a dealer in Madripoor. I don't know where it's processed. It's freighted across Asia and Europe by land and shipped here from Portugal. Less risky than Pacific transit. Plus, there are the pirates to consider. Please, man, I've got kids!"

"We'll see if you get to go home to them tonight. Tell me who helps you get it into the city," I can't feel my feet again for a few seconds, the pain is so sharp.

"The Corazons. The head family in the Cuban mob around the area. They're the ones that meet the dockers. The transactions take place on open water from a private boat so that when the ships from Portugal are inspected on shore, the cargo is completely clean. Please, is that all? I was on my way to meet my wife…we were having a surprise party for my son tomorrow," he stammered the whole thing, practically pissing himself. I holstered my gun.

"I've dealt with the Corazons' drug ring before. Mind you, if I find out you're lying, I'll be back. When does the next shipment come in?" I caught myself as I tried to stand. My feet still hadn't recovered completely.

"Thursday," beads of sweat were racing down his forehead. He was lucky today. Maybe I'm getting soft.

I cut the net with my serrated knife and helped him out. He stood there, staring at me for a moment. I was far too disgusted with myself to care much.

"So this is it? You're going to let me go?" he whispered.

"Yeah," I muttered back, "you're free to go." I put the knife back into its sheath and started to walk away.

"Thank you so much, sir," he blubbered and added, "my wife thanks you too!"

"Save it, Wallace," I called over my shoulder, "I know you're not married."

VVVVVVVVVV

Micro was sitting in front of the TV eating Chinese when I came home. I waved, but made a beeline for my bed.

I had forgotten I had been cleaning my guns when Micro told me that Wallace would be making an appearance at city hall tonight. Pistols, MAC10s, Uzis, and my 12 gauge were still sprawled across the sheets. The Colt automatic still had gel in the barrel. Bad idea; it was probably dry by then. Still, I had replacements, and I was too tired to do anything about it then. I took a pillow from the bed and lay down on the floor after removing my Kevlar suit.

By the time my head hit the pillow, I was already making my plans for Thursday.

I woke up drowsy late that afternoon. Through the door I heard Full Metal Jacket playing on the surround sound speakers. I put some jeans on and headed out.

"What's for dinner, ma?" I stood over Micro, who was in front of the TV again. Now he was fixated on his laptop, doing Lord knows what.

"Chinese again, Frank. Sorry, but I haven't had time to plan something more practical," he didn't even look up.

"S'all right. What are you working on?"

"Nothing right now. I've been talking to a hacker friend of mine for a few days now. He seems to be in a pretty bad situation, but he won't say what it is. He says he can handle it on his own," Micro looked shaken.

"Micro, if we charged every friend of yours that I had to dig out of trouble, I wouldn't have to raid the safes of the drug lords every bust," I opened a carton of milk and drank.

That got a chuckle out of him, but he looked up at me and stopped cold, "Frank, that's disgusting! Don't you remember we did the dishes for once? You've gotta take better care of yourself." I was tempted to make a comment on his weight, but decided to play nice.

"Or you can buy your own milk. Don't you have an apartment of your own anyway?"

"I'm never there anymore. All of my equipment is here in the warehouse. I don't even know why I keep that place." True, but what Micro wouldn't say is that he likes to keep an eye on me. Good old Micro; always worrying, like an old widow. He probably worries more about the hardware though. He still has a heart attack every time I wreck a new van. Neither of us remembers what number we're on now.

"So anyway, what's new?" Micro went back to his e-mail.

"Tomorrow night I'll be out in the bay looking for trash."

"Is that what you got out of Wallace?"

"Cargo ships; they switch the contraband to private boats before they reach customs. I'll have to go a ways out. We'll see if I have to go back after Wallace soon."

"If his politics are any indication, Wallace was probably scared enough of you to admit he'd killed his own grandmother. I have no doubt you'll be very busy on Thursday," Micro laughed, and soon went back to muttering over his laptop.

Finishing off the carton, I grabbed a jacket and headed for the door.

"My friend happens to be in New York this weekend, so I'm going to meet him downtown on Saturday," Micro called out, "maybe I can convince him to hire you to sort out his ordeal."

I had no intention of rescuing any of Micro's friends if I could help it. Most of them are just like him; pudgy, quickly balding, and nerdy. I can handle Micro because he's such a great nerd that he can build and repair almost any weapon I can think of.

Without a word, I left the warehouse and headed for the docks. I decided I would check out the area before Thursday. I had known the area pretty well when the Russian weapons-smuggling was still hot, but with the Cold War ending, the seedy trade plummeted, and the docks were returned to the fishermen and honest tradesmen. I hadn't been down there in over a year.

Something about this wasn't right. I've always been sure that several politicians bought off him, and Wallace confirmed my suspicions. However, Corazon was ruthless, and had no problem intimidating or buying off government officials, but was not known to actually involve them in his business. Apparently, a Senator's pay wasn't enough for Wallace.

And then there was always the possibility that he had not been lying when he told me that Corazon had forced him to play along in his drug trafficking. I decided to hold off on that thought until I could give it my full attention. Now, I had planning to do.

From the warehouse in north-eastern Manhattan, you could smell the Hudson. The river was always dirty, but it smelled its worst in the late summer. Luckily, the hottest days of the year had passed and autumn was well on its way, bringing with it early chills from the north. The smell was bearable today, and so I could be assured that I was in for a nice walk.

When I reached the waterside, I walked along the freight moors before checking out the private boats. If Wallace was right, I wouldn't have to come back here on Thursday. I watched commercial fishermen unload their early morning catches, Japanese import cars lowering onto dry land, and countless goods from all over the world being handled in crates and barrels. Somewhere in there I was probably looking right at a tub full of Cuban cigars, but I don't deal with minor contrabands. I thought of all the cops I know that smoke the things. I don't really have a problem with it, other than the money paid to a communist government.

The private sector was more interesting. Dinghies, schooners, clippers, yachts, and all sorts of motor boats were anchored here, filling the harbor. Nothing looked out of place so far. I sat on an empty bench and scanned the various craft, looking for anything particularly fast, that might, say, outrun a NYPD armored speedboat. Nothing.

My own armored boat was grounded in the warehouse. I would have to get it down in the water before Thursday evening for some fishing to keep a low profile. I hadn't bothered asking Wallace how far out the boats would be when they traded off. Most likely, he had no idea. Anyway, most private boats aren't made for deep waters like the sea just beyond the bay. Any incoming ships would be easy enough to spot, let alone a big, motorized canoe heading straight for one.

Another look around revealed someone else watching the docks. With a cautious second glance, I recognized him as one of Corazon's generals. Perhaps they were actually planning on stealing a good, fast motor boat or two to carry in the wares. That was something I hadn't thought of. In that case, I had hung around too long.

Watching the officer for another moment, I lifted my jacket collar, turned, and went on my way.