Punisher Story: "Crime and Punishment."
War Journal: 06-02-09
The call from Mockingbird had been a surprise, but not much of one. Hawkeye had captured one of Hydra’s Field Commanders; in fact I had watched him do it then cleaned up after Clint was gone. So I knew about the FCO, I just wasn’t figuring that Morse would call me in after the talk she and I had in Arlington.
Strange, that’s the only way to describe the feel as I pulled my charger through the gate at Triskellion. The guards waved me through with barely a look at my license plate. Even more so though was the fact that the people inside the Island perimeter don’t even look up. It’s like I don’t exist. Like it had been back when I was Special Forces, back before ….
Morse didn’t offer me a pardon, she didn’t offer me intelligence on crime families, and there was no begging or blackmailing. When she called; I picked up the phone and listened as she spoke of the man in custody, of how they had the Psi Ops on standby, but those guys wouldn’t leave much if they fucked up. She didn’t have to lay it on the line at all, I knew the score, and she knew I knew the score. What I can do to a man’s body leaves their mind mostly there for if I don’t get the information she wants. This is just a deal about options. All it takes is a blind eye turned.
This is precisely what happens when I’m past the door of the building that holds my cell mate for the next few hours. A holding room is there, a glass plated window with two-way mirror glass between me and whoever is watching. No one is supposed to be there of course, this whole thing isn’t supposed to be happening, but I caught the perfume in the air, I know she’s in there watching.
We got to work immediately.
‘I want a lawyer,’ the guy said when he first saw the doors opening. ‘Where’s my fucking phone call Jewboy?’
Not the first time that mistake was made, black hair, olive skin, you wouldn’t believe how many racist pricks I deal with on a daily basis in the mafia. They all change their tune soon enough, this one did the moment I turned around, the moment his eyes saw the skull. Or maybe it was the bowing knife in my other hand, doesn’t matter.
‘You aren’t supposed to be here! Where’s Mockingbird? Where’s DumDum? I have rights, this is America!’
Nope, you lost your rights the moment you burned two kids to death in up-city New York. You lost those rights even before then, when you put your name on the dotted line with a group of Right Wing, fourth Reich, terrorists who have nothing better to do than burn kids and rape women. Don’t think I draw the line at petty criminals and the mob, Punishment comes to those who deserve it.
First thing first, I push the dirty rag from my charger’s trunk in to his mouth. He thought I was going to ask him questions, they all do that. The symbol on my chest works wonders on fools, it makes them talk just on rep alone, but this isn’t a fool. This man knows things, if I accept what he offers I won’t get what’s beneath the surface. A look on his face tells me he doesn’t understand, if I kill him I get nothing, so why gag him?
Simple answer dirt-bag; I’m taking pity on my ears.
When you take a man’s finger off just beneath the second knuckle it’s like you cut a window to his soul. Right now I can hear the man cussing me down one side and up the other, gag or no gag there’s only so many ways to mute the four letter words he comes up. Some of them are in German, which only makes me wish I hadn’t taken that course out of high school. After that I take another, and another. When I’m done with the first hand he’s crying more than cursing; he’d fall in to shock if I wasn’t hitting him with smelling salts every time his eyes close.
‘You sick fuck…!’ Pulling the gag away, he chooses now to remind me of my parentage, something about a goat licking son of a camel jockey. Colorful words, but still not what I need to hear.
I stopped at Wal-mart on my way, bought two ballpoint Bic brand pens. They’e the best of the best on the market unless you go hand crafted. Most importantly though is the fact that they’re metallic and pass the conductor test. It takes only a minute to shove one of the pens through one of his shoulders, then the other one in to a thigh.
It’s when I take out the Jumper cables that I see he’s getting the picture. I just need to drive the point home, a little further, for him. So I connect one side to the batteries then hook the negative lead to the pin in the Hydra man’s thigh.
‘Please… please someone help me…’ No one does.
When I connect the final cable to the pen in his shoulder juice flows naturally. His screams echo in the tiny room like a KISS concert in Carnegie Hall. After only five seconds I see his bones starting to glow with heat, so I pull it away. Electricity or not I know the score here, his bones themselves are heated from the electricity, and I’m boiling him from the inside out.
I didn’t stop to ask questions though. The last was just a test run, I wanted to see the hookups work properly. Now it’s time for the gas container, it’s contents of which I empty all over the man.
Now he’s talking. Not the curses, no more colorful slang terms of affection either, he’s giving Mockingbird what she wants. Details, it’s always in the details. Where is Fenton? Who are the other targets? Where are the other bases? Where is the Hellicarrier? What is the plan? Who are the other Hydra leaders? Is this connected to Weapon X? What is a Darkhold?
It’s a litany of information and when he is done, when his chest heaves with the breath of a man who has confessed his final sins? I put the cable back on to that shoulder pen. Then I head for the door, breaking the handle off as I step through. Already people are rushing to the door on orders to save the man’s life.
Don’t think I draw the line at Criminals. I punish the guilty, regardless of the crime.