The story so far:
Nero's PUNISHER: DEAD MAN'S PARTY casting and preview
http://www.comicbookmovie.com/fan_fic/news/?a=26270
Nero's PUNISHER: DEAD MAN'S PARTY vol. one
http://www.comicbookmovie.com/fan_fic/news/?a=26463
Nero's PUNISHER: DEAD MAN'S PARTY vol. two
http://www.comicbookmovie.com/fan_fic/news/?a=26790
Nero’s PUNISHER: DEAD MAN’S PARTY vol. three
http://www.comicbookmovie.com/fan_fic/news/?a=27092
Nero’s PUNISHER: DEAD MAN’S PARTY vol. four
http://www.comicbookmovie.com/fan_fic/news/?a=27483
Nero’s PUNISHER: DEAD MAN’S PARTY vol. five
http://www.comicbookmovie.com/fan_fic/news/?a=28144
SCENE NINETEEN:
A Bell 222 rotors in for a landing on a palatial estate in Westchester a fine powder of snow blows about as a lone figure awaits its arrival standing still as stone. He is a tiny man, only five feet five, dressed in a very light trench coat and clothing a wispy silk scarf blows violently in the down draft. He is swarthy with black hair swept back worn long almost mullet-like. Dark wrap around shades cover his eyes. The door opens and the killer we met in Amsterdam emerges. He is built like a brick shithouse, near six and a half feet tall, shoulders wide enough to fill a doorway, hands that could crush a man’s skull. His face is weathered and freckled; his heavy dreadlocks lash the air as they are whipped about in the downdraft. He wears a bulky leather coat and aviators.
Conejo:
Welcome Mister Walker. Or do you prefer “Shotgun” these days?
Shotgun:
Rabbit, you call me whatever you like. I don’t give a shit long as I get paid.
Conejo:
Come. The others are here already.
Inside the manor the two men amble around the study. Shotgun stops at the small executive bar examining the fine liquors there, choosing bourbon. He raises the decanter to inquire if Conejo would be interested the small man waves him off preferring instead to partake in a cigar.
Toomey sits staring into the fire, ignoring both of them. Two other men sit in a far corner speaking in Spanish. Shotgun glances in their direction with a hint of disgust in his eyes. Conejo picks up on the tension.
After a moment their host breaks the ice.
Conejo:
(He waves his cigar toward the small assembly of killers) As I understand it you know this Punisher, Mister Walker.
Shotgun:
A long time ago.
At this Toomey turns his head.
Conejo:
You served together in Vietnam, yes?
Shotgun:
His second tour, my first.
Conejo:
He is as deadly as they say?
Shotgun:
When I knew him he’d just received a battlefield commission as a second LT, the boy was born again hard. I was just assigned to a recon team in the delta, summer of 69. We ran missions up and down the lines, crossing into Laos and Cambodia. Most of our missions were tasked by CIA; doing wet work for the man. If Castle’s marines showed up you could kiss your ass goodbye, we killed damn near everything they put in front of us. The brass gauged success in ‘Nam by body count, not like they had any way else to measure; the [frick]ed up way they ran that shit. From June of ‘69 to late April of ’70 we were the most successful mother[frick]ers they’d ever seen.
Shit like that will change a man, it did me, but hat much killin’ just seemed to feed Castle. There is something dark in the man. Add that to the fact the man has nine years of constant combat experience from his own private war under his belt now. He’s gonna be a formidable mother[frick]er.
Toomey:
Were you friends?
Shotgun:
HA! Frank Castle doesn’t have friends. He was always a little psycho, you ask me. He has people he speaks to and those he doesn’t. That’s about as close as you get to the man. He did speak to me. It’s like he would try to speak just to give off the face of still being human, something he did because normal humans did it, but the eyes never had a spark. He was never connected, only going through the motions. Even when he talked about his wife and little girl, his boy on the way, there were smiles, but nothing behind the eyes. You ask me, Frank Castle had a hole in the center of him. I seen a lot of men like that over the years, but he stuck with me.
Ramirez:
I hear admiration in your voice.
(Ramirez: An average looking Hispanic man in every respect until you look into his eyes; there is a sinister quality there, a slyness of smile and darkness of aura that show through. The very air around him bristles with an unease when he locks eyes with you.)
Shotgun:
Man’s stupid that don’t admire something more savage than himself, even stupider if he don’t fear it a little.
Conejo:
I suppose introductions are in order. Shotgun let me introduce you to Juan Sanchez Ramirez; he is a close friend Mister Sandoval. He’s a veteran of Argentina’s Guerra Sucia. There is no one better in the field of abductions and silencing of undesirables.
To your left is Wilhelm Krieger, former member of the East German Stasi. He is a man of few words, but extremely efficiant at what he does.
Toomey:
Why does he do this, Walker?
Shotgun:
Man kills the people who murdered his family, that’s righteous anger. Hell that’s justice in my book. Man continues for a while, killing evil men, that’s justifiable anger working itself out. Man continues for a decade? I get paid to draw down on mother[frick]ers. I do it because I like the money. Frank Castle does it for the blood. He loves it. By now he might even need it. Why the [frick] else would he take on you people?
Conejo:
Stupidity?
Shotgun:
Challenge. He’s [frick]ed up homeboys and mobsters for years, he’s [frick]in’ bored, but you… you represent something he needs. A worthy opponent. He needs that feeling of drowning, of being up against something greater than himself again. He’s a junkie. He needs his war like a dope fiend needs his fix, but after a while the fiend needs more and more to feed the itch. Eventually you got to move on to something stronger.
Ramirez:
Mister Toomey, you survived a meeting with this man.
Toomey:
He missed was all. I had my brother's guts all over me and I just ran.
(Toomey stares into his drink ashamed.)
I ran away while he slaughtered a dozen of the cartel's men and my own brother.
The gathered men’s demeanor changes toward Toomey with this show of awkwardness and fear. He is not like them.
Krieger:
Dieser mann ist ein tiger.
Shotgun:
Ordinarily I work alone, but, if you gentlemen agree, I think we should pool our efforts on this one.
Krieger:
Ja, Herr Walker. Ich denke, wir sollten zusammenarbeiten, dieses eine Mal.
Ramirez:
I have no objections to an even split with anyone left alive at the end of this.
Conejo:
It’s settled then. Over the last twenty-four hours our spies have been digging for any information on associates of Frank Castle. It's a short list to say the least. Gentlemen, here is your first target. You start tonight.
SCENE TWENTY:
Night in Red Hook. Charlene emerges from an alley walking wobbly in thigh high stiletto boots gargling Listerine, a cigarette in one hand and the Listerine bottle in the other. A john bashfully walks out behind her and cuts away quickly.
Charlene:
(Gargles and spits the mouthwash.) Jesus, d’you just eat [frick]ing asparagus? (Spits again) Christ!
Micro approaches carefully.
Micro:
Charlene Templeton?
Charlene:
Who the [frick]’er you and how do you know my last name. You look too pussy to be vice.
Micro:
My name is Li… Call me Larry. I’m a friend of Frank Castle’s.
Charlene:
Friend? Didn’t know he had those.
Micro:
We may not have a lot of time here, so I’ll be blunt. Charlene you are in danger.
Charlene:
(Smiles and laughs at the sound of the statement.) Oh, you’re cute. How am I “in danger,” exactly?
Micro:
Frank pissed off some serious people. Very serious people.
Charlene:
That Colombian dude he whacked, you mean.
Micro:
Have you ever heard the term : Un hombre muerto del partido, “A Dead Man’s Party?”
Charlene:
No. How do you throw a party for a dead man? A wake?
Micro:
It’s a term the Medellin Cartel uses when they order a hit on someone, a special kind of hit. They call it a dead man’s party, because all the people he knows are invited. Everyone he is associated with, family, business partners, lovers, friends… hookers that feed him information. All of them have a price put on their head.
Charlene:
You’re [frick]ing kidding me. You’re [frick]ing kidding! I [frick]ing knew it. Goddamnit. I knew letting that sonovabitch…. Shit. SHIT!
Pimp:
Yo, bitch!
Charlene:
Shut the [frick] up Wayne! Castle will be by in a minute.
The pimp goes pale and looks around nervously. He then duffs his collar and starts edging himself down the block.
Micro:
Can you get out of town? Can you run? And when I say run, I mean change cities change names. Dye you hair, everything.
Charlene:
I got six thousand saved. An’ I can’t just leave, you know. I got… I got stuff here. I got…
Micro:
Crack or death. You stay for the easy access to your shit and supply, or you run and just suck it up go through withdrawal and lay it down, because if you run and you get popped in Sandusky, Ohio or Fargo, North Dakota for a procession or prostitution wrap next month, next year, maybe even five years from now… These people will find you. They will be on you before you can walk out of county lockup and they… will… kill… you.
Tears well in Charlene’s eyes.
Charlene:
I… What do I do? Where do I go?
Micro:
Here. (He hands her a manila envelope) There is twenty thousand in there. Take it. Take it and just go. Head out west somewhere. Get clean and just start over. Go now, Charlene.
Charlene:
Okay, okay. Okay.
She turns, shaking and starts walking. Micro turns and heads for the alley Charlene just came from. He gets to the shadows and watches her wander away. After a moment he is about to walk away when a van drives passed. The door opens half way down the block.
Micro:
No. No.
Two men jump out and proceed to grab Charlene. She starts screaming and fighting. Micro looks left and right trying to decide what to do. Finally he squares his shoulders and comes out of the alley at a run heading down the block towards the van.
Micro:
Hey! Hey! Leave that woman alone! Leave her alone!!
(Micro makes it to the group and lays hands on Krieger.)
Micro:
Let her go, damnit!
Krieger wheels on him and chops him across the throat with the edge of his hand. Micro goes down hard gasping for breath.
Shotgun steps out of the van. He levels a Mossberg 500 Bullpup at Micro’s head. Micro looks up in fear. Staring down the huge 12 gauge bore.
Shotgun:
You got a problem fat man?
Micro:
N-no. No problem.
Shotgun:
You gonna try an’ be a hero?
Micro:
No.
Shotgun:
No, what?
Micro:
No, sir.
Shotgun:
Who is this bitch to you, fat man?
Micro:
Sh-she…
Charlene:
He’s one of my regulars. Larry, go on, hun. I’m just going to see about these guys and I’ll see you t-tomorrow. Okay?
Shotgun:
Yeah, we’re just gonna have us a little party is all. You got a problem with that?
Micro:
No. (He looks at Charlene, pleadingly. She smiles through tears. She lets the envelope drop to the snowy street unnoticed by her abductors.)
Charlene:
You’re cute, hun. Always trying to be my knight in shining armor. Go on, now.
Shotgun:
Do what the lady says, Larry. Run on home.
Charlene nods to him mouthing the words “Thank you.” He can only nod back. Choking back tears of rage at his failure. Finally, after a moment he turns and walks away. He begins to cry at his feelings of cowardice.
Charlene:
(Looking to the men around her, her face stained with mascara.) No need to be rough boys. Charlene can take all of you at once if you like, but it’ll cost extra.
She climbs into the back of the van with Ramirez and Krieger. Shotgun watches Micro for a moment suspiciously before getting into the front passenger seat. The van speeds away rounding the corner onto Beard Street.
Micro turns watching the brake lights as they round the corner. He wipes his face on his sleeve. He walks back to the site of the abduction and picks up the envelope and then wanders away defeated.
SCENE TWENTY-ONE:
The phone rings at Soap’s desk. He snatches it up half way through the first ring.
Micro:
Go to the pay phone across the street and call me back at this number…
Soap writes it down on a scrap of paper.
Cut to the pay phone outside the diner. Soap holds the paper in his shaking hands as he hastily dials the number.
Soap:
Well?
Micro:
They took her. Right in front of me. They took her.
Soap:
Goddamn. Are you sure it was….
Micro:
I’m staring at one of them on an Interpol file right now, German hitter named Wilhelm Krieger. He is a former East German Stasi death squader, defected in 80 and then disappeared to go freelance soon after. These are hired guns, at least three of them.
Soap:
What do we do?
Micro:
It’s time for you to get the hell out of here. Stay by a phone. I’ll have everything you need arranged by this time tomorrow. Have you heard from Frank?
Soap:
No. He changed safe houses before his move on the cartel; he hasn’t notified me yet where to meet. He's supposed to contact me this morning.
Micro:
I'll track him down my way. He’s gotta know what’s going on. Charlene’s not going to know much so they’re going to make you the next in line to pump for info.
Soap:
Why are you so sure they’d be willing to kill a cop? This isn’t Colombia, it’s going to bring on a world of shit if they make a play for me.
Micro:
Soap, they don’t care. What does heat mean to Sandoval? No one’s going to march down to Colombia and arrest the man for killing even a US cop. Besides, they can always say Frank did it. Laughable, no offense, as your efforts may be to catch him; to Joe Q Public they’d believe Castle would kill you if you got too close. Besides man, its already public knowledge that you’ve been warned according to your own statements in the press after the Cavella thing the other year. No, you’ve got to clear out.
Soap:
Fine.
Micro:
Stay at the precinct until I contact you.
SCENE TWENTY-TWO
A shaft of light shines through the only window pane left unblackened in the bathroom of Frank’s safe house bathroom. The beam finds its way to Frank’s face as he lays in the tub. He stirs and moves stiffly. His IVs having long since run dry he pulls the needles from his arm and looks over the injuries he sustained the evening before.
Frank leans over the sink and vomits, looking at his reflection in the mirror.
Frank:
Jesus.
(Frank's voice over narration):
Punisher War Journal: January 25, 1985
Like Indy says, “it’s not the years; it’s the mileage.” A thirty-five year old will in a body that feels sixty at the moment. Taking too many hits. How long can I continue this war?
(Frank checks is watch, 8:58 AM.)
Passed out for nearly thirty-six hours. Time wasted.
On the street we see Frank amble up to a pay phone. He is still obviously weak; he dials an all too familiar number.
Soap is waiting near the phone booth across from the precinct. He pushes a bum out of the way as he tries to answer the ringing phone.
Soap:
Yeah?
Frank:
Any news on the cartel’s response?
Soap:
Hitters arrived yesterday. The cartel has put a price on your head and everyone associated with you. And Frank, they… they took Charlene last night.
We see Frank’s lips tighten at the news his eyes narrow.
Soap:
Our mystery friend says he saw three men snatch her up after he tried to slip her cash to run. They didn’t make him, but she’s gone. I didn’t have a way to reach you to let you know sooner.
Frank:
(Coldly) She’s dead by now, or wishing she was anyway. Soap, you need to…
Soap:
I’m waiting on the call now from the guy. He’s arranging a way for me to weasel out of this. I guess this will be our last hurrah, huh?
Frank:
Yeah. No need for you to come back after this. It’ll never be safe for you now.
Soap:
Yeah, well… I didn’t like my old life much anyway. Maybe the new one will work out better, you know. Maybe I could go into porn or something.
(He tries a half hearted laugh, but is met with only silence over the line.)
Look, Frank, it’s been an adventure. You did some good, you know that right. We did some good, maybe. I don’t know. In the big scheme of things I guess we didn’t make a dent, but…
Frank:
It is what it is.
Soap:
Yeah.
Frank:
Do you trust this guy?
Soap:
Oddly enough, I do. I don’t know why, but I think he’s here to help Frank. Hell, he’s gotten some good shit for us. Give him a chance. You… You don’t need to do this solo. You need people Frank. You need something to ground you. Remember that. I know I’ve been more trouble than help sometimes, but you can’t do this alone. Work with the guy will ya?
Frank:
I’ll think about it.
Soap:
Frank, you take care, huh?
Frank:
You too, Soap.
Soap hangs up first. He looks up and down the block before crossing the street. A fresh snow begins to fall as he pulls up his collar. Just as he enters the lobby a hand tugs on his arm, he glances over jumpily coming face to face with the man he had bumped into on that same stairway several weeks before.
Micro:
Hiya, Detective.
Soap:
Do you have everything?
Micro:
Yeah, take me to your office and I’ll give you the run down.
SCENE TWENTY-THREE
A slew of papers and IDs are lain out in an array on Soap’s desk. Micro hands each item to him as he explains its purpose before Soap slides them into his well worn briefcase.
Micro:
Ticket: one way to Heathrow, new passport and ID, once there you use this key to access locker 1741. A second ticket, key, and passport will be waiting for you there to Istanbul. Dispose of your current fake passport and go back through customs and board as your new self. Repeat the process twice at Madrid and backtrack to Toronto and your final flight will take you to Sydney. Once there you hop a prebooked ship bound for Fiji.
Soap:
I always wanted to go to Fiji.
Micro:
I hope so, because you are going to be living there for the next five years at least.
Soap:
Great, but how do I pay for this? I didn’t cash out my accounts since you said not to, but…
Micro:
But eleven thou and some change aren’t gonna last long.
Soap:
You check my bank balance? How…
Micro:
Ever heard of computers? Let’s just say I never met one I couldn’t hack into, okay?
Soap:
What like that movie? The one with the kid and the nukes and…
Micro:
(Sigh) Sure, War Games. I saw it too. Focus.
Soap:
Sorry.
Micro:
This… (He hands over a slip of paper) is something you’re not gonna want to lose. This is the account number for Marco Sapone’s holdings at Island’s Bank, main branch in Suva.
Soap:
Sapone?
Micro:
Cute, huh? It’s Soap in Italian. (Silence) Well, I thought it was funny. Anyway, consider it your severance package. I won’t say you’ll be filthy stinking rich, but on Fiji you definitely won’t have to work for the next twenty years at the current exchange rate.
Soap:
What? How much are….
Micro:
Two million.
Soap:
WHAT?!
Micro:
What not enough cause I can wire….
Soap:
No, Jesus Christ, that’s fine. Where the hell does that money come from?
Micro:
Some is from me and the rest from organizations, crooked ones, mind you. Mafia laundering accounts that I found through records searches, confiscated drug funds I leached out of the DEA’s over inflated budget, little o’ this, little o’ that. Point is no one is going to come looking for it because no one even knows it’s gone and will never trace it; I’m a hell of a launderer myself.
Soap:
Two million, though it’s…
Micro:
It’s what you deserve. So take it. Fifteen years on the force. Six years helping Castle. I think you’ve earned this. Look, whatever you do hang on to this paper, got it? (Hands over an envelope) Here is five grand for traveling money. If you miss a flight this should be enough to get you to Sydney. I wrote the number of each locker inside it in sequence. Heathrow, Istanbul, Madrid,
Toronto, Sydney.
Soap:
Got it.
Micro:
(Checking watch) 10:03. Your flight leaves at 2:30 from JFK. You’re going to walk out of this office and go to lunch and Sergeant Martin Soap will simply disappear off the face of the planet. You live down the block, right? Go home and pack a carry on bag, nothing bigger. Arrange a cab from here and just go.
Soap:
Okay. I got no family. Really don’t have friends outside of Frank and he’s well… He’s Frank, you know, so that’s a one sided thing. Funny, how having no life can make it so easy to walk away.
Micro:
So go get a life. Stop bitching and start over. Consider it a gift from Castle.
With that the two men shake hands and Micro leaves. Soap hurriedly gathers his identity and ticket. Once outside he takes out his wallet and stares at his New York state driver’s license and police ID and shield for a moment. He tosses the wallet into the trash can. He lingers a moment before tossing the shield. With that done he opens the new wallet Micro left him. “Lucas Kale,” it reads.
SCENE TWENTY-FOUR:
Establishing shot over a dilapidated warehouse complex in Queens.
We hear muffled shouts and voices. We break into a shot of the interior. Charlene sits nude and bound to a chair alone in the center of a cavernous dark room. The only light comes from a large hole in the aluminum roof above. Snow flurries waft down dancing in and out of the column of light. As we tighten on Charlene we see she is freezing, her face having taken on a pale bluish color, we see several of her toes and the tip of her nose have gone black with frostbite. She and the chair have been doused with water for hours by the look of it. Ice cycles hang from the chair and a large puddle has frozen on the floor around her. She shivers violently, her hair appears icy.
Shotgun:
(His voice echoes in the unseen chamber) You don’t owe him anything.
Charlene:
No shit! But it doesn’t mean I know where he is! He finds me, goddamnit!
Shotgun:
And you don’t know of anyone else he works with? Be honest now. I don’t think you want me to let Krieger get back to work yet, do you?
We hear a small chuckle of Krieger’s come from somewhere in the darkness and the sound of water filling a bucket. Charlene’s eyes dart to and fro in search of its source.
Charlene:
The only people he ever mentioned to me were these Iranian folks, the Kassini or Kennsani! Please! Please don’t [frick]in’ splash me again. Please, please, please. I’m so [frick]in’ cold please, no. (Weeping uncontrollably)
Toomey:
The Kessani’s, lived on Fulton. Whole family was wiped out by a junkie.
Charlene:
Y-Yeah, Castle said they had a little clinic. Said I could go there if I was ever hurt or sick. Said to tell the guy I knew him and he’d help me, no charge.
Toomey:
Best I can figure that’s what started all this shit off. Some [frick]in’ crackhead kills these people; Castle tracks him back to one of my flops down the way and kills everybody. It was so minor I didn’t even hear about it until I started poking around looking for the trigger for Castle to come for me the way Conejo suggested. It wasn’t the first time he’d hit my shit or my people, but it was the first of this series.
Shotgun:
Frank was always protective of his pet people.
Ramirez:
What about this Soap? He's working with Castle according to Conejo's information.
Shotgun:
I think it’s a foregone conclusion. It’s too much of a coincidence that he has DEA release info on Herrera and then two days later he’s hit. Same with you and yours, Toomey. Soap pulls your files after the Kessani murders on New Year’s and Castle starts hittin’ your organization. Somewhere along the line Frank flipped him and he started doling out information.
Toomey:
Punisher buy him off?
Ramirez:
Unless he’s keeping it in an overseas account, no.
Shotgun:
Ideological convergence. He agrees that some mother[frick]ers just need to get dealt with.
Toomey:
Like my brother. I want to be the one to kill this mother[frick]er. He rolled the dime on us and my baby brother gets blown in half. Dirty-ass cop deserves what’s coming.
Shotgun:
No Toomey, you head back to the estate. Last thing Sandoval or Conejo are gonna want is their distributer busted for killin’ a cop. There’s no need for further interrogations like this.
Ramirez:
Agreed. Castle tells no one anymore than they need to know. Soap will know nothing more than a general outline of his activities and will certainly not be privilege to Castle’s whereabouts beyond some dead drops or phone contacts. He’ll know we’re here by now; he’ll cut contact with Soap, at least meeting him face to face. Castle is too smart to put them both in our sights.
Shotgun:
He’s betting we wouldn’t hit a cop. If the two don’t get in the same room together then its not worth the heat to him.
Toomey:
So in other words we just kill the mother[frick]er to send Castle another “[frick] you?”
Shotgun:
Sounds good to me. I [frick]in’ hate cops.
Charlene:
What about me? Can I go now, please? I- I don’t know anything else. Please…. Please I’m cold. Please?
Ramirez:
Krieger, set her free.
The camera pulls back to show Charlene again in full view bound in the light.
Charlene:
Thank you. Thank…
Krieger’s arm suddenly juts into the light to the left of Charlene, a Berretta in hand. Before she can finisher her statement he fires a single round through her head. She jerks violently tipping over. She lays there unmoving, eyes wide open, a steaming pool of blood forming about her frozen hair.
Shotgun:
Let’s get on with it. Toss her in the van; dump her back where we grabbed her. More fuel for the fire if he knows she’s dead. We can’t find Castle like this. He’s not going to tell anybody where he is, but we know where he is going to be. Toomey, you’re sure Herrera mentioned the shipment before Castle burst in at the hotel.
Toomey:
Positive.
Shotgun:
Then we clean house and just let the sumbitch come to us.