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
SCENE SEVEN:
Daylight, it’s a blustery early January day in Brooklyn. Frank walks up the block seemingly unnoticed by the johns trying to pick up a lunchtime quickie on this run down street backed up against a burnt out apartment block. Homeless argue under a cardboard covered bus stop, its glass long since shattered by vandals. They quiet down as Frank approaches, recognizing him at a glance. Frank sits down beside a haggard looking whore, she is rail thin and her lips are burnt in the tale tell lesions of a crack addict. She rubs one foot, her thigh high boot kicked off and her dingy sock laid on the bench beside her. She wears a ratty faux leopard skin coat, and a pair of fuzzy black ear muffs streaked with suspicious matted white stains.
Castle sits down next to her. She grunts in acknowledgement and scoots over a bit.
Frank:
When did you get hooked, Charlene?
Charlene:
Last summer. You haven’t been around much lately. The crack rock… it’s cheaper than the powder, you know. I’m not getting any younger so the tricks aren’t coming in like they used to. When you hit a certain age it’s hard to hook up with the guys that like to party, you know. The free supply kind of dries up.
Frank:
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Charlene:
[frick]in’ A.
Frank:
What do you know about John James Toomey? Ever heard the name?
Charlene:
No. I heard o’ Elvin Toomey. He used to pimp in the Stuy. Beat the shit out of his girls. Too stupid to realize tricks don’t want a bruised up whore. Hard to suck a dick effectively with a fat lip, you know.
Frank:
Seemed like the type. John is his brother.
Charlene:
Sorry, hun. I got nothin’. Hey, you know you and me could walk over in the old projects there. I mean you never have asked, but you know I’m kinda hurtin’ right now. Do us both a favor, you know?
Frank stares at her for a long moment. His eyes cutting through her. She seems almost hurt by the rebuff. He gets up to walk away.
Charlene:
Hey! What about my fee?
Frank:
You didn’t give me anything.
Charlene:
Never stopped you before.
Frank:
You wouldn’t have smoked it before.
Charlene:
[frick] you, Castle!
Frank:
Not in this lifetime.
Charlene:
(Getting in his face.)
So I suck a dick and take it up the ass from time to time, you [frick]in’ murder people. Who the [frick]‘re you to judge me? You get off on it don’t you? Huh? Kill a couple’a wops or jigs gets you hot? Gets you hard? [frick]in’ sicko! Give me the [frick]in’ money, Castle!
Pimp:
(Zipping up his fly from taking a piss in the ruined hulk of the apartment block.)
Hey! You hastlin’ my bitches, freak? Yeah, you, ya Herman Munster lookin’ mother…
Frank shots the man at ten yards, the impact snaps his head back tipping the RUN DMC imitation hat and shades off his head as his brains erupt from the fist sized exit wound in his skull. Several johns speed off in their cars or on foot at the sight. Frank continues to stare down at Charlene. She stares back angrily, her face lined and eyes sunken.
Frank:
Take your fee off him, before your sisters in cum snatch up everything from his track suit to his sneakers to trade for rock.
Frank finally turns and walks away as Charlene rushes, one shoed, to the mob of hookers gathered around the pimp’s body, she swings her loose boot to gain the upper hand in the fracas. Frank looks back over his shoulder.
PWJ:
Sometimes you just expect too much of people.
Back at the 78th precinct Soap sits nervously smoking a cigarette at his desk whilst staring at the phone. When it rings he snatches it up.
Soap:
Soap. Yeah, Agent Jameson? I wanted to talk to you about why you were in my office copying my files this morning. I want to see the paperwork saying you get to dig through my shit! I don’t give a shit. Now you listen to me you… You weren’t in my office. What do you mean you were in federal court? Who the hell am I? I’m the head of the Punisher Task Force, that’s who the hell I… Well, if it wasn’t you who the hell was… I… Look you don’t have to get personal. No. No… But, I… Well, we don’t need to get the Chief of Detectives… Okay. I’m sorry. You happy? Bye, then.
(Slams the phone down)
Asshole.
So who the [frick] has been in my office?…
The intercom buzzes. The desk sergeant, Lenny’s, voice crackles over the link.
Sergeant:
Hey Soap, a package just arrived for you.
Soap:
Who from?
Sergeant:
Don’t say, a currier just dropped it off.
Soap returns to his office a few moments later carrying the bundle, a long architectural tube full of documents. He lays them across his desk. There are property records and tax forms, blue prints and schematics, as well as several photos of ranking Toomey lieutenants that Soap through his research had never seen linked to the organization before. He roots through the mass of information for a moment before finding a hand scrawled note on a stick’em note.
Soap:
The hell is this?
The note reads: “It was a pleasure finally bumping into you, Detective. These may be of help to your friend. Pass it on. – Your Friendly Neighborhood Concerned Citizen.”
Soap:
Who the [frick] is this guy?
SCENE EIGHT:
Frank sits on a rooftop covered in a poncho, still as stone, staring through a starlight scoped rifle at street pushers openly selling their goods. A cold rain is falling, turning to ice as it drips from the rooftops, but business is barely slowed. The crack heads are as diligent as the postman in their pursuit of rock.
PWJ:
(As Frank narrates we see a montage of the events he describes, the ebb and flow of the drugs and money. Background [[soundtrack: Eric Clapton’s Cocaine]])
Punisher War Journal: January 11, 1985
A week in and I’ve figured out the train. Toomey really does seem to get a cut out of three quarters of the business in Bed-Stuy and at least half of the take in Brownsville’s projects. His pushers sell the rock and powder. Holders idle with the pushers, usually two per dealer. They divide the cash between them so if some ambitious crackhead wants to hold them up at least half the cash can get away. Soldiers guard the pushers and the holders, usually within ear shot if one gets robbed. Some have been packing some serious firepower. Three days ago I watched one pull a twelve gauge street sweeper and nearly tear some ghoul in half for pulling a rusty old Saturday night special on a dealer. The sergeants drive around and make the pickups from the holders and drop off fresh product to the dealers. They have traveling protection too, usually two or more thugs with guns in the car with them. The ghetto version of an armored car. The sergeants then take the cash back to the counting houses run by Toomey’s lieutenants. Most counting houses are in brownstones and projects where Toomey has bought up a building or two. Some I could walk in and out of with all the cash I wanted and six or seven corpses in my wake, some would be a complete suicide run. I haven't ID'd the processing and production facility yet. Following the sergeants is easy, tracking them back to the source is the hard part. Toomey, himself, never makes an appearance at any place drugs are present. All business is carried out in person at offsite safe areas like the tenement in the south Bronx. He doesn’t use the phone to do business at all, I've got nothing on the tap I put on his phone. The man has a healthy dose of paranoia, I’ll give him that.
The major questions I have left are who Toomey is dealing with in Colombia and how he managed to cut out the middle men in the trafficking game. Where the drugs are arriving and how the [frick] is he smuggling them in?
Frank adjusts his poncho and looks around briefly. He notices the outline of a man several rooftops over. He keeps the man in his peripheral vision as he as he slowly hefts his rifle. In a flash he whips the weapon around. Through the sights he catches a glimpse of the figure; heavy set, wearing a hooded jacket, the man is holding binoculars looking directly at Frank’s position. The figure realizing he has been made freezes like a deer in headlights for a moment before running to the roof’s stairwell entrance and disappearing.
Frank:
What the [frick]?
Frank rushes down the fire escape and into the alley way pulling a sawed off Ithica twelve gauge from his coat as he goes. He hears a car engine start in a vacant lot. He gets there in time to be confronted by oncoming headlights as he rounds the corner. He leaps back as the car speeds by. He hefts the shotgun and fires a round into the rear window shattering it. The car continues on, turning violently onto the street. Frank gathers his composure and shakes the water off of himself. He checks his head; it is bleeding after cracking it against the dumpster in his blind dodge.
The two Toomey soldiers from the near-by corner Frank had been surveilling emerge from around the side of the building looking for the origin of the gun fire.
Soldier:
What the [frick] are you doin’ shootin’ back here, cracker?
Frank frustrated, raises the shotgun and blasts them both twice in their chests. He walks towards his van a block over.
Morning; Soap is sitting at a diner. A pair of wet gloves flops down beside him droplets of water splash his eggs. Soap looks over annoyed and on the verge of telling off the rude patron when he realizes it is Frank. Standing there looking wet, cold and with a hastily applied butterfly clip on a still oozing gash on his forehead.
Soap:
Tough night?
Frank:
(Sitting down at the booth and waiving for the waitress)
Coffee, please. Black.
I need you to find out if the feds are looking into me.
Soap:
They’re not, I've got a friend at Justice who keeps me up on that. I asked about it the other day just to be sure.
Frank:
Not like you to be proactive. Something got you worried?
Soap:
I found out someone has been poking around in my confidential files and notes on you and on Toomey.
Frank:
(Looking genuinely alarmed)
When the hell did this happen?
Soap:
A few days ago. I almost caught the guy leaving one day. Don’t worry; I don’t keep any real info about you in the office, just in case I get a court order to open the files. I don't keep records on your actual location or contacts. It’s all psych profiles and bullshit. The case files on the murders are the only factual things in there all 972 of them.
Frank:
974 after last night. (The waitress brings his coffee) Thank you. I had a man checking me out during my recon last night. I need to know if I have eyes on me.
Soap:
Look, it was somebody that duplicated the ID of a fed named Jameson. He’s been in about a dozen times to raid the files. Fat bald guy with glasses, probably just some Punisher groupie wanting to check your stats, get a good look at all the gory details, you know. This guy was just a little more determined than most. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gotten requests for information from freaks. I get letters all the time from fans of yours. Hell, there’s even a priest in Spanish Harlem that keeps writing to tell me I’m going to hell for trying to keep you from doing “God’s work.”
Frank:
God’s got nothing to do with it. Fat guy on the roof might have been the same guy.
Soap:
Maybe, maybe not. So change safe houses again if you’re paranoid. This guy did leave us something juicy though.
Frank:
What do you mean he left “us” something?
Soap:
This came a few hours after I pegged the guy.
(Soap picks up the files, now in a sizeable folder.)
This, my friend, is serious shit on John James Toomey. Shell companies, properties owned by them, tax records, blue prints of every crash house, flop, tenement building, and brownstone Toomey has in Brooklyn. This is a road map to wreak havoc. Whoever this guy is I’ll give him credit; he seriously wants to help. I cross checked this stuff with records over the last week and it’s all legit.
Frank:
We don’t know who this guy is.
Soap:
He’s no fed or cop, of that I’m sure. I’ve got a good feeling about this Frank.
Frank:
You find out who this is.
Soap:
Are you going to move on Toomey soon if this pans out?
Frank:
Soon. I interrupt the distribution then the Colombians take note, whether they blame him or me doesn't matter. All that matters is that they get involved. Down there I've got no reach, no way to put them in the iron sights. Here; they're on my hunting grounds.
Soap:
Are you sure you’re ready for this? Local drug dealers, pimps, and perverts are one thing, but you go after the cartels and you’re going to have a war on your hands. These guys could throw the kitchen sink at you. They’ve got the funds to call in specialists. Don’t get me wrong. You can handle yourself, but these guys will have access to the baddest bastards coke money can buy.
Frank only stares ahead, sipping his coffee. His eyes say it all.
SCENE NINE:
[[The Calvary Heights Apartments (fictional) are a three story seven building housing project in Bed-Stuy. The layout is a basic U shape, three buildings on each side and a central building at the connection of the U with a long central courtyard and open end to the street.]]
A light layer of snow has fallen over the rain drenched courtyard making a slush cover the ground. Frank sits in a large truck equipped with a snow plow and a dumper bed that would ordinarily be filled with rock salt but is now empty save for two fifty-five gallon drums. The truck is parked half way down the street looking directly into the complex. He watches the comings and goings of the sergeants bringing in cash and leaving with fresh supplies of crack to deliver to the street dealers.
PWJ:
Punisher War Journal: January 15, 1985
That’s the ninth run of the evening. Soap’s source was dead on with the property records on the developments. This one came back to a shell company connected to Toomey. It’s on the public roles as closed to tenants for renovation and code compliance. I checked the place out last few nights. Not a single kid in the yard, not a single person coming or going aside from Toomey’s people. What’s more there isn’t a single pusher operating within three blocks. Toomey wants this place to draw no attention from anyone official. On streets where you can’t throw a rock without hitting a scumbag slinging crack, being devoid of activity draws the most attention for those with sense enough to look. The sergeants were the final tip off. The same assholes I’ve seen picking up the cash and dropping off the fresh supply to the pushers come and go from here for a ten block radius. This is one of Toomey’s distribution centers. In there they are cooking pure coke into crack and counting all the blood money funneled in from the street traffic.
(Frank starts the engine.)
The cash looks to be in the third building on the left. The drugs are in the very last building facing the courtyard. The third on the right looks to be a rest stop for the diligent cookers to flop in. The other buildings are vacant. It took me two days to think of the best way to approach this.
(He slips cotton balls in his ears then puts on a black motorcycle helmet with face shield.)
I needed to inflict maximum damage and take out the lab quickly. Disable the inhabitants in the other two buildings to allow me to get in and out. So how do you take out a building full of thugs and drug lab and knock the rest on their ass? Then I remembered watching a news story about the two year anniversary of the bombing of the Marine barracks in Lebanon. Sometimes serendipity lends a hand.
(He pulls slowly into the street, braces the wheel locking it into a straight line aimed at the far center building.
[[Sound Track: The opening notes of Jimi Hendrix "Voodoo Child" begin]]
He pulls back the action on a Walther MPL and then another. He revs the engine and then throws it into gear. Peddle to the floor. He wedges a broom handle into place keeping the gas pedal down.)
In the end it just took an afternoon drive into Amish country, a dozen bags of fertilizer, two fifty-five gallon drums, gas, cleaning solvent, a little over the counter tovex, and a half pound of primacord wired to a remote. I built the equivalent of a 500 pound air dropped munition for about $100.
[[Soundtrack: at 33 seconds in as harder riff starts as truck takes off]]
The truck hurtles down the street. As it bounds the curb Frank opens the door. With one last check of the wheel alignment he leaps out, rolling across the courtyard. Quickly getting to his feet and running for the sheltered side of the building closest to the street, detonator in hand.
The truck rumbles through the courtyard. Three guards out front are totally dumbfounded at what they are seeing and dive out of the way as the truck ramps up the steps of the central building of the complex. A forth guard comes out of the stairwell to see what is going on only to be confronted by the heavy plow smashes through the flimsy glass and metal entry before crunching to a stop in the lobby with the thug ground beneath it.
There is an odd moment of quiet as several of Toomey’s men emerge from the surrounding buildings and look out windows to see what the hell just happened. Frank gives it a fifteen count.
PWJ:
I love chemistry.
(He flips open the trigger guard on the detonator and depresses the button.)
The snow plow explodes in a violent near flameless blast totally shattering the first floor of the building and lifting the second and third floors a full twenty feet unto the air, the shock wave rushes out shattering windows for blocks and tearing those onlookers without cover to bits with debris of concrete, glass, and truck parts even before the fireball ignites from the atomized gas vapor lighting the falling superstructure aflame as it smashes down shattering to rubble. Frank quickly removes his helmet and readies the Walther MPLs akimbo. He is far more heavily armed and armored than we have seen him. Gone is his trench coat, he is is clad in black BDUs and a short leather coat with his death’s head ballistic vest worn over it. Atop that he is loaded for bear with full Vietnam era web gear including three grenades; a shoulder holstered .45 Colt and K-Bar. A SPAS-12 on his back is lashed to a bandoleer full of 32 round 9 millimeter magazines for the Walthers. A belt of spare 12 gauge shells around his waist. A thigh holster holds a second .45 and extra magazines. Frank runs along the back of the complex as the fire spreads across the gasoline soaked courtyard. Several men stumble from around the sides of the buildings they are missing limbs, some with horrible burns, or blood gushing from their eyes, nose, and ears. One man is fully engulfed in flames. Frank ignores them and runs for his objective.
He reaches the third building's stairwell emergency exit and tries to kick the door in, but it is well secured. He reaches into his pocket and removes a wad of plastique hammering it in three large wads against the door along the hinged side; he runs prima cord to the explosives and then pulls a tab fuse. He takes cover as the door blows inward. Frank dashes in running up the stairs. Frank hears voices coming from the third floor. Once he reaches the landing he puts his back to the wall and with one hand reaches over to open the door a crack. He counts at least ten people running around on the east side of the building mostly at the end of the corridor. The last two apartments appear to be the counting rooms. People are scurrying in and out, dropping duffle bags of cash into the hallway. One man grabs the first of the bags and begins heading towards Frank’s position.
It is now or never. Frank swings the door open and brings a Walther to the ready. The thug in the corridor has a heavy duffle in each hand and stops dead in his tracks as he sees Frank come through the door aiming a submachine gun at him.
Thug:
Aw, shit.
With that we go into slow motion as Frank opens fire. The thug is struck repeatedly in the chest falling like a rag doll.
A second thug hears the shots and grabs a Tec-9 from the table in front of him in the counting room, can see others across the hall in the next unit over doing the same. He takes position at the doorway and opens fire. Frank wheels to one side taking cover in the doorway of the first apartment on his right as three more of Toomey’s men open fire from the end of the hall. Frank senses movement in the apartment he has taken shelter in and turns in time to see a woman with a revolver take a shot at him from behind the bar in the kitchen. Her shot goes wide striking the door beside Frank’s shoulder as he opens up with a sustained burst from his submachine gun.
The kitchen erupts with impacts as rounds pour in. The woman is struck three then four times with a fifth round striking her in the head causing a spray of blood and pink mist to splash the cabinets. Frank quickly loads a new magazine into the weapon and, one handed, fires a volley down the hall. With his free hand he pulls a grenade from his web gear yanks the pin with his teeth and tosses it down the hall. There is a quick boom and a shower of plaster and money fluttering by the door.
Frank emerges holding both the Walthers akimbo, the corridor is silent. The blast has knocked the light fixtures askew on the ceiling and filled the hallway with smoke. Frank can see a severed lower leg in the middle of the hallway and a growing pool of blood creeping around the base of the door on the left. Moans are coming from the right. A hand emerges from the right side the leg’s owner is pulling himself towards his lost limb; his other leg has also been blown off. Frank lets him get a hold of it before he peppers his back with a short burst of 9 millimeter. Frank rounds the corner to the unit on the right; there are two thugs on the floor, both pockmarked by the grenades steel fragments. Frank dispatches them both in quick succession. Once the unit is cleared he moves to the one opposite. Laying directly inside the door a scumbag is laid out on his back, the upper right quarter of his skull is shattered and missing leaving him to lie in a massive pool of blood. His body still shutters with nerve impulses still firing unable to be processed by the devastated brain. Frank cautiously enters the main counting room. He then quickly clears the one bedroom unit. Frank reaches around to the small pack on his lower back and removes a small canteen filled with gasoline and splashes it about the room and the stacks of money. He then pulls a two pound brick of symtex from his cargo pocket on his left leg and wires it with a small remote detonator. He tosses it on top of the nearest gas soaked pile of cash. Frank grabs a duffle and begins to head out the door into the corridor when the hallway erupts in bullet strikes, and the staccato of AK fire.
The surviving members of the complex have been drawn by the gunfire and have set up a firing line at the end of the hall to await Frank’s appearance. Fortunately they were a little too eager. Frank crouches low and makes his way to the window; there are several armed men in the courtyard looking to his position. When they see Frank’s head they open fire. Bullets shatter the few remaining shards of glass in the panes and pelt the ceiling. The larger caliber rounds from the AK’s actually breach the cement walls.
Frank:
[frick]in’ stupid.
At that Frank notices a few rounds pass through the wall dividing the individual units seeing them to be thin Frank crawls across the floor to the far wall behind the small dining nook. He pulls is K-Bar digging it into the wall between the studs. He moves some loose wiring and repeats this on the next layer granting him access to the living area of the next unit.
Frank:
Gotta love substandard housing.
Once in the next unit Frank takes advantage of his unexpected proximity to the group of men amassed at the cross corridor and tosses a grenade their way. He waits for the detonation and then moves swiftly.
PWJ:
One thing they teach you in the Marine Corps is “Be aggressive” when faced with superior numbers respond with superior aggression. Break their will. Never stop moving forward. Throw up a wall of lead at an enemy not trained or ready for it and they will buckle. There is no retreat on a beachhead.
Many of the survivors are just getting to their feet or returning to their positions when Frank opens up with both Walthers. Two then three men go down before any of them can fire a single shot in retort. As the weapons expend their ammo he tosses one aside fluidly pulling the SPAS around with the free hand, he half pumps it locking the mechanism into auto mode then blasts away one handed, letting the remaining empty MPL drop on its lanyard he pulls one of his thigh mounted Colt with his left hand and opens fire. The thugs are beginning to fall back to the more open cross corridor using the stairway column as cover. Two pistol rounds hit Frank in the chest. He rewards the shooter with a burst of 12 gauge slug to the face at a range of five feet, shattering his head like a melon. As the SPAS empties Frank fires a shot at near point blank range into a creeps face with his Colt. The final hired gun runs out of ammo as his spray and pray tactics with his micro uzi result in a shot that clips Frank in the back of the leg as ricochets ping around the cinder block corridor like angry mosquitoes.
Frank, never stopping his advance, simply drops his empty Colt and flips his SPAS-12 Shotgun around grabbing it by its screamingly hot barrel and using the pistol grip as a mace, brings the gun around with a crushing blow to the man’s head. He quickly follows this up with several more until the shotgun’s grip is bloodied and broken. He tosses it aside. He takes a moment and reloads one of his MPLs, then picks up an AK from one of the dead men and replaces its magazine.
Frank limps over to the apartment facing the back of the complex from whence he entered. Two men are there with guns at the ready staring down the stair well’s missing exit door. Frank takes careful aim and then fires a burst through the broken window dropping both of them with the Kalashnikov. He then maneuvers back down the hall and hefts three duffels full of cash over his shoulder. He hurries down the stairwell halting at the door to check that the rout is clear. Backing away from the building, Frank watches the corners as he goes. He spots a figure step from around one side of the building. Castle drops the man before he can fire. The wounded man drags himself away as Frank edges into the tall grass of the overgrown lot behind the buildings. Once there he breaks into a labored run and hits the detonator exploding the charge he left in the counting room. The explosion blows a hole in the roof and ignites the gas setting the far corner ablaze. Frank emerges from the lot two blocks over and tosses the bags into the trunk of his ’71 Road Runner. Police and fire units are racing past on the cross streets. He hops in and casually drives into the night.
The screen is black as we hear the ringing of a telephone. A lamp turns on revealing the familiar bedroom of John James Toomey. Bleary eyed he nudges his wife’s arm off of him and leans over to pick up the receiver.
Toomey:
Somebody better be [frick]in’ dead.
You know not to call my house, man.
What?!
Mrs Toomey:
(Stirring)
Who is it baby?
Toomey:
Its Elvin baby, go back to sleep.
(He sits on the edge of the bed, now speaking more quietly.)
What the hell happened? How much did he get? [frick]in’ burned it? What about the… mother[frick]er.
No, you meet me at the duplex on Bristol.
He hangs up the phone and sits quietly for a moment, placing his head in his hands.
Toomey:
It was only a matter of time.
Elvin and Toomey are at a vacant tenement not far from the smoldering remains of the Calvary Heights Apartments. They are on the roof watching the orange fire lit smoke rise and emergency vehicle’s lights and news crew’s floods illuminate the predawn skyline.
Toomey:
What the [frick] happened over there?
Elvin:
It was the [frick]in’ Punisher they said. He drove a goddamn truck into the cook and blew the whole goddamn building to shit
Toomey:
There was near thirty mother[frick]ers in there!
Elvin:
I know John James, but he blew up a whole [frick]in’ building, man. Nothing left. Most of them was in there prepping the bags.
Toomey:
This is some shit here.
Elvin:
That it is. You know once this mother[frick]er locks on he’s like a pit bull, right? He’ll keep going ‘till he dismantles the whole [frick]in’ thing. Kills me, you, as many of us as he can, just like he did to the Cesares.
Toomey:
I know. I knew it was comin’. I knew as soon as we got big enough he’d come sniffin’ around like a [frick]in’ walking nightmare.
Elvin:
How we take this man on?
Toomey:
The Columbians fly in on Tuesday. I make sure to pay for this shit outta’ pocket, don’t short nobody, and let them know we got a problem. Ask a mutually beneficial favor, we gonna need some outside help for this. Independent contractors.
Elvin:
We gonna need some big dicked mace on a chain swinging mother[frick]ers to deal with this, man.
Toomey:
C’mon, let’s get the hell outta here. I feel like I got crosshairs on my ass. And baby brother, you be careful too. You hear me?
Elvin:
Word.
The image of the Toomey brother’s is then overlaid with cross hairs as they briefly embrace before heading down the stairs.
The view flips to the opposite end of the scope and we see Frank’s dark eye blink and then the rifle lower. He is on another much higher rooftop several blocks away tucked beneath a water tower.
PWJ:
Toomey's wire tap finally came in handy. Made sense really, this was the only property on the list with a decent view of what's left of the Calvary Heights.
When I was a kid my parents tried to keep me out of trouble by shipping me off to my Aunt Esmeralda’s every summer. She had married into money and had a place up in the Catskills; it was a nice change from Queens. Esmeralda had been born deaf and one of her favorite pastimes was teaching me to read lips so we could just sit back and eavesdrop on all the chattering tourists. Funny, the shit you learn sometimes. See you Tuesday, John James.