Sean Rahey remembered a time when the Irish ran Hell's Kitchen.
Before the mafia, before the Russians, and much before the ghetto street trash, Hell's Kitchen belonged to Ireland. Rahey, also knew that those days were long over. They died with the bitter introduction of bigger guns, higher body counts, and steadily increasing levels of bullshit. Fueled by coke and murdered by time. But those days were over, remembered only by decaying old men either too proud or too decrepit to accept they no longer controlled the Kitchen, and that their war had ended a very long time ago, alongside the one back home.
But Sean Rahey's war, so unlike the one he'd fought against the Protestants and the British, had never ended. As soon as one side grew too weak to support him, he would join the winners and move on. Never once had Sean Rahey's fighting stopped. Maybe it was because he could find no other purpose in his existence, or perhaps it was because, like so many veterans of that war fought on those rainy fields and buildings and gutters, knew that war was war whether it was fought for king, country, or mother-money.
Or perhaps it was because he had truly gone mad.
And all through those years, never once had Sean Rahey known anything else. And throughout those long years, and those long days, he found himself wishing more and more, with every fiber of his being-
That The Punisher was something more than a one-man army.
But there was no winning side he could join. No turncoat he could throw. Rahey was stuck fighting against a man who he knew had killed countless before him, and that with the smallest of efforts, could add all 6'4, two hundred and eighteen pounds of him to the body count.
And above all things, the one thing Sean Rahey disliked the most-
Was dying.
Sitting alone, watching the rain streak down the window of his high-rise penthouse paid for by dirty money and blood on each bill, Sean Rahey understood what being a very lonely Irishman in a place that had whispered the memories of a time it'd once been your child meant.
And standing finally to begin his evening anew with nothing but the prospects of further bloodshed and sin to spur him on, and perhaps, the fleeting hope that one day he would meet the man who would ultimately end him, he knew what that would mean for the rest of his life.
'Someone once asked me why I do what I do.'The door was only halfway open when the sixteen gauge Remington 870 discharged buckshot, which took with it not only half of the reinforced wood, but partially obliterated the doorman's skull. The broken remains of what once could be defined as a door swung open, and before the doorman's body could smack the floor and spill itself, he stepped inside and pumped a fresh shell into the barrel.
But by then the men inside had gotten over their initial shock and dived for cover, weapons, or both.
The Punisher only lowered his eyes.
'Why I do it every day.'These men were not mafia.
Nor were they Russian.
Nor were they intelligent.
Even after the bullets started snapping past his ear and ripping the walls of the house apart around him, The Punisher moved unhampered, positioning himself more appropriately. Patience and training were two things the junkies lacked the most, and it didn't take long for one of them to grow tired of their position and relocate.
'Why I don't stop.'
Castle stepped out, jabbing the barrel of his weapon into the man's ribs and squeezed the trigger, blowing the contents of his stomach out his lower back and splattering the men behind him. He caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye, which was ages of time as The Punisher lashed out, grabbing hold of the crumpling man, too stupid to realize he was dead, and throw him into the path of another pump-action's blast, meant for the dark man in the trench coat. The shooter jabbered something incoherent that could have been either a curse or an apology, but either suited him little as his enemy raised his weapon again in one hand, discharging another shell into central mass to blow him off his feet in a smoking pile of limbs.
'Why so many people have to die.'
The Punisher shoved the disfigured remains of his human shield to the ground with a slight snarl, as if he was sick of the filth being so near him, then shifted his gloved hand to the pump of his weapon and loaded another shell into the barrel, taking mental note of his ammunition. Despite their haphazard aim, he doubted the shooters would give him equal opportunity to reload, and it was only a matter of time before one of them would get lucky.
And lucky shots were never in the Kevlar.
'I turned fifty-one today.'
So he relocated, finally taking cover.
Berretta's and Pump-Actions. Castle was inwardly glad they had no automatics, as the environment would be like being stuck in a tin can filled with razor blades. Automatic rounds would ricochet and physics was never his best subject.
A brief pause in their shooting. Now.
'My wife would be fifty.'
Castle had been in this situation far too many times to count: the action of suppression, flanking, and re-position. So many times had he replayed this calculated game of chance and lead, and so many times had he administered the most obvious, basic solution.
The Punisher jerked the pin on a fragmentation grenade. He was about to test his theory on ricochet.
'My daughter would be thirty-eight.'
He almost expected the grenade to come clacking back on his side. For the shooters to take cover. For someone to throw themselves on it and scream gory, patriotic allegiance.
But he remembered that this was not Vietnam.
They screamed and died, and the room was alit by shards of razor and agony. The Punisher was up and moving the second the pieces stopped flying, a 1911A1 held in each hand. Drums went off. Crunch time.
Survivors were hardly a factor. Three rounds went off- two in the chest and one in the head- ending a man scrambling for some kind of weapon to shoot back with. Someone coughed, leveling a shotgun. The Punisher put a .45 slug in his forehead, flipping one of the weapons and holstering it as he spotted someone making for the back room. There was no time to stop him now, but from the way he was limping, Castle knew running wouldn't be an option for him long.
'My son would be thirty-four.'
The Punisher was a phantom, wading through the bodies with a slurp of his coat tails, his stride defiant and purposeful. Someone whimpered, silenced with a single coff of a 1911, which Castle fired without looking.
It's always the important ones that run.
'I don't have many birthdays. Not since they bled out in my arms.'
The shriek up ahead told him that Garcia's adrenaline had run out and his body had realized it was too pissed off to continue carrying him on shredded legs. The Punisher understood his pain. One soldier to another.
"Lorenzo Garcia."
The voice was like grave dust in a cement mixer. One that Lorenzo Garcia could reply to only by shrieking something in Spanish and wetting himself. Through the dust and blood in the air, a single figment came billowing into sight before cold, steel blue eyes and a fourteen gauge Remington.
A white skull on black.
Lorenzo Garcia was a drug dealer. A heroin dealer. And as the subject of his nightmares drew closer, he realized why this was happening. Somewhere in that cloud of marijuana smoke and burnt-out brain cells, Garcia got the idea that he could be somewhat valuable to The Punisher.
Very, very valuable. Perhaps valuable enough for the man not to kill him.
Although that was speculation.
"Wait, wait! I-I can help you! Please!"
Castle frowned and pumped a shell into the barrel. "Talk."
'But occasionally someone comes along and makes one worth while.'
"The heroin! The heroin- its different!"
"Different. Different how?"
"I dunno! Its cheaper! And-and it's better, too! Like… like a super-drug!"
The impatient shuffle of the big man's feet made it clear that he wasn't satisfied with Garcia's delaying. It was almost as if he'd rather Garcia would beg so he could finish it and not feel like he could have missed something important. Regardless, Lorenzo had to think fast with his limited vocabulary and even less capable brain tissue.
"The shit's fucked up! This guy… this guy, Malachi! He sold it to me! Mafia, mafia or something! He said it was a gift!"
"Where."
"I don't know! I-"
"Then you're no good to me." Castle took another step forward, closing within killing range.
"Wait! Wait! Central and fourth! Near the park!"
"I don't like being lied to."
"I swear on my fucking mother's grave! I swear to god it's the truth! Please don't kill me!"
His mother's grave. Castle sneered.
"Please…" Tears welled up in the drug dealer's eyes and he clawed at the tile, "Please don't kill me!"
The Punisher frowned. "Where can I find out about Malachi?"
'Happy birthday, Frank.'
"He's all over central! You can't swing a stick without hittin' this guy! He's got his fingers in everyone's fucking pies! The Mob's pissed! Everyone wants a piece of his action, and he sells his shit to everyone, even us! That's where I found out about him!"
"Right."
'Says New York.'
He squeezed the trigger.
