Avatar of Simple Unicycle

Status

Recent Statuses

3 mos ago
Current If they added downvotes to posts I would methodically go through and downvote every single post you've ever made.
4 likes
1 yr ago
My source is I made it the fuck up.
5 likes

Bio

An absolute clown with a fixation on faceless men who punch criminals.

Guaranteed to flake out of RPs at least 99% of the time.

Most Recent Posts

<Snipped quote by Half Pint>

Understandable I respect you dropping one now knowing your limit rather than burning yourself out trying to do both.

Next Iris post will come but since we're leading upto a Collab I'm going to let @Simple Unicycle post first.


Speaking of, sorry for taking so damn long. Been hit with a bad bout of writer's block but I'm gonna try to power through it to finish the post.
Unrelated to the lovely world of Acronym Soup spoken prior, but I should have the next Squirrel Girl post done by tomorrow, or at the latest, Sunday.

The darn thing shoulda been out a week ago but I'm bad at managing my time


Hey, don't worry homie, this is what I got for my next post after nine days.


<Snipped quote by Master Bruce>

Fun fact my mother actually dropped me in the boot of the car when I was a baby, to the surprise of nobody here


Why would you feel the need to tell us that my guy

T H E P U N I S H E R
T H E P U N I S H E R


It was easy enough to sneak into the shipyard, even with the rifle case strapped to my back. Barbed wire on top of the chain link fence meant no climbing over it so instead I dropped the rifle case, cut a hole in the fence, then squeezed through and pulled the rifle case in after me. A few night guards, not too sure if they were employed by the Saints or not, so I opted to stick to the shadows and avoid them. Getting to the rooftop of the main office building was easy, there was a ladder around back that was easy enough to climb.

Now I'm on the roof overlooking the shipyard. Two black panel vans are parked in front of a warehouse directly across from the office. The lights are on inside, unlike the other warehouses. That's where they'll be coming from. Looking away, I lay the rifle case out before me, opening it up and pulling out the PSG1 I acquired from Greco. I load up a magazine, attach the scope and suppressor, then flick open the bipod and steady the rifle against the lip of the roof.

The world is simpler when it's viewed through a scope. Smaller. There's nothing but the reticle, lining up your shot. Through the scope I watch as a small cargo ship pulls up to the dock and comes to a halt, the gangway lowering as the five- no, six men on deck begin to carry crates off the ship. The shutter door of the warehouse flies open, six more men stepping out from within. I don't recognize any of them, but I've got to assume the rotund old guy is important; no soldier would be that fat. I set my sights on him.

Inhale.

*BLAM!*

Exhale.

The big man falls to the ground with a nice chunk of his head blown off. The Saints scramble for cover while the guys from the ship drop their crates and pile back onto the boat. One of the Saints peeks his head above cover, trying to find out where the shots are coming from.

Inhale.

*BANG!*

Exhale.

The shot rips out and he falls to the ground, a cloud of blood and brain matter spurting out of his head.

"WHERE THE FUCK IS HE!?" one of the men shouts.

"HE'S ON ONE OF THE ROOFTOPS!" another shouts back to him. He pops up and fires a few shots at the roof of one of the warehouses. The wrong one, but he's got the right idea at least. I set my sights on him.

Inhale.

*CRACK!*

I feel a sharp pain as something solid strikes me in the back of the head, making me lose my grip on the rifle. It tips over and falls off of the roof, clattering onto the asphalt. I jump to my feet and whip around, pulling the pistols out of my shoulder holsters. I'm about to fire when I pause at what I see: a man with a white bandana wrapped around his head, holding a tonfa in one hand.

I'd heard rumors on the street of a man like this, stalking the streets of Hell's Kitchen and delivering vigilante justice. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen, they called him. Didn't use guns, didn't kill. Just beat the crooks down. I was hoping I wouldn't run into any of these costumed heroes that have popped up, but here we are I suppose.

I hear the Saints shouting below me, trying to figure out why the shooting stopped. Need to get back to them. Can't take up too much time playing with this guy. "I'm giving you one chance to back off. These men are mine."


I S S U E # 6
I S S U E # 6

R U N N I N G W I T H T H E D E V I L
R U N N I N G W I T H T H E D E V I L
P A R T O N E
P A R T O N E
<Snipped quote by Simple Unicycle>

Waaaaaait a minute. That's not The Flash.


... Got the costumes mixed up. They're both red. And occasionally yellow.
Short post, I know, just wanted to get something quick out. I'm gonna be focusing on Question exclusively for a bit while I wait to do a crossover between Punisher and Daredevil.

T H E Q U E S T I O N
T H E Q U E S T I O N

I S S U E # 8
I S S U E # 8

T H E B I N D I N G
T H E B I N D I N G
P A R T O N E
P A R T O N E


Jackie squeals with delight the higher the swing gets. "Higher, higher!" she says. I smile to myself, closing my eyes. The exhaustion is starting to kick in. I need to rest. I stop pushing Jackie, the swing slowly rocking back and forth before settling in its original position. Jackie looks at me from over her shoulder, her lips pulled into a pout. "What's wrong, mister Charlie?"

"Tired... Real tired."

"Are you done playing?"

I sigh. "I don't think I've got enough in me to keep going." I look at the other kids, still chasing each other around jungle gyms and spring riders and a merry-go-round. "Why don't you go play with them?" I ask, gesturing to the other children.

Jackie's expression falls at that. "They don't want to play with me."

"Why not?"

"They call me stupid."

I furl my brow at that. I kneel down to be at eye level with Jackie and ask her a simple question: "Are you stupid?"

She grips the chains of the swing tighter at that, avoiding my gaze. "... Yeah..."

I place a hand on her shoulder and her eyes come back up to meet mine. "You're not. And don't let anyone ever tell you that you are." I smile at her reassuringly. "You're very special. More than you might think. And one day everyone will know how special you are."

She smiles at me, a bright smile. Full of innocence. Full of hope. In the blink of an eye her arms are pressed against my chest in a hug, too small to wrap around my torso fully but squeezing tightly all the same. I wrap an arm around her, patting her on the back. After a moment she finally parts, that smile still shining. I stand back up and step away from her. "I've gotta go now. But I'll see you again. Don't worry."

"Bye mister Charlie!" She waves at me as I turn away and walk to the back door. When I get there, I see the sister that led me to the yard speaking with a pair of police officers. She looks worried, gesticulating wildly while the cops loom over her menacingly. One of them is gripping his baton tightly, like he's ready to strike.

I'm on them in an instant. "What's going on?" I ask, glaring at the cops.

One of them grins, baring his nasty yellow teeth. "Nothin' that involves you, sir."

The nun looks at me, eyes wide in fear. Her voice is shaky. "They're coming to take Jackie."

"We're taking the girl to her mother," the other cop says.

"I can save you the trouble. I'll take her there."

"You? Frankly, I don't even know who you are, buddy. We ain't lettin' some rando guy take the Mayor's niece." The first cop steps forward, gripping his baton in both hands. "Now move!" He shoves me back.

Think of the Butterfly. Think of its softly beating wings.

"You wish you hadn't done that," I say.

"You mean you wish I hadn't."

"No." I place a hand on his baton between his hands, grabbing it tightly and yanking it upwards before throwing a fist into his gut. As his body reels back from the hit I take the baton from his hands and strike him in the face with it, spinning around with the swing and ducking low into a sweeping kick. Always my favorite move. "You wish you hadn't."

The sound of the children playing has stopped and I see all of them looking in my direction with wide eyes, faces distorted in horror. I twist my head to look at the other cop and find him holding a gun to the sister's head, his arm wrapped around her neck. "Hold it there, hotshot. Make another move and I blow her fucking brains out." I drop the baton as the first cop pulls himself to his feet, groaning.

He grabs his baton off the ground and swings it at my face, my head snapping back as I fall to the ground. I blink rapidly, dazed, as he kicks me in the ribs and walks away. "C'mere girl," he snarls and I hear Jackie screaming. "Keep kickin' and I'll cap ya!"

The edges of my vision are going dark. Can't move. I try, God do I try, but I can't pull myself off the cold hard ground. The last thing I hear before slipping into unconsciousness is Jackie crying out, "Mister Charlie! Help!"
Unrelated. Iris is going to be coming to a city near... one of you sometime soon. I need her to go on a field trip, if anyone is down to clown. If not its cool gang, I'll just play with by myself.


You already know.

Punisher helps Flash put down Condiment King for good.

T H E Q U E S T I O N
T H E Q U E S T I O N

I S S U E # 7
I S S U E # 7

S U F F E R T H E C H I L D R E N
S U F F E R T H E C H I L D R E N


It's 5:49 AM when I pull up to the front of the school bus depot. I hop out of my car and rush to the entrance, not even bothering to take the keys out of the ignition or shut my car's door. The ding-ding-ding of my car's warning chime fades to silence as I step inside the bus depot, trying to formulate a plan to stop the buses from leaving. I look around and see-

... There's no one here.

No one except an old man sitting in a chair and nodding off behind a counter. I walk up to him and clear my throat. "Whuzzut... Huh?" he mumbles, before looking up at me and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "Hey, ya ain't got a face. What's up with that?"

"New razor, close shave." I rub a gloved hand over my chin. "I have questions about today's bus schedules."

The old man shrugs. "Ain't no schedules today. Holiday."

"A holiday?"

"What, you been livin' under a rock? Gaston Hupert's birthday. Kids is off."

I turn away from the man, looking at the buses all lined up. There's a gap between two of them where another bus could fit, an oil stain on the concrete confirming my suspicions. When I look back at the old man, he's reading a magazine. "But a bus did leave here."

He grumbles a bit and lowers the magazine. "Never said one didn't. Just said there ain't no schedules."

"Where was this bus heading?"

"Downtown, Carver High. Assembly there, think it was Spicer or Spencer or somethin'. Superintendent."

"When did it leave?"

"Bout ten minutes ago."

Shit.

"Did anyone except the driver come in this morning?"

"Some Mexicano and a little weasel lookin' guy, bout thirty minutes 'fore the driver came in. The Mexican was yappin' my ear off about this and that, couldn't tell what in the hell he was talkin' bout half the time. Think the little weasel had to go to the bathroom or somethin' cause I didn't see him till they was leavin'."

"Did they get into a car after they left?"

"Big green panel van."

"Did they follow the school bus?"

"I wasn't payin' no attention to 'em after that. I was tryna read." He gestures to the magazine in his hand.

Alright. Wasted enough time here. There's a bus heading downtown to Carver High. Two men, maybe more, in a green panel van tailing not too far behind it. They have to make sure their job is done right, probably have to blow the bomb manually with a remote detonator. I leave the depot and hop back into my car, slamming the door shut and stomping onto the gas pedal. I race down the street at 60 miles an hour and take a right turn. Tot and I had rigged my little VW Beetle up with a Porsche engine, racing shocks, and a Ferrari transmission. The little Bug that could, I like to call it. Proving its use once again.

The sun is rising now. Not much time left to stop this. They have a ten minute head start on me. I keep my foot pressed down hard on the gas and breathe in as slowly as I can. Keep my heartbeat steady. The Man is panicking and scared and hopeless. If he can't stop this, he won't be able to live with himself. The Butterfly is telling him that he can do this. Stay calm. Feel the ebb and flow of the world. Let relaxation take you.

Relax...

... What the fuck am I thinking? Relax? They're gonna kill kids! Those bastards are gonna blow up a Goddamn school bus!

I slam my foot even harder onto the gas, the pedal flush with the floor. The speedometer needle is quivering, hanging at about 80 miles per hour. I drift around a corner onto Carver Street and then I see it. A bus parked in front of Carver High School, a green panel van parked on the opposite side of the street. I slam on the brakes and my car skids to a stop about thirty feet from the van. I burst out of the car and sprint for the van.

The passenger window is down. I see a tanned man sitting in the passenger seat, fiddling with a remote in his hands. He's turned away from me and looking at a scrawny guy with glasses and a face like Steve Buscemi. "Fuckeeng goofball, Junior!" the man says. "You parked us too close! Back up and-"

He doesn't have time to finish his sentence as I wrap an arm around his neck and pull him out of the window. I take the detonator from him and throw it down an alleyway behind us. I use one hand to hold him by the collar while the other one beats down on the side of his head like a drum.

The back doors of the van fly open and four men climb out of it, sprinting to the bus. "Junior, grab the fuckin' grenades! Get on the bus!" one of them yells out. Frenzied, the driver grabs a box from the back of the van and gets out, rushing for the bus as well.

Shit.

I drop the man and his limp body falls to the ground. I take off after the men, who are already boarding the bus. The driver, Junior, is almost on board when I grab him by the back of his shirt and throw him to the ground. The box goes flying out of his hands and a dozen grenades spill out of it, all over the road. I kick Junior in the head, hoping that'll be enough to keep him down, before sprinting onto the bus.

There's about thirty kids on here, screaming in fear and backing away as close as they can to the windows. One of the men whips out a pistol, waving it around, but I'm already behind him. I grab him by the wrist and twist, the pistol falling out of his hand as I throw him to the floor.

I'm stomping on his face when I feel a fist hitting me in the back of the head. My hat flies off my head and I stumble a few feet forward, right into a railing that my head bounces right off of. "Shit!" I twist back around, ignoring the throbbing headache from the two hits, and take in my surroundings.

The aisle between the seats is spacious, spacious enough for two of the men to stand side by side. The third man steps over the body of his buddy and throws a wild haymaker at me. I bring my arms together and block the hit, before sending my elbows into his chest. He stumbles back and I lift a leg to kick him in the gut, sending him to the floor. He tries to pick himself up but I send a kick into his face, hearing a sharp CRACK as his nose breaks against my foot.

The last two men charge me together. Right as they reach me, I duck down and spin around with a sweeping kick. They fall to the ground, banging their heads on the hard leather seats as they do. I smirk a little. Never fails. I rise to my feet. One of the men tries to stand but I just kick him right in the nads and he falls back over.

I snap my head over to the bus driver who's looking at me in mixed horror and astonishment. "Got a phone?" She nods rapidly. "Call the cops." She whips out a cracked iPhone that's about six generations out of date and dials 911.

Then a grenade crashes through the windshield and rolls to my feet.

I scramble to pick it up, already fearing that it'll explode and take my arm off. I toss it back out through the hole it came in from and it explodes in mid-air, flying shrapnel shattering the rest of the windshield. I look outside to see Junior standing in front of the bus with a few grenades in his arm, already grabbing another one and getting ready to bite off the pin.

Thinking fast, I sprint and leap forward, grabbing onto the top railing and swinging myself through the hole where the windshield once was. I twist to my side and keep my legs straight as my shoes collide with Junior's face in a drop kick. I slam onto the asphalt with a grunt as Junior falls to the floor, the grenades flying out of his grasp and onto the road.

I pick myself up and start massaging my temples. God that railing was solid as a rock. I look back to the bus driver who's rattling off the details of the crime as quickly as she can. I can already hear sirens in the distance. Time to take my leave. I get back into my car and peel off as quickly as I can.

I'm heading home. Not my apartment. Not Tot's. But where I grew up.

I try not to think of the medical reports about a wailing baby boy covered in cigarette burns and bruises left on the footsteps of a hospital. Try not to think about the older boys that would twist my arm around my back and hold it there until I was sobbing. Try not to think about the loneliness, watching all the younger kids walk out with a new and happy family.

Try not to think about how it looks the exact same. Old red brick. Wooden sign that hasn't been touched up in decades. Saint Catherine's Home For Orphaned Children. My home. I can hear the sounds of children playing in the yard around back. It brings me back to another time. Not better. Not worse. I release the removal gas and take off my mask before getting out of the car and heading inside.

One of the sisters approaches me as I walk into the lobby, the wooden floor creaking beneath her feet as she walks. "Are you here looking to adopt, sir?" she asks.

"No. I came to check up on a child. Myra Fermin's girl." I say.

The sister's eyes widen. "Jackie? She's in the yard playing with the other children."

"Can I see her?"

"Yes, sir. Come with me." The sister gestures for me to follow and I do so. Would've known the way with or without her help. "You'll have to be patient with her, she's... Special. She doesn't always understand."

I smile to myself. "You don't have to explain it to me, sister."

When we get out into the yard, I can see about a dozen children running around and playing tag. The only one that isn't is a red haired little girl, maybe about nine or ten, sitting on a swing set and mindlessly rocking back and forth as she watches the other children. I already know who she is before the sister confirms it with a finger pointed right at her. "That's her."

I leave the sister at the back door and approach Jackie. She notices me when I'm a few feet away, her eyes widening as she looks up at me. I kneel down to be at eye level with her. "Hi, Jackie. My name is Charlie. Your mother told me about you."

"Hi," she says, smiling a little. "Can you push me mister Charlie?"

I smile back at her. "Sure."

In the coming days, I'll be fighting. For my life? For the good of the city? I'm not too sure. But I know that there will be violence. The Man is ready for it, welcomes it. The Butterfly is trying to think of ways to keep everyone safe from it. I have a long and hard road ahead of me. But for now, I'm pushing the little girl on the swing, listening to her laugh with a joy that melts my heart.

T H E P U N I S H E R
T H E P U N I S H E R

I S S U E # 5
I S S U E # 5

N I G H T T E R R O R S
N I G H T T E R R O R S


The sun rises in the east as I lean against the balcony's railing and take a sip of my coffee. The smell of bacon wafts through the air from the open sliding glass door leading to the kitchen, Maria hard at work cooking breakfast for the family. I peer down at the traffic below, both the cars in the street and the people heading in and out of our apartment complex.

"Frank! Breakfast is ready!" Maria calls out from inside. I smile to myself and walk back into the apartment, setting my mug on the dining table and taking my seat next to Maria. Frank Jr. is tearing into his pancakes, his bacon already reduced to crumbs on the plate. Lisa doesn't share her brother's enthusiasm, picking at her bacon with a fork.

"What's wrong, baby?" I ask as I use my fork to cut into my pancakes.

Lisa lets out a heaving sigh. "I'm just not hungry, daddy. Can we go to the park yet?"

"Not until we've all ate."

"But I don't wanna eat, I wanna go play!"

"Well you're not gonna have the energy to play if you don't eat. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day! Without it, everyone's just a zombie." To emphasize my point, I loll my tongue out, close my eyes, and stick my arms out while groaning like a zombie. The kids giggle and Maria chuckles quietly.

Then everything goes to hell.

The gunshot right outside our apartment makes me jump to my feet, my chair sliding back into the wall as my hand reaches for the gun at my side- the one that isn't there. A man kicks the front door open and steps inside, a Beretta in his hand. Another gunshot and I feel a sharp pain in my gut, falling onto the table. It cracks under my weight and slams to the floor and I find myself staring at the ceiling.

I hear my kids screaming.

"FRANK!" Maria cries out.

Two gunshots.

The children go silent.

Maria wails in despair.

Another shot.

And then she too is silenced.

The man looms over me, crouches down and gazes into my eyes.

Then he stands and puts another bullet in my chest.

I'm falling into the abyss.

Dark clouds swirl around me.

I feel the icy cold grip of death, choking me out.

Pulling me deeper into the void.

And I welcome it.

Because then I can see them aga

*BEEP!*


My eyes snap open and I jolt up from my cot. My breathing is rapid, heart pounding, veins pumping battery acid. Every nerve in my body is on edge, every muscle tensed and ready to spring into action. I look around frantically, trying to find the man that just broke into my apartment and shot my-

Inhale.

Count to ten.

Exhale.

I'm in a warehouse. Not my apartment. It's been a month since my family was killed. Four days since the funeral. Three days since Billy the Beaut had his face rearranged. Two days since Timothy De Luca took a bullet to the brain. One day since the news broke that police officer Frank Castle was waging a one man war on crime as "the Punisher." And one minute since I got a text on my burner from Dave... Or Microchip, as he wants to be called.


I snap the flip phone in half and toss it to the side, pulling myself off my cot. I get dressed: black Henley, black cargo pants, black boots. I take a look at the kevlar vest laying on a table next to a can of white spray paint. Dave told me that I needed a symbol. Something to strike fear into every lowlife that stalks this city's streets when they see it coming.

And now I had one.

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