RUSTY | frank castle

THREE

After the show at the Lieberman house, where Frank had gotten close to Sarah, he went home. His plan was in play, everything thought out in that great yet muddled mind of his. 

Now, he stood by his sink, scissors in hand, cutting his dark and tousled hair. He shaved his beard, the hair falling into the sink. He looked at the dark strands and the wiry texture, then washed his cover look down the drain with the cold water. Frank lackadaisically sat on his bed, coat on, a bin bag next to him. He remembered how different he looked with military-style hair and no beard. He remembered how Rusty would say he looked like a poster boy for the US army: tall, muscled, broad-shouldered and serious, with the hair just as a plus. With her in mind, Frank took the picture of his family, and frowned at a memory of one of their picnics. If only they weren't a tradition . . .

Frank put the picture in his pocket. He shoved the clothes he wore earlier that day into the black bag, stood up and threw it over his shoulder. He left his apartment, and headed out into the murk of the evening. As he walked, he forced on a bad limp in his left leg to throw off David Lieberman's gait search. 

His plan was in play.

  •••  

Rusty sipped on her water as she ran searches on her laptop for any links to her . . . errand. Any people that had protection, guns and ammunition were added on the list. Gangsters, drug suppliers, businessmen, criminals, anyone who could have the manpower and equipment to attack a park in the middle of the day, then disappear without a trace. They probably had the audacity to bribe or threaten the cops to stay out of their business - to not go with the case. 

It was sickening, but Rusty took it upon herself to at least give something, anything, for Frank about his family. He was gone, yes, but knowing that the people who did this were put down, she knew that Frank would have somehow found some peace within himself. Dead or not.

Her laptop pinged as Fender came up to Rusty for some attention. She quickly checked what had come up on the news scan. A small (though powerful) gang had been detected, all of them were dead. It was supposedly a poker game gone wrong. Guns were everywhere and the poker table in the next room. The bodies were traumatising to an innocent eye, but Rusty looked through all the photographs of the crime scene and the newspaper article that had only made the corner of the middle page. How unfortunate. 

It looked like dirty work, though, by someone with experience. Maybe someone had decided to me a small-time vigilante.

Either way, it was just another bunch of names to cross out from Rusty's hit list.

  •••  

The diner by the train tracks was unusually nice-looking for this part of town. The red and yellow sign, the roof with the chairs and the yellow and black fence that came with it. The rocky walls with the black lamps. It almost made it look expensive, though the train in the background didn't help their customer problem. 

Scrambled eggs and a flip phone were set on a table, the eggs being eaten up quickly while the phone lay, waiting. It was a grey kind of day, the sky was filled with dark clouds and rain was chucking down onto the streets. Frank had his hood up as he sat at the back of the diner. The waitress came up to refill another cup of his black coffee - typical Frank. 

"Thank you, ma'am."

As he sipped on the bitter caffeinated liquid, the phone buzzed to notify an incoming call. Frank rubbed his hands together, sitting back as he got ready to play his game. The phone buzzed one more time, then he flicked it open forcefully and put it up to his ear.