Punisher War Journal
Day 786

I really hoped that my route would have been more straightforward. The day changed during the night, and that will set me back. I shouldn't dare to make any detours, but I think I spotted shifty men with a pistol and a crowbar in the bushes near the highway. I've tracked them to this little pub outside Crabapple, Ohio. It's not going to be one of my best catches, but crime off the streets is crime off the streets.

And I really need a drink right now.

Punisher War Journal Day 786 concluded.

Punisher drew a line under the entry and set down his pen. Then he closed his journal and pushed himself off from the van.

The bar's door flung open. His skull t-shirt (reinforced with Kevlar) drew several stares and even a few snickers. "What's wid the skele-bone, pretty boy?"

Frank ignored the jeer.

"New grunge phase?" The same voice. Frank turned around.

"Would you mind not talking? You lower everyone else's intelligence when you do," Frank quipped, then turned back to the bartender. "One whiskey."

"'Ey, ya callin' me stupid, Fairy?" The annoying voice called back.

"And a second glass." Frank added. The bartender handed him the whiskey with the second glass underneath . He sauntered to the table nearest the door and sat. The whiskey sloshed dangerously against the sides of the cup. He set the other glass across the table from him and made eye contact with his verbal assailant.

The man narrowed his eyes. Frank nodded and pointed to the glass. The man stood up and lumbered over.  He reached for the glass, and Frank watched quietly. When the man picked it up, Frank lifted his glass and poured a quarter of its contents into the other. He lifted the rifle off his back and leaned it against the table.

The man took a sniff. "What ya playin' at? It's not spiked or nuthin'?" He asked. Frank shook his head. The man threw his head back and slammed the drink. With lightning-fast accuracy, Frank snatched the glass from his hand and slammed it on the table. The cup shattered, and he clutched a single and quite large shard of glass. The edge dug into his hand and elicited a small trickle of blood. But if he felt it, he didn't betray anything.

"Number one. You aren't an ex-Marine." Frank slashed with the shard and the man yelped as it embedded in his arm.

"Number two. I used to be married but the mob murdered my wife and children. You watch who you call a fairy." The man took a swipe at Frank and he back stepped. Another thrust of his hand and the man's wrist cracked. The table flipped from the impact of man's knee and struck the Punisher's jaw. He reeled a bit, then aimed for the man's throat. The man obviously had experience fighting; he dodged all of Frank's attacks.

The bar fight had not gone unnoticed. In the heat, Frank was oblivious to the bottle broken over his head. He barely noticed two men hop on his back, excepting that he threw them off. Frank had been in so many bar fights now that it was second nature to him. In fact, it was his favourite release.

Applying pressure to one fighter's neck made him like melted cheese in his hands. One of the wayward shards from the glass found itself in the Punisher's side, but he didn't care. One man's weapon became his. He plucked the fragment from the gash in his side and twirled it. Throwing an enemy off his back, Frank pivoted his feet and brought the shard down into the attacker's neck. Suddenly silence filled the room as everyone stepped back, horrified.

Frank wiped his bloody hands on his black pants. Then he spit on the upturned table and stalked over to the man he had first challenged. "And three, I'm the Punisher. I do this every day."

The man whimpered and scampered behind the bar. The bartender had slipped out in the fight, so all that remained were bottles and glasses. Frank ignored him. "Now where is the guy with the crowbar?" All eyes pointed to one punk, who tossed a couple $100 bills on the table.

"Here, take the money. It was only a little. I didn't take that much!" The thug whispered. Frank strode up to him, and the thug stumbled to his feet and tried to back away. The Punisher clutched the thug's arm and delivered a swift kick to his knee. "That's a clean break. Be thankful I didn't shatter it and leave you bleeding on the floor."

He stepped over the groaning man and returned to his table. "And consequently, I don't want money. I want justice." He then slammed how whiskey and slung the rifle over his shoulder. "Have a nice day," Frank said without a smile and closed the bar door gently behind him. His nimble fingers reached up to his face and scratched the long cut given by his assailant. "Adds character."

He silently and deftly closed his van's door and returned to the highway. His next target?

The sign said Chicago, 220 miles.