The Punisher in a World of Slaughter
A woman was in a difficult situation. It was evident, as if a gun were pointed at her head.
Frank was always alert to his surroundings, especially while driving. He didn't want to be pulled over, but more than that, danger could come from any direction. The 1.5-ton metal that others considered an armored vehicle could quickly become a deadly trap. All it took was one grenade. So he always watched for that grenade, and everything else. Even in traffic.
Traffic was nothing unusual in Miami. People either dealt with it or they didn't. Reactions varied, but weren't particularly creative. They sang along with the radio, tapped on the steering wheel, raged while revisiting the irritants that had led to this moment of irritation. Some sagged, just trying to stay awake until the light changed. And of course, there were those who honked their horns as if that would resolve anything.
But Frank had never seen a woman react this way—not in anything but dire circumstances. Her body was motionless, her spine straight as a rod, her eyes wide and unblinking, staring straight ahead. She resembled a prey animal discovered by a predator, playing dead. Her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel was the only sign of her life.
Cautiously, Frank moved his gaze from the rearview mirror to the side mirror. He inspected it closely and noticed that she wasn't alone in the shadows within the car. Two figures, male, with the slim, sharp profiles of underfed dogs. One sat in the passenger seat, the other reclined in the back seat.
The one in the front passenger seat had his hand below the dashboard, touching the woman's leg or a more intimate area. His lips moved in the darkness created by his hoodie. Whatever he was saying appeared designed to make the woman tremble—to shake her out of her self-imposed paralysis.
A scoundrel like that didn't care if he ruined whatever it was he was trying to do, driving his prize screaming out of the vehicle and forcing his hand to anything he'd threatened her with. Fear was the only drug that scumbags never had enough of.
Except when it came to The Punisher.
The light turned green. Frank pressed harder on the gas pedal. The woman's red Jetta lurched forward and almost had a collision with the car in front of her before it accelerated out of the way. Frank kept one eye on the Jetta, the other on the road. They were both on a side street that ran parallel to a highway. Frank had no idea where the woman was going—where the creeps were taking her.
Following a car from ahead wasn't ideal. It was unexpected, sure; people rarely checked for a tail ahead. But it meant you were in the full view of any driver, not just the ones who checked their rearview mirrors regularly. And there was always the chance,
The Jetta changed lanes, accelerating up onto the highway. Frank stepped on the gas. He couldn't speed up yet, waiting as the two cars in front of him inched their way up to the overpass. Finally, it was his turn. He thrust his BMW M4 into the flow of traffic, scanning the traffic in front of him and in his mirrors. He caught sight of a red Jetta. Then a different model. He hadn't accurately identified the make and model. It could be either one.
Sloppy, Frank. You can't be this sloppy when it comes to yourself, let alone a woman.
He stomped on the gas. Felt the engine roar, the wheels spin, the smooth vibration of this well-maintained machine surging through his body. At any other time, this finely-tuned engine and all the intricate components would be a pleasure. He's always enjoyed cars, not just as a tool, but as a luxury. A rare occurrence when form and function could both be satisfied. But right now, that high-performance engine and all the meticulously crafted components didn't resonate with his mood. He wanted to growl. But this lightweight sports car was as conspicuous in Miami as bad shoes in a bowling alley.
The man drove alongside the red Jetta, examining his target. He finally recognized his girlfriend sitting in the passenger seat. She seemed young, maybe just old enough to drive. She wasn't a hardened criminal or a dangerous femme fatale; rather, she appeared to be a typical teenager. Her innocence shined through, with her adorable features: a heart-shaped face, luminous hair, a tiny button nose, and wide, fearful eyes. Her lips appeared to be as sweet and luscious as ripe fruit.
If she hadn't been terrified, she would've been gorgeous. Frank, only wanting to protect her, found himself wanting to hold her, caress her hair, and whisper soothing words into her ears – anything to make her feel safe in this cruel world.
He desired vengeance for her.
Risking discovery from the thugs, Frank slowed down and let his own vehicle drift behind. He stayed within a few cars' distance, continuously checking the Jetta. To appear nonchalant, he played with his car's radio. Despite the temptation, he refrained from rushing and crashing into the Jetta, opening fire, and saving his girl as soon as possible.
However, he'd already taken too many risks. His safety was paramount now. He'd have to monitor the situation and be prepared when the right moment arrived. Being the Punisher, who was once known as Frank Castle, he could wait patiently until he was needed.
The United States Marine Corps had turned Frank Castle into an unstoppable killing machine. The tragedy that claimed his family's life transformed him into nothing more than a cold, unfeeling machine. A machine like Frank should be able to wait, not acting until the target is clearly in sight.
The environment changed as they drove through a seedy part of the city. It was far from a war zone externally, but the atmosphere was vastly different. Frank could sense the apathy, the depression, and the hatred which enveloped the area. This city's emotional bonfire grew on such hopelessness. It devoured everything in its wake, leaving misery behind.
The red Jetta stopped in a setting marred by litter and damaged structures. Frank enabled his M4 emergency brake, stealthily exited his vehicle, and became a pedestrian.
With the M4 no longer needed, Castle decided to abandon it. He'd stolen it during his violent encounter with Don Bruno Lombardi, whose screwed-up neck testified the weapon's effectiveness. The machine belonged in the trash once its purpose was served.
Frank, a tall man, bent over as if he were homeless, attempting to blend in with the surroundings. He wore a cornflower blue Guayabera shirt, white linen pants, and a colorful pastel blazer reminiscent of the Miami Vice set.
Bystanders focused on his flashy footwear and didn't even notice a hidden Ka-Bar knife in his ankle sheath and a small-of-back holster holding a raffia hat adorned with a peach strip.
The Jetta crawled through the alley before coming to a halt. The woman was dragged out of the car, ushered into a space between two structures – one condemned, and the other abandonment personified.
Frank sprang into action, stealthily moving towards the scene. He pulled out his Ka-Bar knife from his ankle sheath, ready to capitalize on the blind spot created by the darkness's weak yellow glow.
The woman must have been in a place where she was restrained because one of the punks was leading the way, unlocking a rusty door with a missing handle.
The other guy was right behind her, pushing her to move faster because he wanted to touch her body. She could not go fast enough - the door must have been more frightening than having contact with men who could not appreciate the scent of a rose without making it stink.
Frank turned a corner. He walked down the alley, not rushing, and not hanging out. He kept the same pace as the punk and the woman, as if he were just another person part of that caravan.
By the time the punk realized he was being observed, Frank was close enough to punch him. And when the punk turned around, he was close enough to kill him.
Frank hit his fist into the side of the punk's face, making him fall down on his knees with the shiny pink of his scalp showing through his thinning hair. Frank wanted to take that scalp with him as a trophy, but he would only have blood on his Ka-Bar knife as a memento.
Frank quickly thrust his knife into the thug, going through his skull from the back, tearing through his brain and exiting through his nose. The 7-inch blade split apart nerve cells as if it was cutting paper.
The woman remained frozen, not moving, even more frightened than before. The other man, or what could be optimistically called the surviving thug, reached for his gun.
Frank had two targets, both equally important, but he had no hesitation in completing each one in quick succession.
He kicked the woman's legs from underneath her, causing her to fall below the line of fire. And he grabbed the thug with the Ka-Bar, raising the blade up to separate the punk's nose, and at the same time, hoisting the man up with his feet.
The second man, realizing his gunshot was not hitting Frank, fired at the human shield in a frenzy. These bullets missed their target and pierced his partner in several places.
Frank then moved towards his third goal. He pulled out his Glock 9MM pistol and emptied it into the remaining thug.
Frank's bullets entered the thug's face and chest, which were supposed to protect Frank, but he was a professional. He made sure the man really was dead by putting the pistol's muzzle next to the Ka-Bar and firing again.
The body did a big twitch before going still. Frank allowed the weight of the body to pull the knife out of it.
A splatter of blood covered the sleeve of the hand that killed with the knife. More blood splashed on the front of the jacket. Frank stepped away from the body to make sure his shoes stayed clean of any bloodstains.
He wiped the Ka-Bar clean by rubbing it against the dead man's clothes and tucked it back into his pants. "Are you okay?" he asked the woman as he picked up the empty shell casings.
He was usually not a meticulous person when it came to cleaning up, but he was new in Miami. Frank had no intention of leaving any clues, not when the police would have all the details soon enough.
"They were going to - they were going to - I was getting into my cars and they had guns..."
Frank nodded. He offered his hand to help the woman get up. With trepidation, she placed her palm onto his, like she had never before encountered such an object. "It's all over now. You are safe."
In close proximity, a certain level of maturity was visible. This woman appeared to be a college student, likely in Miami to enjoy the surf and sunshine. Frank had some sympathy for her. As much as he could, he felt sorry for her. She didn't need to know about reality, but the world functioned this way.
"A knife—oh god, oh god—you fired a gun at him!"
"Yes, ma'am," Frank responded, not one for small conversations at the best of times, and her current behavior didn't make things any better.
"You saved me! You didn't allow them to—" She couldn't complete her sentence. Her eyes rolled back till their whites were showing. Frank grabbed her before she lost her balance.
Dragging the unconscious woman, Frank considered the oddity of transitioning from utilizing a bad guy as a human shield to carrying a good girl. He reminisced about the pleasure of grasping a blade at a man's skull. And if he liked holding the girl, he tried to suppress those feelings.
If his car wasn't missing its components, Frank believed he could still make it to his meeting.
Read also:
- Carrie's Aqueous Escapade
- Fantasies of the Learner Chapter 5
- A Vacation Spent with Mom
- Rear Seat: Initial Experience with Sibling
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