The continuation of my Garth Ennis adaptaion. The unforgivable has happened to the family of Frank Castle and his full rage as been unleashed.
***This is a film adaptation of Ennis’ Punisher Max series tales “In the Beginning” and “Up is Down, Black is White.” Portions are my own writing and portions are excerpts of Garth Ennis. This amalgamation is purely intended to be an adaptation of the works of Mr. Ennis into a reasonable facsimile of a feature film. No Fan Boys were harmed in the making of this adaptation… much. ***

The story thus far:




SCENE X - Arte perire sua

Late night at city hall, reporters swarm outside setting up for the 5 AM news shows.

Mayor: Bob, what are you doing about this?

[Kurtwood Smith as Commissioner Sellers]
Commissioner: Sir, we are chasing down every lead that we have on the whereabouts of both Nicky Cavella and Frank Castle. If we get a line on either of them you’ll be the first to know.

Mayor: What about this Detective Soap? He’s been heading up the Punisher Task Force for three years, in all that time what has he done?

Commissioner: Mr. Mayor you have to understand Soap was not meant to… How do I put this? Most of the men of the NYPD are of the opinion that The Punisher serves a purpose… He keeps the scum in their holes and makes things easier for us, and most of them including myself feel that these bastards deserve what they get. He has, in one night, been able to bring down criminal enterprises that would have taken us years to build a case against through legitimate means; saved thousands of man hours in investigation and millions of dollars in prosecution that the city frankly doesn’t have in its budget right now…

Mayor: I’m not hearing this! I am not [frick]ing hearing this! You mean to tell me you’ve been giving this asshole a pass?

The Mayor reaches over and clicks the tape recorder off.

Mayor: If this gets out I’m in the [frick]ing middle of it. Goddamn it Bob, learn when to [frick]ing lie to me for Christ’s sake.
Commissioner: Sir, you never asked so I thought it was time you knew.
Mayor: I always [frick]ing knew, but now you’re on goddamn tape saying it. I hate cover ups and now you’ve got me in one.

The Mayor grabs the tape recorder off the desk unhooks the reel and begins unspooling it.

Mayor: Look, I want you to focus on Cavella, find him, bust him, shoot him, have Soap tip Castle off I don’t give a damn. But he will sure as hell be less dangerous to deal with than Frank Castle.

Commissioner: Castle has never once hurt one of my men… that wasn’t proven to be crooked.

Mayor: He’s also never offed a hounded people in a week either. Find Cavella. End this. I don’t care how. I don’t need to know. Just keep it out of the papers and for the love of Christ put his family back in the ground.

We see New York from afar, the pristine Statue of Liberty stands erect against a sky red sky, smoke raises from the burning sky scrapers their plumes darken the sky. The camera moves inland ferries flounder in the river we see Bed-Stuy and most of Brooklyn ablaze. We see Manhattan, the buildings are broken and smoke belches from their burning innards. Central Park lies in ruins, lank and dead, its trees shredded and bare. We close in on Times Square and for the first time we see the streets through the fog and smoke below; they are littered with the dead. The gutters run red; the carpet of bodies is tangled forming a carpet of gore. At street level now we follow along Broadway to the square. Police hang lifeless and bloodied from patrol cars riddled with bullets, news and police helicopters lie crashed and smoldering amongst the debris. The camera accelerates its pace down the street we pass over the corpses of mobsters, thugs, hoodlums, families, businessmen, men, women, children, police, priests, all the people of New York. All dead.

Finally the camera reaches the center of Time Square, there sitting on the hood of a gutted police car sits The Punisher, a thousand yard stare bordering on a million miles. He sits surrounded by the charnel house of his own creation; hands limp between his knees. He is spent, but unharmed. Steam is rising from his neck, from his sweat, in the cold night air. His rifles strewn about him, barrels steaming, his 60 beside him the barrel nearly glows from the heat of a thousand rounds funneled through it. Castle sits, unmoving. Finally a white light shines behind him; he turns squinting three forms emerge obscured in the glare, a woman hand in hand with two young children. A voice, distant and ethereal echoes to him from the figures it is a mixture of the voices a mother and her children.

The Voice: Frank [Daddy] we’re still dead.

Close up of Castles eyes as they spring awake, bloodshot.

We see he is sitting in his van on a back street in Hell’s Kitchen; now early morning. He looks to his left shoulder and the large mound of gauze wrapped around it now soaked through with blood, it trickles down his arm.

[Javier Bardem as Frank circa 1981]
PWJ [Punisher War Journal in voiceover]: That’s what I get for resting my eyes. Dumped Rossi’s body in the river, must have pulled over on my way back to the garage. Lost too much blood. Sloppy. Never known anger like this before. Not raging, not even burning. Just colder and colder by the minute. Building inexorably towards something that has to be. Dream is coming harder now, going farther. Too [frick]ing far.

Frank starts the engine and pulls into the street. He arrives at the garage it is now early morning the streets are beginning to stir. Frank opens the service doors and parks the van inside then staggers from the van. He removes his tee-shirt and bulky bullet proof vest. He is covered in scars. Blood has run down his chest, back, and side from the soaked field dress. He leans over the metal sink in the bathroom; everything is dark and drab, utilitarian, but immaculately clean. He looks into the mirror and removes the bandage. He stretches and old fashioned extendable mirror mounted to the larger fixed mirror’s side. He leans to see the exit wound in the double reflection.

PWJ: Lost some muscle with that one. Ripped star exit wound, oblong, maybe from an AK. No bones clipped. Could have been a bad night. Sloppy. Sloppy will get you killed.

He sprays saline and iodine in the wound and begins stitching the wound one handed gripping the string in his teeth.

PWJ: Bound to happen one day. I’ll get old, slow, careless, stupid, and then some nineteen year old will spray and pray. He’ll get lucky and I’ll get dead. Never doubted that. Don’t fear it. But not right now. I have someone I want to meet face to face, before I go. Nicky Cavella.

The whole garage is Spartan, a small kitchenette and table and single chair in one corner, a cot in another, a shelf holds copies of blue prints. In the center an armchair and television sit. The rest of the small building on the vacant lot is lined with a small arsenal of shot guns, assault rifles, submachine guns, pistols, and edged weapons, several tack boards line the walls covered in photos as well as surveillance gear and an assortment of cameras. There are three vehicles; a black van beside which sits a collection of magnetic signs, a Dodge Ram gray pickup, and a matte black 1970 Plymouth Barracuda, each parked in front of one of the garages main doors. A slated steel shutter is drawn over the shops front window.

Frank walks from the bathroom, having cleaned himself, and takes a container of orange juice from the small fridge swigging nearly the whole container. He switches on the television and sits in an old armchair.

Reporter: New Yorkers awoke to mass carnage this morning as the vigilante Frank Castle known as “The Punisher” embarked on a killing spree heretofore unmatched in his time prowling the New York underworld, police representatives have confirmed as of this morning the death toll stands at seventy one people in three separate incidents in Brooklyn in Bed-Stuy and Bensonhurst. Unconfirmed reports are now coming in of at least two other smaller incidents in the Bronx and Queens. This slaughter follows on the heels of the desecration of the grave of Castle’s family at the hands of known Mafioso Nico Cavella of Boston. There have been unconfirmed reports that the violence is aimed specifically to encourage the NYPD to release the bodies of the Castle family for reburial. Currently the remains of Maria, Lisa, and Frank Castle Jr. are being held at the morgue until Cavella can be brought up on charges stemming from the incident two nights ago. NYPD Commissioner Sellers and the Mayor’s Office have announced a press conference scheduled for 9:00 AM to address the issue. We will carry it live here on New York One.

PWJ: Politicians. If it weren’t for them I wouldn’t be here. Spinelessness and corruption, inaction, it all led to the fall of this city. The scum have the run of the place and their soulless lawyers, naïve public defenders, and lazy judges feed them back to the streets every day. Murderers spend on average less than a decade behind bars in New York State. The prisons are too full, they say. Maybe I can ease that a bit. Criminals don’t fear the law, or the criminal justice system. Prison is only a training ground to hone their skills and learn new tricks of the trade. They come out harder, stronger, and smarter every time they go in; a Darwinian response to a flawed system. I just break the cycle. I can’t stop them all. I can’t kill them all. But I can kill as many as I can and hope the rest will at least pause at the thought that I may come for them before they hurt the innocent. They don’t fear punishment by the law, but they’ll fear punishment by me.

At nine Frank flips the TV on again, Sellers and the Mayors press secretary are there as is Soap.

Sellers: Ladies and gentlemen. First off we have decided to allow the reinterment of the Castle family, after much serious thought we have decided that there is ample evidence against Nico, also known as Nicky Cavella, to not warrant the further indignity to the remains of this innocent family.

The press pool erupts with shouted questions of extortion, coercion, and holding the city ransom by the Punisher.

Sellers: We will answer questions later. Please. We also request the assistance of the people of New York in aiding the Police Department in finding Nicky Cavella and Frank Castle, The Punisher. If you should happen to see either of these men please call our hotline. The NYPD will not stand by and watch a personal vendetta erupt into bloodshed on the streets of this city.

Reporter: Commissioner, Frank Castle has run rampant committing hundreds of murders and assaults; violating the civil rights of thousands of New York City’s citizens. Why has your office allowed this to go on for so long? Does the NYPD condone this man’s vendetta?

Sellers: Absolutely not. The NYPD has never and will never condone vigilantism. The system works and we stand by it. Detective Martin Soap has been in charge of the Punisher Task Force since 1978 and has made great progress in tracking down Castle. In the last three years he has discovered more than thirty weapons caches and safe houses linked to Frank Castle.

Reporter #2: But not The Punisher himself.

Sellers: (Slightly stink eyedly) Obviously.

Reporter #3: Detective Soap we have been kept in the dark about your task force for the most part, how many officers and resources have been devoted to the hunt for the Punisher.

Soap: Uh, The Punisher… (Clears throat, sips a glass of water.) The Punisher Task Force has the full resources of the NYPD and is more than equipped to catch Mister Castle. Um, As for the number of officers and detectives I cannot divulge that information as we know the Punisher has many informants in the underworld and even the media, and we do not want to release the names of task force members as a means of protecting them from intimidation and danger from Castle himself. I volunteered to be the lead and public face of the Task Force so as to limit exposure of my team. It… It, uh, is better if Castle doesn’t know who is hunting him so that he may be monitored or tracked more effectively.

Reporter: Why have you not captured the Punisher yet? How hard is it to capture one man?

[Paul Rudd "Anchorman" style minus the lip fuzz as Detective Soap]
Soap: Well, he is one man hiding amongst eight million people and is an expert at remaining concealed. That alone makes for a very difficult situation, not to mention the fact this man is a highly trained covert operative and veteran of the elite Marine recon units of Vietnam. Lastly there is a great deal of support for Castle amongst the average citizens of New York, and until they join us in locating him he will remain quite difficult to locate and capture.

Reporter: Why have you not accepted the aid of the FBI in this manhunt?

Soap: Uh…We…

Sellers: We are confident that the NYPD can and will catch the Punisher.

Reporter #2: Obviously.

Punisher Switches off the set and sits back down. He pops the cap on a bottle of pain killers and chews a few without water.

PWJ: Reporters are as bad as politicians. They'd rather have my head than Cavella's. They lay awake at night weeping for the scum I’ve killed and say nothing for the victims. Or what those I’ve punished have done to warrant their deaths. Bleeding hearts championing the cause of the poor unfortunates that have no recourse but to rape, and murder their neighbors, or sell death to children and those that trade on those same children’s innocents for money. Sometimes I remember why I have no choice but to do this. Someone has to kill the monsters.

Maria and the kids are home again. Now all I’ve got to do is find Cavella. Just squeeze a little info out of the right people and he’s mine. There’s still a debit that only blood can settle between him and me.

SCENE XI – Justitia omnibus

The same expensive hotel we saw the night before. Cavella is shaking with anger as he clicks off the television. His boys around him all appear disheveled and hung over. Ink sits on the couch Indian style wearing only boxers eating a bowl of cereal. Pittsy is in the suite’s kitchen cursing to himself whilst making coffee. Barrucci sits at the table rubbing his temples; he appears the worst for wear of the crew. Cavella sits in a smoking jacket and slippers; he lashes out throwing the large old fashioned remote at the hifi TV.

[Viggo Mortensen as Nicky]
Cavella: Mother[frick]ers!

[Steve Buscemi as Ink]
Ink: What’s up Boss?

[Joe Pesci as Pittsy]
Pittsy: [frick]in’ useless cop [frick]s. Piss on ‘em, [frick]ing cocksuckers.

[Alfred Molina as Larry Barrucci]
Barrucci: Please don’t scream.

Cavella: I needed him off balance. I needed him coming at us blind. This shit doesn’t [frick]in’ help. They put his kids and that bitch in the ground and he gets to take the edge off. He’s going to regroup; pull his shit together and come after us again. They weren’t supposed to cave this fast.

Barrucci: Nicky, the guy whacked like seventy people in a night they’d have handed over the Pope to get that to stop.

Cavella: You shut the [frick] up! Send the whores out. We gotta move. Call the Capos I’m gonna have to speed things up a little.

Later we see Cavella leaving, rushing briskly through the hotel lobby. A clerk at the front desk notices his face as Pittsy thunders through the lobby followed by Ink and the morbidly hung over Larry who tosses the key at the desk. The man picks up the phone.

Clerk: Yes, I think I just saw Nicky Cavella.

The phone rings at the garage. Frank wakes on his cot and looks at the clock, 2:33 PM. He glances at his bandages, he is still bleeding a bit. He appears frailer now, weak from lack of rest and wounds.

Frank: Yeah?

Soap: Frank?

Frank: Who the [frick] else would it be, Detective?

Soap: Well, you know Sundays you stay there so I…. You said call only in emergencies…

Frank: What the [frick] is it Soap?

Soap: Jesus, man. We’ve had a reliable Cavella sighting.

Frank: Where?

Soap: The Plaza. The Concierge made him as he was leaving this morning. We checked it out, they had quite the party last night called up a dozen whores, trashed the room. The bill was under Larry Barrucci, dumb bastard used his real name on the register.

Frank: How many guys did the concierge say were with him?

Soap: Ha! I can do better than that. The hotel has one of those surveillance cameras, like they have in banks now, looks like he’s just keeping his boys with him; guy name of Ink, Anthony Monzano, Larry Barrucci, who you know, and Pittsy Grazarra. These are some bad guys Frank, Ink and Pittsy have run with Cavella for years and are complete psychos in their own right, especially this Pittsy [frick]er. He ripped the face off a guy in Boston with a broken beer bottle for bumping into him at a pool hall. Before the trial they found the guy hanging by his own ripped out esophagus with his severed dick stuffed in his mouth and a broken pool queue up his ass. Ink got his name from his first kill, got a little touchy feely with Westie's guy’s girl, guy gets pissed, Monzano ends up stabbing the guy to death with a pen.

Frank: Get to the point.

Soap: When we checked the tape we also saw the girls he partied with. Your favorite red head was there.

PWJ: Good old Charlene.

Frank: Good work Soap.

Soap: And Frank, hurry up and end this. The feds are breathing down our neck after last night. Put this son of a bitch in the ground and then lay low for a while.

Frank hangs up the phone. He gets up and pops a few more pills, and grabs coffee.

He suits up with black jeans, a bullet proof vest, his trade mark tee and then begins choosing his armament; a .45 Colt M1911A1 in his belt, a MAC-10 with suppressor on a sling under his right arm. He grabs a shoulder holster and plants a second 1911 there. He slides a K-Bar into a sheath on the holster and a double edged knife in one boot, a Detonics Pocket 9 in the other. He stuffs a small lock-pick kit in his back pocket and a multi-tool in his coat. He grabs a gym bag and puts in a Walther MPL, an AK-47, a SPAS-12, and a Scoped H&K91. A second bag is stuffed with spare clips for each weapon and three grenades. He puts on his leather jacket and hefts the bags onto his back and then picks up a Remington 870 Magnum with a folding stock and extended magazine tube along with a belt of 12 gauge shells.

Frank tosses the goods in the back of the van and slides in.

PWJ: Loaded for bear.

SCENE XII – A fronte praecipitium a tergo lupi

The sun is setting as Frank walks down a seedy street. Hookers peddle their wears as their pimps watch on. A red head sits rubbing her feet, her stilettos kicked off her knees are dirty. She is somewhat haggard looking; though still pretty the years have not been kind.

PWJ: Charlene was fresh off the bus from Indiana when I met her. She was hooked on dope and working for a pimp named Silk. He got her hooked and was beating her in an alley for biting some scumbags cock after he smacked her around for an hour. He was a regular and Silk cared more about the cash than his sixteen year old whore. I gave him a taste of his own medicine before I stuck him. I gave her bus fare and told her to go home to the farm. My first experience with these girls. I learned my lesson after seeing her strung out and blowing a sailor during fleet week a few days later. I keep an eye on her; she keeps an eye on the girls and feeds me info on sickos that rear their heads around here.
Frank walks up to her; she sees only his boots.

[Parker Posey, looking strung out and with bad dye job as Charlene]
Charlene: I’m on a break, talk to the blonde on the corner. She can suck the chrome off a bumper, honey.

Frank: Not what I’m looking for Charlene.

Charlene: Oh, you again.

Frank: Sometimes your appreciation is overwhelming.

Charlene lights a cigarette and leans back on the bench.

Charlene: So what can I do for the Punisher today?

Frank: You and some girls met a few mob types at The Plaza last night. What did you hear?

Charlene: Those freaks, the little old guy roughed Paula up with a [frick]in’ belt. Crazy [frick]er. I took the cross-eyed guy. Wouldn’t have minded the handsome lookin’ one, but he wanted Roxy (She points to a young dark haired girl on the corner young enough to be just out of grade school). Guess I’m getting’ old, huh? Figured guys stayin’ at the Plaz would’a called up an agency, but these guys were the rough types, you know? Uncouth-like. High class escort would’a took one look at ‘em and then turned tail. Should’a seen the looks we got on the elevator.
Anyway, they didn’t say much, but I heard the handsome one on the Phone. Mentioned being at Palotso’s, Pizarro’s, somethin’like that, tonight.

Frank: Piero’s?

Charlene: That’s the one.

Frank: Anything else going on?

Charlene: [frick] man, business is down. You put the fear of God in the wiseguys and Johns. Everybody’s keepin’ their heads down. I may go home without bruises tonight.

The pimp notices Charlene sitting down talking.

Pimp: Hey, bitch! You better get twenty or get the [frick] off ya ass and back to work. An’ you greaseball pay the bitch, or hit the skids. This ain’t no social club, mother[frick]er.

Charlene gives him the finger.

Frank: How old is the girl?

Charlene: Rox? I don’t know, thirteen maybe.

Frank: He got her hooked on anything yet?

Charlene: Naw, not yet. She got here last week. Montana I think.

Frank pulls out a small wad of cash and counts out a few bills he divides into two rolls.

Frank: This is for you. Give this to her and put her ass on a bus yourself. Got it?

Charlene: She’ll be back in a week.

Frank: I know.

Frank gets up and walks toward the pimp and under aged prostitute.

Pimp: Yeah, you best walk on. You eyeing me mutha…

We see from Charlene’s perspective. Frank grab the man by the throat with his right hand and shove him into the trashcans beside the stoop. We see his left hand pull the K-Bar from under his jacket and shove it under the pimp’s ribs and twist. A couple of the girls scream and run off. Roxy stand staring in shock as Frank wipes the blood off his blade on the pimp’s pants. He sheathes the blade and points his finger at the girl then at the pimp still squirming on the trash as he bleeds out. We cannot hear what he is saying, but the girl looks terrified. He walks away leaving her crying on the corner.

Charlene: (Sighs and stomps out her cigarette, shaking her head) That was not my [frick]in’ fault.

Detective Soap sits at his desk eating a hot dog loaded down with a
precariously stacked pile of chili and relish. His phone rings and he eyes it and then the dog, he quickly takes a bite and then reaches for the phone. A wad of chili falls onto his chest.

Soap: Shisht. Swoap. (Chewing).

Frank: I need you to decoy the cops away from Bensonhurst tonight. I don’t want anyone of your people getting caught in a cross fire.

Soap: Cavella?

Frank: Charlene says so.

Soap: Done.

Soap looks through his rolodex and pulls a card from the S’s.

Soap: Commissioner? Sorry to bother you at home, sir, but I need a favor.

Frank is driving eyes staring intently.

PWJ: Everything in me is saying back off. I’m heading into a situation I know nothing about, the number of guys waiting, the number of guns, the number of civilians, but this cold rage is driving me. I want Cavella. This ends tonight.

Frank parks the van in an alley down the block and walks along the opposite side of the street trying to stake out the restaurant. He stops at a news stand and buys a paper.

PWJ: Piero’s is an old school mob hangout; it belongs to Paulie Zaso now, a young turk I rocketed to capo status. Bunch of mooks milling around outside, typical brain dead "soldiers." Their idea of keeping an eye out is standing around talking about whores and football. I’m thirty feet from them and no one even notices. A ball cap works wonders on the stupid.

Frank walks to a coffee shop on his side of the street and takes a seat near the window a row back. He unfolds his paper.

PWJ: After and thirty minutes still no sign of Cavella then I get a break. Larry Barrucci comes out to talk to one of the thugs on the corner. Barrucci is a [frick]ing miracle man; he's survived three of my hits, that I know of, through sheer luck. He won’t live through a fourth. He brought Cavella here and brought this shit on my family. That cold fury starts to burn in my gut again. Where Barrucci is Cavella can’t be far. I’m just heading out the door when I see it. Four blocks down there are flashing red lights from around the corner. No traffic. There are three vans parked along the block that weren’t there when I came in the shop. Cops. Soap wouldn’t do this, but Sellers always was the kind of prick to turn on me one day. He must’ve seen this as a way to kill two birds with one stone. Nab Cavella, and more importantly catch me and get the media and the Feds off his ass. At that moment several things happened that couldn’t have come at a worse time.

[Slow-Mo] Frank freezes as he sees Pittsy emerge from Piero’s instantly spotting Frank across the street. Pittsy shoves Cavella back into the restaurant as he draws a sawed off shot gun. At the same moment the doors on the nearest undercover police van burst open and a small group of cops in riot gear pile out brandishing Mini-14s. Frank grabs the MAC-10 under his coat and begins to bring it to bear. Ink emerges with an SW Model 76 sub machine gun and aims for the cops. Pittsy lets fly with the first blast from his 12 gauge. The burst hits Frank full in the chest as he opens up with the MAC. Frank his knocked back into the open coffee shop door. Pittsy begins peppering the whole shop hitting patrons indiscriminately as Ink opens up on the police. The Mafiosi outside Piero’s start to scatter and take cover, some of the crazier ones start firing at police.

[Slow-Mo ends. All hell breaks loose.] The street erupts in gunfire from all sides as the police open fire. Frank checks his chest, the vest has held though he has taken a few pellets of double ought buck to the shoulder and neck. He collects himself and takes cover behind the door jam as Pittsy continues to close in walking blindly through the gun fight outside.

Pittsy: C’mon ya useless [frick]! I’ll blow ya [frick]ing goddamn face off ya neck!
Frank moves to fire at Pittsy, but is hit by a glancing blast from the shot gun that shatters the door jam in front of his gun. The wood splinters and pellets pepper Frank’s arm and exposed leg. He falls back dazed.

Soap: Get up! Move goddamnit!

Soap appears having come in the back of the shop. He hoists Frank up as Pittsy reloads by the door. The smaller Soap takes Frank’s weight and helps him the older man swings in quickly and fires blindly into the floor where he had seen Frank fall. He sees Frank and Soap heading towards the back. Soap fires his Detective Special .38 over his shoulder. Pittsy takes cover behind a table. He takes as the cop and vigilante open the back door. He fires a blast.
Soap screams as he takes a load full of buckshot to his right shoulder. At that he collapses. Frank draws his .45 from his shoulder holster and lays down a steady aim barrage at Pittsy. One round hits him beside his left eye shattering that side of his face. He falls back screaming.

Pittsy: Ya [frick]in’ cocksucker! I’ll rip ya [frick]in’ dick off.

At this Frank rallies and grabs Soap pulling him up.

Frank: [frick]in’ move, Soap.

Soap: I’m… I’m [frick]in’ shot. He [frick]in’ shot me.

Frank: Wanna get shot again? Get the [frick] up.

The two limp down the alley toward the van.

Frank: Did they know I was here?

Soap: What?

Frank: Do your people know I’m here?

Soap: No, they were waiting for you to show. Then they saw Cavella leaving and
figured it was now or never to grab him.

Frank: How did you know where I was?

Soap: You kiddin’? I’ve been mopping up your crime scenes for three years. Ya
think I don’t get to know how you think in that time. You’re like a hunter, you find a blind and stake out your target. Most obvious blind was across shop, then when Grazarra starts blasting away I went for it.

The two men reach the van and Frank starts driving steadily down the alley back towards the coffee shops fire door. Pittsy bloodied and furious emerges and opens fire again. Frank guns the engine and Soap slides into the floorboard for cover. Frank hits Pittsy hard with the passenger side quarter panel. The small man bounces off and into the brick wall of the shop. Frank checks the rearview as he speeds away. A look of disbelief crosses his face as Pittsy actually gets up. The pair round the corner and head down another alley away from the main streets filled with police.

Pittsy stumbles to his feet battered.

Pittsy: I’m gonna rip his [frick]in’ dick off an’ shove it up his ass.

Across the street Ink and Cavella are pinned down in Piero’s.

Barrucci: Goddamngoddamngoddamn.

Cavella: Shut the [frick] up! Go out back and get the car! Pull yaself together ya [frick]in pansy.

Ink: Crying like a little girl.

Barrucci crawls to the rear exit. As he opens the door officers open fire, narrowly missing him as he falls back and slams the steel door dropping the old prohibition era bar down into place keeping the cops from ramming their way in.

Barrucci: There are [frick]in cops out there, too!

Cavella: Goddamn it!

Suddenly the report of a shotgun echoes from across the street Pittsy is running back across the street shooting the police taking cover behind vehicles facing Piero’s in the back.

Zaso: Crazy [frick]er! We’re all going to [frick]in jail for this Cavella. You and your [frick]in’ psychos have ended us, you know that?

Cavella: I am so [frick]in’ sick of you. Spineless [frick].

Cavella shoots Zaso repeatedly. The younger man squirms on the floor as Pittsy dives through the shattered front door.

Pittsy: Better’n [frick]in’ Korea out there. What’s the deal wit’ Zas?

Cavella: Just finish the [frick].

Pittsy shoots Zaso at close range with his shot gun shattering his skull all over the wall beneath the blown out front windows.

Cavella: Ink!

Ink: Yeah, boss.

Cavella: Still got that grenade?

Ink: Two of ‘em.

Cavella: Go to the back door and toss one into the alley see if ya can’t clear out them cops!

Ink: Kay. [To Pittsy as he crawls by.] See toldja’. Ya, never know.

Cavella: Just make sure you throw the grenade and not the pin, ya cross eyed [frick].

Ink crawls to the back door and hears the banging of the police on the steel door. He listens to the steady ramming and times the rhythm his head bobbing in time. He pulls the cotter pin, and holds down the safety lever while his other hand moves to the latch and bolt on the door. With one last ramming he opens the door a hair and lightly tosses the grenade into the alley then tries to brace himself against the door. He hears the battering ram drop and officers begin to scatter and then the grenade goes off. He waves for the others to follow. Cavella, Barrucci, Pittsy, and a few of Zaso’s crew rush for the exit. Cavella wisely stops at the last moment and lets Ink open the door for Zaso’s men to run out. Ink slams the door back as the sound of gunfire comes from the right side of the alley. Ink points that way. Pittsy nods. Ink readies his submachine gun and Pittsy readies a Mini14 he picked up from one of the cops he shot on the street.

Pittsy: [frick]it!

Ink swings open the door and he and Pittsy come out shooting. A group of uniformed patrol officers are taking cover behind a squad car at the alley’s entrance twenty yards away. The area in between is littered with the dead bodies of Zaso’s four men and shrapnel peppered riot cops trying to crawl to safety. Cavella and Barrucci break left for the Lincoln parked half way down the alley towards the open street. Bullets are flying in every direction. Larry takes a round to the back of his left calf. Pittsy and Ink knock down two officers behind the cruiser, the remaining two are joined by riot police taking aim from the corners of the buildings bordering the alley. Ink who is in the center of the alley runs out of ammo and is shots several times as he struggles with his weapon. Staggering he looks to Pittsy:

Ink: Go!

Without hesitation Pittsy abandons Ink. Ink stubbles behind a dumpster and pulls the pin on his second grenade. He holds the grenade out for the police to see and then the other hand holding the pin. They cease fire. Realizing if he releases his grip on the grenade’s safety lever it will go off.

Police: Do not move!

Ink staggers forward, bleeding from a half dozen wounds.

Ink: Freakin’ cops.

With that he lurches forward trying to quickly cover the last ten yards as the
police open fire he is struck a dozen more times and lurches forward dropping the grenade which rolls beneath the police car as Ink slams facedown to the pavement. Cops scatter.

Cavella looks at the review as the police car explodes behind them. He drives at break neck speed down the alley running over a patrolman rushing to see where the explosion came from. They rocket across the nearby street crossing into the alley across the way. Police whose cars are stopped on the wrong side of the traffic barricades try to give chase, but the first unit knocks over the barricade and drags it hooked in his wheel well to the alley entrance where it locks up causing the car to pull sharply left slamming into the alley wall and wedging the vehicle diagonally across the alley blocking further units pursuit.
3 Yes
0 No