C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T P R O P O S A L
T H E P U N I S H E R
"This isn't revenge. This is punishment."
F A N G C H U ♦ P O L I C E O F F I C E R ♦ N E W Y O R K C I T Y , N E W Y O R K
O R I G I N S:
One day, you have it all. The next it comes crashing down. Everything ripped apart in a New York minute.
The boy that would be known as Frank Castle grew up as Fang Chu, the only son of first generation Chinese immigrants who moved to New York City in the mid 90s. He grew up hard and fast, forced to contend with street crimes all around him and an abusive father who drove his mother to suicide. The day he turned 18, he packed his bags and moved out. He changed his name to Frank Castle in order to distance himself from his past and got a job as a bus boy to support himself, while attending community college in the hopes of acquiring the credits he needed to become a police officer.
Frank joined the police force at the age of 21, rising up the ranks and making detective at the age of 25. It was during his early years on the force that he met Maria Falconio, whom he began to date and later married after she became pregnant with their children, twins Lisa and Frank Jr. Two months ago, Frank had his biggest bust yet: taking down a drug ring run by the Saint crime family. The heir to the Saints, Bobby Saint, was killed in the raid on their operations. Things were going well for the Castles.
A month ago, the Castles' apartment in the Bronx was broken into. No valuables were taken, but Maria, Lisa, and Frank Jr. were killed. Frank took a bullet to the chest and fell into a coma.
Last week, Frank woke up.
Tonight, he has a made man tied up in a warehouse on the Jersey side.
The boy that would be known as Frank Castle grew up as Fang Chu, the only son of first generation Chinese immigrants who moved to New York City in the mid 90s. He grew up hard and fast, forced to contend with street crimes all around him and an abusive father who drove his mother to suicide. The day he turned 18, he packed his bags and moved out. He changed his name to Frank Castle in order to distance himself from his past and got a job as a bus boy to support himself, while attending community college in the hopes of acquiring the credits he needed to become a police officer.
Frank joined the police force at the age of 21, rising up the ranks and making detective at the age of 25. It was during his early years on the force that he met Maria Falconio, whom he began to date and later married after she became pregnant with their children, twins Lisa and Frank Jr. Two months ago, Frank had his biggest bust yet: taking down a drug ring run by the Saint crime family. The heir to the Saints, Bobby Saint, was killed in the raid on their operations. Things were going well for the Castles.
A month ago, the Castles' apartment in the Bronx was broken into. No valuables were taken, but Maria, Lisa, and Frank Jr. were killed. Frank took a bullet to the chest and fell into a coma.
Last week, Frank woke up.
Tonight, he has a made man tied up in a warehouse on the Jersey side.
S A M P L E P O S T:
The cemetery is silent as the three caskets are lowered into the ground.
Then it's over. Time to leave.
Maria's mother is crying too hard to look me in the eye.
Dave gives me a hug and tells me that I know where to find him if I need anything.
Captain Stacy doesn't say a word as he places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes, before walking away.
I get into my car and start to drive.
My first stop is a pawn shop in the Bronx. The proprietor of the pawn shop, Emil Greco, is one of many associates of the Saint family. The shop is a front for a gunrunning operation. I watched and waited until there were no customers in the store. It took about twenty minutes until finally, it was just Greco. I grab my service pistol and walk out of the car.
The bell above the door dings and Greco looks my way. "Good afternoon sir, we're getting ready to close up, but what can I..." he trails off, noticing the gun in my hand. I level it at his head and move around the counter, pressing it against his skull. "What the hell is this? You trying to rob me?"
"Yeah. Show me what you've got in the back."
His eyes go wide. "T-there's nothing back there, everything is out fro-" I whip him in the face with the pistol and he shouts in pain. "FUCK!"
"Show me what's in the back." I give him a sharp poke to the ribs with the barrel of the gun and he springs into action, leading me to the basement of the pawn shop. Guns and ordnance line the walls of the room and there are dozens of crates filled with even more: pistols, SMGs, shotguns, rifles, Goddamn grenade launchers. It was enough to supply a militia.
Or a one man army.
"Thanks." I slam the butt of my handgun into Greco's temple and he collapses into a heap on the floor.
Fifteen minutes later and I'm leaving the pawn shop with duffel bags full of guns and ammo stuffed into my trunk. Forty minutes later and I'm on the Jersey side, an abandoned warehouse in Hoboken, dropping off the ordnance. Ten more minutes, I'm outside of a night club run by the Saint family, waiting for one Nicky Francesco. He was a made man, tough guy, liked to beat on women and shoot men in the back of the head before they knew what was going on. We'd been trying to make a case on the guy for months.
Now I didn't need to make one.
He's about to get into his car when I strike, pulling a plastic bag over his head and slowly suffocating him. He tries to scream, he tries to hit, and eventually he's just trying to keep breathing. After that, he's limp in my arms. I drag him to my car and throw him in the back seat, slapping a pair of handcuffs on him just in case he wakes up early.
I drive him back to the warehouse. I tie him to a chair below a dim lamp hanging from the ceiling. I pull up a chair and take a seat in front of him.
And then I wait.
Then it's over. Time to leave.
Maria's mother is crying too hard to look me in the eye.
Dave gives me a hug and tells me that I know where to find him if I need anything.
Captain Stacy doesn't say a word as he places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes, before walking away.
I get into my car and start to drive.
My first stop is a pawn shop in the Bronx. The proprietor of the pawn shop, Emil Greco, is one of many associates of the Saint family. The shop is a front for a gunrunning operation. I watched and waited until there were no customers in the store. It took about twenty minutes until finally, it was just Greco. I grab my service pistol and walk out of the car.
The bell above the door dings and Greco looks my way. "Good afternoon sir, we're getting ready to close up, but what can I..." he trails off, noticing the gun in my hand. I level it at his head and move around the counter, pressing it against his skull. "What the hell is this? You trying to rob me?"
"Yeah. Show me what you've got in the back."
His eyes go wide. "T-there's nothing back there, everything is out fro-" I whip him in the face with the pistol and he shouts in pain. "FUCK!"
"Show me what's in the back." I give him a sharp poke to the ribs with the barrel of the gun and he springs into action, leading me to the basement of the pawn shop. Guns and ordnance line the walls of the room and there are dozens of crates filled with even more: pistols, SMGs, shotguns, rifles, Goddamn grenade launchers. It was enough to supply a militia.
Or a one man army.
"Thanks." I slam the butt of my handgun into Greco's temple and he collapses into a heap on the floor.
Fifteen minutes later and I'm leaving the pawn shop with duffel bags full of guns and ammo stuffed into my trunk. Forty minutes later and I'm on the Jersey side, an abandoned warehouse in Hoboken, dropping off the ordnance. Ten more minutes, I'm outside of a night club run by the Saint family, waiting for one Nicky Francesco. He was a made man, tough guy, liked to beat on women and shoot men in the back of the head before they knew what was going on. We'd been trying to make a case on the guy for months.
Now I didn't need to make one.
He's about to get into his car when I strike, pulling a plastic bag over his head and slowly suffocating him. He tries to scream, he tries to hit, and eventually he's just trying to keep breathing. After that, he's limp in my arms. I drag him to my car and throw him in the back seat, slapping a pair of handcuffs on him just in case he wakes up early.
I drive him back to the warehouse. I tie him to a chair below a dim lamp hanging from the ceiling. I pull up a chair and take a seat in front of him.
And then I wait.
P O S T C A T A L O G:
Coming soon.
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