Daily, the scythe of corruption makes its mark across the face of America, leaving deep scars in the lives of its victims. Untreated, they fester and grow into the diseases of fear, uncertainty and hopelessness. Unaided, the law is blinded by bureaucracy and bound to a justice bent toward the protection even of the criminal. The face of a kinder and gentler nation is destroyed, carved into a harlequin's mask; a grim skull. And the wielders of the scythe laugh, secure in the knowledge that their crimes will go without punishment. They are wrong. In the urban jungle, there is one who stands alone and apart; one who lives not for the law, but only to see justice done. The Punisher reaps a different harvest. Once, he was Frank Castle, loving husband and father. A tour in Vietnam had shown him what war was. Part of him died there, but a precious part stayed alive, determined to return to the family he loved, and the peace and freedom that was his America. Part of him held on to live, until his family died in a hail of mob gunfire, victims of the wrong place and wrong time. Daily, criminals greedily cut their portions from the souls of the weak and weary, the foolish and the frightened. One man senses how the guilty feed like parasites on the heart of the American Dream. One man hears when evil laughs at the law. One man sees clearly that the most powerful criminals have placed themselves above the law. One man has become their judge, their jury. One man has become their Punisher.