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Noctis
mickilennial
Ezekiel
Supermaxx
Bluetommy
Half Pint
Sep
webboysurf
Festive
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 # 2
I S S U E # 2
I S S U E # 2
B E T T E R O F F A L O N E
B E T T E R O F F A L O N E
B E T T E R O F F A L O N E
"Frank... You're sure you want to do this?"
"I'm sure, Dave."
"No second thoughts? None at all?"
"If I had second thoughts, they died with Nicky Francesco."
"Right... Right. Okay. I think I know how to help."
Dave is still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he sits down at his computer. I don't think he was too happy to be woken up by me showing up at his apartment at 1 AM. He was probably even less happy after I told him that I had just killed a man. But even still, he's my best friend, and he has my back.
I'm not too sure what he's doing with his computer, but he opens a program and I see a window open and hundreds of lines of code scroll by in the blink of an eye. After a few moments, he's on the landing page for the NYPD's internal database. The fact that he had something ready for this makes me quirk an eyebrow. "You just happen to have access to the station's database at home?"
Dave scratches the back of his head. "I, uh, like to do some research. About the guys we're trying to lock up."
I'll just leave it at that. Can't look a gift horse in the mouth. "Look up Billy Russo. I need everything we have on the guy."
Dave clicks through a few pages then types the name into a search bar. He pulls up Russo's file, a few pages worth of background and crimes he had committed. He's never been arrested, so in lieu of a mugshot all we have are stills of surveillance camera footage. Billy the Beaut was a name that struck fear in the criminal underworld. I'd seen some of the aftermaths of his murders in the flesh. He liked to mutilate his victims' faces, gashes and cuts akin to a jigsaw puzzle. Should have known he wasn't the one who killed my family; we were able to have an open casket funeral.
His story was simple: former marine, comes home after a few tours, finds new work with the mob. He's been at it for fifteen years, working his way up the ranks until he was a capo, one of Saint's top enforcers. Has soldiers under his command, but he likes the dirty work. He's a killing machine, cold, efficient. One of the worst killers out there. But I'll be worse. You have to be to go after these kinds of men.
"We don't have an address for him, but it seems like he spends most nights at a bar in Staten Island. The Stardust Lounge."
"I know. Francesco told me right before he died. That's where I'm heading tomorrow night."
"Place is owned the Saints. Walking in would be suicide, Frank."
"It might be. But they won't expect it."
"Just don't get killed."
"I won't." I walk towards the front door of Dave's apartment and open it. "Good night Dave."
"... Night, Frank."
---
T H E N E X T N I G H T . . .
T H E N E X T N I G H T . . .
I get out of my car and glance up at the neon sign declaring "The Stardust Lounge" in swirling cursive letters. There's no bouncer out front, just a metal door plastered with a sign reading "NO ENTRY WITHOUT PERMISSION". Through the blackened windows I can see the silhouettes of the patrons: playing pool, sitting at tables, leaning against the bar. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to tell that this place is a den for mob activities, which means that everyone in there is probably packing heat. Going in through the front door would be suicide, like Dave said.
So I'll take the back.
I walk around to the back of the building and see a man in chef's whites smoking a cigarette by the back door, which is propped open by a red brick. I step up next to him and press my Glock to the side of his head. He freezes, the cigarette falling from his lips and onto the asphalt. "You work here?" I ask.
"Y-yeah."
"You got a family?"
"I-I got a baby girl at home."
"Then run. Go home to her and thank her every day for saving your life." I lower my gun. The man takes my advice and books it to his car. I watch him run, then open the back door and step into the kitchen.
The kitchen staff is so hard at work that I pass through without a glance in my direction. I step out of the kitchen and into the bar proper. The bar is nowhere close to capacity, only about ten men in the room: the bartender, three playing pool, two leaning against the bar, three sitting around a table, and one in a booth in the corner. The guy sitting on his own in the booth? Billy Russo. I'm gonna have to chat with him. Alone.
I step forward, pulling out my twin pistols as the jukebox switches tracks.
"I feel so low..."
I fire at one of the men at the bar. His brains splatter onto the guy next to him as he collapses into a heap on the floor. Next shot takes out one of the guys playing pool. It's only after the two shots have been fired that the rest of the men in the room notice me and start pulling out guns of their own. The bartender takes a bullet to the chest before he can pull out a double barrel.
A cacophony of gunfire erupts as I roll behind the bar, bullets whizzing past me. I stay ducked down behind the bar and blind fire over the counter, hearing a shout of pain and a thud as a body drops to the floor. I grab the shotgun the bartender was going for and spring upward onto the bar, unloading one of the barrels and blowing apart one of the mobsters' heads. I fire the second shot at another bastard who goes flying as the shot hits him in the guts.
I throw the shotgun at a mafioso's head and pull out my pistols before diving off the bar, firing as I soar through the air. Two men go down before I hit the ground. I pull myself to my feet and stalk over to the guy who took the shotgun to the face. I dump a round into him, then turn to see Russo still sitting in his booth, silently sipping a beer and watching the events unfold.
"Gotta say, that was pretty impressive," he says, standing from the booth and walking towards me. As soon as my left hand goes up to fire he whips out a gun of his own and shoots the pistol out of my hand. "But I'm pretty impressive myself."
We both charge forward and fire, narrowly ducking away from each others' bullets. We're face to face now, throwing punches with our free hands and narrowly knocking the other's gun hand out of the way before we can fire. I duck down into a crouch and sweep his legs out from under him, sending him to the floor. He fires and hits me in the thigh, making me fall to the ground as I shout in pain.
We both roll onto our sides and fire at the other, the bullets seeming to graze each other; his knocks the gun out of my hand while mine hits him in the shoulder. He hisses in pain, clutching at his wound, while I get up onto my feet and kick the gun out of his hand. I pick him up by the lapels of his jacket and drag him over to the window, slamming him against it. The glass cracks slightly under the force.
"Well, looks like you got me right where you want me Officer Castle," he says, grinning. I take a hand off his jacket and sock him in the face. He grunts, but doesn't say anything else.
"So you recognize me. I was hoping you would."
"How could I forget you? You're the one that killed the boss' boy."
"And you sent one of your men to kill me and my family. Next time, you should do it yourself. Last guy was a sloppy shot."
"That or you're just a tough motherfucker." Before I can respond, he brings a knee up into my gut, making my grip on him loosen. He tries to grab at me but I regain control quickly, throwing another punch at his chin and snapping his head upwards. "AGH, FUCK!" I tighten my grip on his jacket and force him down to his knees. "Jesus... You gonna fuckin' shoot me or not?"
"No. I'm not." I think of what I could do to him, ways to inflict punishment for his crimes. Killing him would be too easy and it wouldn't mean anything. I need him alive. I need to send a message to the Saints.
I look at the crack in the window.
I turn Russo around and grab him by the hair, before slamming his face into the glass. Again. And again. And again. The window shatters, chips and shards embedding into Russo's face. I grab one of the shards and jam it into his cheek, dragging it down his face slowly. Russo screams and yells and curses and cries as I take that beautiful face and rearrange it into a jigsaw puzzle.
The screams go quiet and turn into a low, painful moaning as he goes slack in my grasp. I drop his limp body to the floor. He's still breathing but he probably isn't happy about it. I turn around and pick up my guns, sticking them into their holsters as I take in the scene of chaos I had just created. Bodies on the floor, pools of blood seeping out of them. There's nothing but eerie silence; the jukebox had taken a bullet in the fight.
I feel sick. I try to fight back the rising bile in my throat but I fail, falling to my hands and knees and vomiting. I wipe a string of saliva away from my mouth, shuddering as the adrenaline wears off and I take in what I've just done. I've killed people before. Told myself I didn't enjoy it. I try to tell myself that I don't enjoy this either, but I'd be lying.
I bring myself to my feet and walk out of the bar.
