Page 3

"Yeah; I need in," Castle said, reaching for the door handle, and the big man gazed at him with a disbelieving, sardonic expression.

"Get outta here, pendejo," he said, reaching toward him.

Unzipping his jacket, Castle revealed the white-on-black, stylized skull emblem on his t-shirt; the bouncer’s eyes widened in disbelieving recognition. Wanting initially to be as unobtrusive as possible, Castle produced from the inner pocket a collapsible baton, and smoothly broke the hood’s forearm, then with a skillful swooping motion hit him the left kneecap, dropping him cleanly to the floor, then hit him in the side of the head, several times.

When the big man proved a little more resilient than expected and nonetheless painfully stood, reaching for his .9, the Punisher sighed, drew one of his silenced .45s, and calmly plugged the big Latino with three rounds to the chest; the rounds exited his back as he sprawled noisily across the set of beaten wicker porch furniture, which was now sprayed copiously with his blood.

Moments later, the door tore open, and another large "associate" said "The fuck was tha---?" and the Punisher felled him before he knew what was happening, with a single shot to the forehead…which blew off a sizeable chunk of his cranium. Again, not wishing to cause too much of a stir right off the bat, Castle grunted with the effort of dragging the first man in off the porch and into the entryway, glanced around outside, and closed the door.

Inside, per his military training methodically sweeping the house, the Punisher saw the usual stuff…they were all the same; at least, in his extensive experience.

They were either abandoned altogether, or with absentee landlords, most often slumlords, who collected the rent by mail and never came to see what went on at their properties. Perhaps wisely.

Mildewy, peeling wallpaper and paint; crumbling walls and floor boards. Roaches. Used mattresses and worn, castoff furniture strewn all about; on some, patrons were passed out; one man, Castle found in a back room, arms red, swollen and running with infection. He lay still, eyes half-open, drooling in his stupor; unmoving, even as two large rats nuzzled around him, munching on his cold cheeseburger and stiff fries. His filthy dirty works and an open baggie of heroin were on the mattress, with him.

"Among other things", indeed, Castle mused. Not just a crack house, but a "shooting gallery", as well; a safe place for heroin users to shoot up. He took a deep breath, and caught a whiff of what smelled like chemicals, which he found telling. There was possibly more here than met the eye.

He mounted the stairs and peered cautiously into the other rooms. There had to be six bedrooms in this house; some had been fairly recently and haphazardly sub-divided.

A few were occupied with wasted lives, but most were empty at the moment.

He would not take these lives; their lives belonged to someone—and something—else. They might yet be redeemed before that something took them; and if not, then there was no need to waste his ammunition, which could best be used to punish those exploiters who held their lives in thrall, and preyed on society’s weak…such as these lost souls.

One obvious crackhead, a young black man of maybe twenty, saw him and, not seeming to notice the darkly-glistening firearm in his hand, stumbled out of what appeared to be the master bedroom--the filthy, rotting carpeting strewn with numerous vials, used needles and baggies--and foggily asked him for money.  "I’m hungry," he mumbled.

"Get out," Castle ordered, firmly. "Now."

And with a muddled curse, the man did; Castle heard him gasp, however, when he beheld the bloody corpses of the goons inside the front door on the first level. The back door slammed a few moments later.

Nothing up here, Castle thought; so, he decided to try the basement. Chemical fumes.

He descended the steps and made his way to the kitchen, where he found the basement door. He heard voices, even as he came to the top of the stairs.

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