P u n i s h e r

       The familiar stench of stale blood, antiseptic, and old man was carried in the gust of wind that wafted past, alerting him to the other’s presence long before he entered into his peripherals. Unspoken wisecracks danced on the tip of Daken’s tongue, itching to be said, although he refrained — for the time being. As of right now — and luckily for the old man — Daken had more important matters to attend to.

                            ❝——Castle. Just the man I wanted to see.❞                                                                                    Not really. But he’ll do.

     From the moment Castle stepped into view, he was on guard; steely gaze staying locked on the figure just a few feet away, muscles taut and ready to strike at a moments notice. Judging by the way the other carried himself, the way he spoke, he'd already been aware of his presence long before he entered into eyesight, which made Castle all the more leery. Damn mutants.

     ❝I'm afraid I can't say the same for you,❞ Frank scoffed, hand coming to rest atop his pistol -- not that it'd do much in this scenario. ❝What do you want? And more importantly, why are you here?❞

Frank Castle as drawn by Marco Checchetto

Today is this blog’s 2nd anniversary, and I would like to warmly thank my friends and supporters, new and old — without you, there would be no ImmortalCorrupter. I am fortunate and blessed to know that I have the the best people here at my side. Whether you were one of the first individuals to follow me or someone who only just followed minutes prior, you are cherished and I am ever grateful you took time out of your day to show interest in my content. With every interaction, from liking my posts to sending asks — you are showing me that you enjoy what I post, that you enjoy me as a person, and I am both humbled and empowered by that realization.

As follows, here is a personal bias list of mine. I highly enjoy seeing you folks around, and whether we speak consistently or just watch one another from afar, your presence is notable to me and I enjoy what you do. Once again, thank you all so much for following/interacting with me, for helping me reach such a milestone and I look forward to the future with all of you. 

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                                                                                & BLOGROLL.

Punisher War Journal #1

The Punisher by Marc Laming

    There was a smell that came with men like them. Sour cigarettes, gun-powder, the unmistakable iron of blood, torn skin and clinical bandages. they weren’t so different, the two of them. Lester grinned, wide enough to stretch the wrinkles at his eyes. Crow’s feet. He always thought that was a funny comparison. Crows were considered a bad omen. (So was he.)

    “Lovely monologue, almost brings a tear to my eye. Ah, God, Frank,” he cooed, putting the car into drive. He could get the gun real easy. And even if he didn’t, he could loosen a tooth, spit it into his eye, mar his line of vision, like forcing a cataract into the optic nerve. While distracted, he could spit a bullet into his head, but how anti-climactic and upsetting would that be? The two of them had been through so much. It would be a shame to end it that way.

    “Why are you here, buddy? You want to talk about your family again?” Lester’s obsession had led to ten families dead. He wanted to be the Punisher. He felt nothing — but he wasn’t at fault! (So what had it been?) And, well, everyone knew the story now. “God, I’d love to have met Lisa. She’d be a beautiful girl if she were alive today. But then, if she’d survived… Well, it’d be a shame. Me and you wouldn’t be together, would we?”

    Together — that was an odd word; a huge word. Like maybe he’d mean something to the Punisher. A real enemy. Someone terrifying. He wasn’t like the other criminals. But Frank saw in black and white. Bad — good — bad — good. There were no levels of importance. There was kill, and protect. “Oh, God, Frank. I thought I was the psycho!”

    A deathly silence filled the vehicle, frigid gaze fixing itself on the man occupying the driver's seat. He didn't like the way his grin stretched across his face, the way he spoke of his family, the way he spoke of them -- as if they were similar or some sort of pair. This particular piece of trash was alive sheerly because of luck. That had to be it. Because it certainly wasn't skill. There was no other explanation ---- no other explanation as to why someone hadn't already put this sick bastard down -- why he hadn't been able to.

    It took Frank only a moment to consider the repercussions of his next move, before making it. At this angle steering was difficult -- but possible. If the other were to lash out, there were plenty of items within the vehicle that could easily substitute as a weapon, if need be.

    Within seconds, a callous hand abruptly wrapped around the back of the man's skull, bringing the other's face down toward the steering wheel at an accelerated rate. It wasn't forceful enough to do any real damage -- not that he could anyway -- but it was hopefully enough to get the message across. While it had been years since their deaths, hearing any of their names falling from psychopaths' lips was enough to ignite a fire within him.

    "Speak of my family again and I'll make sure you have no tongue left to speak with." He'd do a lot worse than that. He will do a lot worse than that. But first, information. "You're still breathing, because I need information. And only because I need information. Kingpin. You worked for him at one point -- did you not? I want to know what you know. Schedule, contacts, quirks -- everything. The longer you stay useful, the longer you get to live." 

"You have resources."

Alexei stated simply - resources he had severed when he’d defected from Russia.

"I need to find someone."

Resources.

      It was a broad term, but the man had certainly come to the right place. In order to accomplish his means, Frank had acquired numerous contacts and arms dealers over the years, ranging from ex-military, police force, all the way up to government officials. Whatever this man needed, he was fairly certain he could provide in some way, shape or form. Though whether or not he should, was an entirely different matter altogether.

      "--That I do. What sort of resources do you need? And who exactly are you lookin' for?"

                 ❝ I hope vodka’s okay. I’m Russian and it’s kind of all we have right now.❞ Anya cackled, throwing the kit onto the table before turning to rummage through her expansive liquor cabinet. Most of it had gone untouched for over a year and a half, her bundle of joy keeping her sober and out of trouble. Jason was more fond of rum and tequila, both of which were mostly gone, and Ezra didn’t drink. That left her collection of vodka stacked in neat rows before her. She grabbed a bottle with a fluorescent orange lid, figuring a citrus flavor would go better with his breakfast than marshmallow. Snatching up a glass from the counter, she returned to the kitchen table, setting drink and cup before him.

        ❝Damn straight. Having a kid turns you into a mother hen. Or maybe we’ve always been like that, I dunno.❞ She muttered, lowering herself down to inspect the wound in his side. She’d seen worse, that’s for sure. It certainly wasn’t pretty though.  Reaching up to the table, the blonde opened the kit, fumbling around for the small bottle of rubbing alcohol that was stored in the back. Popping the cap and grabbing a few strips of gauze, she soaked the fabric with the liquid, glancing up into the man’s face was a slight smile before pressing gently against the torn skin. Had he been anyone else, she might have said something along the lines of 'this is gonna hurt a lot.’ but Anya had gauged within the first ten seconds of meeting him that that would be an unnecessary statement to make. The white gauze was soon stained crimson, the extent of the damage now visible. 

       ❝What, exactly, were you and my idiot doing last night?❞ The blonde asked, brow furrowed as she tossed the scarlet cotton onto the table, snatching up another clean piece before continuing to clean the wound. ❝And no bullshit. You wouldn’t want me to torture Jay for information, would you? Also, I never caught your name… You’re half naked in my kitchen and I don’t even know your name, that doesn’t fly.❞

        Fingers subtly curled inward at the contact; the tips of his knuckles turning a bright shade of white. While Castle was more than used to pain of this nature, the initial sting was always a bitch, regardless of how many times he'd been through it.

        "The name's Frank Castle," he replied, snatching the glass of vodka off the counter, immediately throwing it back. "Your idiot decided he was going to take on an entire branch of the Russian Mafia by himself. If I hadn't been there to pull him out, he might not have made it home this morning." Frank knew Jason would be pissed for ratting him out like this, but he wasn't about to lie to the woman, either. That just wasn't how he operated. "--As for the wound, I actually have your fiancé to thank for that one. No fault but my own, though. I'm not one for trusting people -- especially men who purposely get themselves mixed up in Mafia business. Jason's got one hell of a blade on him, that's for sure. Cut straight through my bulletproof vest like it was butter."

        Frank paused, setting the now-empty glass back on the counter, gaze wandering back toward the woman's face, as if to gauge her next reaction. "What's his fascination with this particular mob, anyway? There are plenty of other crime syndicates lurking about the streets of New York -- yet I've never seen, nor heard of the 'Red Hood', until I started working this mission. He seems pretty adamant about executing them too -- reminds me a bit of my earlier days."

Punisher by Adnan Ali / Facebook

          ｒｅｃｏｇｎｉｚｅ

                                yoυr  ᴛᴀʀɢᴇᴛ﹐

                                                       ＆ 

                                                     —— ᴇʟɪᴍɪɴᴀᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ. —— 

✘    ✘       [ castifico ] 

                ” … Uh … “

                           The guy reeks of stale blood and fear that was not his own,                             his eyes of steel and his shoulders about eighteen                              feet or so across. 

                                             Big boy …                                               Why was Big Boy following him? 

        “     Somethin’ … I can do for you? “

       He's been following him for a while now                                      ---- t r a c k i n g  him.        Well technically not him, per se, but someone.        Someone who's responsible for the death of        several innocent civilians              -- and this man just so happens to have                       been at the scene of the crime, every time.

          "Never seen your face around here before.            You new? Or just passin' through?"

why don’t you guys send me your characters name and i’ll put it in this generator and write a starter based on what comes out