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
SCENE FIFTEEN:
A man runs down a dark alley in De Wallen in the midst of Amsterdam. He shoves several tourists and gawkers staring at whores peddling their wares under glass out of the way as he runs through the red light district, he is frantic running from an unseen terror. He crosses a small arched bridge over a canal as the camera pans down to the water we see the refection of a large dreadlocked black man walk calmly across the bridge. The running man hides in a nook between sex shops catching his breath. Finally he darts to a green door a few shops down and after fumbling and dropping his keys he’s is able to unlock it.
He is alone in a tiny foyer at the foot of a very narrow and steep staircase atop which is a floor to ceiling arched window and two doors flanking the landing. The sound of loud music thumps from the strip club next door. He drags up the steps exhausted and slides a key into the door on the right unlocking it. No sooner has he done this than the left door swings open and we see the a hand holding a Striker Street Sweeper barely two feet long with its massive barrel magazine rise and fire low into the man’s back with a deafening report in the enclosed space. A jet of blood strikes the window as the force of the impact knocks the small man through his door breaking the frame. The dreadlocked man we saw earlier steps calmly across the breach and into the opposite apartment.
The small man is dragging himself across the floor, the top of his left buttocks and hip are ripped apart exposing the stark white of his shattered hip bone, a massive swath of blood leaves a crimson wake behind him. The black man walks calmly around to his left side. The wounded man haplessly pulls a switchblade. The larger man stomps down on his wrist with steel toed boots. The massive foot covers the little mans wrist and hand completely sickeningly cracking the bones underfoot. The man screams out in agony.
Shotgun:
Ah ah. We don’t need that.
(He squats down over the man, tapping his shoulder with the barrel of the shotgun.)
All this can be over Aafke.
Aafke:
Je dom zwarte kut, zuig mijn ballen!
Shotgun:
You know I don’t speak Dutch that well, but I know that wasn’t helpful. Let’s try that again or I’m gonna’ have to start cutting things off you’d rather keep.
(He draws a ten inch blade from behind his back.)
Aafke:
Prima! Crazy klootzak. What the [frick] do you want?
Shotgun:
Just think of me as the finder of lost children. I’m looking for a girl.
Aafke:
Ik ken veel van de meisjes.
Shotgun:
I’m sure you do. But this girl was special. See her daddy is one of those hard ass Yardie Jamaican/Brit mother[frick]ers. His little girl came here for some exposure to your fine Dutch culture and found herself in De Wallen. Next thing you know her little friend comes running back home to Stonebridge screaming to Mister Hard Assed Yardie saying some smarmy little bitch named Aafke got them [frick]ed up on hash and next thing she knows she wakes up in an alley with her panties around her ankles and a bloody asshole, and Mister Hard Assed Yardie’s little girl is gone. Then said Yardie puts the call out for a professional to find his little girl. So I fly my ass all the way from Thailand to London then Amsterdam and start asking around. Turns out there’s this little asshole also named Aafke, lives right here in this flat has a bad habit of taking advantage of innocent little college girls. Not only that, I find out this little mother[frick]er, Aafke, sometimes sells these girls off to some African and Middle Eastern slaver [frick]ers. Then I find out he tried to pawn this hot little mixed number to some shady African mother[frick]ers, but they said no ‘cause they wanted something a little more exotic for them. Then I hear that this littler shit eater, Aafke, might just have gotten angry about that. That Aafke might have hurt this girl. So why don’t you tell me Aafke… Any of this sound familiar?
Aafke:
I don’t know what the [frick] you’re talking about.
Shotgun:
No?
(He slams the blade down through Aafke’s shoulder precisely at the joint; we hear the muted pop as it dislocates the arm on the way through.)
Don’t [frick]in’ sit there and lie to me, man!
Where is she?!
Aafke:
You’ll kill me.
Shotgun:
Aafke, Ima’ kill you regardless. The only thing you got control of right now is how much pain you’re going to experience before you die. And I’ll be honest Aafke, I can make you feel some pain. Pain so bad you’ll beg me to shove Mister Striker here right up your ass and pull the trigger to end it. Do you want to go through that Aafke? You want to test me?
(He twists the blade.)
Aafke:
No! No, [frick]ing no. Nee aub. Kunt u gewoon ... gewoon stoppen. Ik sloeg haar. Ik sloeg haar te veel.
Shotgun:
There you go with that Dutch shit again!
Aafke:
I beat her! I was angry, I couldn’t get my drugs. I... I beat her too much. She... She die. She started shaking and sh... she just die. I drove her body out to the shore, rented boat. I wrapped her in the anchor and I tossed her in sea. I... I...
Shotgun:
Done [frick]ed up. You done [frick]ed up. Well. Mister Hard Assed Yardie said anything happen to his girl, I had to kill the mother[frick]er done it. Sorry Aafke.
With that Shotgun stands and sheaths his knife, he then draws a Polaroid camera and takes a photograph of the prone and dying man as he aims the Striker at him. Aafke can only lower his head to the floor in bleak resignation of what is to come next. Shotgun levels the gun at the weeping man’s head and fires a burst of three double aught buck shells into it. He then takes one last photo of the man; his head has been reduced to a smear of greasy matter, slashed blood, and skull fragments as the blood pours from his headless body. He lays the shotgun and blade on a nearby table. He then withdraws a tape recorder and preposted envelope, he ejects the tape from the recorder and drops the tape and photos inside the manila parcel and licks it closed. He pockets it and walks out onto the landing and back into the booming music from the club. As he starts down the steps he notices the latch being jiggled on the door to the street. Calmly, he turns around and walks back into the apartment on the left from which he launched his attack on the Dutchman.
Once inside the apartment he eases the door closed and stares through the small peep hole. We see the wall-eyed image of a Dutch policeman walk up to the open apartment door opposite Shotgun’s position. The man recoils in horror at the sight that greets him. He pulls his Walther P5 and quickly pears into the studio apartment seeing no one he holsters his weapon and nearly stumbles back onto the landing. After a brief second to holster his weapon and he composes himself. He begins to head for the stairs when he notices the door frame of the neighboring apartment is cracked and the door ever so slightly ajar. He looks to the peephole and sees a dark form move away behind it allowing the light to shine through. The member of the Politie eases toward the door. Without warning the door is hurled open before the officer can draw his pistol. Shotgun grabs the much smaller man turning him around and wrapping his forearm under the man’s chin and placing the other hand behind his head hefts him off the ground. With one quick jerk the policeman’s neck cracks in three places. Shotgun tosses the body into the apartment and closes the door.
He then calmly walks down the stairs and out of the building, after a dozen blocks he comes across a mail drop. He stops for a moment and calmly checks the postage before casually scribbling an address in Stonebridge, London on the envelope and dropping it in the slot. With that he strolls out of the seedy underbelly of the De Wallen just as the cold winter dawn breaks over the De Waag gate house in Nieuwmarkt Square . A ringing comes from his coat pocket and he pauses to answer his massive eighties vintage brick.
Shotgun:
Shotgun. Frank Castle? Yeah, I know him. I’ll jump the next flight to Kennedy; have someone meet me there, and Rabbit; this is going to cost. You feel me?(He clicks off the phone) Time to put the old man down.
SCENE SIXTEEN:
At his brownstone John James Toomey is in a near panic. He is tossing clothes into a suitcase.
Mrs. Toomey:
John James you’re scaring me!
Toomey:
Shut up Shonda, just shut the [frick] up. We gotta go.
Mrs. Toomey:
John James stop this. What happened?
(She gently clasps both hands around his face pulling his gaze to meet hers. He begins to calm down.)
Toomey:
Elvin is dead. We… It was business. We were meeting a man, one of the Colombians, and the Punisher came. He hit us the other night; tonight he came for us. My baby brother’s dead, baby. Cut him in two. This man ain’t gonna stop. He ain’t gonna stop ‘till he kills me.
Mrs. Toomey:
John James, I ain’t never asked you what you do; I’ve never had to. I know same as everyone else who and what you are. I know what you’ve built. I know what you’ve done for this family. For me. You are a king, baby. You own this town. You can’t let some crazy white boy take that from you. You can’t just run. That ain’t you. You are John James [frick]in’ Toomey. You don’t fear nobody. You don’t run and I won’t let you. Now stop this craziness. Face this man. You face him and you kill him. If you don’t, you aren’t half the man I thought. He killed your brother, you gonna let him get away with that?
Toomey:
This man, baby… this man he’s more than I can deal with. I knew one day he’d come for us. One day we’d catch his eye and he would come. I’ve had nightmares about him for years. I dread this man baby.
Mrs. Toomey:
He ain’t nothing, but a man. A man can die; he can die like any other. This is about more than you and this business; it’s about your family. What you do means our children get more than this. More than we had. They’ll have more chances than we had. You run and how are you going to provide for them? What are you gonna do? You are who you are. This mother[frick]er won’t take this future away from our family. Now what are you going to do?
Toomey:
Sandoval. I got to call Sandoval and get some people…
The phone rings causing Toomey to nearly jump out of his skin. The couple looks at each other as if to debate what to do. Finally after a beat Toomey picks up the receiver.
Toomey:
Hello?
Conejo:
Mister Toomey?
Toomey:
Yes.
Conejo:
Mister Toomey, Senior Sandoval sends his condolences to you in regards to your brother. He wanted you to know that he in no way holds you responsible for what transpired this evening. He wanted me to inform you that he has arranged accommodations for you and your family at a secure location, our men will be outside to collect you all shortly. Mister Sandoval wishes for you to assist some of his associates that will be arriving tomorrow. Will you do this?
Toomey:
I will. Yes.
Conejo:
Very good. Mister Sandoval will be pleased. Our people, they are outside now. It is best to move quickly.
The line clicks off. Toomey, H&K P7 in hand stealthily peers around the curtains. On the street are three car loads of Hispanic men and a large seemingly armored van.
Toomey:
Our ride’s here get the kids.
SCENE SEVENTEEN:
By the time Frank gets off the 4 Train at the 167th Street platform his arm is dripping blood down his left hand into a puddle at his feet nearly a foot and a half in diameter. He exits the train and nearly stumbles down the stairs from the elevated platform.
PWJ:
There is a reason my safe houses are near the subway. Nights like this when somebody nicks something major with a stray pellet of buckshot. I’d have passed out if I’d had to drive it. Lucky for me a guy bleeding on the subway doesn’t attract a lot of attention once you pass 110th or I might have been in trouble. Even the transit cops get off at 125th. Toomey had too many eyes on the streets in Brooklyn after Calvary Heights, that and concern over Soap’s mystery man ran me here to the South Bronx. Good thing, I would have never made it all the way to Brooklyn like this.
(Frank enters his safe house after disabling his door trap, this time a claymore fitted with an improvised container of shredded tire chips rather than the standard ball bearings. He makes it to into the apartment and closes the door behind him when his legs give out.)
Frank hefts himself into the bathroom, which as usual he keeps as the most sanitary part of his flop allowing it to double as his personal operating theater. He pulls an extendable mirror into position revealing his wound in the double reflection in the main mirror. There are three entrance wounds just below his left elbow. He swigs orange juice in an effort to keep his sugar up and keep himself from passing out. He injects the area with Lidocaine, and spays it down with iodine. He opens the wound track with a scalpel just enough to see the lead shot deeply embedded through the muscle. He winces as the cut exceeds the level of tissue deadened by the local anesthetic.
PWJ:
A local anesthetic is all I can afford at this point, morphine will put me down with my blood loss. If I go down without fixing this first I might not get up. Stupid way to die; bled out from an elbow wound.
Frank takes a length of rubber tubing and ties off his arm just above the elbow, cinching it tight by grasping an end in his teeth. He then reaches for a set of alligator clamps soaking in an alcohol/iodine solution. With them he reaches into the wound track and excises the buck shot from the two wounds bleeding the least. Before removing the third pellet from the wound, from which blood is flowing more constantly in rhythm with his heartbeats, he grabs a small clamp and sets it aside on a sterile pad. He extracts the shot and the blood jets from the wound. He reaches in and clamps the nicked medial antebrachial vein closed, staunching the blood. At last he grabs a stitching kit from his medical supplies and sews the vein and wounds shut before releasing the tourniquet. The roughly stitched area oozes, but the blood flow is greatly reduced. He field dresses the arm.
He is near passing out now, woozy from his blood loss he stagers to his kitchen and withdraws two pints of O negative blood and saline which he hooks to an IV tree in the bathroom. Finally he grabs a handful of pain killers and antibiotics from his medicine cabinet and chews them before swigging more juice. He then inserts an IV into his arm and sets the drip. Lying down in the empty tub, he places his .45 in his right hand before passing out cold.
SCENE EIGHTTEEN:
Morning dawns a few hours later. Soap leaves his apartment cautiously still on edge after his late night conversation with “Agent Jameson.” He keeps his hand in his coat pocket, grasping his .38 Detective’s Special as he rides the subway to One Police Plaza for a meeting with the Chief of Detectives, as is always the case in the wake of a mass Punisher slaying. He nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears the voice he has come to know well rasp softly from behind him.
Micro:
Listen to me. I’m making arrangements for you to get the hell out of Dodge. Do you know what “Un hombre muerto del partido” means?
Soap:
I don’t speak Spanish.
Micro:
“A Dead Man’s Party;” it’s a short hand term the cartels use when they order reprisal on a person that has severely pissed them off. They call it that because everyone the dead man knows is invited to the party, everybody dies; his family, friends, business associates, you name it. Anyone he knows gets to join him in the hereafter. I intercepted that order in an electronic transmission on a mercenary recruitment board last night, not one [frick]in’ hour, after Frank took out the Cartel’s people. It listed a bounty of two million dollars for Frank, a quarter million each for his associates. When these people come for Frank they will come for everyone he's linked with.
Soap:
(Staring straight ahead almost afraid to look at the man; he glances at the reflection of the pair in the subway car’s window. It is the same man he bumped into on the 78th precinct's stairs, now wearing shades, and a Mets cap, but the same man without a doubt. He eyes the reflection throughout the conversation.)
Nobody knows I work with…
Micro:
They will find out. They will find out and quick. You had a tail this morning you didn’t even see. I cracked him over the head with a black jack on the station stairs while you were waiting on the train. He had a Colombian passport. Don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re some master of espionage. If I can track down proof that you and Castle are working together so can they. It’s all in the timing of your accessing records and logs. You pull records on someone a few days later Frank hits them, just like with Herrera. Herrera will be the main tip off to them. When I come to you to run, you do it. No questions just go. Get me?
Soap:
Yeah. What about Frank?
Micro:
I’ll deal with him. Just cover your own ass. Is there anyone else that Frank uses for info on a regular basis? Anyone that's known on the streets to help him?
Soap:
Charlene. She’s a hooker works out of Bed-Stuy and Red Hook mostly. Frank has taken out a few of her pimps and rough johns over the years. He met her back when he first started; he thought she’d be safe if people knew she was protected. He’s learned better since then. She’s the only person I can think of that people would know about, but no one [frick]s with her.
Micro:
Not anymore. Soap…You just missed your stop.
Soap:
Shit.