[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/kpf9iFQ.png[/img][/center][indent][sub][color=white][b]SEASON ONE[/b][/color][color=A9A9A9] Sensation & Wonder[/color][/sub][sup][right][b][color=white]PUNISHER #1[/color][/b][/right][/sup][/indent][indent][indent][indent][hr][/indent][/indent][/indent][indent][color=white][sub][b]Hell's Kitchen. New York.[/b][/sub][/color][/indent]
Frank nodded in silent but polite approval as the diner waitress paused beside him with a fresh pot of coffee. The smell of burnt beans hit Frank's nose immediately as the liquid tar splashed into his stained mug, and no sooner than she had stopped pouring had he already brought the chipped rim to his lips and practically inhaled half the contents of the mug. The waitress, by now well-cognizant of the man's coffee habits, waiting patiently as Frank set his mug back down on the table, and then topped it up once again before sauntering away. 'Pete Castiglione' was a well-known coffee fiend, and often drank his way through two pots alone whenever he breakfasted at Sally's Spoon; luckily for Sally, his tips more than covered the cost of beans and water, even if the other patrons thought he was taking advantage of the Free Refills rule.

Frank shovelled more eggs into his mouth with a fork while his other hand thumbed through both the Daily Bugle and another, more reputable paper, catching up on the latest happenings in the country. Half of it - particularly Jameson's rag - often just pissed him off, but hell if the anger didn't work better than the caffeine at keeping him fuelled up after a long night shift. The Daily Bugle's front page was a double-splash: Spider-Man stopping a bank robbery by [i]another[/i] nutjob throwing boomerangs, and Superboy being plastered all over social media wooing some Cape groupie - with his own foiling of armed assault in the city reduced to a mere contextual footnote. Both Frank found equal parts disappointing and frustrating. The 'rang freak was a repeat offender, as were so many of the scum Spider-Man ever claimed to 'stop', and Superboy's stunt of heroism was treated more like inane celebrity gossip than an ineffectual, profit-motivated remedy to deep systemic issues. 

Frank never had any repeat offenders. Of that, you could be [b]damn[/b] sure. 

His other paper had a front page full-spread of Lex Luthor's trialling expedition to the edge of space, which had had far more trouble coming back to Earth that it had encountered leaving it. Were it not for the timely-as-always intervention of Superman, Luthor would now be a charred red smear, scraped across some field or seabed or forgotten piece of tarmac, and the world might be rid of one more despicable leech. Instead, a billionaire was once again bailed out, and Superman once again had his praises sung, and the President once again managed to spin the alien's 'heroics' into a 'symbolic representation of the strength of America'.

A black man forced to bail out a soulless billionaire to the greater detriment of the common people. Yeah, symbolic of America sounds just goddamn right.

Frank flicked through the rest of the paper with disgust bubbling below the surface as he finished his breakfast, using torn scraps from the Bugle's pages to wipe his fingers and mop up spilled ketchup. There was the usual fodder - fluff pieces, non-events reported on by writers the editor didn't like, today's Marmaduke (to which Frank spared a single chuckle that sounded more like a cough than an expression of amusement) -  and scattered throughout were other, smaller pieces on the activities of more so-called 'heroes'. Star City faced its usual line-up of gimmicky rejects, and Flash played his usual games, no doubt quipping all the while in order to cover up his sheer lack of guts to stop the same domestic terrorism occurring a mere fortnight later. The Bat in Gotham stopped a crew organised by a recent release from Arkham - a crew that had never needed to be there if the Knight had done what was needed - and in another part of that disgusting city, a good man had been murdered. The police probably wouldn't find the culprit, even if they weren't being paid off to avoid solving the crime. But one of the Batman's many failures probably would, and even then they had been taught half-measure methods.

A part of Frank wondered if the cowardice of capes was simply a means to keep themselves relevant. If there were more men like Frank out in the world, he thought, there would be far less need for men like Batman or Superman. When Frank had waged his war, back when war needed to be waged, all he had seen in those that had come to stop him - all he continued to see in them now - was wasted potential and fear.

He stabbed his last rasher of bacon with his fork and ate it whole, pushing the paper aside as he mopped up egg yolk from his place with a slice of bread and then drained the last of his coffee. He took a breath as the last of his breakfast-slash-dinner sunk into his belly, and then stood, fishing his wallet from his back pocket and rifling through to leave a few crumpled ten-dollar notes wedged beneath his empty mug. On his hip, the company-issued flashlight - large, metal, one of those old-school torches that took a couple hefty batteries to power a weak bulb - swung on its clip as he turned and left, pausing as he pulled the diner door open to wave cordially to Sally on his way out. In his jacket pocket, his hand clenched reflexively around his company-forbidden brass knuckles as a cop car cruised by; the officer in the passenger seat caught Frank's eye, and his face slowly contorted to match Frank's disdainful scowl as the vehicle drifted around the corner, driver unaware. 

Frank uncurled his fingers and ducked down the side of the diner, hustling down the alleyway taking a shortcut back home -'home', such that it was. A studio apartment, four stories up. No wider than Frank's height if he stretched his arms above his head; behind a shoddy drywall and cheap door there was a toilet and sink, but no shower, and the kitchenette was a mini-fridge and two cupboards beneath a counter, atop which rested a microwave and a hotplate. Frank didn't need much else. He ate his biggest meals at Sally's, and the hotplate made a pot of coffee just as well as any fancy Breville contraption. He kicked his boots off as he closed and locked the door behind him, trudging to the 'bathroom' to shit and take a whore's shower; then he was laying on his bed, still fully clothed, a book in his hand and eyes skimming the words, Frank trying to convince himself he was reading and relaxing rather than slowly drifting off to sleep. 

Three paragraphs in, Frank stopped pretending, and slept. He dreamed the only dream he ever dreamt; one of his first bloodbath, and greatest failure.