[center][img]https://s33.postimg.cc/neeg2gy5b/The_Replacement_Killers_36150_Medium.jpg[/img][/center]
[color=lightblue][b]"Daddy? Why are you running?"[/b][/color]
[color=bc8dbf][b]"Stop running, daddy!"[/b][/color]
[color=f49ac2][b]"Why run from the truth, Frank?"[/b][/color]
[color=lightblue][b]"Why did you let us die?"[/b][/color]
[color=bc8dbf][b]"You didn't save us!"[/b][/color]
[color=f49ac2][b]"You let us die."[/b][/color]
[color=lightblue][b]"Why won't you stop running?"[/b][/color]
[color=bc8dbf][b]"Just stop running!"[/b][/color]
[color=f49ac2][b]"Stop running from the truth."[/b][/color]

I wake in a cold sweat.

The nightmares haven't stopped. I tell myself that the voices aren't real. That they can't touch me.

I like to think it helps.

[center][color=black][b][hr][h3]ISSUE #11
DIRTY LAUNDRY[/h3][/b][/color][hr][b][color=black][u]Outside of A Cheap Laundromat; New York City[/u][/color][/b][/center]
I step out of my van, carrying a tub of dirty clothes. I used most of the money I had left to have Dave buy the van for me, the type that swim teams and garage bands use. It's not too hard living out of it, and it has the added benefit of being mobile. I'm living under the radar, trying to avoid cops whenever I can. 

Lately I've stuck around the poorer areas of Harlem, where the cops only rarely go. It's worked out okay aside from the occasional harassment from some of the wannabe gangsters around here, which I can handle; they're too scared to actually try anything. Thankfully, none of the actual gangs have come around. If they did, I'd have to relocate again.

I'm not too sure why I decided to stick around New York. There are so many other places to go. Particularly, there are places where I'm not wanted for over 200 counts of murder. Maybe I just like New York too much, and can't bring myself to leave it even when I'm being hunted by the police, the remnants of a crime family, and a teenage girl in a Halloween costume.

But those days of mass murder are behind me. Now, I'm just Frank Castle, ex-cop, fugitive, and bum. As I walk to the laundromat, I hear the sound of a car pulling up, rap music blaring loudly from the speakers within. The car pulls up in front of a group of women, prostitutes probably, and out of the car comes a group of the most generic gangbangers I've ever seen. Baggy pants, gold chains, backwards ball caps... The works.

[b]"Ey bitch,"[/b] one of them, the head honcho presumably (he has the most gold chains, after all), says to one of the women.

The women are already speedwalking away, but the 'gangsters' follow. [b]"I already took care of you!"[/b] the woman replies. The man grabs her. She screams. He slaps her around a bit, and begins dragging her to an alleyway. Her screams increase in volume, and in pain.

I keep walking. I enter the laundromat. I pick out a washing machine, open it up, and put in my clothes. I pull a few coins out of my pocket. Should have enough to cover it. I put in a few quarters, and start the machine up, before taking a seat.

I grab a newspaper off the bench. It's from yesterday. Nothing too big, just some more stuff about Spider-Woman fighting bad guys, and the police rallying against her and me, stuff like that. The story also mentions something about gun violence and blah blah blah, it's just the same old stuff. A year or two from now some other crazy bastard with a vengeance will start gunning after criminals and the papers will forget all about me. Until then, they're milking the story for all it's worth.

I look out the window. The other gangbangers are occupying themselves by harassing some young kid while their leader is busy with the girl. I hear a few things that help me determine why they're doing it: something about drugs, and this being their territory. Sounds like they want the kid to run drugs for them, and he takes exception to the idea.

Soon enough, the clothes are washed, and I put them into a drier. I sit back down. Watch them swirl around inside. I hear the shouting from the street. The screams of the woman being raped. The thumping of the clothes inside the drier. It agitates me. I can't stay in this damn laundromat.

I've got to do something.

I exit the building, looking down the street at the gangers beating up on the kid. I turn around and head into the liquor store down the street. It stinks of cheap booze and broken dreams, the clerk a crippled old man who looks defeated. He looks up at the sound of the door opening. I grab a bottle of Yoo-Hoo from the refrigerated section, and head up to the counter.

[b]"No booze?"[/b] he asks.

[color=black]"No. Been on the wagon about a month now,"[/color] I reply. [color=black]"How much is this gonna be?"[/color]

[b]"A buck fifty."[/b] I pull out my wallet and lay two dollars down. He sticks it in the register and hands me two quarters. I open up the bottle of chocolate milk, heading to the door and looking out at the scene down the street. Their leader has joined the party, and he's sticking a gun to the poor kid's head. [b]"Makes you fuckin' sick, don't it?"[/b] the clerk says, looking out at the scene as well. [b]"Makes you wanna do somethin' too."[/b]

I stay silent. Drink my Yoo-Hoo.

[b]"About two decades back, that was me, standin' where you are now. Lookin' out there, wantin' to do something. Was a little girl then. Not much older than that kid is now."[/b]

[color=black]"... What'd you do?"[/color]

[b]"... I walked out... Heh. Did a tour in 'Nam, not a fuckin' scratch. Come home and then..."[/b] He gestures to himself, sitting in his wheelchair. [b]"They're fuckin' animals. Even if God came down and smote 'em all himself, there'd just be another batch comin' around a day later. World's burnin' down, my friend. Least I got a front row seat for it."[/b]

I turn back around and head to the counter, laying down twenty dollars. [color=black]"... Bottle of Jack. Keep the change."[/color] The clerk laughs bitterly. He takes the money, puts the bottle in a bag, and hands me it. I leave the store.

[b]"-in' choice! You always got a motherfuckin' choice!"[/b] the ganger is shouting at the kid, gun still pressed against the boy's head. The kid is crying silently, tears and blood mingling on his face.

It makes me want to do something.

I pull the bottle from the bag, holding it upside down in my right hand as though it were a mace. It's heavy. Heavy enough to crack a skull, I reckon. Time to find out. 

The gangsters are all so focused on the kid, they don't see me coming from behind. I swing at the nearest one.

[b][i]*KRAK!*[/i][/b]

The sound of his skull being caved in is a dry, thick sound. It takes until I kill another for the gangsters to notice me, and it takes another going down for them to realize what's happening. They all shout. One of them pulls a gun while their leader backs up to let his dogs handle the problem.

I slam the bottle under the nose of the one who had just pulled the gun, taking it from him and firing off two rounds at another. I don't have to worry about aiming. At this range, there was no way I'd miss. I twist around and hit the last one in the temple with the bottle. Gun in one hand and a bottle of whiskey caked in blood in the other, I turn to the leader. He holds his gun shakily, pointing it in my direction. If I so much as twitched, he'd fire.

That's when the kid got off the ground and bit the bastard's leg, making him shout and fire the gun, the shot going wide. I shoot the man in the hand, making him drop his gun, then run up to him. The kid scrambles backwards, away from me and the gangster. I use the bottle to break his nose. Then his arm. His legs.

The tough guy was reduced to a blubbering mess on the ground, cries mingling with screams of pain. I loom over him like some dime store angel of death. [color=black]"... Do you know the difference between justice..."[/color] I open the bottle. [color=black][b]"... And punishment?"[/b][/color]

[b]"W-what!?"[/b] He was confused. I'd be too if some guy came up and killed all my buddies, then started babbling on about punishment. I empty the bottle onto him. [b]"N-no! No! D-don't! Please, don't!"[/b] I pull out my zippo, flicking it open and lighting it. For a second I consider throwing it onto him and being done with it. But that wasn't my call to make, if he lived or died. He hadn't wronged me.

I set the still lit zippo down at his feet, and walk back into the laundromat. My clothes are done drying. I pull them out, and put them back into my laundry bin. I look outside and see the prostitute, face bloody and bruised, standing over the wounded gangbanger. He's pleading with her, telling her he's sorry.

She kicks the zippo.

Flames burst around him, cooking him like he's some sort of baggy-pantsed steak. He screams in vain, trying to call for help that won't come. The hooker leaves as his screams die down with the flames.

I exit the laundromat. Load my clothes up into the van.

[b]"Hey mister."[/b] I turn around, seeing the kid behind me. [b]"... Thank you."[/b]

[color=black][b]"Don't mention it. Just doing my part to keep the neighborhood safe."[/b][/color]

[b]"Heh. You're a regular Spider-Woman, aren't you?"[/b]

[color=black][b]"Something like that,"[/b][/color] I reply. [color=black][b]"... Can't stick around here. Cops come, I'm done for."[/b][/color] I look down at the tub of clothes, then back at the kid. [color=black][b]"Hey kid. Anybody starts something with you, don't do what I did. And definitely don't do what you did. Leave. Taking any other way will only lead to an early grave, either then or somewhere else down the line."[/b][/color]

He nods slightly.

[color=black][b]"See you around."[/b][/color] I close up the back doors of the van, and get into the driver's seat. I drive away.

Maybe it was time to pay Micro a visit. I left all my guns with him, after all.