Punisher

Frank Castle doesn't kick the door in. He's already inside when the lights come on. That's this bag. Tan and olive desert canvas, the skull staring back at you with bullet holes where the eyes should be, black graffiti dripping across it like spray paint on a body bag. This isn't the bag that talks. This is the one your opponent sees on the table during warmups and quietly recalculates his life.

Five-nine hybrid. Slick face for the surgical slide — runner past traffic, target acquired, gone. Grey carpet on the flip — block the lane, hang a roll on the lip, sit on the hole and dare him to move you. One hand holds the rifle, the other holds the suppressor. You decide which side is the bad news depending on what he left you.

You knew this day was coming. Throw the skull.