| |
[Jan. 27th, 2009|01:30 am] |
I woke up in a cold sweat. Every night, it was the same dream. And I'm convinced that, if there's a heaven, that dream is it. Spend every day in that dream, with no fear of waking up. Sadly, I know I'm not going to heaven. Not after the things I've done. I reached down, and used the sheet to wipe the sweat off my face, and looked at the clock across the room. 5:24 in the morning. I hadn't slept more than 3 or 4 hours, but I'm used to that by now. The scum out on the street don't sleep much more than that. The mobsters and corrupt politicians don't sleep much more than that. So why should I? I stumbled out of bed, and fumbled my way to the kitchen, eyes trying to adjust to the odd mix of the darkness of the apartment, and the sun just barely peeking up over the Manhattan skyline.
I pulled a tray of ice out of the freezer, and a glass out of the cabinet. Out of another, I grabbed the bottle of Wild Turkey. A good drink always helps calm me down after that dream. I walked into the living room, the glass in one hand, the bottle in the other, just in case I needed a refill or two. I pulled the blinds up on one of the windows, looking out over a city that, unlike me, was, for the most part, still asleep in their comfortable beds. I didn't have the luxury. I realized a while ago that what I do prevented dreams like the one I have from becoming a reality for other people. I realized that, in eliminating the worst of this city, I was, in essence, helping others avoid the pain I have to live with my entire life. The gaping hole in what used to be my heart.
Once, I was just Frank Castle, your typical hard-working FBI agent, wife and kids, a daily routine. I enjoyed what I did. I was always a firm believer in justice. That those who did wrong to other people should be punished for it. I had no idea that I would one day be the one doing the punishing. But then again, I had no idea that my entire world would be destroyed like it was.
I took a quick shower before heading out for some breakfast and the news. The water heater was broken again, worsening my mood. God help whatever poor souls decided to piss me off today. I left my apartment at roughly 6:30, and took the service stairs down six flights to the ground floor. The doorman, Pete, was a nice guy. A bit too talkative for my taste, but he always meant well. I just didn't feel like dealing with him in the mood I was in. I walked a few blocks over to the luncheonette I frequent. It was too cold to be going far off at the moment. My leather trenchcoat wasn't quite enough padding over a thin black tee shirt and jeans to save me from the biting winds of a Manhattan winter morning.
I picked up a paper from next to the front door, and grunted, as amiably as possible, a good morning to Lou, the owner. He disappeared into the kitchen, and returned about ten minutes later with my usual breakfast, three eggs, bacon, sausage, four pieces of toast, and a large cup of black coffee. I guess he could tell I wasn't in the conversational mood this morning, and he went about cleaning some of the coffee machines. I ate in silence, looking through the paper for any criminal activity that could keep me occupied for the day. Lately, my neighborhood, and most of the surrounding ones as well, had been pretty quiet. That usually meant trouble was on the horizon. An article caught my eye about some problems between the construction company belonging to Nicky Carbone and the landscaping company owned and operated by Gerardo Petrocelli. Not that I cared about some dispute over zoning problems or whatever their insignificant problems were. If there were any problems at all. Both of the men were higher-ups in the two biggest Mafia families in the city, and this dispute was a public cover up for something much more serious than construction and landscaping.
My mood had picked up rather significantly, as I now had an outlet for all this frustration building up inside me. I called a goodbye to Lou over my shoulder, and he returned the farewell as I pushed out the door, covering up with my coat once again. The weather had warmed slightly in the hour or so I was in there, but still wasn't over 40 degrees. I returned to my apartment, taking the service stairs again, and turned on CNN, hoping to catch up on my world news. Never hurts to be informed. But first, I had a call to place. I walked into the kitchen, pouring another drink as I dialed a number I had come to know very well over the past couple of years.
"Duka speaking," the voice picked up the phone.
"Mickey. Need you to find out a couple of things for me".
"That's what I'm here for. What do you need?" Mickey Duka asked. He had been my contact both in and out of the criminal world for a couple of years now, ever since I took care of Howard Saint. I shook that out of my head. The mere thought of the bastard brought a foul taste to my mouth, which I quickly replaced with some whiskey.
"I need to you to find out where Gerardo Petrocelli and his boys hang out," I said shortly, glancing at some news story about the war overseas.
"So I'm assuming you saw that story in the paper, too," he said. "A couple of other people think something's up. Give me five minutes to find out. I'll call you back". And with that, he hung up the phone. I placed it back on the hook, and walked over to the sofa. Setting my drink on the table and turning up the volume on the TV, I pulled the trunk from the side of the couch so it rested in front of me. I opened it up, and smirked a little bit, whispering "Hello, boys. Long time no see".
Staring back at me was my gun collection, layered in the trunk in various ways. I figured if I was going to pay that greasy punk and his snot nosed friends a visit, I may as well bring some friends of my own. I began pulling guns out, looking through them, setting some aside on the couch next to me, and replacing others where they had come from in the trunk. All in all, I wound up with six pistols: two Desert Eagles, for the heavy duty work, a Glock 18 Fully Automatic pistol for quick cleanup, and three .45 caliber pistols for security. I also pulled out an automatic shotgun and an assortment of hunting knives. I was preparing to clean them when the phone rang again. I picked it up, knowing full well who it was, but still grunting a, "Yeah?"
"Apparently," Duka started, "Petrocelli and his boys hang out at Antonio's on 57th and Broadway. Real ritzy place. Mafia owned, of course. The Sanzi family owns the place, and Gerardo and his boys are all pretty high up in the ranks with them. He's got a 10:30 rez, which is after hours there, so there's gonna be some backup, if you're planning what I think you're planning".
"Thanks, Mick. We'll be in touch". This time, it was my turn to hang up on him. I went back to the couch, with my guns layed out on the table next to my whiskey. I took apart each one, and thoroughly cleaned it, then put it back together, making sure it worked properly before setting it aside and turning my attention to the next one.
The whole process took roughly an hour per gun. That left me with roughly 7 hours to kill. I decided to take a walk around town, so I threw my jacket back on, and headed out through the front door this time, waving slightly at Pete. He was busy talking to some other resident, so I was spared of his stories for now. I hadn't been out the door for more than fifteen minutes, when I ran into a young lady getting mugged in an alleyway. Some gang member was trying to wrestle her purse away from her, and her cries for help went unheard, or unnoticed, as no one else was within a block. Lucky for her, I was feeling particularly vengeful today. The thug didn't even notice me come up behind him. I'm sure he did when he felt an arm wrap around his throat and lift him off the ground. I put pressure on his windpipe, and his struggling gradually faded away. When I was convinced he was unconscious, the woman just looked up at me, fear in her eyes, like a deer in headlights. I turned and walked away without a word.
After wandering around for a couple of hours, I decided to head home and start preparing. At around 6, I began loading the guns, making sure everything worked properly. Gun jams in these situations are a little bit more than irritating. After everything passed my inspections, I got changed. The standard now, at least for these mob meetings, was the kevlar vest, with my skull shirt over it. I've come to embrace this shirt as not just a symbol of fear, but as a symbol of love and respect for my family. My son gave this to me the day before he was killed, and everytime I put it on, it helps drive me to rid the world of the people who are capable of doing that to any other family. God knows this world doesn't need another Punisher. I'm bad enough as it is.
I pulled my boots on and tied them tightly, pulling the legs of my black jeans over the tops, and fastened my belt. This was something of a utility belt, oddly enough, as I had outfitted it with places to store extra clips and shotgun shells, which gave me about double the amount I would have had if I kept them in my coat. Almost made me feel like Batman or something. I pulled my gloves on, and started attaching the holsters for the guns. One under each armpit, one on each side of the waist, and one on each ankle. I slung the shotgun over my back, and slid the hunting knives into their holsters on the belt. I finally pulled the coat on. This was a routine I had been doing damn near every night for years. I don't even think about it anymore.
I set out around 9:15, taking the service stairs to avoid any unwanted attention. The walk over there took just about an hour and fifteen minutes, so I rounded the corner just as Petrocelli and his crew were entering Antonio's. My timing was impeccable. There was no one guarding any of the doors. No one outside, no one inside, as far as I could tell. I looked in the window as the Italians moved to a back room, which was also sparsely populated, from what I could tell. I pushed the front door open, and slid inside. Some security risks they're taking, I thought to myself. I slid off the trenchcoat, and pocketed the ammo clips I had in the pockets. I left the coat on a bench at the front of the restaurant.
I moved slowly through the restaurant. It was a long, rectangular room, with tables on either side. At the end, there were two doors directly ahead of me, and one to each side of me. I assumed the two directly ahead were the meeting room and the kitchen, and the ones on the sides were the restrooms. This was confirmed when I heard someone walking towards the door to the "meeting room", yelling over his shoulder, "Hey, I'll be right back. Gotta take a leak!" There was a pause, and then, "Fuck you," responding to a crack someone made in the room behind him.
I had enough time to slip through the door to the kitchen, closing it just as he exited the other door. The door to the bathroom swung out into the restaurant, so I hid next to it, and waited for the poor guy to emerge, sliding one of the hunting knives out of my belt as I waited. I heard a flush, and footsteps coming towards the door. The filthy bastard hadn't even washed his hands. I made a mental note to not let his hands near me. If I did this right, they wouldn't. The door opened, stopping a few inches from my face. The guy walked out, and before he had even cleared the opened door, I struck. I pushed the door closed behind him, and, before he could turn around, I wrapped a forearm around his throat, tightly, much as I had done with that thug in the alley earlier. He gasped for breath as I started to bring the knife up. I shifted my arm slightly, and slid the blade across his throat, eliciting a gurgle, as blood seeped all over his suit, and started pouring out of his mouth. I let go, and he stumbled, falling over, but not in the direction I had been planning, and it was too late to stop him. He hit the nearest table with his body, his legs taking out two of the chairs. I heard a clamor in the next room, and muttered a curse under my breath. I re-sheathed the knife, and pulled out the Desert Eagles. His pals made it to the door quicker than I thought. My brilliant skills of deduction told me this, since someone yelled, "Holy fucking shit, it's the Punisher!" I sure know how to make a fucking entrance.
He had said too much, and it usually takes one bullet to the head to shut someone up, which was all it took for him. He fell to the floor, his brains splattered against the swinging doors he had emerged from. His buddies came pouring out of the back room. Apparently there were a lot more than I thought there were. I ran about halfway down the restaurant as the adrenaline hit me. I flipped a table over, and ducked behind it, popping up every so often to put a few bullets in someone. One punk thought he was good enough to sneak over to where I was positioned and surprise me. A yelling, crazed, fake tanned guido with a cheap pistol may be a surprise to some, but I'm willing to bet a Mossberg shotgun to the chest at damn near point blank range is an even bigger surprise.
I got hit a couple of times. Once in the arm. The bullet didn't exit. The other few shots that hit me were all the chest. That knocked the wind out of me, but I got up and kept going. I won't feel the shot in the arm until much later, when the adrenaline's worn off. I got out from behind the table when all of the goons had been put down. I pulled out one of the .45s, walking around to see if anyone was still alive. Anyone who was received a quick and painless death.
There were still people here. And Petrocelli was one of them. I could hear one of his friends asking him what they were going to do from down the hallway, and Petrocelli yelling at him to keep me occupied. The other kid asked where he was going, then silence. I reached the end of the hall, which was poorly lit, into a room that wasn't much brighter. An overhead light supplied most of the light from the room. There was a door that was marked "OFFICE" on the left side of the room. Petrocelli's friend thought he could pop out and hit a quick shot, which went sailing by my left ear, about a foot too wide. He didn't even have time to register that he missed before I put a bullet inbetween his eyes.
"Just you and me, now, Petrocelli. Come out, or it'll be alot worse when I find you," I said out loud, raising my voice just a bit, loud enough for him to hear me. The office door opened, and the kid came out, holding his hands up. He was no older than 25. His black hair was slicked back, and his orange shirt damn near blended in with his fake tan. I pulled out an Eagle, keeping it trained on him as I holstered the .45.
"Where are the Sanzi's hiding?"
"I ain't tellin' you shit, you pussy ass motherfuckin' bitch cocksuckin' murderin' lowlife," he spat.
"Flattery ain't gettin' you anywhere, kid. Where are they?"
"Why the fuck would I tell you?" He glared at me. He stood at the table, shaking slightly. Probably rattled by the sight of his best friend's skull busted open.He set his hands down, putting his full weight on them as he glared up at me. He was breathing heavily. He was nervous.
"Because if you, I may let you live. To send a message to them," I sighed, cocking the gun back. "If you don't, I suppose you'll still be sending a message. You just won't be able to vocalize it. Kinda hard to talk when you're dead". That got to him. A panicked look crept into his eyes. I think he realized he didn't want to end up like his friend on the floor.
"Fine... Fine... Okay, I'll tell you. They hold meetings every... Thursday night at Elements, the club across town. They have a private booth... upstairs. All the heads meet there to discuss... business and shit. You gonna let me go now?" His voice sounded erratic and panicked.
I walked around the table, towards him, and before he could react, I had pulled a knife from my back, and slammed it through both his right hand and the table. He screamed in pain as I walked around him, shaking my head. That bullet in my arm was starting to hurt, and I wasn't in the mood for games. I made a mental note to pry it out as soon as I got home, where I could tend to it.
"That so, Gerardo? Care to explain why my source told me they meet at Ion every Friday night, then?" I seriously hate being lied to. Especially by some little punk who survives off mommy and daddy's money.
"What's the matter, kid? Didn't think I'd do my homework? Wouldn't be much of a crime fighter if I didn't".
"Shit man," he groaned weakly, blood flowing over the table and onto the floor. "Just... take the knife out.... please. I'll tell you... whatever you wanna... know". He sounded like... he was begging? Pathetic. These lowlifes can start all the trouble they want, yet when it comes time to take responsibility, no one steps up. There's no honor in crime anymore.
If you asked me what it was like to take a life fifteen years ago, I'd probably tell you it was something that you could never get used to, something that shook you to your very foundations every time it happened. If you asked me right before I put a bullet in that kid's head, I'd tell you it was just as natural as breathing for me. Maybe one day, after I kill enough lowlife trash to make myself feel a little bit better about what happened to my wife and kids, I can finally get those dreams to stop. Until then, Frank Castle's just a mask. A facade I put on for everyday life out in public. Under all the greetings and conversation and daily bullshit, there's just the Punisher.
-----For ![[info]](https://www.scribbld.com/img/userinfo.gif) how
Wow. That was fun to write. Took a lot longer to type out than I expected. Had it written i a notebook, slightly shorthanded, and typing all that out was a long fucking task. But I'm really proud of how that came out. I haven't written something like that in a while. Lemme know what you think. (had to come back and edit some typos, add a few things. Probably still not totally edited.)
I've been getting re-hooked on Afro Samurai. I absolutely love the anime. Possibly one of my all time favorites. Everything about it is like, perfect to me. The animation, the story, the acting, the voices (especially Samuel L. Jackson pulling a dual role for Afro and Ninja Ninja), the music (RZA's soundtrack is incredible). I missed the movie that was on the other night, but I'll catch it next time it's on. The video game also comes out this week, which will mark the first XBox game I'll have purchased in like, 3 months.
|
|
|