Post by liquidsword34 on Aug 22, 2012 21:57:46 GMT -5
All-Star Punisher Noir #1
Homecoming
Homecoming
7:30PM, January 21st, 1946
Manhattan, New York
Frank Castle still wasn't used to being home. The silent nights without gun fire or explosions. The smell of fresh cut grass not perverted by burning fuel or the stench of death. Being able to wake up and just sit, taking everything in. But what surprised Frank the most was the crime. Frank was an NYPD detective before the war, so he'd seen crime, but not like how it was when he returned. Before it was just small gangs, fighting with their hands for scraps like vermin. But after the war? The vermin grew into predators. Murder, extortion, drugs, and all out in the open. Keeping New York safe was like trying to clean up a mudslide with a tooth brush. The police had no chance.
And they weren't just adults. Even kids. Frank remembered his six year old son coming home, saying he'd had his lunch money stolen. Not by school bullies, by drug dealers! While Frank had been out in Europe fighting the good fight, the criminals had spread like a sicking parasite sucking beautiful New York dry. Cracking cases was all Frank could do to stay sane. That, and coming home to his wife Maria every day. Frank and his partner David Lieberman, known around the department as "Micro", had always been the two most fearsome cops in the NYPD. The good cop bad cop duo where good cop would drag you out the side of his police auto mobile and let you guess what bad cop had planned. And even they couldn't fix things, no matter how many bribes they ripped up or criminals they put away.
Micro was the best detective in the precinct. So good, in fact, that the NYPD had stopped him going off to war. Not Frank though. The US Marines snapped up Frank as soon as they could, and with good reason. Frank was a man born to fight. As part of his elite squad Frank took out so many top Nazi's he'd gained the nickname The Punisher. Just his name and trademark skull would send an SS officer running to the bathroom (A tactic Frank often used to get them alone!) or crying in fear. But not Micro. He'd been kept home, much to Frank's disappointment.
The two hadn't wasted time since Frank got home, though. Frank and Micro were soon making themselves known again, busting open any operation they could, catching killers on cold cases and ripping up bribes and stuffing them back down their owners throat while carting them to jail. On the 21st of January however, when it all changed, the two weren't working. Frank was simply sat on his porch in his best jacket and suspenders, waiting for the bus to take him to the bar.
"Daddy?" Frank Jr came out onto the porch in his Giants jersey, his favourite baseball bat in hand. "Can you come play baseball with me and Mommy later?"
"Sure Junior," Frank beamed. His son was his pride and joy, and a nice game of baseball in the evening always helped Frank forget the stresses of the day. Frank kissed his son on the cheek as the bus pulled up and jogged over, checking his wallet was in his pocket as he went.
---
At the same time in downtown Manhattan
"Ma I dunno what to tell you, this Castle he's aaaah...he don't take no shit, you catch my drift?"
Eddie Gnucci followed his mother, known only as Ma Gnucci, through the factory of Top Chunk Dog Chow into her office. A red carpet covered the floor, a grand desk sat in the centre and a dozen or so goons stood at the walls like suits of armour, motionless. "You dunno what to fucking tell me, Ed? Tell me he's fuckin' dealt with you stupid fuck!" Ma Gnucci didn't know the definition of the words restraint or calm, and if you tried to tell her she'd most likely slice your throat open and grind you down into dog food.
Eddie wore the finest jacket you could get in Manhattan, in a style which would later be called The Elvis. Ma on the other hand wore a tight red cocktail dress which a forty year old woman in awful shape shouldn't even consider wearing, although it took attention away from her buck teeth, scarred face and the vein bulging from her forehead beneath her misshapen fringe. Ma Gnucci wasn't known as a looker, but it didn't really matter. Any complaints or insults were usually met with threats of violence or her "setting the boys loose".
"It's not that simple, Ma. Castle's old school, real old school. Remember all that junk on the radio, 'bout The Punisher? That's him, Ma!" There was a small amount of envy in Eddie's voice. He'd always loved hearing of The Punisher's exploits. Of course, his take on it was less "The Punisher defends America" and more "The Punisher kills non-Americans". Eddie could barely even name which countries were involved in the war, he just thought that the more non-Americans killed, the better.
"Ed, I couldn't give two streaks of rat piss about how many Nazi's this Punisher aired out. If he ain't on the payroll, he has to go. But you're telling me we can't do that?" Ma always had a soft spot for Eddie. He was the looker of the family. If it were Bobby, the runt, Ma would be smacking him around the room. And if it were Carlo, Ma would be angry her "number one son" wasn't living up to the family name.
"Look, Ma, the guy won't budge. We sent Jackie down, Castle slapped him 'round and threw him in a cell!" Ma sat down at her desk and lit a cigar. "And if we tried to kill him....the man's a cop, Ma, an' he's hard boiled!" The two spoke in unnaturally strong Italian-American accents, known as "the Gnnuci snarl" around Manhattan.
"Eddie, you're my number two son, so I say and do this with love," Ma grabbed Eddie by his jacket and slammed him down onto the desk. The goons didn't move a muscle, not wanting to be in the next batch of dog chow. "Did your pathetic excuse for a father not teach you a thing when he wasn't off with that floozie whore? Have you ever dragged yourself out of the gutter for long enough to open your ears to a word I say to you?" Ma threw Eddie back down onto the ground. "He's a cop, a soldier, so the man has a brat and a dame, right?"
"'Course, ma. So?"
Ma Gnucci sighed, upset her son wasn't taking the hint. "So off them before I have to do it to you yah moron!" Eddie ran out the room, beckoning some of the goons to follow him. Ma sat down in a huff as the door swung closed, taking a long drag of her cigar and coughing.
---
The Old Cannon bar, Manhattan, a few hours later
"...so I said "blood splatter? Not where I shot him!". Captain didn't like that!"
Frank almost spat out his beer out laughing at Micro's story, making the rest of the bars patrons (Mostly fellow cops) look over. Micro was a short, chubby, balding man, who always wore a fedora, no matter the outfit. Today, a blue jacket and pants combo with a matching hat. Despite his appearance, Micro was a brilliant detective. He could solve just about any case put in front of him in hours, with a bit of rule bending if need be. Plus, his stories almost always ended with him committing an act of police brutality against a mob enforcer, which made Frank a keen listener. "You see that Gnucci goon last night? Pretty much pissed his pants as soon as he saw you!"
Frank and Micro shared a chuckle. "Good to see that again, the scum being scared of me. Never lose the appetite for putting the fear of god into a piece of shit creep, do yah David?"
"No sir!" Micro chirped. "Thought he was gonna cry, when you told him you weren't takin' no bribe. Things weren't the same without you man, half the departments corrupt and the other half are too scared to whisper two words about it! Enough about that though, how 'bout you Frankie boy? How was the war? If it ain't too personal."
"Well, you saw the newspapers. "The Punisher strikes again". "Punisher kills another". I...I don't know. It was good, giving those bastards what they deserved. But I can't shake it. Everywhere I look, all I can see is...." Frank bowed his head. "I mean, I love Maria, and finally getting to meet my son, after all this time? It's amazing. But still...I'm not used to it".
---
"Not used to what?"
Frank jerked his head as he heard a thick Glasgow accent. Glasgow? What was a Scotsman doing in an NYPD cop bar? But Frank wasn't in the cop bar yet. He was in occupied France, back in the war. Across from him sat Yorkie Mitchell, a young soldier from Frank's squad. Yorkie was only twenty-two, so young the rest of the group hadn't bestowed him with a nickname, but built like a tank. His hair was cut down to a buzz cut, his face was fresh and clean and Yorkie's arms were as thick as telephone poles with a matching pair of huge fists. Like the rest of the squad Frank was in, named simply "The Cursed", Yorkie had a bit of legal trouble back home. Namely, killing a man in a bar fight with one punch. Yorkie was given the option to rot at His Majesty's Pleasure or fight in The Cursed, which as a very angry young man Yorkie was more than happy to do. "Nothing Yorkie".
Behind them at a table in a long brown coat sat The Russian, a man known only by that name. The Russian had been on the run from the Soviet police just before the war for a trail of vicious murders, and instead of the firing squad took service in the front lines. The Russian wasn't just a killer, however. His skin was bulletproof, and as far as hand to hand combat goes very few were ever better, baring Frank. Frank and Yorkie had wanted to ask The Russian about the origin of his bulletproof skin, but decided against it, seeing as it could only ever result in nightmare fuel. The Russian sat in silence reading his newspaper, awaiting a signal.
The fourth team member was hidden, because that's how he always was. Fantomex was sat at the bar, his fingers clutched against his custom made pistols which sat in his jacket, well ahead of their time in terms of power, accuracy and effectiveness. His uniform was matched in accuracy only by his accent, both stolen from an officer Fatomex had assassinated the day before. Fantomex was a strange one. Originally a French hit man and thief, he turned to freedom fighting when the Germans invaded, using stealth, agility and often home made illusions to keep under the radar until he was recruited for The Cursed. The others knew next to nothing about him, and that's how they liked to keep it. Few words, lots of bullets.
"Yorkie?" The young soldier looked up at Frank as the American spoke. "Now"
Like clockwork Yorkie stood up, spun around, and punched the biggest SS officer Frank had ever seen so hard the man's jaw seemed to snap in half. The Russian jumped up, pulling a loaded shotgun from his jacket and blowing away a pair of German soldiers with such smoothness you could only get from practising day and night. Frank drew his pistol and casually walked across the bar, not even blinking as Fantomex opened fire with his twin handguns and killed the last remaining soldiers. Frank cornered his target, a one Henry Fritz, head of radio communications for German occupied France.
"I got three of the pricks" Yorkie bragged. "And none of your guns. Pure Glasgow grit, ain't that right fella?" Yorkie taunted while stomping on the face of a soldier to finish him off.
"I think you'll find Yorkie, that I shot at least five men" Fantomex retorted, still as calm as ever. "And while it may astound you, five is more than three, no?"
"Ah fuck off yah French twat, you used those poncey guns. Give me a square go, I'd knock your head o..."
"If you two would stop arguing like children" Frank called over as he grabbed Henry by his jacket. "We have a mission. You're Henry Fritz, correct?"
"Y...yes" the man muttered. "Please...I surrender, I will work with America an..."
"This isn't an arrest," Frank put his gun to the quivering mans chin, showing no emotion in his face, "just need to know I had the right man".
BANG!
---
Back in Manhattan
"Frank? FRANK!?"
Frank jerked his head up to see he was laid on the floor of the bar, surrounded by laughing cops.
"You passed out or something," Micro informed Frank, stating the obvious. "I don't know what's up with you, those years away made you into someone who can't hold their beer?" Micro helped Frank up. "C'mon, I'll take you home".
---
The Castle Residence, half an hour later
Micro's car pulled up to Frank's house slowly, because even from a distance through a rain storm NYPD's best detective knew a B and E when he saw one. Frank's head was clear, so he too recognised it: A strange car outside, the door left open, it was all too clear. "Frank, wait, I'll..." Micro was cut off by Franks door slamming closed as he ran in, dropping his coat on the path to the porch as he did. Frank didn't carry his gun when off duty and his small arsenal was hidden away at the back of the house, but being a man who could make a green beret look like a five year old in hand to hand combat, Frank didn't hesitate. He soon wished he had, to prepare himself for what he saw in his living room.
His beautiful Maria was laid by the fireplace, her blouse soaked in blood and her face in an expression of pure terror. In her arms she cradled young Frank Jr, who she hadn't been able to save. A single bullet hole sat between his eyes, clearly done from close range.
"Awww, the happy family back together huh?" a deep voice called out. Frank turned and struck the man in the face with a hook which sent blood flying across the room. The killer wore a fine white suit, the best a man could get. He was young, at most twenty-one years old. To Frank, that meant inexperienced, rash, and soft. Frank followed up the punch by head butting the hitman which dropped him to the carpet. "Come on then Frankie," the man cackled as blood dripped from his jaw. "You and fat boy can take me down to the station, book me until bail is paid by Ed Gnucci and I'm off to Florida!".
Frank walked to the closet under the stairs and opened it, ignoring the killers taunts. Inside the closet sat his sons baseball bat, glove, and ball. Three things he'd never play with again, because of what the scum bleeding all over Franks carpet had done. "C'mon piggy, take me to justice!" Frank grabbed the bat from the closet and stood over his killer.
"I tried justice with you vermin. I tried being harsh, but fair. You stepped out of line, I herded you back. You did wrong, I let you have another chance to maybe do right. Now? I'm done. I'm done with arrests. I'm done with you having more rights than those you hurt. I'm done with this sham of a system which lets little fucks like you breathe, while my wife and son lay dead. I'm done letting this happen to me, or anybody else. This? This isn't justice. This is what you deserve. This is punishment".
---
1:00AM, January the 22nd, 1946
The Gnucci mansion, Manhattan
"Eddie you greasy scum fuck!" Bobby Gnucci yelled up the stairs as he stood at the front door. Bobby was the runt of the family, with his squashed up face, flabby gut, bowl cut and deformed nose which made him snort like a bulldog. He spent most of his time out at clubs, using his mothers name to get his own way and throwing tantrums when that didn't happen. Most nights he'd drag some poor girl home in the back of a cab, out of her mind on whatever Bobby had stuffed in their drink that night and unable to resist his perverted desires. That night was no exception. Bobby stood completely naked at the front door, his face red in anger.
"Tthere's some package here for you, delivery guy left it. Get your ass down here now!"
"Sure sure" Eddie called back, walking down the stairs still in his trademark jacket. "You know, some of us work in the family business helping Ma and actually have wives, instead of wasting our time humping drunk whores, so cut me some slack if I'm not sprinting down here to meet you. OK yah ugly mutt?!"
Bobby's face went bright purple as he stormed back to his room while Eddie simply chuckled and picked up the large package from the doorstep. The package was a few feet long and quite heavy, so Ed decided to just open it in the hallway, assuming it to be money or drugs like normal.
"Oh fuck no...no..."
Eddie dropped to his knees as he tore open the box. Inside was...well, what clearly used to be a man. Bones stuck out at weird angles, blood coated the fabric of the jacket so much it looked like another layer of material. The head was caved in with brain matter leaking out and an eyeball had been squashed down like a grape under a foot. But that's not what Eddie was scared of, because to any Gnucci worth their salt a body was just part of daily life. What scared him was the note, scrawled on a piece of paper and pinned to the body almost mockingly. The five words written on that piece of paper scared Eddie more than any picture show or story ever could: The Punisher will have revenge.