VOL 1: PARA
ISSUE 1: THIS NEW WORLD
FRANK CASTLE
YESTERDAY- SUNDAY
FROM THE WAR JOURNAL OF FRANK CASTLE
WAR JOURNAL ENTRY #2
If there are those who find sympathy towards me, look elsewhere, do not pity my misfortune. The system did not fail me, it failed all of you, what do I want? I want those who have reason, to fear me, there is no murder in war: there is only getting the job done.
It was a bright morning at the cemetery, and everything there looked well kept and pristine, which contrasted horribly with the visage of Frank Castle standing above the graves of his family in his blood soaked black leather jacket that was riddled with bullet holes, underneath he wore a t-shirt- he bought this one once he left the hospital after finding his original was torn to shreds- emblazoned with a large white imposing skull, ripped combat pants soaked with dirt and blood and steel toed boots. There was such anger and rage burning in his eyes as he looked from his children’s tombstones to his wife’s. He then looked around to find that he was the only living person there in that moment, so he took a knee and solemnly started to study the dirt at the foot of their graves, watching it fall as he picked it up and dropped it.
“I promised you,” he started to say in a quiet voice, “they will pay. They will all be punished for what they took from us. It’s been hard, but I think I know where to start.” Frank stood up, adjusting his sidearm before he walked away without a second look. Instead he looked down at what he drew out of his pocket, a tape recorder (he was old school), and he hit play...
At first there was static as the tape began, and then a horrific scream of pain, something metal clanging on the ground, and metal scraping like a chair being pulled, and then Frank’s voice coming across matter of fact and bone chillingly distant. “That was your patella I just crushed, you’ll never walk normal again. Now you have two options, you tell me what I want to know about the Gnucci Family, or I cut off both of your trigger fingers and we start from scratch...”
The man Frank was torturing was now weeping and nearly hyperventilating, pleading for his life. The tape recorder caught Frank’s heavy sigh, which was just played up for drama’s sake. “Okay, do you want to keep the left finger or- actually I'll just take both.”
“No please!” The man finally relented, “There’s this guy, he’s set to collect protection money from a corner store, but he’s a greedy punk. I couldn’t catch everything, but one night I was drinking over at The Bar With No Name and he mentioned to his buddies that he got a job with the Family. Oh dear God it hurts!”
“Tell me when this collection goes down,” Frank spoke, “and where it happens, or you lose more than one finger.”
AMY BENDIX
TODAY- MONDAY
Amy was on break leaning against a large window pane, away from the prying eyes of the wealthy elite who were to be donors of Wilson Fisk’s mayoral campaign, she was watching the protestors who were against those of the mutant race rage like impotent children against a group of people who could be gods if they so chose. There were also protestors who were protesting against Mr. Fisk wanting to be mayor, apparently his pro stance on a safe and controlled New York wasn’t everybody’s cup of tea. Amy put her long wavy brown hair behind her ears and checked her watch with a groan, her break was nearly up, so she stood up and started to weave herself through the room, noticing a man with silver hair pull Mr. Fisk’s campaign advisor aside and out into the hallway.
Amy thought that to be strange when everything that was said had been out in the open, so she started her way towards the exit, grabbing a half empty platter of food so as to not look so inconspicuous by the security team, who she noted all sported a calligraphic letter G on their necks. She walked through the double doors that led out into the hallway and watched as the organizer and white haired man started speaking and heading towards another of the event rooms, Amy assumed they were looking for some place empty. She set the platter down on a table and took out her phone to silence her upcoming alarm in case the two of them heard it and she inevitably got her and her friend into heaps of trouble.
She realized she was too far behind them to properly hear what they were talking about so she grabbed an empty cart and climbed in enough so that she could push herself. “So Wesley,” The white haired man spoke to the organizer, “Now that we’re out of earshot, let’s get down it-” the man’s voice was raising in tone but Wesley put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.
“Don Cervello,” Gone was the grandiose playing of his part, now Wesley was all business, “you know the rules, you and the Gnucci, and the Gorrini’s and everyone else need to stay out of the public eye. I get it, you are worried about the plan moving forward, am I right?”
There was something chilling in the way Wesley handled himself that put the Don of the Cervello crime family off, “yeah, I mean we’re all worried. It seems overly ambitious to bring together everyone across the eastern seaboard, and don’t get me wrong, me and my boys are enjoying you having the boys in blue turn the other cheek every once in a while-”
“Mr. Cervello,” Wesley interrupted the man and put a finger to his own lips, “surely you aren’t questioning Mr. Fisk and his desires, are you? Do you know the last time someone questioned our employer?”
“What-what exactly happened?” Mr. Cervello asked, both scared and genuinely curious.
“Let me answer a question, with another question,” Wesley said with what looked like a warm smile, it was obvious he held the high ground continuously in the conversation. “How hard must a car door slam against a person’s head for it to pop like a balloon?”
“Jes-jesus,” Don Cervello took several steps back, clearly shaken at learning what kind of man he was now dealing with. Amy had her phone out under the cart, and had it recording the conversation the whole time, but now she was too close and had no way getting away if they were suspicious, she was well and truly stuck...
ANDY LORIMER
Andy crept slowly into the alleyway, and almost immediately put his hand up to his nose to stop the stench of what he now believed to be a dead body, but that didn’t even work completely as he had to hold himself steady against a dumpster as his knees grew weak. After several inhales and some mental words of affirmation, he continued onwards until he spotted a very thick blood trail and noted tire tracks making an impression alongside it, and then he spotted the body, or what remained of it laying against the side, away from view of the public. A few more steps, and Andy noted a bloodstain and large goops of ripped, torn up flesh slowly sliding against the wall facing him, turning to look at the remains he started to gag and very vomited on the crime scene.
The body was headless, save for flaps of skin that would have been part of the neck, Andy made a mental note to go seek his department’s therapist after this, but he crouched down and started to study the body. He took an extra pen he had in his pocket and used that to lift up the flap of neck, and saw a stylized letter G tattoo, he looked around and noted a blood stained duffle bag- opened with crumbled up money bills. He wasn’t part of forensics, nor homicide, he was just a guy who stumbled into this horror show, so he quickly stood up and- making sure not to tamper with blood on the ground- made his way out of the alley so that he could breath a sigh of relief and fresh air before talking to the witness and calling it in.
“Dispatch, Cruiser 1610 reporting on that 10-54,” Andy spoke unsteadily after grabbing for his radio, “It’s a definite 10-4. We need to get the Techs here ASAP, A Few minutes ago Cruiser 1610 10-23'd, Officer is now questioning potential witness, Copy over?”
“That’s a 10-4, Cruiser 1610.” The calmly collected voice of a dispatch officer answered him, “Sending a unit and a 10-52 to your location, will also do a 10-66. Proceed, copy over.”
“Copy.” Andy confirmed before turning his attention to the witness, “Sir, can I see some identification?”
“Oh, oh yeah sure,” the man, who was the clerk the dead man had stolen from handed his wallet over to Andy.
Andy wrote down the man’s information on his notepad before speaking again, “So how did you find the body?”
The clerk rubbed his palms together and took an uneasy glance towards the alleyway, “Well, the guy? He robbed me where I work at so I called for help and saw another guy go after him. I didn’t get a good enough look at him, but he had really short hair.”
“Are there any cameras in the area we can use?” Andy asked him, referring to the Forensic Specialists.
“I’m sure there are, but there’s definitely one at the convenience store where he robbed me, do you maybe want to go check it out?”
“Absolutely,” Andy said as he pocketed his notepad. “Lead the way.”
BIG JESUS
Robert stole a glance from over the shoulder of his current employer, Alberto Benedetti, at the briefcase of gold which- if word on the street was right- just one of those hefty bars priced out at a million. He heard one of the other hired men whistle at the sight, and in a quick series of movements Mr. Benedetti had rounded on the man and held a revolver to his head, backing him into a corner and putting a finger to his lips. Then Benedetti looked back at the man with the briefcase and took a few pauses before nodding his head a couple of times, then he once more checked his watch and made a tsk tsk noise as he started to pace about the area.
Robert didn’t realize he was going to work for some crazy mother effer, but inwardly shrugged to himself as he thought that was what being a lifer high on the food chain did to people, which solidified that he was perfectly happy with the way things were in the here and now. The man who originally had the briefcase moved to lean against the hood of a parked car, watching Mr. Benedetti mull over his options, which were either going one of two ways: option A would be to tell this man- and in effect, Mr. Fisk- that his nationwide business was willing to get in bed the dark corners of America, or option B: decline the offer and essentially put a target on his back.
“I think I'll go with option A,” Mr. Benedetti said, finally stopping his pacing as he put his hand out to be shaken.
“I’m sorry?” The man asked, a little confused, unsure momentarily if he should shake the man’s hand.
“Oh, apologizes,” Mr. Benedetti laughed curtly, “I was just voicing a thought, I meant to say that I stand behind and with Fisk Industries in the betterment of both New York City and America at large. He says jump, I ask how high.”
The man took Mr. Benedetti’s hand in enthusiasm, “Glad we could come to an agreement,” he turned to look at his own guards and snapped his fingers. On cue one of them, who sported a fancy G tattoo on his neck handed the construction conglomerate a phone that Big Jesus recognized as a burner cell, “Mr. Fisk will be calling you within the week to a discuss...” The man paused once more to pull Mr. Benedetti closer to him and whispered something into his ear.
When he was finished, Mr. Benedetti- who was a man who enjoyed money- was smiling ecstatically, “I look forward to the call,” he turned to look at his hired guards, “men, it’s time we leave, I'll pay you back at the warehouse.” He spoke started back to his car, Big Jesus got into the passenger side after closing his employer’s door for him and watched as the van that Mr. Fisk’s men came out of, quickly rode off in the other direction.
Big Jesus heard the click of the briefcase opening again, as he listened to how giddy the money hungry Mr. Benedetti was, though nobody in the car heard the low frequency beeping of the gps bug planted in the briefcase, and if that was miraculously found then nobody would know that Mr. Fisk’s entire operation was being tracked...
CHARARLIE SCHITTI/WILSON FISK
(listen to Stay by Chad Lawson)
PRIOR TO CHARLIE SHOWING UP
Mr. Fisk, as he was known by those beneath him and Wilson by his loving wife Vanessa awoke to an early start to the day in his black satin pajamas that hung loosely over the man’s huge frame, and he did as he usually did. He immediately dropped to the ground and did a couple hundred push ups and a couple hundred squats, then he joined his wife in a bathroom fit for a king for a shower and intimacy before walking brazenly naked to his closet to peruse his clothes. He picked out a very nice three piece suit with a purple tie to give it a little accent before picking out a pair of his favorite ivory cufflinks with a stenciled black K on them.
Then the mountain of a man journeyed downstairs to prepare himself breakfast, Vanessa usually opted to eat out with clients, Wilson himself ate the same thing like clockwork. He prepared a protein and fiber shake to be paired with an omlette made of egg whites and peppers for a little kick, with a side of greens brought in from a little place down the street. Usually after he had left the kitchen appearing just as he had left it pristine he would watch the late morning news cycle, but now that he was running for mayor of the greatest city in America- that activity was replaced by a scheduling of appointments with politicians and tv appearances.
Today though, despite having a scheduled appointment with the city elites, the soon to be king was in his media room, a room that did not appear on the hotel’s blueprints. It was wall to wall with computer equipment and monitors that relayed video from his men on the ground and the internet traffic of the dark web. On one monitor he had a video surveillance of the gala that Wesley- his personal arranger of events, and best friend- was attending in his honor, he even watched as Amy Bendix, to him just some waitress hired by a third party was tailing his friend and a potential business partner.
Wilson pulled his cellphone from his breast pocket and sent a text to his friend and closest ally of the situation before turning to another monitor where he had sent in his stead a certain architect of planning to make a proposition of Albert Benedetti, for with him he could expand his plans and the plans of his other partners beyond New York. Before he knew it though, he had lost track of time watching all his monitors in his safe room when he heard Vanessa call out to him, “Wilson, you have a visitor!”
Wilson actually knew perfectly well that his nobody of a man had come into his apartment, and oh how it upset him, cracking his knuckles he walked up the steps that led out of his panic room that was behind a wall mounted mirror in his walk in closet and slowly made his way to the living room. His Vanessa was gone, which was good as they had agreed upon plausible deniability for her as a last case scenario should something happen, but now here he was staring down a petty thug of a man.
“Who are you” He growled and took a step towards the trembling man.
“Mr-Mr. Fisk sir,” the man stuttered in abject fear for his life, “I mean no disrespect, I just came by to inform you-” he started to say, but Wilson who was half a body taller than him picked him up easily.
“Do not say another word, not in my home. That. Is. The Rule!” his anger reaching a point, he tossed Mr. Schitti like a ragdoll against his dining room table...
To those find my journals, this is not an admission of guilt of criminal wrongdoing or the manifesto of someone who is politically charged, I, Frank Castle solemnly swear that my actions are made with a sound mind and a clear conscious. 
