"Tell me who those packages were meant for and I might just spare your face from receiving a shell."
Glaring down on the trembling mustachio in the college parking lot, Poison Gas aimed his 12-gauge shotgun at the cartel runner, trying to get answers from him. Under the waning light of the titanium yellow lamp, a box disguised with US postal wrapping paper lay opened, pouches of various hard drugs ranging from coke to fentanyl visible inside. This was one of many boxes that were being delivered daily to the school and Oakville's famed vigilante tracked the packages for a week before making his move to intercept. Irritated at not receiving an answer from the drug smuggler, he pressed his weapon's muzzle onto the forehead of the frightened man.
"Answer me! Who were you taking those boxes to? Don't play the I don't speak English gambit, it won't work on me!"
"R-relax, pal." The man's voice trembled as he raised his hands. "I- I am merely a mule. T-the Los Juarez tenientes only employ me to disperse the parcels."
"Nonsense!" Poison Gas shouted as struck the man across the face. "Who were these drugs going for? I will only ask once more before I decide to blow your guts over the walls."
"Okay, okay, relax!" the mule whimpered. "If I tell, would you let me go? I am only doing this because they threatened to kill mi familia. I swear it on my daughter's life."
"Very well." Poison Gas retracted his rifle. "Who were the intended recipients?"
"Businesses, both local and large, schools, homeless shelters, street gangs and militia groups, and also the Syndicate. After all, they are the ones who receive and distribute the shipments globally. Their networks are so vast-"
The trenchcoat-wearing punisher smacked the man with his shotgun's barrel once more. "You can shut up now. I got what I came for. I appreciate the information. At least I won't have to waste a shell on you."
His nose bleeding, the man in question looked hopefully up at the terrifying crime hunter. "Does this mean you will let me go?"
Poison Gas stared down at the man, his mask's eyeholes glowing a toxic green, before chuckling sardonically. "Perhaps we never had an understanding. I said I won't waste a shell on you. I never said I will let you go."
His lips trembling, the whimpering narcotics peddler started to back away, but the gas-masked avenger sprayed the air with a cannister of liquid chloroform, knocking the man out while he remained standing conscious. The modified Special Forces M17 respirator has its perks. Once the prone form of the cartel's candyman was restrained with rope and hung upside down from the lamppost, Poison Gas revved the engine of his flame-embellished blue-purple Harley before taking off into Art Center Drive. As he rode into the night, the evening breeze caressed any exposed skin on his body. Curious about any other occurrences in his hometown, he turned on his ride's radio and listened in on the broadcast.
"A stray dog was spotted on Highway 101, but rescue workers and a few good Samaritans were able to rescue the poor pooch from the hazards of the open highway. Now let's go to Sandra for the traffic - Hold your horses, we have breaking news! An anonymous source has information regarding the recent brazen attack on Oakville PD. This is just developing folks so stay tuned!"
Poison Gas's senses widened in anticipation as he rode past the dog park before turning right toward the overpass where his base of operations was located. What was going down? Was it another Syndicate operation in the works? Did the Westies make a move on Santa Clara strip mall, long suspected of being a launching pad for the operations of the Cuban mafia? Maybe bodies have been discovered in the woods or by Oak Lake, indicating either a new serial killer on the loose or organized crime involvement. There is only one way to find out.
"Thanks for hanging tight, folks. An anonymous source has sent a photo of Oakville's famed vigilante Poison Gas being the culprit behind the recent attack on the police department earlier in the night, resulting in the killing and wounding of tens of Oakville's finest. I am sure our listeners have plenty of questions on this brazen one man attack on OPD - is it really one man behind this?- ,I am left as puzzled as you all are about what happened and we are only left to speculate on the details, but we need to address the elephant in the room. That, folks, is the motive of our enigmatic gas-masked avenger in his nocturnal assault on the organization in charge of our city's safety. "
The gas-masked punisher felt his insides numb as he heard this disconcerting news. He felt like his essence was leaving his armored body and drifting toward the cobalt blue firmament flicked with orange on the horizon where the dark tendrils of the clouds were reaching.
No, that's not possible! I was there to fend off the attack on the station from what I assumed were elite mafioso hitmen. Granted, they did scurry away with their tails tucked between their legs once I had arrived, but I seem to recall there was one dressed as me among their ranks. The moment one of the metal men seemingly morphed into some dragon and set the place ablaze, the cops not present arrived and saw me- Shi'et! Me holding that ancient-looking knife must have incriminated me!
"We will be taking theories and suppositions about the gas-masked outlaw's motives, but first we will hear my own two cents. I believe that due to the reports of the corruption supposedly plaguing our city's infrastructure, our man presumed that every cop inside the station was bought by a crime family and aimed to purge the Oakville police force like some masked crusader. Where have we heard the before? Anyway, we have our first listener who is willing to go on air for his conjecture on this astonishing account. Paul, is it? Tell us where you are from and why you think Oakville's masked protector would commit such an atrocity.
As Poison Gas rode into the dark tunnel and followed the illuminated green markers to the broken pipe that led to his hideout, he felt betrayed by the very town that he went at great lengths to protect. All those hours in the pre-dawn or dusk shadows keeping watch over Oakville and taking out the vermin before they could further blemish his beloved hometown and he gets painted as a dangerous fugitive? His mind raced with how he could clear his name as he reached what looked like a wall on the side of the tunnel and placed his hand on the designated spot. After a few seconds, there was an audible beep and the wall parted as he rode his vehicle into the camouflaged garage. Off to work out the details of damage control!
---
"Al! Whatcha you doing, bro?"
In the computer lab during their class's study hall session, Alessandro was using this time to draft up an email to the local news station so he could clear his idol's name instead of working on assignments. Those could always be done later or between classes. What was important to him was the future of his hero which was linked to the future of his hometown. Without the feared crime fighter, Oakville would go back to being the hellhole it originally was. The one of the likes claimed his father's life. The thought only made him shudder as he turned to answer his pal Nick's inquiry.
"Messaging I-6 News Network. I'm gonna try to clear our Poison Gas's name."
Tony raised a brow. "For real? How you gonna do that? You know mainstream media is biased and only twists stories so they could gain more views. "
"Well, we are witnesses, are we not? " Sandro expressed. "We were with Poison Gas when the attack happened about after 7 last night. How could he be two places at the same time?"
The boys were silent when Joe spoke up with his hypothesis. "Maybe the press got the time wrong? Or the Poison Gas we were with is not who we think he is. Could be an impostor for all we know."
"Or the one who massacred those cops could be the fake," Sandro rebutted. "I will personally take this to Oakville PD myself if I have to."
"You got proof?" Tony asked. "It's better if you have cold solid proof else the popo will toss your statements out like garbage."
"Good point." Al sighed, stroking his chin. The advocating student's eyes then grew wide as he turned his gaze toward Joe. "Bro, you still have the video of our man taking out those punks?"
The friend in question nodded. "Yup, as far as I know, I don't delete my pics or vids." He took his phone out and showed the other three. A grin as wide as the Grand Canyon grew on the boy's face.
Swell. Now we have proof Oakville police can't refute. They will have to clear his name. The big guy deserves more respect, especially what he has done for Gotham in the shadows.
"Who is up to come with me after school?"
---
"Your query is coming."
From the shotgun seat of the Josef's unmarked vehicle, Shifty glanced out the window to see the armored truck turn on Ennis Road , the violet and orange twilight hanging over the scenery, as it made its way to the cash facility to load up. Taking up his guise as Oakville's infamous vigilante, Sam prepared to further muddy up the felon bane's name. Once the armored truck and its occupants were greatly harmed, there would be no doubt that all of this pathetic little city would turn against their shadowy protector. What's worse is that there was little to no gold bars in this white truck with green stripes adorning it, making this look like a crime of spite rather than ambition.
As he opened the black van's door, Sam turned to face Josef, Agony's personal chauffeur, and readied his weapon of choice : a twelve gauge shotgun. Or rather the favorite weapon of the individual whose identity he assumed.
"Good to know. Make no mistake, I'll comply with Agony's wishes. I will make short work of those Feddies, but can't I at least take a few cash or gold bars?
Josef shook his head. " You will do as Master Agony orders you to. Then you will return here and we will make a swift getaway."
The shapeshifter only sighed. "Party pooper. Alrighty, I will make mincemeat of the Feds. "
"The boss reminds you to make sure to leave one alive to spread the word of this heinous crime that will be attributed to our gas-masked friend," the mustachioed driver reminded him.
Shifty Sam gazed from behind the S-10 mask at the older man with the Eastern European accent, which if he recalled correctly, had hailed from Slovakia before coming to work for Agony, before stepping out of the van and shutting the door.
"I'll be quick so just keep the ignition on," he called as he made his way toward to intercept the oncoming vehicle, fast approaching and closing the distance quickly. He set the shotgun to the asphalt before he unpacked a Panzerfaust 3 anti-tank missile launcher and set it up. Glancing up at the vehicle, which was prepared to enter the bend where its destination guarded by a couple guards in SWAT gear, the molecule-bending supercriminal aimed his weapon and waited until the right moment before letting loose.
The fun begins now.
He watched as the rocket was released from the cannister with a loud pop and made its way over to its target, streaking across the air, which was growing steadily cold, before it connected to the underside of the cash truck. Shifty Sam watched it roll like a toy, colliding with an incoming car before rolling over and crushing a parked car. Once it came to a stop on its side, the fake Oakville punisher made his way over like a panther enjoying its kill before it feasted and stopped before it. From the back exit, his hands turned into blades not unlike those on the end of a broadsword and began tearing the screeching metal apart. Once he had created his opening, Shifty was rewarded with the sight of wounded or unconscious attendants and armed guards. It looked to him that there were a couple more attendants than guards, but it didn't matter in the end. They were his prize. Cocking his shotgun, he faced the dazed occupants of the overturned truck.
It's slaughtering time!
---
"We will make it to-"
The supervisor's voice was cut off as the armored truck jolted as if it had struck a pothole and flew in the air for what seemed like an eternity before it came to a rest on its side. Dazed and with a throbbing noggin, the federal employee glanced around the truck to see his colleagues and their guard escorts laying dazed and bloodied, some looking like they were corpses strewn about. The radio he was communicating to the facility where they were to restock crackled and croaked , indicating that it was damaged in the incident.
"Pony Express-212, d-do y-you read?"
A dull pain was felt inside his head as he tired to reach the radio, it was possible he and his colleagues who would survive this ordeal would need to be treated for internal wounds, when a sound that turned the pain sharp was heard. It resembled the sound of an exotic bird from Skull Island in that cartoon his son watched every Saturday morning-was it based off of King Kong? The source of the noise was confirmed as a large rectangular portion of the back door was torn out and a hulking figure dressed in a dark trenchcoat, an FBI-issued bulletproof vest, and a military-grade respirator enclosed in a helmet that looked like a relic from the second world war stood silhouetted against the fading sunset. What drew chills down the Fed's body was not the eyes that glowed a toxic green through the visor, but the arms which resembled swords. it was almost like he was facing a steampunk version of the T-1000.
"T-take the g-gold," the severely wounded attendant rasped, feeling pain shoot through his sternum to his stomach. "W-we d-don't h-have much since we -" he coughed in pain. " n-need to r-re-stock-"
"Oh, I am not here for the gold," the imposing militant boomed. "Though it would be a waste not to take it as my trophy once I finish you banksters off. "
Terror flashed through his aching mind as he tried to process what the highway man had told them.
No, he doesn't' mean he'll...
Cocking a gray and wood-colored shotgun, the armored assailant fired several rounds into the ravaged vehicle before making his way inside. From the corner of his eye, the helpless attendant watched, rigid with fear, as the masked criminal drew a sidearm handgun and finished off those who survived the crash.
Oh God, he is going to finish me off as well. I guess there is an upside to it. I will be free from my suffering. I pray he makes it quick.
It wasn't long when the shadow of his would-be executioner fell over him. The incapacitated man closed his eyes and braced for the gunshot to the skull that would forever end his pain, but to his surprise and confusion, the bullet that would end him never came. He opened his eyes to see the military gunman reach over, grip him by his hair, and drag him outside the truck. Even more confused than hurting, the man close to death's door wondered if the shooter wanted to put him down outside instead. It still didn't make sense. Once outside in the crisp early evening, the hulking assassin hurled the attendant like a broken toy to the ground and stood over him silent while he gazed upward, paralyzed with fear. At long last, the enigmatic figure spoke.
"You have the honor of living , but you were selected for a purpose so don't let it go to waste. Just spread the word that Poison Gas butchered you pathetic lot. Speaking of which, I hear these trucks have a secondary fuel tank. Let's test out that theory." The gas-masked attacker then cocked the shotgun he just drew and aimed at the exposed exhaust pipe of the mangled vehicle and fired, lighting it up. "There, that does it. I can now assure you that you are the only survivor of this attack. Rest assured now, I couldn't resist taking the few gold bars inside. You can consider them rescued. Now go to sleep!"
Hearing a shout, 2 of the facilities guards hurried over and raised their guns to fire, but the menacing man, or what he assumed was one, caught wind of them, and turned to take them both out. Once he was satisfied with the kills, he turned and used the butt of the shotgun to strike him in the head. Darkness finally overcame his vision, gracing him with peace.
---
"Boys, you can't go over there. Visiting hours are over. Kindly make your way toward the exit."
As Alessandro and his three pals made their way down the lobby of the police station to find someone who would listen to their findings, the administrative officer tried in vain to prevent them from getting far into the office. Al , Joey, Andy, and Nick ducked under the front counter cop's arms before hurrying to the chief.
"We aren't visitors! We have some very important pieces of information! It's regarding the case of Poison Gas," Al told him.
"Really?" the rough-faced officer with the short-cropped graying brunette complexion frowned.
"Did I hear correctly? You have something on that extremist cowboy crusader who thinks he is above the law?"
The boys turned to find the chief of police, a mustachioed man with a protruding belly, standing outside his office. The head of Oakville's cops reminded Sandro of a coyote who had sensed a wounded cat nearby. All of a sudden, the high school student had second thoughts about sharing any information pertinent to his heroes to this man whose position made him power hungry. Before Sandro could speak or make any kind of motion, another administrative officer, her eyes wide in bewilderment burst through the highway, nearly knocking the coffee, or what he thought was coffee , from the mug the chief was clutching in his large hands.
"For Pete's sake, Mendez. Watch it next time!"
"Apologies." Mendez bowed in apology toward her superior, her dark hair falling over her face. "I think there is something you should see."
Wondering what was so important that they had interrupted his chance to clear his hero's name, Sandro and his pals followed the chief and the other officers to the lobby where the breaking news was playing out on the screen of the television. Upon seeing the headlines, the teen activist felt his heart leap into his throat.
No, it can't be!
A devious smirk played upon the chief as he glanced over at the young men. "About that evidence on your respirator-headed chum you claim to have, you saw him murder those feds? Heck, he didn't even bother with most of the cash. I can presume that the thrill from killing greasers, mobsters, and bottom feeders has lost its effect on your pal so he devolves to the tactics of those he claims to fight."
Anthony groaned. "God dayum, man! Here I thought your idol was a badass dude."
---
At that time in a camp located deep in the woods of Oak County National Wilderness many miles roughly southeast of Oakville, a fringe right-wing vigilante group whose purpose was to make the streets of Oakville safer for the general population by combatting criminal elements and the corruption overtaking the government , law enforcement, and other powerhouses of the city, but the city councils, prodded by the lawmakers that most certainly fell under the corruption this organization was fighting, had blacklisted the group as a terrorist organization, causing them to go underground.
In their absence, it appeared that a lone individual, known among the members as the Ghost of Oakville, had taken matters into his own hand and singlehandedly more than halved the city's once record high crime rate. While admirable, this lone gunman , referred to the group which was known by the moniker of Liberty since they fought for the Constitution's liberties and rights for all citizens or so they claimed, became the subject of the most recent meeting of the group's leadership. The news of his recent antics caused a turmoil among how to deal with the situation that resulted from the Ghost's alleged crimes.
"Are you sure our sources are correct?" Liberty's regional commander asked, her green eyes scanning the high-ranking officers seated in their lawn chairs . Above them, the young evening had wisps of dark clouds that covered the sky like large cotton balls as a young militant, her auburn hair tied back in a bun, viewed the gathering with her azure eyes as she and a few of her fellow paramilitaries stood guard over where the group's top brass sat near a campfire under what looked like a mix between a pavilion and a tent.
"It's all over the media," the director of the group's spy network, known as the 1787 Outreach Division, claimed.
"Can you trust what the mainstream media posts?" the weapons training officer inquired.
"Well, when multiple sources corroborate it as shown here, there is most likely a truth to it," the intelligence officer replied, chugging down his Sam Adams beer bottle before motioning for an aide to fetch him another from the chest. 33Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡu06Pd2XrIC
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"If so, why would the Oakville punisher resort from tackling crime and corruption to becoming a participant in it?" the head armorer for the group asked, crossing her arms over her brawny frame.
"One can only presume his intentions , but if his fall from the path persists, then we need mobilize our troops and take him out of our beloved town's streets," the Combat Readiness Officer suggested.
The Director of Field Operations decided to add in his question. "Are you suggesting we issue a hit on Poison Gas?"
"Aye, if it comes to that, we shall treat him as if we would any deranged killer. If it comes to settling this JSGPM maniac with a good ol'fashion hunting, we are all in agreement?" The training officer raised his hands to underscore his proposal.
As all the top chiefs of the militia concurred with this statement from training sergeant, the young militiawoman , dressed in the red and navy blue of the force with the original Betsy Ross flag plastered on her clothes, felt mixed reactions to it. While her loyalties lay with the organization and its constitutional dogma, she had admired this lone gunman who was cleaning the streets up for them. In other words, his motives weren't that far off from theirs. She chanced a glance at a fellow militia guardian, whose eyes were pinned to the honchos they were tasked to guard, in order to gauge any kind of emotion, but like a good warrior, his face betrayed no emotion so she continued doing her duty.
"While it may seem that we will lose a potential ally in our war on the crime and filth that has taken over Oakville, on the bright side it will leave a vacancy that we will gladly fill with our battle-hardened and rigorously trained troops. The citizens of our hometown will be indebted to us when they sleep better at night. For Liberty and Justice!"
As the top officers of Liberty shouted their slogan with raised fists after the chief figurehead's assertion, the foot soldier couldn't help but feel that they would have a fight on their hands soon. With the radical elements taking charge in their months of idleness, the young and most zealous military types were eager to prove their mettle and hiding out in the middle of the woods only suppressed their itch got combat. With each passing day of inaction, the desire would only grow stronger until it would explode into something hot. She could only hope it wouldn't be come to blows, but if (things got out of hand), the militant was prepared introduce lead to the figure she believed would have made a fine field operative in their group. If things continued the way they did, she could only pray that she wouldn't have to the one to face off against the legendary Poison Gas.
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