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[i]Punisher War Journal

No contact yet with Eddie Brock, AKA: Venom. I've been going over as much of his history that Micro had been able to scrounge up over the passed few weeks. Nothing much to this guy. Pretty much a nobody for most of his life up until he gets ousted as a faker at The Daily Bugle. Must have been embarrassing to get shit-canned from such a trash read. I've heard J. Jonah Jameson on news interviews - a loud blowhard with no real journalistic integrity. Only after ratings and money - another capitalist pig in this concrete hell of a city. Edward Brock then gets infected with black symbiote, a living organism capable of creating organic webbing not unlike Spider-Man himself, and enhancing Brock's strength to superhuman levels. Goood guy, bad guy, the whack-o can't seem to make up his mind. Venom had gone on something of a killing spree in the past, and has since been called a "lethal protector." 

Another embarrassing nickname. Someone called me that once. Once. I'm not a protector. I'm a [b]cleaner.[/b] These people don't get that.

Finding Brock has to take a backseat to some of the other goings on around the burroughs. Sinister is still out flooding the streets, and the people peddling it aren't just criminals out there trying to survive, but upper class. The science behind the mask and the patent from Treece - that screams something bigger. Something that would require a higher caliber bullet. I can feel an itch at my back just desperate for scratching. There are a few ways I can move next. Micro had a few ideas on places to hit hard, but I had some other ideas. Bigger picture stuff.

Next moves are open, but I've got an important stop to make. One I'm not exactly looking forward to. In fact, the idea of it almost makes me sick, if it didn't feel absolutely necessary for what I'm trying to make happen.

[/i]
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Frank was in his civilians, black clothes to be sure, but he just looked like any other asshole on the street. Or a bouncer. Or a lineman. Hard to say. The hardlines in his face certainly didn't scream "friendly guy." People avoided him as he walked along the Harlem sidewalks, whether or not they were consciously aware of it wasn't something Frank cared about. At a bodega he stopped briefly and ordered a chopped cheese with a soft drink. Delicious, even if this kind of food was for old men and fools. Still, the trek over here had been long, and when he could, Frank likes to sit in a park and...sulk? Stare? Meditate? The one big memory Frank has of being in a park ended in a bloodbath that wiped out his family. Why does he do it then? To relive it? To torture himself?

He sits, and birds chirp around him. Kids on scooters, roller-skates, couples holding hands. Dogs barking excitedly on their long walks. To Castle, this was what it was all about. This kind of peace is what he kills for. This is the kind of peaceful day at the park his family should have had.

He moves on after only a few minutes.

He had a gym bag slung over one of his broad shoulders. He adjusted it as he walked up the stone steps to his destination. A somewhat rundown looking office building. Entering through the front door, he approached a young woman working at the reception desk, someone who immediately recognized him (due to her line of work.)

Castle looked up at the giant framed photo of Powerman and Iron Fist, placing his bag on the desk in front of him and the incredulous woman.

[b][color=00aeef]"Hello. I have some heroes to hire."[/color][/b]