"MLPunisher."

“MLPunisher”
LAX, officially known as the Los Angeles International Airport, is a major travel destination that teaches – and reminds - a person how nice it is to home and how much travel is unnatural and dangerous. Between losing bags, employees having no accountability by passing it upward right out of the airport, and long lines, the place itself is awful. It smells of bad food left out for too long an even longer time ago and people. It sells unneeded products at unnecessarily high prices. Then comes the plane itself. The prospect of being trapped on pain of death or severe injury, in that order, with strangers all around you should terrify anyone, however social at cocktail parties. There are a litany of horrors: crying children whose mother believe that simply because they painfully birthed them, the rest of the people they happen to be near must silently suffer their inaction, all while occupying the entire flight staff short of the pilot and co pilot, falling bags out of an adventure film trap catalogue, and food that may well be the last you ever eat. As a result, many foreigners get the idea that America is a cold, terrible place equal to hell itself.
But Frank Castle knew about hell, although he had only ever travelled by plane once, and it was from a military base, not an airport. He had served in a war that, of his entire unit and its enemies in the infamous Vietnam War, he alone had survived. He had done it as much of his life had been since: with a gun in his hand. The type, caliber, and other aspects changed based on the situation. Frank was tactical in every way: everything he owned was something you would buy at a survival store, but many of the firearms, explosives, and other clearly dangerous components and items. He lived in the sewer in a camp reached only through an elaborate series of twists of turns you could only get lost in if you were already terribly lost beyond any recognition. He was only at LAX, or out during the day at all, since he had come to prefer night because of his war experience, to track a target. His family had been killed by a criminal lord, now, like so many others, dead because of a violent and perhaps creative end, for witnessing a crime. After that point, Frank’s only cause for living was to prevent it. Only then could he sleep.
The target in question was a Chinese crime lord who had inherited his father’s empire of exploitation. Broken down into parts, they were drugs, intimidation, murder, rape, prostitution, and human and other smuggling. This was not to question, however, his ability or desire to make money any way he could or just do anything at all. He was just that kind of guy. His name was hard to pin down, but usually given as Sun-Tzu Chanzan Tang, an allusion to the famed military leader and writer. It was more a brand and self image than an actual fact, but he wished much that it could be as absolute as Frank Castle’s had become.
While that was his given name, he was known, by his own force of will, as the Punisher, and he just that extra legally. His equally famous clothing was an all black pair of combat boots, pants, and sleeveless Kevlar vest marked with a menacing white skull. He also owned a van, called the “battle van,” that had been developed by Micro, a technological genius who supplied Frank most everything else. It had a full degree of overpowering weaponry, including rockets.
That, though, was not what he was wearing or driving today. He had a dumpy minivan to avoid attention and store weapons, and he a business casual suit with simple, solid geometric designs. He had also shaved, an uncommon event to disguise himself, as he was now a wanted man. He sat in his car, watching from the top level of the parking structure, with high powered binoculars trained on the Chinese gang leader. He would die tonight.
However, that was about to diverted. The leader was a dabbler in magic, not because of any belief, but merely out of self obsession and boredom. He had already conquered so much that there was little left to look forward to. His endless pursuit had left him with nothing.
His daughter was being educated in one of the best private schools in America, and she had learned about a popular fad there. It was actually a revival of a children’s, specifically girl’s, show about very strange ponies who trumpeted personal achievement and growth. It had been recreated to much fanfare and led to the rise of “bronies,” or young males who attached to the show as readily, or even more so, as the intended audience. Her conversations had become filled with references to strange names like Rainbow Dash, and she had gotten a multitude of brightly colored horses unlike any from real life. Strangest of all was their individual marks on their back legs in human made shapes. He was confounded.
Frank had no patience for such silly stuff. He was a killing machine, breed and to the grave, with hundreds of murders to his name. But even he was surprised when a spell the criminal overlord had cast the previous night in a high end hotel room failed.
It had been to summon demons to his aid from a hellish realm. He had entertained the notion that he could use Cerberus. While this seemed absurd, and probably was, it was an advanced spell, and he was curious. If it failed, he figured, it would not be the first time, and he could always try it again. He was, after all, largely unsuccessful in his magic pursuits. This time, however, the spell horribly misfired, bringing about a terrible horror.
Amid the chaos of bags moving and being checked in, cabs and other cars pulling up, and other activity, a blue orb appeared, making an echoing metallic sound as it did. People stood back from it, uneasy, and a guard called for aid, unsure of what to do. Frank watched with concern as six beings emerged, initially cloaked in dark blue shadow. The crime lord recognized them immediately. He had seen them before, but never this large and real. He was in both terror and awe, only able to tell his two lanky bodyguards in pristine black suits, “Car! Now!”
The beings were known among bronies as the “mane 6.” Their names, respectively, were Rainbow Dash, a blue pony, Applejack, an orange pony, Twilight Sparkle, a purple pony, Pinkie Pie, a pink pony, Fluttershy, a yellow pony, and Rarity, a white pony. As soon as the mysterious energy dissipated, people fled, the terror present in both feeling and the air itself.
Frank put his glasses down and said seriously, “Ponies…my god.” He walked resolutely to the car and turned the key, driving down. He found people, in their terror, including his target, were fleeing, and was glad for his timing. He was also glad to see the booth was overrun, leaving him free to leave. He drove straight towards the divide and over with several bumps, the guns clanking in the back. He stopped in a wide turn on the sidewalk by the wall, immediately reaching back for the shoulder straps of them all at once. Due to habit, he was able to quickly change into his usual clothes and put the guns across him, holding a 9mm handgun. Its ammunition was hollow point, but he wasn’t thinking of that. The horror of the ponies still occupied him in a monolithic fashion, driving all other feelings other than sheer instinct, built up over years to the point it was done without thinking.
The ponies were shocked at the where they were and the reaction they gartered, looking around in a confused manner. Pinkie Pie and Applejack, however, had no time before two bangs emerged from the back of the van, flying in straight orange flashes. They fell, dead, as Frank aimed again, but now the other four were alerted and charged.
Frank was now unsure, possibly for the first time ever. He always knew what to do, but he was still not sure if any of this was actually happening. However, he rolled as Fluttershy drew near in a rush, with the four others on the other side of her. He jumped up, vaulting off her while throwing a grenade he dropped in the center. They looked at it, more confused than ever, put it was too late. It went off in a flash he only avoided by jumping over a service desk that half shattered with a boom that seemed like it should have broken the sound barrier. When the air cleared, people came out from inside, curious, and saw what remained of the four. The already dead two were in pieces. A police cruiser pulled up, forcing Frank to run to the van and make a sharp u turn, hitting the divider and damaging both the area around and just above the tire and leaving long, jagged black marks on the curb. The officer did not even have time to restart his car. He wondered what to do, but slumped against his car, shocked. He had seen every crime over fifteen years, but he was in a state of shock he had never known, and would never know again.
“Ponies...my god...why?” He asked nobody and everybody at once.