Previously:

-The Foolkiller has been getting around. After targeting high-profile individuals like Curt Connors and J. Jonah Jameson, the Foolkiller has murdered super-hero therapist Timothy Wolfe, along with the vigilantes Freedom Ring and Scorcher. He also briefly confronted the hero, Hellspawn. But along the way, he’s destroyed Connors’ research, instigated the return of the Lizard, forced the Chameleon to help him (after killing two NYC police officers), stolen the jewelry that gave Freedom Ring his power, and taken a large check cut from the Triune Understanding. These divergences have not been explained.

-The police have not been investigating…and might even be connected to the Foolkiller somehow. This doesn’t impress Lieutenant Leonardo Chase, though he did eventually cave into covering for his boss, police captain Carl Gainey, when professional hack Arnie McGuffin started snooping around.  McGuffin had his own interest in the Foolkiller—believing the urban legend to be the story that could make his career.  But Chase starts his own independent look into the identity of the Foolkiller.  He is given a lead by the police coroner, Quincy, before the coroner was assassinated by the Foolkiller himself.

-Meanwhile, J. Jonah Jameson has decided to do his own investigating, refusing to have his paper manipulated by a madman.  He’s enlisted the Heroes-For-Hire, and the aid of a former reporter from the Daily Bugle—one Arnie McGuffin.  Arnie was in fact getting tips on the new Foolkiller from Greg Salinger— the second psychopath to call himself the Foolkiller.  The Heroes For Hire, meanwhile, came to aid of super-hero psychologist Doctor Leonard Samson, but the Foolkillers escaped.  Samson seemed to recognize them however...

-But the Foolkiller has an unhealthy fixation with Spider-Man.  Beyond the manipulation of the Daily Bugle and the return of the Lizard, the Foolkiller has just shot Angela Yin.  As the tangled web of the Foolkiller unravels bit by bit, it looks like Paul Stacy and Benjamin Anderson may be two pieces in a much larger conspiracy…

Transcript:

War Journal, Voice Entry 09-401-A

When I first saw this, I thought ‘This is it’.

‘This is one I’ve been waiting for.’

I thought, ‘Fortunato’s been good at hiding his stash and his smack from me, but now he’s bound to make a move right in front of me, like a rat in a spotlight.  And then I can trace him all the way back to his hole.  I can put a bullet in every single rat I see before that point.’

Heh, not exactly.

By the time I got to Lincoln Center, the fires were put out, and the only thing left was the charred husk of Angelo Fortunato’s limousine.  The fire department still raced around, and police still tried to keep the press and the rubber-neckers back.  Really far back.  This is Lincoln Center.  No small feat.  Working fast in such an early morning in such a public, popular area…not normal for the NYPD.

That should’ve tipped me off right then—but I am working on six hours of sleep in the last four days.  Note in bold in transcript:  find secluded area for ten hours.

But I caught on eventually:  the cops were cleaning this up.  Quickly.  Haphazardly.  Trampling the whole scene like they just don’t care.  The fire department was probably pushed out as soon as the flames died.

I’m sure they know who Angelo Fortunato is.  I’m sure they know he’s dead now.  Most likely, this was a contract job from another family.  Maggia, Vegas odds.  The cops know that.  So, why are they cleaning this up like…

…it wasn’t a mob hit.  Moving like they don’t want the feds to have anything to look over if they show up.  Moving like they wanna brush this under the table, like it was forgettable, like just another tragic incident of mafia violence.  Tomorrow, I can see their statement in the papers already: ‘Fortunato son one of three killed in gangland slaying’.  Lies, all lies.  They were moving like they already had the lies on their tongues.

I watch them do it.  I wonder why.  Fortunato won’t go to war unless he knows for sure who it is.  He’s no fool.  He knows the Masque wouldn’t go after him…Kronas has shown no interest in his market yet…

Why?  I kept running the scenario through my mind.  Why Angelo?  Why now?  Who could have been close enough?  Any idiot with a bomb could blow anyone away…

The press would know.  But it’s like two in the morning.  Whatever press is out there now is easily held in check.  The pigs will have this cleaned up by the time the wires are warm in a few hours.  Damn shame.  Times like this, all I need is a knife pressed gently to the gullet of some poor journalist, and suddenly I got most of the picture.  Journalists are always connected, always taking pictures.

Then I see him.  He’s just skulking around like nobody.  Like he’s just some rubber-neck watching the cops.  But he’s a hack.  I know him.  I’ve seen him somewhere.  I got record of all the journalists worth a damn in this city.  I know I’ve got him down somewhere.

I check the hacked I-phone and I recognize the ragged little man:  McGuffin.  Last I updated, he was unemployed.  Just the type of paranoid guy to entertain the theory of police conspiracy.

I’m gonna follow him.

“The kid had it comin’ anyways.”

Arnie McGuffin sipped at his Sam Adams.  That was his favorite part about being a journalist.  No one ever accused him of drinking on the job.  Arnie chuckled, “You don’t honestly expect me to believe that.”

The lighting was dim, but Arnie figured that was the point.  At this time of night, this time of week, the pub was scarcely full.  Again, that was the point.  Arnie gazed up at Dominic Isaacson, personal limousine driver for the Fortunato family.

“Don’t push this, Arn.” Dom was keeping his voice low, and it was hard for Arnie to hear him over ‘Achy, Breaky Heart’.  He sat behind big, dark sunglasses, and a loose hoody that made his already bulky frame look that much bigger.

Arnie took another drink and leaned in farther. “I drove all the way out to Jersey to hear that Fortunato isn’t the least bit concerned about the murder of his son?”

Dom coughed loudly, on purpose.  Then, he whispered, “Keep it down, Arn.  The only reason I came out here tonight is ‘cause we’ve known each other since the sixth grade—”

“And ‘cause I know what gay bars you frequent off the job.” Arnie took a long suck off the bottle, finishing it. “Such info in the wrong hands could hurt your job security.”  Arnie then took a quick glance around.  Men, all ages, all cultures, all genders, were swaying and laughing to bad country music.  The liaisons were no doubt helped by the combination of dim lighting and free-flowing beer that covered every pore of the place.

Dom frowned, and scratched at his shaggy beard.  With a tone that told he didn’t want to approach that subject, he continued, “I don’t know how much help you expected me to be.  You know the deal as much as I do:  since the Hobgoblin got stung, everything’s whack.  The Fortunatos can’t gain any ground…especially, now, with Kronas suddenly in town--suddenly taking over Oscorp and Kingsley…Fortunato just can’t worry about this.”

Dom quieted down, looked over both his shoulders.  Arnie sighed, and sat back in the booth, wondering whether to believe Dom or not.  In his right hand, he flipped over the item that Dom had slipped to him earlier in their conversation:  a business card, emblazoned with the Foolkiller’s signature—E Pluribus Unum.  Dom said dozens were sprinkled on the sidewalk next to the blazing limousine…before the cops scooped them up.

“Besides.” Dom shrugged. “The kid was a fuck-up.  He’d pissed off a few lower gang types, and with all the money it cost to get him off the lamb for raping that sorority girl?  I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.  And Fortunato’s got like twelve other kids, man…”

Arnie eyed Dom carefully.  Finally, he slipped from the booth, grabbed his trenchcoat from the hook just to his right, and sighed, “Thanks, Dom.  Even if it’s for nothing.”

“Nothing?” Dom’s eyes raised. “What nothing?  There’s more.”

Arnie stared down at Dom from where he was standing.  He shrugged. “Well?”

Dom frowned, and replied, “I just found out Angelo’s driver is missing.  Come on, man, we drivers, we all know each other, but something was up with that girl.  She was a young, good looking girl, but there was something off about her.  And now, Angelo’s limo blows up, and Rebecca’s body was not one of the bodies they pulled outta that fire.  That’s some information Fortunato ain’t leakin’ to the cops.”

Arnie’s face was blank.  But…it was better than nothing, so Arnie pulled out his blackberry.  “What was her name again?” he asked.

Dom said, “Rebecca Jent.”

“Right.” Arnie said, thumbing a few keys before putting his blackberry back in his pocket. “Got it.  But I gotta run, Dom.”

Dom smiled up at him. “What’s the rush?  You don’t call so often anymore, Arn.”

“Times are tough.  Haven’t had much work.”

Dom showed wide, white teeth. “Well, you don’t have to just call for business.”

Arnie started walking toward the door, the one in padded red leather, with the porthole window and the blinking ‘EXIT’.  He called behind him, “Times aren’t that tough, Dom.  See ya.”

The door gave a slight squeak as Arnie pushed his way out into the cold, early morning.  He was already forgetting Dom, and remembering the words of Greg Salinger:  There has to be a pattern.  But what pattern?  How does Angelo Fortunato fit into it all?  Arnie grunted.  If it wasn’t for Facebook and a twenty-year crush, Arnie might not have been able to get the tip about Fortunato at all…

What did I ever think would come of this?  It’s a great story but…is it worth it?  There’s a madman out there and I can’t see a pattern.  It’s no use trying to catch a madman with the help of another madman.  I mean, Salinger ain’t no Anthony Hopkins.  What reward could possibly come from this?  Dammit…I need to talk to—

“Arnold McGuffin.”

“Geez!” Arnie dropped the keys to his car on the wet concrete of the parking lot.  He spun around, whipping his trenchcoat. “What gives?”

Arnie couldn’t see the man well, since the light of the streetlamp poured over his back and shoulders.  But he got closer and closer, with a monotonous tapping emanating from heavy military boots.  He wore some kind of dark suit, which Arnie still couldn’t make out well, thanks to the long dark coat over it.  As he got closer to Arnie, the light pulled away from him, but the white skull emblazoned on the man’s chest had an eerie glow all its own.

Arnie had never met this man in person before, but knew him well enough from the tabloids and the America’s Most Wanted episodes.

Arnie’s car was an old 1979 Chevy Impala, dull yellow in the pale light.  He pushed himself back against it like it was the only big, yellow direction he could go.  He closed his eyes tight.  “Oh no.” he whispered. “The Punisher.”

Frank Castle stopped nary a foot in front of Arnie.  He was close enough now for Arnie to make out the snarl seemingly engraved into his face.

“What do you know about the Fortunato killing?  You talking to one of his guys in there?” the Punisher got even closer to him, tensing his muscles like he was ready to beat Arnie into a pulp.

Arnie instinctively threw up his hands to his face and shouted, “Ah!  No!  Foolkiller, man!  Foolkiller!  I know you’ve heard of him!”

A giant hand grasped Arnie at the shoulder, forcing him down to the concrete.  With his other hand, the Punisher revealed a gleaming Magnum BFR revolver.  He pressed it hard against Arnie’s cheek, pushing Arnie tighter and higher against his Impala.  Arnie’s whines reminded Castle of bullet-riddled dogs.

“Underground superstition.” The Punisher rasped, “Cape-killer conspiracy theories fly up every now and then—I hear things about a new Scourge every other Tuesday—what makes Foolkiller so special?  Why should I—”

Castle stopped talking, but the pressure against Arnie didn’t let up.  The stone snarl contorted, and incredibly, the Punisher was smiling.  It only lasted a second before the scowl returned.  He said, “The cops.  There is a Foolkiller, isn’t there?  The cops are in on it, right?  Fortunato’s not the only cover-up they pulled—that’s why there’s no concrete evidence to support a Foolkiller…” His voice faded.

Arnie’s voice however was harsh, high and as full of panic as his sweaty face betrayed. “Oh, God, yes!  For God’s sake, that’s it!  That’s all I know, I swear but—but—but I’m meeting someone who might know more!”

The Punisher suddenly let up on the pressure, and Arnie slumped to the gravelly concrete, in the shadow of his Impala.  Castle said simply, “I knew you’d help me, Arn.  You’re a smart guy.  Story like this, it could make your career.”

Arnie was just catching his breath, but he said, “Yeah, you don’t gotta remind me.”

The lock came open with a simple ‘click!’

“Remind me again who taught you that?”

Betty Brant removed the picks and then replaced them in the small leather pouch she’d retrieved from her purse.  Smirking, she looked over her right shoulder and stood from a kneel.  Leonardo Chase was standing just a few feet behind her.  He had his arms crossed over the old New York Yankees leather jacket he wore.  His jeans were singed and stained with some sort of chemicals.

Betty cooed, “A journalist has to be ready for any situation, Leo.”  She stepped back from the door, almost up against Chase himself.  She cocked her head to one side and whispered, “You want me to do the honors?”

Chase sighed.  As he slipped past her, he grabbed her hips, pulling her backward.  Betty, for her part, did not resist.  Chase let go of her hips, and met her eyes.  “Don’t move.” He said.  Betty just smiled.

Chase chuckled, “Okay.” His face was swiftly serious when he grasped the doorknob. “We’re not the only ones who know about Quincy’s little blackmail file on the Foolkiller.  So there might be someone inside.”

Betty shrugged. “Lucky for me I’ve got a big, strong New York police detective to shield me from any bullets.”

Chase looked back at her. “Isn’t there somewhere else you’d rather be right now?”

Betty frowned.  She slouched, and the baggy jeans and sweat shirt she wore seemed to drape even more loosely over her.  She said, “Yeah, there is.*  But you invited me, remember?  We go way back, Leo.  And you better believe I’m not leaving now.”

(*- Wait!  Isn’t Betty supposed to be taking care of Mayday Parker right now? Uh-oh…- Bryan)

Chase snorted.  She was right after all.  It had taken hours for Chase to scour the records for Quincy’s home address, and even then, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to get in, much less find what he was looking for.  He needed someone to play the ‘snoop’ part for him, and Betty Brant was famous around the precinct.  Well, her attitude was famous anyway…but Betty was just the sort of person Chase wanted with him:  somebody who would tell the truth if anything happened to him.  Plus, they knew each other from yoga class, so he already had her number.

Now, here they were, outside a modest, brick townhome in Queens.  Quincy was divorced, but his wife and kids lived in the house in Malibu.  So this was a two story bachelor pad that now had no bachelor.  Chase felt bad about rummaging through a dead man’s belongings, and even for bringing Betty along to help him rummage.  He may have not known the coroner Quincy well, but the man had been a cop.  Chase felt like he was doing something a bit dishonorable.

Then Chase sighed.  No, he wasn’t the one doing the dishonoring.  For a second he thought about what kind of lie would be in the morning papers, explaining Quincy’s death.

“Okay.” Chase pointed. “Just get against that wall there.” Betty did so.

Chase opened the door, with a fierce short kick, then backed away from the threshold.

Silence.  The room was dark.

She cursed herself in her mind for doing this.  She punched the numbers on the ancient technology that still identified itself as a fax machine.  There was a whining mechanical purr, and the papers were pulled through.  Stacy Dolan desperately wanted to kick the damn thing, to somehow make it go faster.  It was past midnight--damn, closer to three--and she was in the Homicide department, faxing classified documents to her…well, her…

Boyfriend.  Stacy lowly growled.  If she thought about him, she’d only get angrier at the fact she was actually doing this.

There were only a few officers on duty at the precinct house this late, but if any one of them were to discover her, her career would be finished, and so would Sams—

No, she wasn’t going to think about him.  Stacy tapped her foot and grumbled, “Faster, you piece of—”

“Yes!” J. Jonah Jameson’s eyes were wide as he pulled the papers out of his fax machine.  He munched on his cigar again, and spun around in his wide leather chair, toward the guest in his office.

Across the broad desk, Doc Samson’s gargantuan frame was perched on the very edge of his own, smaller leather seat.  Samson asked quickly, “Did she find it?”

Jameson chortled, “Samson, my good man, I give you Timothy Wolfe’s patient index.  See anyone you know?” He tossed the papers across the desk.

Samson was able to wrangle most of them before they scattered too far.  He rifled through a few papers before stopping at one.  He peered at it, and then finally, he peered at another.  “It’s all starting to make sense now, Jonah.”  Samson forcefully tapped an index finger at the paper.  “Eric and Janice Wilkins--they were the ones who attacked us!*” He settled back in the chair. “Their son was killed in a shooting months back** which is why Tim and I entertained the notion of group therapy sessions with them.  But how could they have done all this alone?  I see more names I recognize--Jent, Anderson, Valley--but we don’t know if anyone else is connected…has your snoop gotten back to you?”

(*- Max2000 issue 24- Bryan)

(**- this was back in M2K’s Amazing Spider-Man issues 33-34- Bryan)

Jonah pulled out his cell and checked it. “No, not McGuffin yet.  I sent the Heroes For Hire to check if he’s still breathing though.  But, I got a text here from…Betty Brant?”

Chase reached out with his right hand, found the light switch.  He flicked it upward.

It had been a modest living room:  couch, coffee table, wide screen television, leather chair, all that.  But both the chair and the couch had seen the business side of a razor, their stuffing strewn about the carpet.  The coffee table had been kicked on its side, the television smashed in.  There were even book cases, empty, now that every book had been thrown asunder.

Betty peeped from over his shoulder. “Oh no.  We’re too late.”

“Maybe.  Maybe not.” Chase’s eyes darted around the room.

“There!”  Betty had already found it. “Along the wall, behind the painting.”  She was still standing on the stoop, only halfway leaning into the house.

Chase couldn’t help chuckling, because she was right again.  An abstract painting was hanging lamely to one side.  Chase whipped it off the wall, revealing a small vault.  “Ha!” Chase laughed out this time.  He spun the dial in his fingers, to six separate numbers.  The vault popped open.

“How…?” Betty took a couple steps fully into the house.

Chase answered quickly, swinging the vault door fully open.  “Old cop trick.  The combination was his badge number.  Just had a hunch Quincy may have wanted us to find this, you know, just in case...”

Betty grimaced. “Right.” She quickly scampered across the carpet, past the upturned coffee table, to peer into the vault, just over Chase’s shoulder.  “What’s in there?”

“Files.” Chase frowned, rifling through it. “Personal stuff.  Birth records, tax returns, child support papers…”  He stuck his hand fully in the vault, scouring every inch with the inside of his palm.  “Wait…”  He brought something out and held it up to Betty.  It was a thumb drive on a key chain.  A tag on the key chain had a simple ‘?’ scrawled upon it in sharpie marker.

Betty shrugged. “Yeah, that’s something we should look at.”

“Can’t.” Chase said simply. “For two reasons.”  Chase thumbed over his other shoulder. “One, his computer has been demolished.”

Betty looked that way. “Oh, right.  The other?”

Chase spun on his heel to look at Betty.  She, in turn, looked right back at him.  He said, “And two, we’re not alone.”

Her eyes and jaw sagged a little when she saw Chase look past her.  Betty turned.

“Captain Gainey.” Chase said, “What a surprise to see you here.”

There was a sweaty gleam off his bald head.  His gut protruded through his trenchcoat, barely held back by his buttoned shirt.  His gun was ready in his right hand.  Carl Gainey, police Captain Carl Gainey, chief of detectives, said with a dry throat, “Chase, I’m glad you’re finally here.”

Chase squinted, frowned. “Huh?”

Gainey relaxed his shoulders, and put the gun back in the holster that hung in his coat.  He said, “Finally, this can end.”

Betty, who Chase had almost forgotten was still just inches behind him, made her presence felt. “What can end?  What have you let happen?”

Gainey shook his head. “Nope.  No more from me.  I thought I could do the Foolkiller’s dirty work but I can’t.  I’m not going to do it.  I’m going home and packing my things.  I’m not coming back.”  He turned toward the open door of the house and started to walk out. “Maybe I’ll bring my wife.”

Gainey just drudged down the stoop and didn’t look back.  Chase made a move to go after him.  But Betty clutched his elbow, stopping him.

“We’ve got more important things to do.” She said quickly, “Like it or not, you’re not a cop anymore, Leo.  You left that behind the moment you turned against this conspiracy.  You’re the guy who’s gonna shine the light on this, Leo.  As soon as we find out what’s on this.” Betty held up the thumb drive.

Chase shook his head. “We don’t know what’s on it.  We don’t have access to—”

Betty reached into her mid-sized purse and revealed the thinnest, smallest laptop Chase had ever seen.  She opened it, and replaced the thumb drive.

Chase suddenly smiled.  He leaned in and pecked Betty on the cheek.  He said, “I knew there was a reason I brought Betty Brant along.”

Carl Gainey was slow to start the engine of his Camry.  He was still just outside Quincy’s house.  He pulled a cell phone from the inside of his coat, and pressed ‘redial’.

“Gainey.”

“I got to Quincy’s apartment but it’s too late.” Gainey said. “Chase was already there.  And he wasn’t alone.  He trashed the house and cracked Quincy’s safe.  I think he’s already got—”

“Dammit, Gainey!  Who did Chase have with him?”

“Betty Brant—she’s with the Bugle.” Gainey replied. “I can’t keep it clean with two people.  They’re reading the information right now.  They think they have time.  Just follow him from here.  I’m done.  I’ve helped you for the last time.”

There was silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds.  Finally the Foolkiller said, “You’re leaving the city?”

“Right.” Gainey said sternly.

“Because you know if you stay, I’m going to kill you, right?”

“Right.” Much meeker this time.

The line went dead then, like Gainey expected.  Gainey put the phone in his jacket, then put the car in gear.  He followed the grey, narrow path aiming for home.

She straightened the scope in her hands as she peered through it.  She pulled the rifle against her shoulder, tightening her grip around it.  With the thick gloves on her hands, and the vest at her chest, she didn’t feel how cold the metal was after sitting for so long in the early morning cold.  But she did feel the sudden subtle vibration from her hip pocket.  She let the weight fall from her shoulder.

Quickly, the phone was flipped out, and against her ear.  “I’m still waiting, Paul.”

“Well, keep quiet, Becca.  You’re doing a great job.  We want to make this one quick.  Remember about the gun:  just drop it and go.”

Rebecca Jent nodded, knowing that Paul wouldn’t be able to take that for a response on the other end of the line, but it was like the tenth time he had reminded her.  She was clinching her teeth so tightly…

“How are you feeling, Rebecca?”

Rebecca rocked her head back and forth. “Good, Paul.  I’m ready to do this.  Took some of those pills right after you called me, and I think they’re just kicking in…but…” Rebecca glared the Winchester Magnum, bright in the moonlight sprawled across the vast roof where she sat. “I don’t know if I can do this…especially after just leaving Angelo like that…”

“Hey, hey, wait a second now,” The voice was calm, almost soothing, especially considering how the rest of Rebecca’s body was feeling at that moment. “This is what we do.  This is what we chose to do, remember?  We have to deliver justice where there is none.  The police can only do so much.  We’re helping them by getting rid of the weak links, the fools.  And we help them with the bigger fish too…not that Angelo Fortunato was that big a fish…”

“No!” Rebecca suddenly sounded resolute. “That bastard deserved to die.  You don’t understand what he did my cousin Lacie…how he broke her…” She stood with the rifle, but it was so heavy. “I was thinking about Ryan when I watched the limo blow up.”

There was silence for just a second, and the voice was as kind as ever. “Yes…we can’t let what happened to your husband* or what happened to your cousin happen to anyone if we can help it.  But Rebecca, we helped you take out Angelo, so we just need you to help us.”

(*- Ryan Jent, CEO of Oscorp, was murdered in M2K’s Amazing Spider-Man issue 12 - Bryan)

“I know, I know, but it’s just over an hour since I left Lincoln Center…” Rebecca bit her lip forcefully, and already felt a canker forming from how hard she had been chewing it in recent minutes.

The tone was suddenly a bit more frenetic. “You’re the only one in the area, Becca!  You have to understand this is an emergency--this guy could easily bring down everything we’ve built--”

“Okay, okay, Paul.  I know, I get it.” She ran a hand through quickly sweating hair. “I’ve already killed another man tonight, just let me deal with it.” She sighed and rubbed her sinuses.

She ended the cell call.  Paul was so understanding but…sometimes she just couldn’t talk to him.

Besides, a car had just stopped outside the building across the street.

A dingy, yellow ’79 Impala rolled lazily to a stop in front of a classical, brick building.  Lights were on in various windows of the building, showing off various tenants at their various chores in their apartments.  A bold, yet forgotten sign off to one side read, ‘The Hitchcock Suites’.

Arnie McGuffin took a deep sigh before killing his engine, and stepping foot out of the Impala.  As he got out, he looked over both shoulders, expecting to see someone, but did not.  He sighed a different sigh, and nervously twirled his keys on his finger.

He made it through the front door, to the lobby, and then into the elevator.  No sign of either party he was expecting.

Arnie had told the Punisher of the guest he was expecting at his apartment.  But Arnie had yet to tell his guest that the Punisher was now making himself their third wheel.  Arnie huffed.  There was no way that news was going over easy.  Arnie had tried to drive slowly toward his apartment, to give his guest enough time to meet him here.  That way, there would be less of a chance the Punisher would kill him.  But it didn’t look like anyone was waiting for Arnie.

Top floor.  The doors of the elevator shuddered open.  A couple more steps down the hall, and Arnie was at his own door.  With a few flicks of his wrist, Arnie was through that door and into the living room of his studio apartment.

Paranoia and obsessive-compulsive disorder made Arnie’s apartment an exercise in frugality.  Wooden table and chairs…massive computer apparatus…bed, fridge, lamp, bicycle, and that was about it.  Arnie didn’t care.  It wasn’t like he usually had company—

“Hey, Arnie.”

“Gah!” Arnie’s heels left the floor.  He spun on them toward the voice he recognized. “Damn it, Leo!  How the hell did you get in here?”

Leonardo Chase chuckled. “I borrowed a set of lock picks from a friend of mine.  I’m sorry I startled you.  I’ve got news.”

“Oh now you wanna compare notes?” Arnie crossed his arms. “You’ve been givin’ me the cold shoulder for weeks, Leo, and now, we’re chummy again?  You acted like a right asshole to me the other night.*”

(*- this was back in Max2000 issue 21 - Bryan)

“Arnie,” Leo shook his head, “I just broke the sound barrier trying to get out here to see you.  I am not getting into a pissing contest.  I’ve watched a man die tonight, along with everything I ever respected about being on the NYPD.  Do you wanna know about the Foolkiller or not?”

Arnie pulled over a wooden chair, and whisked a tape recorder from his pocket.  After sitting down, he pulled a cigarette from his other pocket.  Chase shook his head after being offered one.  Arnie nodded, pressed play on the recorder and said, “Spill the beans.”

Chase scoffed. “It’s not that easy.  I don’t know everything yet.  I just know about the bodies.”

“What bodies?” Arnie asked into the recorder.

Chase narrowed his eyes. “You know which bodies, Arnie.  Don’t play.  Not now.  The bodies of my friends, officers Fuller and Salazar, and the ESU professor—what’s his name—”

“Wiles*.” Arnie said, “His body was destroyed by some kind of chemical.”

(*- this was back in the Amazing Spider-Man 2007 Annual - Bryan)

“Right.” Chase continued, “These chemicals had a link.  Something the coroner found, and stashed away, probably to make a quick buck somewhere down the line or something—”

“They were the same chemical?”

“No.” Chase smiled. “But they could only have been processed under the exact same conditions.  And there’s only one organization on the Eastern seaboard that could’ve created those conditions.” Chase was slow with his next question, “Have you ever heard of Protoclan*?”

(*- check out David Golightly’s Heroes For Hire issues 4-6 right here at M2K! - Bryan)

Arnie scoffed. “What?  Those loony environmentalist terrorists?  What about ‘em?”

“Don’t you get it?” Chase yelled, “The Foolkillers--their weapons, their poison!  How do you think they got access to any of it?”

“Foolkillers? Plural?” Arnie suddenly got quiet.

“Oh, yeah.” Chase panted. “There’s more than one Foolkiller.  That’s the only way something like this could’ve worked to begin--”

Glass shattered, and Arnie’s one window crashed inward.  Noise cracked the air, roaring through their ear drums.   A split second later, Leonardo Chase felt only a slight shock as a sniper’s bullet ripped through his skull, burying itself deep within his brain matter.  He was dead before his body fell against his blood on the floor.

Transcript:

War Journal, Manual Entry 09-401-BA

I heard the shot before I could update with a voice entry, which is why I’m scripting the events of the last hour, as opposed to recording.

I had been waiting in a taxi, across from McGuffin’s scummy looking apartment building.  This was no easy feat, keeping a terrified driver still with a pistol against his neck.  I had no real idea of what to expect; I was pretty much improvising.

McGuffin said a cop was meeting him.  Since when are the cops the ones with the valuable information?  I gazed and saw McGuffin’s apartment windows light up, and shadows moving around behind tightly drawn curtains.  Two shadows.  The cop was already waiting for Arnie.

I didn’t like it.  The cop was already there?  My mind was racing for what kind of trap the cops could have set.  But, as it turned out, I was wrong.  Well, not entirely.  My gut was right--at least something stank.

Of course, it was the gunshot itself that alerted me to the shit I was already standing in.

It was loud…sounded like your good old fashioned Winchester Mag.  I pulled the pistol away from the cabbie--big mistake--and opened the back passenger side door of the cab, and gazed upward.  McGuffin’s window had shattered inward.

Sniper.  Had to come from across the street.  I turn to the building to the east.  It’s nothing.  It had once been inhabitable--not nearly now.  Big sign said it would be reopened after renovation.  Progress looked as slow as the economy.  But there was an easy entrance, over or through the rusty, makeshift chain link fence.  There had to be an easy exit somewhere on the other side.

It was at that point, the cabbie found his balls, and took off down the street while I was still standing halfway out the back passenger side door.  That bastard got away with a duffel bag full of semi-automatic weapons.

I couldn’t let that slow me down.  I still had my pistol, I still had my knives, and whatever was in my belt at the time, like mace, a bit of C-4, tic-tacs…I was up and back on my feet in a matter of seconds.

I scanned the building, for where he could get out.  There was an open door in the front, but this wasn’t exactly an abandoned neighborhood.  There were probably at least a dozen witnesses looking out the windows at me at that moment, all ready to give a great description to the cops.  So, there’s no way he’d leave out the front…unless he had a getaway coming for him.  There wasn’t any sign of that; all the cars lining the street were empty and cold.

I was already hearing sirens in the distance, over the screeching tires of my cab.  Of course the cops were on the way.  The shot was monstrous.  I jogged to the side of the building, hoping to find an easy way around, working the kinks out my right knee, which took the brunt of the encounter with the screeching cab.

Just as I was about to round the corner of the building, I heard a crash, from back around the front. For a split second I was going to ignore it for a raccoon or something, but…I turned back.  Lo and behold, someone had ran out the front.  I couldn’t believe it at first…I thought maybe it was just some punk-ass or a hobo, somebody who just wanted to get away from the gunshots but…no.  No fucking way.

This bitch was dressed like it was Vietnam outside.  And the shooter was definitely a woman.  I could tell by the way she ran in the military boots, the way her gear shuffled along her chest with her stride.  She was not carrying a rifle of any kind.  So she had left it upstairs--it was probably untraceable anyway.

It had to be the Foolkiller…it had to be.  And she hadn’t even seen me.

She was running fast.  I couldn’t waste any more time, so I pulled out my pistol, and shot her in the kneecap.

She yelped, and fell, but was up fast, limping, trying to run.  She had to have on body armor…probably more than just the knee guard.  But at least I could catch up.  I was already clearing the distance between us.  It didn’t take me long.  I leapt and tackled her to the ground.  She yelped again.

She writhed under me, much smaller than I had expected underneath the body armor she wore.  It had not been made for a body this size.  I pinned her to the street, face down, my knees down hard on her shoulders.  I clinched my fingers against the ski mask she wore, to hold her hair underneath.  With my other hand, I brought up my pistol to the back of her cranium.

And that’s when I heard the damnedest thing.

“Get off her, Castle.”

It was one of the most gruesome voices I had ever heard in my life.  It was a voice I hoped I would never hear again.

Michael Collins.  Dead man.  Killing machine.  Deathlok.  Not the first time I’ve ever tangled with him*.

(*- oh yeah!  Anyone remember Marvel’s Deathlok issues 6-7?  It only happened 18 years ago! - Bryan)

Goddamned son of a bitch.  What kind of business did the Heroes For Hire have with the Foolkiller?

He just stood there, looking like a gargoyle, with that zombie-robot face.  I could see the bright glow of that one big, cybernetic eye, and I knew he had already sized me up.  He already knew where all my weapons were on my person, just what kind of moves I could take to stand, then fire.

So I tried probably the harder, less-expected route.  I rolled with the Foolkiller, pulling her over me to cover from Deathlok’s fire.  As soon as my roll had completed, I aimed at him.  I fired three times, rapid trigger.  The first two bounced and rang off the metal side of his skull, but the third actually hit rotting flesh.  He doubled back with the force.

Then, I felt a sharp pain sear through my shoulder.  The Foolkiller had stabbed me!  She had a knife, I hadn’t noticed, and it was now protruding from my shoulder.  She could have just as easily stabbed at my heart or at my gut, or she could have missed completely.  She didn’t care.  She wasn’t aiming.  She just wanted to get away.

I was busy pulling a knife out my shoulder--no major damage, thanks to dumb luck--so she did get away from me.  And Deathlok was still in front of me.  Three bullets to the head usually keep a man on the ground.

This is no man.  This thing walks like a man, looks like a man, but there’s no man like this.  He was like a walking tank.  I couldn’t move him and I couldn’t outfight him and even if I wasn’t at this range, even I was a thousand yards away, there was no chance he was going to miss me if he aimed at something delicate.

Which is exactly what he did.

Bastard shot me in the shoulder--right where the Foolkiller had stabbed me.

My right arm was useless.  It was laser fire, but the pain was too much.  And I had dropped my gun.  Panic was setting in.  By that time, who knew how far away the Foolkiller had gotten?  Deathlok walked up to me.  I was only about two or three steps away by his wide gait.  He picked me up by my throat, till my ankles were above his knees,  and he dangled me there like a fish on a pike.

“I’m taking her in, Castle.” Deathlok said, “The Heroes For Hire have a contract on the Foolkiller.  Stay out of our business.”

I wanted to say how I didn’t care.  I wanted to tell him that I all I knew was that a murderer was getting away.  All I knew was that a filthy waste of space was still clogging up the drain, keeping the rest of us from having a smooth ride down.  But I couldn’t say any of that, since my gullet was slowly being squeezed by a titanium fist.

The Foolkiller’s knife was still in my left hand, soaked with my own blood.  With every bit of strength I had in that arm, I flailed and stabbed Deathlok right in the middle of that giant, yellow, cybernetic eye.

Deathlok whipped me around by my throat, writhing while his eye sparked and sputtered.  I tried kicking at him, but his grip on my throat did not let up.  I could feel my pulse pounding against his knuckles.

I was starting to see spots.  But I could hear screeching tires again.  I knew it couldn’t have been the cabbie coming back to collect his fare.

It had to have been the Foolkiller.  This was the reason she ran out the front.  Her ride was late.  I saw it--a black car with Jersey tags.  I don’t remember the numbers.  I’m pretty sure it was a Lexus.  Deathlok was still in the midst of pulling the knife from his eye socket when he finally noticed it screaming toward us at what had to be at least fifty miles an hour.

It definitely looked like a Lexus when it hit us.

I actually tried to get closer to the cyborg before the car collided with the two of us.  Like I said, Deathlok is a killing machine, built to withstand a bit more than a Lexus.

Even the car, as fast as it had been going, was thrown into a spin as it crashed with us.  Deathlok must’ve weighed something like a third of a ton and he was still thrown in the air, with me still in his grip.  I felt the windshield crack against our weight, before we tumbled like rocket road kill up and over and down.

Just as Deathlok shielded me from the full brunt of the blow, so did he when we hit the street again.  Finally, his fist had loosened from around my neck.  I don’t know how close I was to unconsciousness but adrenaline made up for it pretty quick.  The car’s hood was gnarled and scarred, but the it was still running.  Deathlok was slowest machine to recover.  His eye still sparked occasionally, and it looked like his calculator of a brain was trying to figure out what the hell just happened to him.

But I was standing.  Both my legs still worked enough.  I had movement in my left arm, I didn’t even bother checking the right.  I knew how to use the one well enough, and I was running out of time.  I looked over my shoulder at the Lexus.

It was still stopped.  And there was the girl!  She hadn’t gotten far, thanks to the bullet I put in her knee, but the car had opened up its back door in anticipation of her already.

I knew I still had a chance.  Deathlok was just getting up.  I grabbed my gun; it had not fallen far from me.  I kneeled, picked up the gun with my left hand, then rose to my feet, stretching my left arm as straight as I could, lining her up in my sight.  I tried to keep all in one, smooth movement.  My right arm, burned and bloody, hung limply at my side.

The Foolkiller had just reached the car.  She was trying to gingerly maneuver her way inside.  I fired.

Blood sprayed into the lone light of a street lamp above the car.  Her body slumped backward with a sick crack and hit the pavement.  I knew she was dead alright.

The car was squealing out of sight, and rounded a corner just seconds after I had let my shot loose.

No time, so I trotted up the street to where the Foolkiller’s body lay.  The sirens that were in the distance earlier, now sounded like they were simply blocks away.  The body was still, when I gazed down at it, not much more than a black lump under a lone street lamp.  But I heard breathing, muffled.  I couldn’t believe it;  I reached, and pulled off her ski mask.

She was beautiful.  Reminded me of many of the women I’ve had to shoot in my life.  Young, too.  She lay there, her brown eyes wide open.  Her pupils were dilated, so she was probably on some kind of drug, maybe more than one.  Her hair was mangled and blonde.  Her throat was torn open.  The bullet had ripped clean through.  Blood had pooled around the wound, and was dripping down the sides of her neck like an overfull punch bowl.  Every time she tried to take a breath, the blood would bubble a little bit.

I raised my gun again, to make certain my left hand wouldn’t leave her alive this time.  But as she saw me, as she stared down the barrel of my gun, I watched those brown eyes suddenly stiffen, and then bulge.  She gasped no more.

I lowered my hand.  But I wasn’t done.  I looked over her body, one last time, in the precious seconds I had before Deathlok was up again.

No reason to think the girl learned how to use a sniper rifle herself--she didn’t have the body type of a huntress.  Someone had taught her how to use the rifle specifically for this.  Someone taught her how to kill.  Probably the same someone who had given her that body armor, or the drugs she was on.  Someone had used her.  That information festered in my mind.

There was another Foolkiller out there.  Maybe more than one.

“Castle!”

The cyborg was back on his feet.  There was no way I could outrun him.  But I sure as hell wasn’t going down tonight, not by him.  I sprinted as fast as I could from the corpse in the lamp light.  Keeping my pistol wildly aimed over my shoulder, with my eyes focused ahead, I pulled the trigger.  I heard some bullets bounce off titanium skin, and Deathlok’s boots galloped to a halt.

The sirens were absolutely blaring now, and I had to crawl with one good arm over a chain link fence, across some private property to be sure I didn’t have a tail.

Deathlok decided to stay with the body.  Before I was too far away from him, I heard his voice:

“Castle!  What makes you better than them?!  Huh?!  You think you’re any different?!  If I see you again, Castle, I’ll give you the same justice!”

Looking back, it’s a bemusing thing for a zombie-robot killing machine to say.  I lost him.  I needed to find a secluded area for ten hours.

Then, I was going to find the Foolkillers.

Greg Salinger had not slept all night.  He hadn’t gotten much sleep at all in recent nights.  Whenever he tried, the only thing he could hear was laughing.

Greg didn’t know whose laughter it was, only that it wasn’t his own, and that he was hearing it, shrieking and cackling, every time he closed his eyes.  And it was getting worse.  He was starting to hear it in the back of his mind, when he would be doing simple things, like reading a book in his cell, or taking a piss.

His mind would listen so intently to the laughing, in a vein effort to place it.  Greg had a few theories on who could be behind his torment:  the most obvious one was of course Satan, but Greg had never heard Satan before, or at least he didn’t think so; it could have been God Himself, but God loved Greg as He did everything and everyone, so that just wouldn’t make sense.  There could only be one real answer.

He was hearing his enemy.  The one who had stolen his name.  This new Foolkiller.  There was a connection between them.  Greg could feel it in his bones.  This was a mocking laughter by a mockery of everything Greg had tried to accomplish.  It only spurred Greg to be stronger.  One day he would kill this faux murderer.

His eyes stung a little in the fluorescent light, but he didn’t notice as he slogged along.  His feet would make dull, droning beats against the concrete floor, echoing through the hall, limitless ahead and behind.  The chains on the shackles binding his hands and ankles added a small rhythm to it.  Greg could only hear laughing.

Two armed guards—one in front of him, one behind him—matched his weary pace.  Greg paid attention to neither, as his mind was elsewhere.  But they had told him he was going his mandated meeting with his state-appointed lawyer.  A new lawyer was actually waiting for Greg today.  But these visits meant nothing to him.  For years, there had been nothing his lawyers could do for him.

Greg was already planning on zoning out through the meeting, instead focusing his mind on his enemy.  He prayed to God for some kind of enlightenment.

A door opened in front of him.  He was pushed through and then downward into a steel chair, itself bolted to the floor.  Across from him, a fat man was smiling.  Curly hair, bow tie, sitting at the end of the long metal table.  Greg knew a lawyer when he saw one.

“Hello, Greg.” The lawyer said, “My name is Roosevelt Nelson.  I’ll be representing you.  Let me start off by saying, I think there’s a strong chance you can make parole.”

Greg perked up. “Hmm?”

The fat man nodded, his jowls shaking. “Yes, that’s right.  A very strong chance for parole.”

Greg frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“He’s talking about me.”

That voice didn’t belong to the fat man.  Greg had to look over his shoulder to see a man he didn’t even know had been in the room.

This man was taller, older.  His silver hair was slicked back along his scalp.  He wore a scowl and a pinstriped suit, both matched the concrete walls.  He stuck out his hand and said, “My name is Tucker Michael Valley.  Do you know who I am?”

Greg shook his head, but wearily, he shook Valley’s hand.

“I’m chief judge of the southern district court of New York.” Valley answered quickly.

Greg looked back at Nelson, whose grinning face looked like swirled pudding.  Then, addressing Valley, he asked, “What do you want with me?”

Valley himself cracked a smile.  “Let me give you my card.”

Fear washed over Greg Salinger then, even before Valley pulled the card from his pocket and handed it to him.  Greg turned it over in his hands.  He knew what it was.  Greg was the man who first wrote these words—

Foolkiller

e pluribus unum

Actions have consequences

Act Wisely

“What is this?” Greg was suddenly drenched in sweat, which gleamed through the dim light of a lone lamp.

Valley smiled, stretched his arms to lean on the metal table, resting on his palms.  He said, “Greg, that’s your Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card.”

NEXT CHAPTER: Can it be the last ride of the new Foolkillers?

FOOL’S ERRANDS:

Well, this issue was a whopper.  And I’m sorry it took so long.

Hopefully, I’m getting across the spiral the Foolkillers have put themselves in at this point.  There’s no good way this can end.  When the heroes finally compare notes in the next chapter, all mysteries will be revealed.

BUT~!  That’s not news!  What’s news, is that the Foolkiller won Best Villain at the 2008 M2K Tookie Awards!  Thanks, guys!  There’s really no one else I’d rather be judged by, to be honest.  I only wish that I had actually completed this storyline before the Awards, as I had meant to.  I bit off a bit more than I could chew with this, but I’m glad to see that my peers were still digging on it.  I hope you’ll stick around, since it’s all coming down to its explosive finale, which should take place within the pages of this anthology title.

Everyone’s gonna be there!  Spider-Man!  The Punisher!  Doc Samson!  The Heroes For Hire!  Maybe a few more surprise guests!  Why, the way this is progressing, you’d think this whole storyline from the very beginning was just some lame excuse to do a Knights Branch crossover!

Errr…that can’t possibly be true…right?

-Bryan