NOTE: This takes place before the events of Daredevil #0

Hell’s Kitchen
New York, New York

There was a slight chill in the bedroom as the New York winter kicked into gear, dropping the outside temperature to nearly twenty degrees. The air was still except for the dust that floated lazily through a thin streak of pale blue moonlight, which pushed through the seam of a pair of thick curtains shut over the picture window officially ending its long journey abruptly on the carpeted floor, and shimmered like tiny stars for a mere fraction of a second.

A woman’s gleeful shriek split the silence of the night in half chorused by the deep baritone grunt of a man who grinded her into the mattress as he railed her like crazy from behind, their bodies slapped together in rhythm with the squeaking of the bed. He grabbed a handful of her long bleach blonde hair and pulled her head up. "You like that don’t you, bitch?"

"Yes! Fuck me harder! Fuck me harder!" she begged.

The carnal act continued unnoticed despite the best efforts of the couple to attract the attention of their audience. A soft blue hue tinted the room as the television cast its glow over the bed it sat in front of, creating deep shadows in the comforter that wrinkled like water in a pond, but smoothened over the giant lump in the middle.

Bed sheets rustled and a groan vibrated in the throat of the lump as it shifted position to pull the satin sheets tighter around it. The rhythmic shallow breathing was so soft that it hardly competed with that of the blonde who was now on her back with her legs pinned against her breasts.

A tiny bit of drool dripped from the corner of the sleeping man’s mouth, blissfully oblivious to the world around him and to the porno he put into the DVD player thirty minutes ago.

The shadows flickered, masking the movement of one that didn’t belong as it flowed like spilled ink over the peacefully slumbering man. The room plunged into total darkness when the television suddenly went black, killing the moans of the perky blonde with it creating a weird unnatural silence.

It took an ungodly long couple minutes before the man stirred, and turned onto his back. Another groan escaped his lips this time in protest of having consciousness unwontedly thrust upon him. His eyes strained to open and blinked repeatedly as if they were trying to awaken his struggling mind in stages.

Why is it dark? What time is it? What the Hell happened to the tits?

At first he thought his blurred vision was playing tricks on him, a weird play in shadows. Nah, it had to be nothing. His eyes blinked again hoping to clear the glare…but the shadow didn’t go away. Somehow his vision focused and like a splash of ice water to the face, the tiny pair of horns on the apparition’s head forced him to full consciousness.

"Shit!" the man jumped nearly two feet off the mattress and sat up, crashing his back against the headboard resulting in a resounding crack as wood slammed on drywall. "Who the fuck?!"

There was no reply, yet silence conveyed enough. The shadow…the devil was here for him.

"Who sent you?!" he screamed. His beer bloated bladder emptied, soaking his bare legs and sheets with warm urine.

The shadow’s head moved, its eyes flared red with reflected moonlight. "You did!" the voice snarled at him, cutting sharply into his psyche like a whip’s crack before the darkness swallowed the man whole…

He prowls the rooftops and alleyways at night searching for justice, blind justice: a guardian devil. Matthew Murdock was 15 years old when he had lost his sight, but he got something back in return. His remaining four senses functioned with superhuman sharpness. He could hear a whisper a block away, but the most amazing of all was a kind of ‘radar’ sense that enabled him to ‘see’ with more clarity that those with sight could possibly imagine.

A respected lawyer by day, he stalks the streets by night, the judge and jury of justice, as the vigilante Daredevil, The Man Without Fear! Soon the world will know the truth… That one man can make a difference.

MOB KILLER STRIKES!
By Ben Urich

Garden City, New York – Peter Vanini was discovered slain this morning in the living room of his Nassau County home by the morning newspaper boy, who called the Police after spotting a pool of blood leaking out from under the front door. Vanini achieved fame last year after he traded information on suspected crime boss Wilson Fisk for a shortened sentence.

Peter Vanini is the third victim in a group of murders where organized crime is the only suspected link that the killer is focusing on in choosing his targets.

"Why these former mobsters are being targeted is still a mystery, as there has been no contact with the killer, nor any social ties found between the three victims outside of their ties to organized crime, and there is a lot of speculation to the motive because of those ties," stated Captain Garth Bryce, the officer attached to the case, in a press conference today in front of the 17th Precinct. "There simply is too much to sort through."

He went on to discuss the lack of physical evidence at the crime scenes. "This shows that our attacker is intelligent and a professional. The person is ruthless, as proven by his savage, brutal method of execution."

Local Amnesty groups and centers are in an uproar over the police’s inability to protect the former Mafioso, and ‘sluggish’ speed in solving these murders before more are killed. Paul Walker, President of a local Amnesty International, claimed that Police biases are hindering the investigation and that they’re happy that somebody is executing these former soldiers.

See Serial Murder on A4

Foggy told me, when I walked in to the office this morning, that I looked like shit. Well, if the old saying is true that ‘you only look as good as you feel’, then I am in full agreement with him…because I feel like shit too.

A week of sleepless nights have gone by practically wasted on the streets hunting this killer, and all I have to show for it are more bodies and a rapist I stumbled upon during my patrol. I’m exhausted, ready to pass out at my desk, but I force my hands to scroll over the newspaper, letting the words soak through my fingers and into my mind like a poison, searching for a hidden clue.

I find none.

I wipe the smeared ink on my fingertips off feeling a small amount of disgust. I should be out there right now. Instead, I’m tied up in here doing paperwork on a case a friend of mine in the NYPD asked me to work on for him. Fog should be able to handle this case on his own, just a class-action lawsuit against a construction firm for shoddy building materials, but I’ve imposed on him enough already as I fight my crusade on two fronts, with the costume often winning over the occupation I’ve spent so many years building.

It’s tough juggling between playing a respected lawyer and a scrutinized vigilante. But, who else is going to do it?

I spend too many hours going over reports and listening to tapes from OSHA, the Department of Public Works and various other personal contractors. It was easy to get lost in all the legal mumbo jumbo that it took the earthquake like rumbling of Foggy’s stomach from across the office, to jar me out of the concentration I put myself in to forget everything that’s been happening with the night and me.

So, in our best interest, I succumbed to my hunger and we break for lunch. This is probably the best idea I’ve had in a long while. Too bad a statement like that doesn’t say too much about me.

Ellen’s Stardust Diner
Hell’s Kitchen

Franklin Nelson anxiously took a huge bite from his ham sandwich, the lettuce crinkling softly in Matt’s ears as his teeth ripped it apart. The groan of satisfaction was muffled as lunchmeat passed down his throat. The mayo that smothered the top of the sandwich squeeze out and dribbled onto his chin, which he quickly dabbed clean with a napkin that he held readily in his other hand.

Matthew also enjoyed a ham sandwich, but found the ground pepper too strong for his taste so he set his meal down on his plate and looked over at his silent partner, his dead eyes covered by a pair of red-lens glasses.

"You continue to eat like that and you’re going to put this place out of business Foggy," Murdock said, breaking the silence that had lasted since they put in their order. "Besides that, I can hear your heart straining to work. You should think about a diet."

Foggy mumbled something intelligible between bites, but Matt got the distinct impression from the dismissive wave of his partner’s hand that he just blew off his comment. "Well, do you at least want to talk about what it is? I know something is bothering you, and as much as you try to misdirect me with half-truths, I know it’s not work related."

Pausing for a moment to look at his blind friend, before chewing again Foggy put the sandwich back on its plate. "I was wondering when you were gonna finally get around to asking."

"I was wondering when you were going to approach me. Foggy, after all of the stuff we’ve been through and you still couldn’t talk to me on your own?" Matt could sense the extra heat radiating from Foggy’s head as he flushed in apparent embarrassment. The lawyer waited for a moment, knowing that his friend was organizing his thoughts, wanting to present himself as best as he could before continuing. It was an instinct built from years of being a lawyer.

"I just want her to come back," Foggy Nelson replied after an awkward eternity of silence.

It didn’t take Matt long to come up with a name. "Liz Allen?"

Discovering his appetite was lost; Matthew pushed the plate away from him. "Have you tried calling her?" he asked as he reached and sipped from a glass of water.

Foggy nodded his head. "Many times, but she refuses to answer her phone, and if she does pick up the moment she hears my voice she hangs up! I can’t get an word in to explain that what happened with that woman wasn’t my fault!"

"But revealing that Mysterio was behind it is going to open up a whole to can of worms that’s better off staying closed. How do you plan on explaining your role in that whole twisted game of his?" Matthew asked, knowing that any connection between Foggy and Mysterio could lead back to him being Daredevil if the right questions were asked.

"I know that," Foggy admitted, "but I just needed to hear her voice and at least try to say something that would make this all better. Even though I don’t know what that something is."

Matthew pushed his glasses back up his nose, into their normal position. "Listen, I don’t know what good will come of it, but I can call Liz just to get a foot in the door. See if she’ll give what I have to say a chance."

"I have no idea if that’ll work, she seemed pretty adamant about never seeing me again. Thanks anyway." The depression was so thick it even brought Matt down a peg or two as he felt for his partner. Matt had never had the greatest success with women either, but he wanted to be the only one with bad luck.

Licking his lips to moisten them, Murdock snatched the check off of the table. "What do you say we get out of here? The heating system is drying my skin out and we could use the fresh air."

They both slid down the bench seats of the fifties style booth and stood once they had the legroom to do so. "Have you thought about contacting her parents? They could bend her ear."

"I get the same treatment from them. They don’t want any part of this."

The constant chatter faded to a background buzz as he focused his attention to moving through the throwback fifties diner. The walking stick clacked off of various chairs and feet as the blind lawyer navigated towards the register with Foggy walking next to him. "Liz sure is going through a lot of effort to avoid you."

His nose wrinkled as he neared the red leather stools that lined up in front of the counter, as he smelled the cleaning solution that had been sprayed on them an hour before the diner opened for the breakfast rush.

"I crushed her heart, Matt, and I understand how she feels, but it’s just not fair," Foggy reached for the check in Matthew’s hand. "I’ll cover the check this time, you got the last two."

Matt knew enough about Foggy to sense that he felt guilty about not being even with him, so he conceded and handed over the check knowing that this would make Foggy feel only slightly better about himself. "Fine, but I’ve got the next round of coffee," he joked since the coffee was free from their brewing machine in the office.

Foggy cracked a small, sincere smile as he moved to the cash register and dug a hand into his pocket to pull out a wad of cash.

Grimacing as if he bit into a lemon, Matthew hung his head lower, feeling the full effect of guilt settling in, knowing that his life as Daredevil had claimed the life of another friend. However, this one just happened to live to reflect on it. You’re too good a friend to me. I don’t deserve your loyalty, Foggy, and I swear that I’ll make it up to you. Someday.

Fisk Industries
Manhattan

"I assure you that I am just as perturbed about these strikes against us. I have heightened security where my interests are involved in order to better protect them," Wilson Fisk took a sip of brandy from the custom snifter designed to fit his massive baseball mitt like hands. The amber liquid swished around his tongue burning it with a spicy bite before being swallowed, leaving a warm trail all the way down to his stomach. "Are you sure I cannot interest you in an Armagnac?"

Wilson Grant Fisk was a creature with not only an intimidating figure, which resembled a boulder, but with an intimidating voice that was as deep as the seven layers of Hell…if he believed in such a thing. The giant red oak desk did little to create a comfortable buffer zone between the 6’ 7" tall Kingpin and his two guests that sat across, fighting with every fiber of their being to hide their nervousness and fear under a veil of relaxed respect.

It was completely transparent.

"No, thanks Wilson," declined Don Gambino for himself and his silent Consigliore. "I have an assembly I must attend to at my son’s school. My wife would kill me if I showed up with alcohol on my breath. She’s been wanting me to quit drinking for years."

Fisk dipped the tip of his Cuban cigar into the Brandy and let it soak before wrapping his lips around the wet end. "I understand completely…"

Without warning the large double wood doors swung open, and a man wearing a gray suit with an unbuttoned white collared shirt stormed into the room flailing a newspaper around in his hand. "Have you seen this fuckin’ bullshit? These fuckin’ lawyers --" The man stopped as suddenly as he entered, and sheepishly adjusted his yellow tinted sunglasses. "Oh…"

"Mister Silke, you see that I am in the middle of a meeting." Wilson seethed, but kept it hidden under a well practiced calm and collected mask.

"Yeah, yeah boss. Sorry…" Sammy Silke slipped out of the room, shutting the doors behind him.

Wilson pulled out a chrome cigar cutter from a drawer of his desk, chopped off the tip and lit it with a wooden match. There was something about the taste with a wooden match that trumped conventional lighters. "I apologize for that," Wilson said through a fresh cloud of smoke. "No matter how tight you keep an organization there’s always an idiot that manages to slip between the cracks."

Don Gambino waved it off. "I understand completely. Now, let us get back to business."

"Of course."

After an hour of discussion their meeting ended and Wilson escorted them to his office doors. A shiver ran up the spine of the Consigliore who stood next to the mammoth man, his mind struggled to comprehend how a man could be so large and yet move with the grace of a dancer. He was glad to be leaving and once he hit the sidewalk in front of the tall glass building he let go a long drawn out sigh…

Alone Wilson took a moment to stand in front of the giant windows that surrounded his office; his cold blue eyes surveyed over the city relishing in the beauty of all he owned. From up there he could almost see the half dozen Precincts’ and thought of all the badges on his payroll. The tip of City Hall peaked out and Wilson turned his bulk to look at the phone the mayor would call him on whenever there was a major decision to be made. Those were just two places his fingers poked in, and there were just as many other things as fingers he had left that he controlled.

He pushed down his rage. Now was not the time for second thoughts. Things had progressed too far…and the reason to continue too great to deny. He had to see this through to the end.

Untold minutes passed before the doors swung open behind the crime boss. A head poked in, under the familiar yellow Bono-like glasses a pair of eyes locked on to the behemoth instantly. "Um, Boss?" Sammy Silke expressed less enthusiasm this time.

Wilson turned around and didn’t say a word in reply. His blue eyes pierced Sammy like icicles.

"I, uh, just wanted to apologize about earlier. I guess I let my excitement get the better a’ me." Sammy laughed a little in an effort to lighten the mood. In the circle of Fisk’s soldiers Sammy Silke was the cockiest, most charismatic guy that walked the face of the Earth, and in a clever twist of his last name, he liked to brag about being ‘as smooth as silk’.

Fisk smiled like a great white shark that just spotted a little guppy swimming by. With a sweep of his paw Wilson motioned to a chair. "Have a seat." Wilson exercised the same patience as earlier as he watched with anger at Sammy’s cocky grin and the way he adjusted the lapels on his gray suit coat before happily dropping into the chair. Wilson impossibly glided to his giant black leather chair and rested his 450lb. mass. "Tell me what was so important."

Sammy folded a leg across his lap, showing off his black leather shoes then tugged at the pant leg. "Well, ah, one of the construction firms I oversee, Dan Davis, got slapped with a class action lawsuit by Matt Murdock like four months ago an--"

"Let me get this straight," Fisk cut in. "You felt the need to burst into my office – interrupting my meeting with Don Gambino – over a trivial lawsuit that I already knew about to what? Ask permission to lean on Murdock to drop the case?"

"Um, yeah, I’m sorry," Sammy replied sheepishly.

A meaty paw waved the apology off, the stubby cigar smoldered between the fingers. "Don’t apologize. It was the most fun I had all day," Wilson leaned forward on his elbows and with a glare menacing enough to make Satan himself shit his pants he added. "Don’t do it again."

Sammy swallowed uncomfortably, but eagerly agreed. "Yessir."

Wilson leaned back, the leather strained as his bulk shifted. "Good. Now, tell me your honest opinion. Do you think I made a mistake in allowing this Matthew Murdock to continue his pursuit of this lawsuit at a substantial loss on your end? You think I am not doing enough to protect my interests?"

Taking a deep breath to relax his breathing Sammy began to feel a bit more comfortable. It was rare for the Kingpin to ask opinions. "Well, yeah Mister Fisk, I do. You have the means to eliminate any enemy you want too. If you let this shyster push this case it makes you look weak. Listen, baby, lemme twist this shysters arm, show him that there are safer pursuits in life. If he don’t agree then I’ll wax the motherfucker so future fucks like him know better."

Silke felt good about his answer.

Fisk pursed his lips and nodded like he thought about the reply. "I see. Thank you for your insight." He stood and reached out for a handshake. "I’ll take what you said into consideration."

Excited, thinking he did right, Sammy extended his hand and placed it inside the giant mitt of the Kingpin. "Really? That’s great Mister Fisk. I’d like to think that someday I could help you out more." Before his mind could register the pain he heard a sickening crunch. A cold wave of shivers ran up his spine as he looked at the Kingpin's hand to see blood seeping its way between the sausage-like fingers. Then he was suddenly jerked forward, his shoulder making the loudest, wettest popping sound either man had ever heard.

"If you scream, pass out or throw up, I will snuff your life out before you can pray to God to save that pathetic little soul," Fisk threatened, his face was only inches away from Silke. "Understand this: you don’t have opinions, you don’t think anything I don’t tell you to think." Sammy barely heard a word Fisk spat at him as his mind seemingly detached from his body. "The next time you barge into my office with an ounce of the disrespect you showed today you will die. You’re here as a favor to your father, but there is only so far his name will protect you. You will drop Murdock from your thoughts."

Fisk let the hand go and gravity yanked the smaller man back into the chair. "I once told somebody, years ago, that I do not employ idiots…and yet here you are making me a liar. I hate being a liar." He straightened his jacket with casual ease and pushed a button on his phone to summon more soldiers. "However, you’ve impressed me, Mister Silke. I figured you would’ve screamed like a stuck pig."

At their entrance Wilson pointed to Sammy Silke, who cradled his pulverized hand shaking like a leaf caught in a hurricane as shock settled in, with his cigar.

"Take Mister Silke to the hospital," the crime lord commanded.

The two men picked Sammy up by his armpits and dragged him on the carpet, his feet creating two lines behind him. After they crossed the threshold into the hallway Wilson yelled out. "Oh, and Mister Silke…you can throw-up now," he grinned at the gagging noise that echoed and the sudden splash of what sounded like a bag of slime smacking the marble floor.

"Fuck, man…" one of the escorts grumbled in displeasure.

Wilson took a long drag off the Cuban cigar, his mind already miles away from Sammy. Who was behind the hits, and how could they possibly know?

Brooklyn
2:05 p.m.

A finger pawed at the aluminum tab and pulled it up. The air hissed as it was sucked into the can, but the tab slammed inside and slapped the beer, causing it to splash and foam over onto the top. The can rose to a pair of lips that quickly sucked the overflow off before it spilt down the sides.

Curtis Ritchins pulled the lever on the side releasing the footrest of the recliner as he prepared to kick back and relax with the TNT marathon of ‘A Christmas Story’. There was something about that Ralphie that reminded him of his own childhood. He took a quick peek at the Christmas tree he just assembled and decorated, hoping that his children will like it after that evil bitch of a cunt ex-wife drops them off later tonight.

A knock came from the front door just as Ralphie started his narration. Curtis cursed under his breath as he leapt out of the recliner and went to answer the door. The knocking continued. "I’m comin’! Jesus jumpin’ Christ…"

Curtis pulled the door halfway open and saw a tall black man standing on his porch, with broad shoulders and a nice black leather trench coat. His eyes were hidden under a pair of wrap around sunglasses, but Curtis could feel them looking right through his soul.

"Sarah Connor?" the man asked.

"Wha--?" Curtis started to ask confused, ready to say that the man obviously had the wrong house, but his voice stalled in his throat when the business end of a Winchester SX3 magically appeared in front of his face nearly touching his nose.

His breathing involuntarily stopped, his life barely had a moment to flash before his eyes…and the last words ever to grace his ears was the mocking imitation of the movie playing behind him. "You’ll shoot your eye out kid…"

BOOM!

3:53 p.m.

There was a sea of blue and red lights flashing in the street in front of the house as squad cars clustered the neighborhood. Captain Garth Bryce drove his navy blue Chevy Caprice through the crowd of people, beeping his horn and yelling obscenities to them to move out of his cars path. "Don’t you people have a life?!" he yelled, but with his windows up in the cold New York winter, nobody heard him.

He parked the car a few feet away from the yellow police line, and opened his door – pushing three people out of the way to complete the motion. Captain Bryce sighed, his breath crystallizing in front of him as he pulled the coat he wore tighter around his neck before ducking under the yellow tape.

"Who’s in charge here?" Bryce asked flashing his badge to a uniform. The officer pointed him in the direction of Lieutenant Keith Cross.

Garth nodded his appreciation and made his way over to the detective. "Captain Garth Bryce," he introduced with his hand extended. "What do we have?"

"Forty-two year old vic named Curtis Ritchins," Cross explained as he escorted the five foot eleven, two hundred pound Captain of Jamaican descent through the crowd of police to inside the crime scene. "He was found by his ex-wife and kids twenty minutes ago."

Captain Bryce’s broad muscular frame demanded a wide berth, which people were all to eager to give the second he entered their peripheral vision. "I take it she is being questioned right now?" he asked as they passed through the door and entered the living room.

Keith nodded. "She was here to drop off their two kids. They divorced five years ago, and had shared custody. She came here after shopping at the Short Hills Mall and has receipts to prove it."

Garth simply nodded as his dark coffee brown eyes examined the scene. He wasn’t too concerned with the wife’s whereabouts since he already ruled her out. Something told him this Curtis was connected to the string of murders he was investigating. Of course, he had the call that sent him here as other proof to assume that.

He knelt as close to the body as he could without stepping into the dark maroon pool of congealed blood that surrounded it. Garth visually examined the body, and for the most part it looked relatively undamaged – aside that the head was missing from the chin up. The lower jaw hung onto the neck by skin alone, drooping to the left. A little bit of the spinal chord stuck out of the stump with some medulla oblongata still attached to the tip.

The blast that took this head off was close; very close as evidenced by the blackened burn marks scorched onto the chin.

Captain Bryce sighed and stood to glance at the rest of the room. There was blood everywhere. Splatter dirtied Ralphie’s pink bunny pajamas, polka dotted the furniture and covered the presents. Skull fragments were lodged into the micro fiber recliner. Strings of brain matter hung on the Christmas tree like tinsel. Unfortunately, this didn’t even rank in the top ten most grisliest scenes he’d ever seen during his career with the NYPD.

"Do we have a background on this Ritchins yet?"

Lieutenant Cross slapped shut his cell phone. "Yeah, all we know is that Curtis was a soldier for the Gambino family. The rest of this guy’s history the FBI has locked up tighter than a virgins legs on prom night."

Garth’s face darkened. "I’ve got a friend in the FBI, but his bosses won’t let him tell me what I need to know. There’s gotta be something more than just this loose link with the mob. I can feel it! Fuckin’ mafia squads don’t trust us though, think we’ll fuck up their operations."

"You seemed to know a lot about Peter Vanini," Cross replied.

Captain Bryce rolled his eyes. "The only saving grace with Peter was that he was a media whore. Everything he did he made sure got headlines. These three were more careful with their secrets."

Keith Cross shrugged then got pulled away by an officer who needed his permission to let the ex-wife go home. Alone with his thoughts, Garth Bryce stepped back to watch the CSIs scurry around looking for the smallest minute detail. His own eyes scanned the room hoping something would just jump out and solve this whole fucking mess; he spat a curse when he came up empty.

There just had to be more, but where?

I heard it on FOX 5’s five o’clock news from an apartment across the street from the law office; there’s been another murder. It doesn’t take me long to wrap up my work – I have to be on the streets. It’s time to be more aggressive. Unfortunately, I don’t really have a lot to go on just a hunch based on the style of the executions so I think it’s time I pay my friend in the NYPD a little visit. I hope he’s receptive to me; it’s been a long time since ‘we’ talked.

The wind is cold tonight. I lick my cracked lips to moisten them, but they’re robbed dry before I even complete the act. Sometimes I wish my skin weren’t as sensitive to light and heat. Like right now I can ‘feel’ the sun finish setting just from what’s exposed around my mouth. The sun’s been setting earlier and earlier as the day’s pass. What little comfort I draw from it narrows with its disappearance, but the costume manages to save what little warmth I gain and cuts the wind remarkably well making it tolerable for me in this harsh season.

Josie’s Bar & Grill
Just off South St. by the Brooklyn Bridge

Richard Fisk looked at his drink in the large frosted beer stein and the thick foam topping the dark amber Guinness, then to the table with the blurring hand movements of a lanky black man greatly exaggerating one of his failed schemes, loudly, and curse a certain scarlet swashbucklers name that thwarted him at the crucial last moment.

Even though indoor smoking had been banned in New York a thick gray fog swam through the bar, further hazing his already blurred vision. It didn’t help either that he wasn’t sure if his whole body was weaving, or if the Earth was suddenly made of elastic and stretched and wobbled on its own. Most bars would’ve been shut down in mere minutes, but even the Police knew better than to bother this secluded bar.

His hears were assaulted in a cacophony of sound, a dozen conversations clashed against each other like angry waves at high tide and blended together in a thunderous hum that fought a losing battle with the Pantera that screamed out of the speakers around the bar.

Richard’s murky brain couldn’t comprehend all the stimuli around him, reducing it to a dull roar that he tried to ignore. But something cut through the noise. Somebody right next to him yelled out a name…"Hey, Sammy!"

Richard swung his head around and saw three Sammy Silkes walk into the bar, bringing a brief cold breeze in behind him. He wasn’t sure which Sammy to focus on, as everything was in triplicate right now, but he reasonably settled on the one in the middle.

The son of the Kingpin never liked the arrogant fool and his swagger like he had the world by the balls. So he took a little pleasure in seeing that swagger had disappeared as he cradled the giant white cast that cocooned over his right hand. It had filtered its way through the tangled web of the underworld about how his father felt the need to teach Sammy a lesson in manners. It was a lesson that Richard too would like to teach the snot.

"Jesus," Sammy’s friend started, "the ‘fat man’ definitely did a number on you."

Sammy dropped onto the barstool and accepted the shot Josie slid in front of him. "Fuck that fat fuckin’ cocksucker. He’s gonna get his one o’ these days, bet on it." The Goldschläger stung his throat and burned down his esophagus on its journey to the stomach.

Richard knew Sammy couldn’t be that stupid to threaten Wilson in front of his son, so he had to assume the broken handed fool simply didn’t notice him. Of course, as he thought about it, hardly anybody here probably noticed him anymore since he was about as regular here as the fat disgusting owner. He spied a glance at Josie; she smiled at him revealing yellow stained graying teeth.

"So, c’mon tell me, what the fuck did you do to get Fisk all pissed off?"

Silke slammed the shot glass onto the countertop. "Not a fuckin’ thing. All I did was tell him about the problems Dan Davis is havin’ with the apartments and how I wanted to lean on Matt Murdock to get him to drop this lawsuit," he angered when his friend chuckled. "What the fuck is so amusing eh?"

"You threatened Murdock? Jesus Christ, you can’t be that fuckin’ clueless…"

The cocky mobster leaned close to his friend and hissed through clenched teeth. "You better tell me what you’re talking about, or I’ll jam this fuckin’ shot glass down your fuckin’ throat."

"Holy shit, you really don’t know? You’re gonna get a kick outta this bro, but we can’t talk here…C’mon, let’s go inta Josie’s office."

Richard watched the two out of the corner of his eye leave the bar. He slowly spun on his stool to follow them off to the back of the bar to have their conversation in secret. Fisk already knew what the topic would be about, and he feared the leverage it could give Sammy. Right then Richard knew he would have to watch Silke closely.

Garth Bryce found himself roaming his modest apartment, in the dark, mentally avoiding every object committed to memory. The apartment felt like a jungle, which at this time of the season was better than freezing, but with the sweat pouring off of him it was impossible to get comfortable. He silently cursed at the broken thermostat, the repair form was filled out months ago, but the landlord hadn’t obviously come around to fix it. Of course, this is what I get for living on a police salary in a shitty apartment.

A sudden tapping at the window made the burly man jump, almost high enough to bounce his head off of the ceiling. The captain wasn’t afraid though; he knew exactly who was tapping at his window in the middle of the night.

"Daredevil," he said as he slid open the window, a cold breeze snuck in and washed over his near naked body like a wave crashing on the beach. "Well, come in before I die from frostbite."

Garth moved back to give Daredevil some room to maneuver and slid the window shut behind him. Daredevil was about to say something, but Bryce interrupted. "Yeah, yeah. I know; you knew I was awake."

"How’s the investigation going?" Daredevil could tell from the captain’s body language that the answer wasn’t going to be a positive one.

Garth didn’t realize how tired he felt until he thought about the case and he tried to physically wipe the sleep from his face with a hand. "Honestly? Like shit. Aside from Vanini we can’t get the FBI to turn over their files on the other three men. I can’t find enough of a trail to go on, and I can’t figure out this guy’s next move. I’m in a standstill."

"I know. By the time I try to track the trail it gets cold quick. What do you know?"

"Not much, just their connections to the mob. I can’t figure it out. None of these guys were real soldiers, mainly just scam artists, bookies or money runners. None of them ever killed anybody," Bryce motioned to the kitchen. "Can I get you a cup of coffee or anything? It’s gotta be freezing out there in that leotard."

Daredevil smiled and shook his head. "It’s actually a lot warmer than it looks."

The captain returned to the topic. "Otherwise, I know that all four victims were assassinated with a shotgun blast to the face. Very close range. It’s not a whole lot to go with."

"Actually, that could be enough," the crimson vigilante replied. "Have you ever heard of J.R. Walker, Junior?" Garth said he didn’t. "He’s a hired gun more commonly known as ‘Shotgun’. J.R. has a hard-on for shotguns – the bigger the better – and he’s not known for his subtly. These style executions fit his personality perfectly. If I had to offer up a guess that’d be my best."

Garth nodded. "I’ll look into his record when I get to the station house tomorrow morning. If he really is a hired gun we still don’t know who’s pulling the strings. But, it’s the first real lead I have."

The shadows around Daredevil grew blacker. Garth hoped it was something like the moon getting covered by clouds. "I’ll keep on the streets. I may have a lead or two to follow on my own."

Bryce turned around to find a notepad on his coffee table. "Gimme the names so I can follow up with them later." A cold breeze cut through the apartment. Garth turned back sharply to find his window open and Daredevil gone. "Son of a bitch!"

Franklin Nelson, or ‘Foggy’ as I like to call him – though he’s far from what his nickname suggests – is my oldest and closest friend and has amazingly stuck with me through all the bullshit when I needed him the most. Asking for nothing in return. I hate burdening him with all the real work – like meeting a client late tonight in my place – while I masquerade at night as Daredevil. As of late I don’t think he minds covering for me. It helps take his mind of the downward spiral his life is in. I just wish he didn’t have to, but he takes it all in stride.

I don’t really know how I ever got by all those years before he knew my identity. Foggy was always a quarter step away from finding out, but his ignorance kept him blind – for a lack of a better word. He was understandably hurt that I didn’t tell him sooner, and yet he rebounded great and now that he does know he’s been a great ally, even going as far to nearly getting himself killed in my defense.

Peter Parker, the Fantastic Four, even the Black Widow and Elektra can ever come close to what Foggy means to me. I don’t know if I ever told him that. Sometimes I just assume he’ll know.

The Plaza
Fifth Avenue At Central Park South

His chest swelled under his double-breasted suit and deflated as a heavy sigh escaped through a split in his lips. Chubby fingers cut thick streaks through condensation as they spun a glass around on a damp cocktail napkin. The clear amber liquid of the Long Island Iced Tea swirled around carrying in the whirlpool current ice cubes that softly clinked against the glass in their short travels.

Franklin Nelson stared down at his second drink of the night in the luxurious bar of New York’s most swank hotels wondering why the Hell he decided to stay here. Normally Foggy would never recreationally hang out in places like this, but he decided to stay after finishing with a client that had flown in from California and wished to meet down off the lobby of his hotel.

Something inside Foggy just didn’t want to go home. Maybe it was to feel a little human contact outside of professional interaction with people other than the jerks he dealt with on a regular basis. Maybe Foggy even liked the smooth jazz that was being played live behind him on the other side of the room. In truth Foggy simply didn’t wish to sit alone in his apartment and fall asleep in front of the TV in the middle of Letterman like he had since the day he was released from prison and left abandoned by his girlfriend Liz Allen.

On second thought maybe abandoned was too strong of a word. Foggy understood completely why she left: he had cheated on her. Regardless if the murder charge was dropped he couldn’t deny that he had slept with another woman. But, he couldn’t help but feel how he felt.

Foggy smiled sardonically despite his mood as he thought about how he had the world by the balls professionally as a part of an extremely successful law firm, but his personal world was entirely composed of shit. How could a person be so smart in the complex art of law, but handle personal matters with the grace of a monkey that’s too preoccupied masturbating with a finger jammed in its asshole?

Foggy expelled another heavy sigh. Life sucks.

A lithe petite blonde – with tits two sizes larger than what her frame should reasonably produce – slid onto the barstool next to the lawyer. Her short black dress showed off a healthy amount of cleavage that could lock any hot-blooded man in a trance and clung loosely to her body with spaghetti straps that slung over her slender milky white shoulders. She folded her leg over the other and Foggy could have sworn the tip of her high heel shoe brushed against his calf.

He thought about how much he’d love to tickle the back of her knee with his tongue but he ignored her and took a sip from his drink. That was something Liz liked done.

The girl looked at Foggy – he’d be damned if she was a day over twenty-two – and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. She slightly resembled Britney Spears. "So, are you gonna buy me a drink or am I gonna have to die of thirst?"

Foggy couldn’t believe she actually spoke to him, but he motioned his hand to the bartender granting permission and she promptly ordered a cherry cosmopolitan. The girl slid closer to him allowing him to smell her Victoria Secret bodyspray that smelled, to Foggy, a lot like Grape Nerds. "I’m sorry if I’m buggin’ you, but I couldn’t help but notice how sad you look. I figured you could use a little company. Had a bad day?"

Again Foggy found himself chuckle when there was nothing to find humorous in his life. "You could say it’s been a bad year."

She pulled a twenty out of her small red Louis Vuitton purse, slid it on the wooden bar as the drink slid to her and then took a sip from the cosmo and nodded her head in approval.

"I thought I was covering that?"

"Trust me, if I’m right, then the last thing you need is to be wasting your money buying strange women drinks," she replied with a wink then extended a small hand. "Danielle."

"Well, now you’re not a stranger," Foggy smiled as he took her hand into his. The touch of her flesh sent sparks up his arm. "My name’s Franklin."

Danielle turned on her stool and shifted her legs. Foggy tried desperately to look like he didn’t take a peak between her legs – he felt his prick flutter when he saw her black panties – but his eyes lingered for a fraction of a second too long. If the girl noticed she didn’t lead on about it. "So, Frank, tell me a little about yourself. What do you do?"

Foggy took a sip from his Long Island to help settle his nerves. "I, uh, I’m a lawyer. That’s why I’m here tonight. Had to meet a client."

Her left, thin, eyebrow arched. "Really, well I may need some legal counsel. I’ve haven’t exactly been a law-abiding citizen." Danielle laughed then took another sip from her cosmo.

The minutes flew by, turning into hours that passed just as quickly. Two Long Islands turned into five, and with every Long Island drank Foggy’s hand would climb higher up the girl’s leg. He couldn’t remember the last time he had such a good time, and honestly he didn’t even give it a first thought. Instead, he just ordered another round of drinks and inched his hand further.

Daredevil carved his way through the city to the outer fringe of Manhattan near Brooklyn. He sprinted across a rooftop, images formed in his mind from all around him: clotheslines, exhaust pipes, satellite dishes, TV antennas, the plane flying overhead at seven-hundred feet and the couple fifty feet away engaging in intimate relations under the stars, to describe it the least.

He blushed, only for a moment, as he felt like he was invading their privacy, but they would never know the devil was among them as he leapt over the ledge and into the gulf between another apartment. Daredevil fell head first, his arms tight against his body, then he twisted in the air to bring his feet beneath him and he landed perfectly in a crouched position on the tarpaper rooftop of a shorter building.

Daredevil stopped and listened to the night. Just for tonight he wished the killer would be in his territory, giving Matthew all the rights to bring the pain. Below him the world opened up, rats scratching against garbage cans, cats fighting each other, parties carrying on obnoxiously to the dismay of neighbors, couples engaged in heated arguments over unpaid bills, infidelity and other things only couples could complain about.

A feeling of nostalgia waved over Matthew as he realized how much he even missed arguing with Karen, feeling the warmth flush to her cheeks, the beating of her heart increasing…

"Oh man, I’s gunna be sssick," one of four men said, his speech slurred and his walking staggered as he almost tripped over a fire hydrant.

"Shit dawg, you fuckin’ drank the bar dry!" replied another that Daredevil didn’t recognize, but he did recognize the stench that only Josie’s Bar and Grill could have and the distinct heartbeat of the third man.

"You ain’t got nuthin’ on me though, an’ I kin still walk," he said as he spun around and looked at his three friends. "You all abuncha pussies. Why, I’ve bin known to kick the devil’s ass with a bottle an’ halfa Jack in me!" he bragged, then he noticed his friends had stopped walking and were all open jawed in shock. That’s when he saw the shadow projected from behind him, and the two tiny horns on the apparition’s head. "Awe sheit…"

Daredevil swung down and grabbed the man with one arm under his arms. "Hello Turk. Long time. Let’s chat." Daredevil carried him as the thirty foot long cable of his club swung him upwards and deposited them on another rooftop. "How’s life?"

Turk Barrett fell to the ground, freed from the hero’s clutches. He crawled backwards quickly; his breathing and heartbeat grew erratic. "I didn’t do nuthin’! I swear!" he screamed.

Turk’s heart skipped a beat and Daredevil reached down with both hands, grabbed the pathetic thug by the front of his jacket, and lifted him up and over the edge of the rooftop like he was nothing. "I don’t have time for your games, Turk! Tell me everything you know about this mob killer!" His frustration, and built-up anger all came to full force through Matt’s voice and snarling lips. "Is it Shotgun?!"

Sure, Turk had been in this very same scenario over a dozen times at the hands of the devil, and Turk definitely wasn’t afraid of the vigilante, but the alcohol he consumed was what caused him to sweat and shake – at least that’s what he would tell himself later as an excuse for his sudden release of bladder control. "Really, I don’t know nuthin’! I haven’t talked to tha Kingpin in years! Seriously, if I knew anything about tha killa I’d gladly tell you!" he shrieked.

Matt swore as Turk’s heartbeat remained consistent, if not rapid. He was telling the truth. Could this really be purely random? Daredevil hated the thought, because that meant there was no trail to follow. "I’ll be watching you, Turk," Daredevil sneered, and disappeared into the night moments later.

The shaking man looked down at his stained pants and swore.

The door swung open and she led the man into the room; the lights were already on. Foggy shut the door with his foot, as his hands were busy grabbing Danielle and pressing her against his own hungry, craving body. His tongue pressed against hers and hers against his as they explored each other’s mouth. She pulled away with his bottom lip firm between her teeth until it reached its elastic limit and slapped back to his face.

His hand snaked along her neck, down her exposed cleavage then along the silky black dress, following the curve of her right breast as he grabbed a handful of perfect fake pleasure. Likewise her hand tightly gripped the throbbing rod in his pants and, with a smile, she said, "Three hundred and you’ll have the night of your life. Wanna make tonight special baby?"

Without so much of a thought to the contrary Foggy reached for his wallet and spoke through a haze of alcohol and lust. He felt like there was a demon inside ready to burst loose and sexually ravage the girl. "You’re damned right I do, Liz."

Danielle’s fingers caressed her shoulders as she slid the spaghetti straps of the dress down to her elbows. She paused. "Um, my name’s Danielle."

Foggy pulled three one-hundred-dollar bills from his wallet and fanned them in his fingers in front of her face. "No, tonight your name is Liz."

‘Liz’ looked Foggy in the eye and then licked her lips seductively as she reached for the money. The dress slipped effortlessly off her body. Foggy stood transfixed at the naked beauty until she grabbed him by the belt and dragged him to the bed.

To Be Continued…

AUTHOR'S NOTE

You’re probably wondering what the Hell is going on. I hope this is enough to answer that. I already had a story in mind that I wanted to tell when I proposed Daredevil to Dino. This arc is practically the reason why I returned to Daredevil after I quit the title when I wrote it for Marvel Anthology over a year ago. I felt it would have been unfair to J.R.’s work to practically undo everything he did simply to get the characters back that I needed – Sammy Silke not included. So, I decided to place this arc before J.R.’s arc.

The benefits to this were numerous. It allowed me to play with the Kingpin one more time, I could abuse Sammy Silke one more time, position a few key people where I wanted them, and I could give J.R’s arc a proper set up. I read his proposal and I saw his intent to build up his arc, and I am kinda lost to why he didn’t, because now his arc simply looks like a Bendis rip-off when it really wasn’t intended to be. Sammy’s motivation to overthrow the Kingpin wasn’t explored, how he came across Daredevil’s identity wasn’t explored, and there wasn’t enough Wilson. I don’t know if it was my place to fill in the blanks, but I felt it was necessary to give J.R.’s arc the proper set up to give it a different flavor, and in turn when I continue from his issues my work benefits from that.

I look forward to bringing some good things to Daredevil and to work and have fun with the staff here at Marvel Omega.