War Journal, Tuesday the 18th, 4:00 a.m.,
I've tracked two pieces of slime across town to a sleazy motel that decent people wouldn't use for a toilet. The refuse that call this place home sickens me. If this godforsaken Hellhole were torched down, the world would be better off a few dozen junkies, a pimp and an old tramp that cheats on her Social Security. Right now, however, they're not my concern. The two pieces of slime raped and killed a woman in the village. They hauled her body ten miles to dump it here but it seems that they're not done with her. They carried her body up the fire escape, two stories, to the roach-infested hole in which they live. I stand here, outside; in the freezing air, waiting for the kill. It's good to be alive.
Working over the dead woman, stripping her of her jewelry, one half-intoxicated waste of space says to the other: "I don't know about this, man. What if the Avengers show up or something? Why in the Hell did we bring her up here?"
His equally worthless counterpart replies: "Because nobody up here gives a damn! Do you think nobody saw us up here? Hell yes they did! Do you think they'll report us? Hell no. Just shut the Hell up and make sure we got everything. We’ll leave her and head for Jersey."
"What about the Avengers?"
The Avengers? Hell, do you think they worry about this stuff? What's another dead bimbo to them? They only care about the big stuff; Dr. Doom, Clinton; crap like that."
"Dude, what about Spider-Man or Daredevil. It ain't exactly safe in this city no more."
"Spider-Man? Daredevil? To Hell with them! I ain't afraid of them. I've been in and out of the slammer since before I was old enough to shave--I ain't afraid of going back."
"Dude, dude--what about the Punisher?"
"The Punisher!?!" The slimeball laughs to the extent that his blackened lungs allow. "He's dead!"
"Dude, he's back and I hear he's working for angels or something?!"
"Angels? What's he gonna do? Pray for us? To Hell with him. If he shows up, I'll kick his ass!"
The night air explodes like shrapnel in your best friend’s face. On cue, the lights go out and the half drunk waste of space leaves a mess in his pants.
"Dude, dude! The lights. Where are the lights?" Surprisingly, the soiled, half-drunk waste of space fumbles around and finds the light switch.
The Godforsaken, worthless, half-drunk, punk turns around to find his equally worthless friend, blood erupting from his mouth with a hunting knife through his throat.
Trembling with the most satisfying type of fear; the type that steals any shred of hope, the punk cries to his mother and prays to anyone who will listen. "Holy mother of God. Our father who art in Heaven hallowed be thy name...."
A loud, tearing, ripping sound comes from behind; it’s the laughter of a very large, imposing man. "It won't work," he says. "It won’t work."
The soiled, worthless, half-intoxicated waste of space does what any coward would do, he runs to the window and jumps through. Right behind him, his pursuer follows. Gasping for air to sustain his worthless life, the soiled, worthless, waste of space makes it to the guard rail and leaps down, into the alley. He doesn't make it; He's betrayed by the length of his own hair. Suspended two stories only by his hair's tensile strength, the intoxicated, soiled, waste of space once again prays to God and repents of his sins.
"Dude, dude, please! Let me live. I'm sorry! I'M SORRY! Jesus, sweet Jesus!"
The Punisher waves his arm slightly; swaying the soiled, waste of space in the frozen air of a New York back alley rat's nest. The punk screams and makes the moment all the more sweet.
"You use conditioner don't you, Slimeball? I can tell these things. You got nice, strong hair. I can hold you up as long as you can hang, how does that sound? Not too good from your perspective, I don't imagine."
"Dude, please! Please, what do you want?"
"You can't give me what I want!"
"Mary, mother of God! Jesus, sweet Jesus!"
"Okay, I'll tell you what you little piece of sewer-trash." The Punisher leers over the edge, spits to the ground and counts the seconds 'til it hits bottom. "You have a good fifty-fifty chance of surviving a fall from this distance. For your own sake, make sure you die when you hit the pavement."
War Journal, Tuesday the 18th, 4:15 a.m.
I'm back and it feels so good.
Marvel Universe Transformed Presents: The Punisher.
Written by Brian Kilby
Number 1 of a 4 issue, weekly series.
Next Week: The Punisher faces a threat unseen from a familiar face.