Punisher's Spiritual War Journal, entry #10666
03 Jun 2010
Killed seven demons today. Not bad for a man of my age.
Laid in wait in the garden, arthritic hip screaming. Watched the postman do his duty, shoddy and slow as usual. Did not hail him. Did not want to give away my position. My kill zone.
Saw what might have been a dog near the shed; was gone before I could shoot. Sun was up; was getting hot, unpleasant. Then again this hellhole is always unpleasant. Stayed in the bush, ate a sandwich, pissed into a pouch, waited for the demons to come out.
The first came around midday, in animal form as usual. Landed a few feet away. Never had time to know what hit it. A bottle of holy water stunned it, and a throwing knife struck its foul skull and beak in two. Frank Castle one, Satan zero.
The next two came as a pair. Was busy tracking one when the second attacked. Felt a wet splat against my back; was certain this would be it, the End, time to meet my maker, make account for myself, just like Pastor Rick-Bob said. Rolled around, fumbled for my crossbow; had no time or will to die. The demon was a flyby, almost out of range, rising, going towards the shed. My first bolt clipped a wing; the second nailed it to the ground as it fell in a tangle of feathers. The decoy was too dumb to run, and got the third bolt.
Somewhere a dog barked. No rush over the fence, no slavering horde off the street, no black writhing mass of Satanic wings from the skies. Still hidden. Still deadly.
Looked for my wounds; found I was unharmed. A miracle. The demon's white goop had merely stained the back of my reinforced plastic steel alloy Armor of God. Could have wiped the white stuff away, but I left it there, to remind me of the dangers of not being alert. Of not recognizing corruption.
Later, some kids went by. Had learned to not get on my lawn. Cowardly brats. Don't know there are demons everywhere. Usually in animal form. Sometimes they take the place of some inanimate object. Pastor Rick-Bob said they often appear as televisions; I threw mine out that day, and burned it in an oil drum in the backyard. I think I heard it scream as it burned. That day knew, war against the criminals and the drug dealers and other human scum was not enough. I was old, infirm, not as sharp as I had been, but there was no-one else. Someone had to take up spiritual warfare, and take it to the enemy. The demons. Hell. Satan. In the form of birds that won't let me sleep.
Pastor Rick-Bob understands. He's too squeamish to come right out, but he understands when I say I am in constant spiritual warfare against Satan. He doesn't need to know the details.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of boredom and anger. The four other demons were no challenge; the camo netting round the base of the bush, and my camouflage bathrobe, together made me near invisible, just one more gnarled old thing among the roots. At the end of the day I collected the demon corpses, threw them in the dumpster. The reek in there was overwhelming, foul, very satisfying.
Less so the altercation with Mr. Short who lives next door. He complained about the dumpster. Said it is not the place for animal corpses, and killing birds wasn't right anyway. Tried to tell him they were demons, devious evildoers, tempters, that had to be punished. He did not see it. I invited him to Pastor Rick-Bob's meeting next week, but the fool threatened to expose to Pastor what he called my "sick antics". I hit him on the nose. The feeling that gave was exquisite. Satisfying. I think he may be an atheist.
Left him to whine; went in to pray and to prepare for the night's spiritual warfare. Demons get bolder during the darkness, the vermin, so it is a siege. Me under my bed, teeth bared against the darkness, they everywhere around me. Circling, waiting. Hungry. If they get through I'll blow the entire house down on them. No surrender.
* * *
Not so farfetched, especially as some conservative Christian types do seem to have a worldview that's like a bad crossover of Marvel's Punisher and Hirano Kohta's Hellsing.
Just bothers me the above reads more like Rorschach than Frank Castle.