The Punisher Origins

[Harakiri]

THE PUNISHER: ORIGINS

 

Chapter 1: Hell in the Park

 

The deck of the aircraft carrier was crowded with jet planes and soldiers. The soldiers stood in the middle of the runway, ten in a line, ten in a column. One hundred soldiers in all, all at attention. They had stood like this for the past five minutes, sweat beading on their foreheads and threatening to get into their eyes or tickle their cheek, threaten to make the soldiers break their stance.

Frank Castle stood in the front row, third person from the right. He bent his knees a bit to get the blood flowing back through them. He tried to keep his gaze centered on the nose of one of the jet planes, but was too excited to stay focused and had a case of wandering eye syndrome. He looked at the gulls screeching in the air, at the flags waving from the top of the bridge.

Another three minutes passed before a man walked out from the bridge in Maverick sun glasses and carrying a duffel bag over one shoulder. Everyone snapped a salute at the same time as the commander of the USS Carter waltzed over to where they stood and dropped his duffel bag. He saluted back and then everyone dropped their hands.

The end of the road for some. The relaxation needed before the return of others. We've had a hell of four years most of us. From Iraq to Afghanistan to China, we've seen the world, and we've been in enough predicaments to make any of the other carriers jealous. He laughed. Some of the best goddam pilots I've ever seen are on this ship standing before me. Some of the best chefs, the best drill sergeants. But today, we go back to where we belong. Come back from one [cabbage]hole, to land in another. New York City is probably going to be your least favorite part of your tour of duty. Anybody headed for the airport, going home to their families, or anyone grabbing a bus or driving back home, get out as fast as you can.

Frank laughed a little. He was a New Yorker, he understood the meaning of the commander's diatribe completely. New York sucks. And even being a native Frank could agree. It's a tourist town, and the only reason he lives there anymore is the fact he is married and he can live close to his mother and father.

You kids are a great bunch and should be proud of your accomplishments. I have a couple I wish to point out. We have Army Ranger Lupe Hernandez. With a sniper rifle, he could kill anyone, whether from fourteen miles away to right in front of him. Jack Corona, able to shoot himself out of a prison camp like it was nothing. Frank Castle, saved three reporters from being raped and killed while it was recorder on the internet.

Frank was saddened by the memory. He remember running into that hot tent, the white sheets of the bed tarnished with dirt. The young reporter having her pants cut off methodically with a long bowie knife and the maniacal laughter of the middle eastern man preparing for pleasure. Tears streaming down the lovely girls face, a bandana soaking up the tears and muffling the cries.

He remembered that instant of shock from the men in the tent, the tears of joy streaming down the cheeks of the reporters. He remembered the sudden adrenaline and the next few seconds of carefully aimed shots. Bang. Bang. Bang.

And he remembered the screams and the men dropping to the ground, faces contorted in pain, almost caricatures of what they had looked like ten seconds before.

He was pulled back to reality by a horn and loud screams from the dock that was coming up on the port side. He could already feel tears stinging his eyes at the thought of seeing his wife, of seeing his children.

I'm back he wanted to scream.

The commander grabbed his duffel bag and waved his hand. Get the hell out of here. Live life like everyday is your last.

Everyone ran towards the front of the ship where their luggage sat in a huge pile. Frank had left his on the far right so it would be easy to get before the crowd started fighting to get their stuff and debark.

He was the fourth one to the metal staircase that was propped against the ship's hull. He ran down and was instantly assaulted by a woman of medium height, with blonde hair and a red skirt on. She hugged Frank shoving her face into his biceps. He hugged her tight back and stroked her golden locks.

Maria. He muttered under his breath.

Welcome back Frank. She replied and they locked lips for what seemed like a millenia.

Frank then felt two thumps against his leg. His two children hugged him, Jake on the right leg, Melissa on the left. Both cried Daddy, daddy, daddy incessantly.

Hey kids. He dropped to his knees and hugged them both.

When he got back up he smiled. I heard you had something planned for lunch?

 

Central Park is mind-numbingly large. It is easy to get lost in it's expanses of green fields and areas of dense forest. The only thing that can really ruin the moment are the streets that run around it, car horns blaring and traffic taking away from a usually magnificent experience.

Frank looked around and took in a scene he missed. It was almost enough to make him want to cry. The people, sitting on benches feeding pigeons, running in short shorts with their MP3 players blocking out the world around them, the dogs running around sniffing out the best tree to leave their mark on.

Maria stopped in front of a stone bridge that went over a small lake populated by a couple ducks. She stood against the railing of the bridge and smiled.

Remember this place Frank?

Frank did remember. How could he forget? It was probably just a stupid question to get the two in the mood, and he understood his wife well enough to know that was probably it.

It's where I asked you to marry me. Frank said.

Maria walked over to Frank and they kissed for a while. The kids had been trailing behind, but now stayed as far back as they could, sticking their tongues out in apparent disgust.

Frank was the broke away from the kiss and smiled warmly. Let's find a spot for lunch. He nodded at the picnic baskets he held.

Maria nodded and led the way to a large clearing that was where most people decided to picnic, mostly because it was in the center of the park, where it was a little quieter, and all the fountains surrounded them, adding just a little more flair.

Frank lay out a blanket and sat. Melissa sat next to him and opened a picnic basket as fast as she could. Yummy! She said, pulling out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Frank looked around.

Maria, why are there no other people here? He asked. Last time I remember this place was always packed with people.

Maria shrugged. I guess they are at work.

Frank shook his head. It might be PTSD, or it might be the fact that something is up.

Frank, don't tell me the war has messed with your head.

It does with everyone in some manner Maria.

Frank saw it out of the corner of his eye, the glint of a pistol being aimed at the picnicking family.

GET DOWN! He screamed, throwing the children under him and trying to pull Maria down.

More people showed up, each with their own weapon. A machine gun, a pistol, an Uzi.

Maria screamed as the Uzi went off, her back exploding into a shower of blood.

NO! Frank screamed. He then felt the kids squirm, crying. They tried to go to their mom who now lay limp on the blanket.

Frank tried to keep them underneath him but felt the shots thump into them, and then thump into his back. The children screamed and Frank screamed as well, not only in pain but in anger.

He made a split second decision. The only way out was to pretend he was dead.

He lay limp on the ground for fifteen minutes, suppressing the tears that threatened to rip through his eyelids. Jake was already dead when Frank decided to get up. He checked Melissa's heartbeat. She had a faint beat. Frank tried CPR but it did not work. She was dying slowly. She was probably in some sort of coma. One of the bullets had hit her back. She probably had gotten hit in the vertebrae.

Frank heard footsteps and played dead. He then heard two cars stop in the middle of the field.

Holy [cabbage]! It was a massacre! Said someone.

Get them in the ambulance. Probably no point, but do it anyway.

Frank turned around, the pain from the shots in his back still echoing across his body.

Jesus Christ! Screamed one of the ambulance men. One of the policemen grabbed Frank and nodded toward the ambulance. We're going to get you out of here.

Frank passed out somewhere in between meeting the policeman and getting up from the ground.

 

Frank had left the hospital in a day and a half. One of the bullets had gotten him shallow in the back and the other had hit his shoulder. All he needed was rest.

He sat at his little townhouse and paced endlessly, staring at the papers, noticing nothing about his family other than the pictures of his kids and his wife in the obituaries. He would burn the papers promptly after noticing Spiderman on the cover of The Daily Bugle, giving the thumbs up at a cameraman as he holds a robber by the scruff of his neck.

Superheroes. Worthless scum was all they were. Stealing the public spotlight from the more important things and the regular people. Spiderman caught a man robbing a 7-11 while Frank Castle was the only survivor of a mafia massacre.

The mafia. He had noticed it from their suits, from the tattoos found on their bodies. They were mafia, and they didn't kill without reason.

Frank Castle was going to find the reason. Find out why they had cleared out the picnickers to kill his family. Find out who had hired them.

Answers the police couldn't give him because they were too busy sitting on their worthless [wagon] waiting for a superhero to do their job.

 

Frank took a black shirt and painted a skull on it with white paint. It wasn't fancy, but it should send a message.

The next day, he hit some other stores. He used his life savings to buy a weeks worth of black clothing and a couple pairs of black boots. He went to Harlem and bought ten bullet-proof vests and went to Chinatown to buy from a reputable black market dealer. He got M-16's, riot shotguns, pistols. He then bought an armored van from him that needed a lot of work.

Over the course of a week, he had the van sent in to multiple dealers and worked on it himself. He gutted it, and turned it into an apartment/work place on wheels. He had hidden compartments for weapons, had a metal desk bolted to the floor, as well as a bed, and a bookshelf. He put a computer in there and started filling compartments with guns and grenades and everything he would need.

He hid what used to be a SWAT van in his garage. He wouldn't need it yet.

 

The funeral was short. Five family members showed up, each wearing black, each in tears. Frank comforted his wife's mother and father.

His own mother and father had shown up. They all stood together, watching the caskets be lowered into the plots, one next to the other.

I should be next to them. Frank muttered.

 

Frank threw his duffel bags full of his black clothes, the shirts now all painted with the skulls, into his van. His neighbor was next door, hosing his bushes.

You off on a trip? He asked, turning the nozzle, which made the spray stop.

You could say that.

You going out to the woods to find some time alone to get past your families death? That's what I did when my parents died.

No.

Frank's neighbor waved. Well, goodbye. Your family is with God now, probably enjoying dinner with him right now.

I'm sure.

Frank walked inside the house and inspected the floors. Gasoline covered everything, the walls, the furniture.

He lit a match and threw it inside.

 

As he drove toward Manhattan island, Frank's neighbor called the fire department as the house next door turned into a blazing inferno.

When the fire department settled the flame, there was nothing left but ashes.

 

War Journal Number One

I have left my past behind, burnt it to the ground. I will now go out to punish the corrupt, to show the lazy lawmakers what is wrong, to show the mafia who the real don is, to make sure the tabloids know who the superheroes should watch out for. I have no fancy powers, I have nothing but manpower and guns. I am out to show the world that their petty superheroes are nothing but people who use their powers for public infamy. They are not around to fight the evils of the street like I am, they are there to punch a crook in the face and then get international recognition for being able to put a web around said villain to tie him up.

The age of heroes will end. As will the age of villains.

There will only be one name to love and fear when I finish my mission.

That name will be: The Punisher.